As the day waned and the wind dropped to a sigh Big Mac appeared on the veranda, the small home-made coffin cradled in his arms. The long procession which followed him to the station cemetery was testament to the abiding respect and sense of community that his family had engendered over the years, for the men and women who worked on Carey Downs and the outlying stations had arrived in trucks, on horseback and in wagons, the black trackers and jackaroos accompanied by their women and children. Even Bob Freeman and his family had come all the way from Wilga to pay their respects – and although relations between him and Big Mac were uneasy, they acknowledged one another with a terse nod.

The cemetery was a lonely place, set away from the homestead on the edge of the encroaching bush. Surrounded by a weathered picket fence, the leaning marble memorials and wooden crosses marked the resting places of those who’d lived and died on Carey Downs. And, as Big Mac stood at the graveside, the coffin in his arms, it was as if he was made of stone. The silent assembly watched as he lowered that small box into the ground, and knew by the set of his jaw that he was fighting to contain his grief.

Hugh found that his voice was rough with emotion as he read the service from the prayer book he always carried in the ute, and his heart went out to poor Maeve, who was inconsolable. Their four other children clung to one another, tears silently rolling down their faces as they learned the harshest lesson of all. Death didn’t always come gently – and it could touch young and old alike.

As Hugh closed the prayer book, Big Mac once again took his little wife in his arms and silently carried her back to the house, his other children trailing behind him.

Bob Freeman and his family left for Wilga. They wouldn’t be staying for the wake. But the rest of the gathering slowly moved away from the cemetery towards the cookhouse, where they began to help the Chinese cook and his son assemble the food and drink everyone had brought.

Hugh was aware of the ache in his chest as he dug his hands into his trouser pockets and watched the two native stockmen shovel the dirt over the coffin and place heavy stones on top to deter the dingoes. He took one of his pills and stood there for a long while after the men had left to join the muted wake at the cookhouse, his thoughts drifting like the sand that sifted through the cemetery. He’d seen death too many times, but it always touched him – especially when it was a child and, as he stood there, he finally let his tears fall.