At the foot of the ascent, we abandoned the motorbike. The climb up, over craggy ground, was surprisingly difficult. The rise gave way to crevasses and lichen-coloured boulders. The trees stood like sentinels, their trunks shining white against the blue subalpine sky. The only signs of life we found were a cluster of white bones, which Bea matter-of-factly declared were ‘animal, not human’. A lamb had sickened or gone lame and been taken by a fox, but the predator itself was nowhere to be seen.

We carried on in the rising heat, but halfway up we were again defeated by the ridge, this time by a chasm that dropped away sharply at our feet. We had a clear view to the west, where the fields in the autumn sun had the blank colour of jute sacking. This was the vast, dry dominion of the Noffey clan. In the midst of it, past the rut of the riverbed, sat the big house. It had been built as a monument to a long wool boom. Up close, it revealed signs of neglect – the peeling paint, the cracks that hinted at subsidence – but distance gave it the neatness of an architect’s miniature. Further on yet out of sight, obscured by foothills, was the approach to the alps and Mount Kosciuszko. Or Kossie Osko, as we called it. Kosciuszko, a famous Pole, had led his people in rising up against the might of Russia and Prussia, but in true democratic fashion we bastardised his name, giving it four syllables instead of the Polish three.

It was hot and we wanted a swim. We made a scrambling descent and rode to the river, which showed the cracked earth of a long dry spell. We headed for the one spot with enough water to dunk under. Getting back to the house on dusk, we found Benny had been busy. His clothes were wet and muddy and he looked at us defiantly.

He had wanted to swim too. That was the trouble. It was a powerful desire of Benny’s, this wish to swim, and it would pave the way to trouble on more than one occasion. Who could blame him, in all fairness? Not me, of all people.

Certainly not me.

But I am getting ahead of things. There was a sequence of events, a progression. Or an escalation. It was one thing and then another, and another and another. Yet even then, at the start of things, I felt apprehensive, like something bad was going to happen.

This time Benny, in our absence, had used the hose to flood a ditch. It was pretty creative really; he’d made a swimming pool of his own. In doing so, we learned later, he’d emptied the water tank by the house.

‘Benny!’ Bea cried. ‘What have you done? Your dad will be angry!’