When she’d left Rowberry Glen earlier that afternoon, she’d had a quiet talk to Lynda. ‘Will has promised he’ll tell us when he needs something, Mum. Can you try not to …’ She’d battled to find the right words. ‘Look, I know you’re a mum and mums look after their kids, but Will knows what he needs. And you never smothered us when we were growing up. You let us wing it, and if we got hurt, then you’d deal with us. You need to do that now, if you can. Please?’

Lynda had taken it surprisingly well. It seemed Kim’s visit had been the tonic she’d needed, even if it had only been a brief respite. She’d also told Zara that she wasn’t going to start seeding and that seemed like a weight off her shoulders too.

Zara had made a note: her mum couldn’t stay at home and look after Will and the farm all the time. She needed a break. Downtime.

She walked briskly through the cool night air, changing her thoughts from palliative care to work. That excited her.

Music was playing loudly, and as she rounded the corner into the main street, laughter filtered through the air. Sounded like the pub was rocking tonight. And it’s not even Friday, she thought. She’d rarely been to the Barker pub—by the time she was old enough to drink, she’d left for the city, although they had occasionally come in for lunch or dinner as a family when she was growing up. She remembered the pub being full of men leaning up against the bar, laughing and talking, cloudy from cigarette smoke, but no music ever playing.

They must’ve moved with the times, she thought.

Inside, she realised, other than the new jukebox, nothing had changed. The lighting was still dim, it still smelled like spilt beer and she thought she recognised the old man at the end of the bar, nursing a schooner of beer.

Zara scanned the room for Karl. She was looking forward to seeing him tonight. When he’d made her laugh earlier in the day, she’d been surprised at how good it was to feel light-hearted like that. And then, when she’d heard her mum laughing with Kim earlier in the day, she’d known it was good therapy.

She checked the bar area but couldn’t see anyone she knew in footy gear, so she turned to order a drink.

‘What can I get you?’ The publican, who had appeared from the back of the room, leaned on the bar and tried to peer down her shirt without her noticing.

‘White wine, thanks,’ she answered, leaning back. No matter how many times she’d walked into a room by herself, she still hadn’t got used to it, and she felt self-conscious. ‘Is Karl here?’

‘Out the back. You new here?’

‘Something like that,’ she answered, putting a ten-dollar note on the bar. She didn’t want to be rude, but she didn’t want to encourage conversation either.