Hugh, her eldest son, was the only one who’d come back after training as a doctor, but he was in his mid-fifties now, and Gwyneth knew that, despite the Flying Doctors’ Service and the unstinting help from Jane and Rebecca, he was beginning to find it all too much. There had been some hope that his son, Terence, might perpetuate the family tradition once he’d qualified, but Gwyneth had strong doubts that he would, for she’d met his wife, Sandra, and a woman like that wouldn’t fit in here at all.

Aware that she was wasting time wool-gathering, she nevertheless continued to lean on her walking stick and enjoy the cooling shadows cast by the trees. The garden wasn’t up to much, she thought, as she eyed the ragged tufts of grass, the bare patches of red earth and the encroaching lantana and weeds. It was a far cry from the lush lawns and heavily scented rose garden she could just remember from her childhood – but then this wasn’t Wales, and the amount of rain they’d had these past three years wouldn’t have filled a teacup.

At the thought of tea, she headed back to the house and, as she passed the large birdcage which always sat beside the screen door, she was greeted by her late husband’s sulphur-crested cockatoo.

‘G’day, g’day, g’day,’ he squawked, his bright yellow crest bristling as he bobbed up and down on his perch.

‘G’day to you too, Coco,’ she replied as she replenished his water bowl and fed him a few seeds.

‘Pretty boy, pretty boy. Arrgh.’ Coco shuffled back and forth on his perch, lost his balance and just managed to cling on as he swung upside down and flapped his wings. He was aptly named, for he was a complete clown.

‘You’re just a silly old show-off,’ she muttered affectionately. ‘But I haven’t got time to stand about watching you all day. I’ve got a birthday cake to make.’

She opened the screen door, letting it clatter behind her as she entered the gloomy interior and headed for the kitchen. She’d closed all the shutters to keep out the sun, but she didn’t need light to see where she was going, for she knew every dusty corner of this cluttered house.

Rhys had travelled the world before they’d met, and had been an enthusiastic collector of artefacts and curiosities. Gwyneth regarded them as mostly junk and not worthy of houseroom, but she hadn’t had the heart to get rid of any of it after he’d passed away, and they’d become so much a part of her life she now barely noticed them.