Juliet secretly preferred it when Leo was in one of his inventing frenzies. Life was much quieter. He didn’t care whether each of them had done their share of the housework, express dismay about Miranda’s short skirts, tell Sadie off for playing her music too loudly, remind Eliza to mow the front lawn, tell Juliet to find more uses for mince or tell Clementine to get over her hatred of mince. He hadn’t even noticed when Juliet served roast chicken midweek, instead of as a rare Sunday luxury. She’d done it as a test.

If things weren’t going well in Shed Land, it was like having a bee in the house. He was always around, offering help that wasn’t needed and getting in the way. A real sign of his frustration was when he shut the tin door of the shed loudly enough for them to hear over their pop music, strode into the kitchen, turned off the stove or the grill and declared that he was feeling housebound and was going to take the five of them out for dinner somewhere. They usually ended up at Bellerive beach, eating fish and chips at one of the wooden tables by the water. Money was always too tight for restaurants.

‘Morning, everyone.’ It was Clementine, still in her pyjamas, her school blazer over the top, her long, dark hair tied back into a ponytail.

Four voices answered her in a sing-song way. ‘Morning, Clementine.’

Clementine had barely taken her seat when she stood up again, pushed back her chair and made a dash for the bathroom down the hallway. Eliza and Juliet looked at each other. Miranda kept reading. Sadie began to look ill herself.

Clementine came back, whitefaced, clutching a facecloth. ‘Sorry about that.’

Juliet looked closely at her little sister. Clementine was always pale – all five of them were – so that was nothing new, but she did look especially peaky this morning. ‘Were you sick?’

Clementine nodded.

Juliet guided her gently into a chair and rested a hand on her forehead. She could remember sitting in that chair and having their mother do the same thing to her. It had felt so cool and comforting. It always made her feel a little better, straightaway. ‘You don’t have a temperature, Clemmie. It must just be a bug.’

‘Poor Clemmie,’ Miranda said. As Sadie leaned past her to the sugar bowl, she made an exaggerated face, flapping her hands in front of her nose. ‘Breathing in Sadie’s alcoholic fumes would give anyone a bug. What time did you get in last night, Sadie? I really don’t think you are taking your studies seriously, young lady.’

‘You’re just jealous because I have a good social life and you don’t,’ Sadie said, putting three spoons of sugar into her tea.