This is beyond belief. ‘Abby, I need to talk to you in the other room.’

‘Not like you?’ Dad raises his voice, a bear poked with a stick. ‘Not like you? That woman didn’t have an unkind bone in her body, wouldn’t have known how to not like you, wouldn’t have dreamt of it as a possibility. Do you know what she said?’

‘I’m sorry, forget it,’ Abby says.

‘She asked me if you’d like her. She was worried about you not approving, judging her. Which you would have.’ He slumps back into the couch, his energy spent.

I will Abby to stay silent.

Dad gets up with a grunt. As he stands, Abby steps back. Mum always said Dad’s temper was a war wound. He’s a tough nut. He likes to tell me how easy my life is, as if it’d be good for it to be otherwise. Abby’s out of line but Dad doesn’t say any more, just walks out of the room.

‘Why didn’t he tell us about her?’ Abby asks me.

‘More importantly, why is that the thing you’re fixing on?’ I crane around to be sure Dad has left the room. ‘He hasn’t mentioned she was pregnant. He said something about her stomach being big but he never said she was pregnant. So don’t bring it up.’ I lower my voice. ‘If the baby’s his, that means it was our –’

‘Don’t,’ she says. ‘I can’t take any more in, Charlie. Please.’

I hate when she does this, tries to dominate me.

‘And that’s on you,’ she says in a hurried whisper. ‘You said “let’s go”. I wanted to take her to a doctor. I wanted to help that baby.’

‘Stop.’ I frown at her. ‘It’s done.’

She leans forward. ‘How does this not bother you? How are you –’

‘What are you talking about? Of course it bothers me. Fuck, Abby, I’m just trying to survive this.’

She makes a low moan, then covers her face with her hands and sobs.

There’s nothing I can do to comfort her. So I go outside, walk a lap around the house, past the chicken pen, an impressive vegetable patch that holds more food than two people could ever eat – staked tomato plants in careful rows, interspersed with basil, some flowers – and a locked-up corrugated-iron shed I know will be as orderly as a library. The ground is spongy under my sandshoes. I take a slow drag on my cigarette. I wonder if the baby was a boy or girl, then push away the thought.

The afternoon is quiet. The birds make a few warbles and peeps but are chill compared to the free-for-all I wake to in Bali. A magpie perches in silence on the arm of a nearby spotted gum. The hum of bees and crickets is set to lull; possums and wallabies snooze. I see a dozen cows milling together at the bottom of the hill, near the dam, chewing grass and swishing away flies.