Ned was fresh from the drive. Stiff and sober, unlike the other men around him, who were all drinking fast and energetically. He watched them, his first bottle cooling his grip, as they began following the directions his second cousin was yelling out. Four of them found shovels and began hacking at the grass, ripping up black loam, carving out a rectangle roughly the size of a child’s coffin. A few others lurched into a shed and came out with a cutting block, an axe, armfuls of firewood. They took turns slamming the axe head into slabs of green timber, belting off shards of eucalypt. None of the choppers or diggers let the work get in the way of their drinking, which continued at pace, between the dives of shovels, the thud of the axe.

Another group of men marched down to the river, sent for stones that were apparently vital to the cooking process. Ned watched them go. Thought about joining them. Thought about getting to know this dark river a bit better, getting a feel for its sharp elbows, its muddy banks. Then, with no warning, she emerged from the crowd of drinkers. Came towards him.

The last time he’d seen her she’d been sunbaking at the cove, the day he’d encountered the leatherjacket, shortly before he’d left for the mainland. He’d carried that day with him all over the farms of the interior, summoning the coolness of the sea as he rode through clouds of hot dust, imagining the touch of the current as he’d bathed in outdoor, dirt-rimmed tubs. Closest of all he’d carried the image of her lying on the rocks under the high sun, wet swimsuit glued to her skin. Gripped the memory like a twisting fish.

Now she wore a blue cotton shirt and stiff work trousers, and had arrived at his shoulder. Looking over at the choppers, the diggers.

‘Not going to join in?’

Ned kept himself still. Saw how the men with shovels were flinging upturned dirt at each other. How the axemen had swapped timber for empty beers and were demonstrating the brittleness of the glass, seeing how violently they could shatter each bottle. Brown fragments exploding into their shins.

‘Looks like they’ve got things under control.’

He glanced at her. Couldn’t stop himself, had to know if she’d found humour in his dryness. Was worried that he sounded arrogant. But he saw an angle to her lips, a crease to her cheeks. Brown-blond hair curtaining her sharp face. Relief fell through him.

She sipped her drink. ‘When’d you get back?’

‘Few days ago.’