‘It’s not for me!’ He flung an arm at the paddocks, at the orchard, at the hills. Could feel himself becoming angry. Wasn’t it all obvious? Wasn’t it necessary?

She released a shuddering sigh. There was so much sorrow in her: on her face, in her voice, in the soft slumping of her torso. ‘It’s not enough, Ned.’

‘It’ll help!’ He knew he was shouting. Couldn’t help it, didn’t care. Couldn’t understand their reactions. Had he not done the right thing? Had he not put what mattered most first? Who wouldn’t want a brother who helped? Who wouldn’t want a son who made sacrifices?

All he could see was his sister’s sadness: a weary, lonely sadness. And beyond her, their father, still trying to breathe. His eyes on the river, the rest of him gone. Vanished but for his breath.

The bump of a door behind them. The gentleman had the boat loosely secured, and was leaning into the cabin of his truck. He emerged with a half-empty bottle of whisky. Four grimy glasses. He approached the Wests, winkling out the cork. Wet leaves patterning his suit. Saying something about a toast.

19

19

YEARS LATER. AN aeon after his boat had sailed off on the gentleman’s trailer. After he’d toughed out all the things expected of him, yet still had more to do. After he’d shouldered his way into middle age, after he’d stacked up a little wealth, a little pain. After all that, Ned travelled south to Hobart, where Sally and Grace were studying at the university.

Driving down the Midlands for the first time in years showed him how much it had changed. He’d seen the development of his valley in real time, as mines had closed, towns had sprawled and a great white bridge had been built over the river. As almost all the orchards had been ripped out and replaced by vineyards. But he hadn’t known how far forward the rest of the island had marched. Twice as many paddocks bordered the highway as he remembered. Twice as many fences, twice as many sheep. The road was wider, blacker, smoother. Vegetation and variation had been stripped away, and there was a new uniformity to the landscape: dry paddocks, bare trees and a bristling army of gorse, everywhere he looked. Gazing out his window to the east, he noticed the absence of certain forests that had once crawled over the low mountains. Caught himself missing them, hoping they would return. Recognised the hypocrisy in his wanting: the trees in those vanished forests had been manna gums. White Knights, felled on his watch.