He tapped the pencil on the side of his nose and shook his head. He needed funds to stock the surgery properly and as his finances stood, he was not sure how he could afford to buy a bandage let alone morphine or laudanum. Sadly, Bowen’s investment seemed to have been in whiskey, of which he had found at least two boxes hidden in the cottage. Whiskey only had a limited medical application but Yorkie had been pleased enough to take them off his hands in exchange for Posy’s board and a nominal rental on the surgery.

He turned his attention to Bowen’s notebooks, which he had brought down from the cottage. In his early years, Bowen had spent time with the Aborigines, making copious notes on their bush remedies.

Bowen’s notes were extensive and Caleb wondered where he could find someone in Maiden’s Creek who could show him the plants that Bowen mentioned. Maybe the bushman, Mick, could help but Caleb had seen none of the Indigenous people since he had arrived and, like the Native Americans, he wondered if they had been driven away to be herded into reservations. Growing up, he had spent time with the remnants of one of the Iroquois tribe of the Shenandoah Valley and come to appreciate that their use of the plants to deal with day-to-day ills came from thousands of years of accumulated knowledge and could not—and should not—be dismissed. He wondered whether, as the years passed, the knowledge would be lost and all that would be left were notebooks such as these.

A sharp rap at the door startled him. His visitor surprised him even more. Adelaide stood on the verandah, holding an envelope out to him.

‘A telegram for you, Caleb.’

‘From who?’

‘Sergeant Maidment.’

He nodded and took the envelope from her, turning it over in his hands. ‘Come in,’ he said.

She glanced back in the direction of the post office. ‘I should get back.’

‘I only wanted to show you the surgery,’ he said.

She bit her lip, a habit she had when she felt indecisive, he had noticed. She gave a curt nod. ‘I would like to see it,’ she said.

He stood aside.

She turned in a circle in the confined space, coming back to face him with a smile. ‘It is certainly cosy,’ she said.

Despite himself, he smiled. ‘I’ve never had my own surgery.’ He picked up a wooden plaque from the table. ‘Look at this. One of the carpenters from the mine made it for me.’ The painted sign was rough and the lettering amateurish but it gave him a strange sense of belonging.

Adelaide took it and read it out loud, ‘Dr C Hunt MD. Open for business eight am to twelve noon. Emergencies: Enquire at the hotel. Only open for business until noon?’

‘I thought I’d save the afternoon for house calls and visits out of town.’