He nodded slowly. ‘And who’s the president of the United States?’

That one was easy. ‘Harry Truman,’ I said. ‘He took over when FDR died.’

‘I’d ask you the president of Australia but I wouldn’t know whether or not you were right,’ he said.

‘We have a prime minister, not a president, and his name’s Ben Chifley,’ I said.

‘Well, you seem pretty certain on that one. I think you’ve suffered a concussion but not a serious one. Your pupils are normal, your speech is fine.’

Jim and his mum re-entered the room, Jim looking chastened.

‘I don’t want her going anywhere until tomorrow,’ the doctor announced. ‘Can she stay here tonight?’

‘Of course.’ Jim came and kneeled where the doctor had been, fixing the blanket which had slipped down. ‘She can stay as long as she likes.’

•

There are things in life which you realise like a flash of lightning which cracks and splits open your skin, and things which creep up on you slowly, like lines on your face, gradually creasing until they are just another part of you, until you would not recognise yourself without them. I woke up in Kilmarnock the next morning with sun slicing a band of light into the centre of the guest bedroom, and opened the curtains to see the river beneath me, rippling with light, the grey heron standing on an upturned rowboat on the opposite shore. The lump on my head was tender, throbbing a little, and my fingertips skirted its circumference. Somewhere downstairs the floorboards creaked. I heard the murmur of voices and a kettle whistle. I got back into bed, where the sheets were still warm from my body; they smelled like clean laundry and cedar shelves. There was a patchwork quilt on the bed and I traced the patterns of the different fabrics: the squares of tiny rosebuds in pink and white, the blue morning glories, the snaking ivy.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Come in.’

Jim entered with a tray. His face crinkled in a smile. ‘I had to fight my mama to bring this tray in myself. How’s your head, Duck?’

‘Oh no. You’re not going to start calling me Duck…’

‘Maybe I will.’

He set the tray on the bedside table and pointed at the contents. ‘Hot coffee with cream; I told Mama you might not like cream but she said she’s never known a lady to drink her coffee black. Toast with apricot jelly. Orange juice squeezed by my very own hand.’

I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling underdressed in the light cotton nightgown his mother had found for me. Jim squinted at my forehead then leaned in close, smelling like cut grass and citrus. ‘You’ve got a helluva bruise.’ I saw his eyes flicker to my chest and away, and his face flush as he looked out the window.