This was indeed surprising news, for Max strenuously avoided human contact as much as possible, and she was fully aware of how privileged she was to be here. ‘You can’t make that sort of statement and not expect me to be curious,’ she said. ‘Come on, Max. Spill the beans.’

Max cleaned his palette knife with a bit of old rag, clearly playing for time and trying to work out how much to tell her. ‘He was a mate of mine from way back,’ he said eventually. ‘We lost touch after …’

He cleared his throat and shook his head as if to dismiss the memories that Sal knew had been invoked by those words. ‘Anyway, he tracked me down a few years ago, and sent a letter to my mailbox in Windorah. As I only make the trip a couple of times a year, it had sat there for months.’

‘But that’s wonderful news,’ said Sal without thinking. Then she frowned. ‘Wasn’t it?’

He shrugged. ‘I didn’t know if I wanted to see him again after everything we’d been through, so I didn’t reply for a while. Then I reckon curiosity got the better of me and I wrote back.’

Sal could see that Max was finding it difficult to reveal so much of himself, for he was a private man, with a history that even she had been unable to fully uncover. ‘It’s all right, Max,’ she soothed. ‘You don’t have to tell me anything more.’

His gaze remained fixed on his unfinished painting. ‘I reckon you need to know,’ he said softly, ‘because his visit here concerns you too.’

‘Me?’ She looked at him in horror. ‘But you promised never to tell anyone about me coming here. Oh, Max, how could you?’

His weathered face creased in concern. ‘He doesn’t know your name, or where you come from, Sal. I didn’t break my promise.’

‘Then why should his visit concern me?’

He cleared his throat and again concentrated on cleaning his palette knife. ‘Sam Butler was an artist when I knew him before. Quite a good one, actually. Now he owns a gallery in Sydney and comes out once a year to have a look at what I’ve been doing.’

‘Strewth, Max,’ she breathed. ‘You’ve kept that quiet.’

He shrugged again. ‘It wasn’t anyone’s business but my own,’ he murmured.

‘Has he taken any of your work to exhibit?’

His smile was bashful and he couldn’t quite meet her eye. ‘He’s shown a few over the years,’ he admitted shyly, ‘and people seem to like them enough to pay top quid for ’em.’

She gazed at him in awe. ‘You’re a famous artist, and I never knew.’