They hardly ever saw Sheila, because she was rarely at home. When she was, she lived these days in Quorn, an endearing little outback town on the edge of the Flinders Ranges in a tiny cottage she rented from an artist. She’d based herself there many years ago after she’d shocked all of Elizabeth by walking out on her engineer husband Kalvin and taking up with a woman, Dora Langford, a volunteer driver on the Pichi Richi Railway, who wore a boiler suit and a peaked cap, and shovelled coal with strong, callused hands. So when Stella, aged two and a half, had been introduced to Sheila for the first time, it was on a dear little steam train, barrelling along past gum-lined creeks and bluebush-studded hills, and Dora had put her in charge of the whistle. Such experiences leave a legacy in young hearts: ever after, when Stella thought of Sheila and Dora, she’d experienced a flush of pure joy.

Stella was sitting, now, in the passenger seat of Ali’s car, her bare feet up on the dashboard, gazing left, out of the window. The city limits were far behind them and the evening sky was unstable; clouds in shades of charcoal shifted and rolled towards them from a lowering horizon, but the car felt snug and solid, a sanctuary. They’d called Michael on speakerphone with a progress report. He sounded lighter, thought Ali; he sounded relieved. She’d literally taken away the problem and, for the time being at least, he could legitimately think about something else. So could Stella, for that matter, and so could Ali – this journey, this trip: it was an act of escapism, an exercise in being happy. Thus far, Stella’s pregnancy hadn’t been mentioned, and if Stella didn’t bring it up, Ali certainly wouldn’t. Now and again she stole glances at her daughter, and could see from the way she inhabited the seat – her limbs loose, legs up, arms slack across her bent knees – that she was contented, relaxed. She was like a different girl, heading north to Quorn, running out on reality. Plenty of time for home truths, Ali thought, but first, a dose of Sheila.

‘So, can we have some songs?’ Stella said eventually, when the landscape became too relentlessly unchanging to watch. ‘Did you bring your music?’

‘Don’t be daft,’ Ali said. She handed over her iPod and Stella plugged in the aux cable. She spun the control, watching the screen options change, and the cursor clicked like semaphore, dot-dot-dashing its way down the list.

‘You should ditch this old thing,’ she said. ‘Put it all on your phone. It’s much handier.’

‘I love that iPod like I love you,’ Ali said.

Stella laughed. ‘What shall I put on?’

‘Whatever you fancy. No, wait, go on playlists, there’s a new one I made. Should be first up.’

‘Called?’

‘Best Last Two,’ Ali said.