‘Well, well, no harm done,’ said the mayor a number of times, clapping one or two people on the back as though it were a big sporting occasion at which a cup had been played for and lost. He was a large, bluff, red-faced sheep farmer who wore a suit that had seen many seasons and looked like it might originally have been borrowed from a passing swagman. He proudly wore a stockman’s hat on his head and spoke as fondly to the three blue cattle dogs that ran at his heels as he did to his wife and many children, who ran about at his heels every bit as much as the cattle dogs did.

Had no harm been done? Everyone was very keen to laugh loudly and make light of it, but had they not almost died? Eleanor smiled and touched her gloved fingers to a great many people’s hands and said a great many polite things to a great many people but it all seemed a little unreal. Had they almost died? She did not know. She wished someone would tell her. She could see that her shoes were ruined and this was irrefutable proof of something—but what? And she was shivering, could not stop in fact, but that was likely due to the cold.

It soon became clear that the official reception—a sit-down luncheon followed by official speeches—was to be held outside, and certainly the sky blinded with its brilliance and the sun shone and this was Sydney, after all—or close to it—and so they must sit and endure outside and never mind that it was very chilly indeed and there was clear evidence of a frost from earlier in the day.