‘G’day Uncle Bill,’ James said, giving his voice a hint of country, just to settle the other man.

‘A good number of years since we saw you,’ his uncle said, and propelled himself to the screen door to hold it open. ‘Mother, young Jamie’s here!’

A high-pitched exclamation of surprise came from inside. James saw his aunt pass across the servery opening, removing her apron and patting down her frock.

Inside, he wiped his feet. Everything was the same. The hat rack by the door, the cane verandah setting with the floral fabric, the radio set high above the rusty chest freezer, the smell of baking, and the face of the woman at the threshold of the kitchen.

He went to kiss her cheek. ‘I just want to say how sorry-’

‘Hello Jamie,’ she said, cutting him off. ‘We heard you were in town. Cuppa tea?’

‘Yes, thanks.’

‘Been down to the old farm?’

‘Dad’s got the lock on,’ James said, standing in the hallway while his uncle busied himself in the bathroom by the door.

‘You know your father,’ Doris sang. ‘Security-conscious if nothing else. We haven’t seen much of him, now he’s retired.’

Familiar faces greeted James from a cluster of photographs on the hall table. Kids with tanned faces posing with party hats; mothers with indolent smiles; the whole family on the front steps of Glen Alpine some long-ago Christmas before James was born.

‘We’ll sit out here,’ his aunt indicated with her head, both hands occupied with a tray. ‘We were just about to have our tea and a bickie, so another cup’s no problem. You’ve grown a bit since we saw you last.’

James nodded and sat, allowing himself to be diminished.

‘Daniel hasn’t done much to the place. Could do with a lick of paint before it goes like Glen Alpine,’ she said, passing his cup. ‘Come and have some tea, Father.’

‘I forgot to... I’d better fix the, you know,’ his uncle said and disappeared up the hallway. ‘Back in a minute.’

‘Biscuit?’ she said, shoving the plate towards James.

It must have been less than sixty seconds since he’d come indoors.

Suicide barely registers on stoic parents.

James started to fidget as soon as his aunt got her cup on the turn and the grind of unglazed china on the underside worked its noise between them.

‘We liked that article you did about the mining industry,’ she said. ‘Father follows all your stories. He’s always hoping you’ll come out here and write something about this part of the world.’

‘We never really get to choose,’ James said.

‘That’s what I always tell him.’

‘If any local journalists try to bother you about Tony, I can deal with them if you like.’

‘No, it’s alright. The police said it was quick and he wouldn’t have suffered.’