She sat there for a long moment, trying to get her breath back, all too aware of the blood pouring down her chin and the wound from beneath the tear in her old trousers. If she didn’t get across the road to the hospital she’d soon pass out, and it could be hours before anyone came.

‘Ups-a-daisy,’ yelled Coco again. ‘Aarrgh. Pretty boy.’ He swung from his perch with one claw and flapped his wings.

She found it was too painful to tell him to shut up and mind his own flaming business, so she made a sort of grunting sound in her throat and concentrated on reaching her walking stick. It was annoyingly just out of reach, so she tentatively reached out her good leg and tried to draw it towards her with her foot.

The process exhausted her and seemed to take an age, but she finally managed to hook it in, and she sat again for a long while catching her breath and working up the energy to get to her feet.

She discovered that as long as she didn’t move her head, the pain in her jaw could be controlled. Leaning heavily on her stick, she took a step and gasped at the knife of agony that shot up from her injured knee. But she couldn’t stay here. She had to keep going. And yet that short walk she’d taken so many times around her house and across the street seemed to stretch before her like a marathon.

As she reached the front corner of her side veranda she had to stop again for a rest. She clung to the railing and looked anxiously up the street for a sign of anyone that could help her. But it seemed the residents of Morgan’s Reach were busy cleaning up after the storm, for the street was deserted.

She took a deep, shuddering breath and hobbled on, the blood slowly soaking through her shirt and trousers. She was beginning to feel light-headed now, and her hand trembled as she reached the gate and tried to unfasten the latch.

A flicker of movement caught her eye and she blinked blearily towards it. Sandra had come out on to the homestead veranda, elegant in well-cut slacks, crisp white shirt, delicate sandals and broad-brimmed hat. But she seemed intent upon something at the other end of the street.

Gwyneth couldn’t call out, and the desperate keening in her throat was too soft to be heard from such a distance. She took a tight hold of her walking stick and began to crash it against the metal panels of the garden gate.

Sandra finally turned towards her, shielding her eyes from the low sun with her hat, clearly wondering what on earth Gwyneth was doing.