She quietly closed the screen door behind her, kicked off her shoes, and entered the big square room which was the centre of the house. Walking past the three sagging couches which were placed around the stone hearth, she dumped her book and knitting on the cluttered coffee table and went through to the kitchen area.

A collection of mismatched cupboards hid the china; cooking pots and pans hung from hooks above the stone sink and wooden draining board, and a kerosene fridge hummed in the corner by the scarred table and chairs. The range belted out a furnace blast no matter the season, for it was their only means of cooking.

She peeled off her apron and cap, leaving them carefully on a chair before she opened the fridge, took out the remains of the roast mutton joint and made a pile of sandwiches. Adding a cup of tea and a glass of milk to the tray, she steeled herself for what was to come and carried it through the lounge and along the corridor to Danny’s room.

‘I thought you’d probably be hungry by now,’ she said as she entered.

Danny’s expression was surly as he looked up at her from his untidy bed. He was still in his grubby shorts and shirt, and his filthy feet had marked the clean sheets she’d put on that morning. He gave a shrug as if he didn’t care, but Becky noticed how his eyes kept flitting to the pile of sandwiches.

She set the tray down next to the lamp on the low cupboard beside his bed and reached out to brush the lick of hair from his forehead. ‘We’ve had a bit of a day, haven’t we?’ she asked softly.

He shrugged again, refusing to look at her.

Becky handed him the plate and perched on the end of the bed to drink her cup of tea while he devoured three sandwiches and half the glass of milk. She nibbled a sandwich, found she had little appetite and waited for Danny to finish his supper. She’d lost count of the times she’d ticked him off about going bush, making it clear that his behaviour wasn’t acceptable and that it upset everyone – and this afternoon had been no exception. But had he really listened this time?

She regarded the open cardboard box with a heavy heart, for it spilled out photographs and letters, mementos of her marriage and Adam’s short and tragic involvement in the war. Sifting through the black-and-white photos that littered the bed, she tried to maintain a calm expression and steady voice.

‘You’re growing up to be just as handsome as your dad,’ she said softly as she selected a photo of Adam standing with his back to Sydney Harbour.