I’d avoided Gary Damson for so long that I knew exactly how to get to his house. It stood outside of town, past the showgrounds; within the paddocks circling Runagate, but too near the trees. Not a short ride.

My legs were shaking by the time I stopped at the bottle tree by the Damsons’ gate. The gate was open, but a cattle grid cut the road and I found I did not want to ride over it.

I stood and worried. There were things I should be doing at home. I had left early, but my mother would notice if I stayed away long or came home flushed and sweating. She was unpredictable after rain, by turns effusive and sleepy. I could just go home, where all was pleasant and orderly. Not at all like the scrubby yard at the end of the Damsons’ long dirt driveway, cluttered with sheds and machines, swings and toys.

Gary’s truck pulled out from behind the house and my fledgling curiosity failed. I fled, but Gary covered the drive and the short stretch of road I’d put behind me and caught up easily, idling along behind until I pulled over, furious with embarrassment. I slithered down the shoulder to stop, one ankle deep in the muddy ditch.

“Hello, Tina,” said Gary. The window was down, his elbow high on the door. He didn’t smile.

I scrambled haughtily up from the mud. Mother would know now that all my efforts to change myself hadn’t worked, unless I could wash my tyres and shoe at the showgrounds. But the woken questions lingered. I drew the shabby envelope from my pocket. “Did you deliver this, Mr Damson? Mr Sage said you had sent letters to us before.”

He reached for it, but I didn’t give it to him, and he didn’t answer my question.

“Did you ride all the way here?”

“Yes.”

“Does your mum know?”

I looked at my muddy shoe.

Gary sighed. “Put the bike in the back,” he said. “I’ll drop you home. I’ll tell you what I know.”

At least being a homemaker meant I was strong. As I wrestled the bicycle onto the truck’s tray between the tin trunks bolted to the bed, the jerry cans tied to the sides, I saw Gary watching me in the mirrors. He didn’t offer to help, or open my door.

The seats were worn, the floor thick with dirt and grease. I touched as little as possible as I climbed in, but the door was stiff and didn’t close properly. Gary reached across to loosen and slam it. I flattened myself away from his arm.

The seatbelt wouldn’t buckle. “Hold on,” he suggested.

“You aren’t a gentleman,” I said, sitting straight-backed, the better to look down on him.