When the sun passed the high point of noon and Bili and Tamba had fallen asleep on the rug, Martha, Laedi and Rika followed the river along a steep path, down through the boulders to a wide swimming hole. On the side where they stood were flat rocks. In the centre water tumbled from above, and on the far side was a projecting rock face: green fronds, green water, a deeper shade, trapping the light in its depths.

Laedi took off her shirt and looked down at her stomach.

‘I’m pregnant,’ she said.

Rika’s heart gave a thump. ‘How much?’ she asked.

‘Twelve weeks. A bit more.’

‘Were you sick?’ Rika asked. ‘Those first weeks?’

‘A little. Not very.’

‘Are you pleased?’ Martha asked.

Laedi didn’t answer right away. She let herself into the deep green water. ‘Don wants a son this time,’ she said. Beneath the water her body appeared a greeny brown. Her head in the shining air was brightly lit.

Rika hung the Leica from a branch and swam out after her. She felt tremulous, her limbs heavy.

‘Can you smell something?’ she called. She’d swum to the far side, near the rock face, past the water falling from the rocks above. There was a faint perfume, reminiscent of cloves.

‘Orchids,’ Laedi called back. ‘See?’

‘Where?’ Rika followed the direction of Laedi’s hand to the rock face. Green leaves, ferny things, vines. Rika swam up close, into the shade of the projecting rock, treading water and squinting up until she found the ochre-brown blooms, no larger than a child’s fingernail, sprays of tiny flowers tucked into the green. Tears coursed down her face, and she swam into the water tumbling from the rocks above to hide them. The thought came to her that there might be no escape, even in a place as far away as this.

When her heart returned to a steady beat, she swam slowly back to the flat rocks, climbed out and lay face down beside Laedi and Martha. The thought retreated, back inside, underneath. In its place an emptying-out that left her weary.

Laedi reached out a hand and rested it on her shoulder. ‘The orchids turn yellow in the sun,’ she said. Her voice was gentle. ‘Didn’t you see them when you went out with Jacob?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘They’d have been there. In the grass. On the melaleucas at the swamp. Port Moresby Gold, they’re called.’

‘Port Moresby Gold!’ Martha gave a short laugh. What kind of contradiction was that?

‘It’s not so bad here,’ Rika said. ‘I’m beginning to like it.’

THEIR HUSBANDS DIDN’T GET ON SO WELL. LEONARD AND PETE WERE fine, both of them easygoing. The problem wasn’t with them. It was Don. He and Pete were friends of a sort; they had to be as the two most junior members of the department. They disagreed easily, had a beer afterwards, and yet it was always Pete who ended up with extra tutorials while Don got himself another field trip. Visiting botanists, geographers, it didn’t matter – Don would find a reason to go with them, something he could write up, and every time Alex Penrose would let him go. ‘Good for the department,’ he’d say. That semester Don was on a committee organising a conference on the history of Melanesia. Timetables! Tutorials! How could he attend to them? He was busy writing letters to anthropologists in Berlin and historians in New York. The success of the entire event depended on him! As usual Pete took up the slack.