What was R’s fatuous remark? She could not for the moment recall. She and Alasdair had gone to a dinner at the Pykes’ and some of the gentlemen had come directly from a meeting at a town hall where someone had made a great speech and someone else had proposed something and three cheers had been offered and the future of the nation was, apparently, assured. Over the fish there had been a great deal of discussion about tariffs and free trade and the new federal capital. Someone had said, It boils down to just one thing: can we trust the other colonies?

Could they? Eleanor did not know. She had put none of this in her journal. She had noted the ostrich feather and the colour of the soup.

A. observed how the Prem’s speech had been particularly well received and that the bill was all but assured this time.

Had Alasdair said that? It was the kind of thing her husband might have said, the kind of thing he would like to have said. She had written it in her journal and so it became true. She wondered if she wrote the journal for herself or if it were not for some faceless scholar years hence, sequestered in a dusty university library researching a dull biography. Alasdair’s biography.

On their way to the dinner at the Pykes’ they had seen two constables pull a body from the bay, the sodden, clothed body of a female. It was not a common spot for suicides but any place, presumably, would do if one were determined. Sometimes they jumped from the quay and a day later were washed up in the bay by the current. Sometimes they jumped from the steamers. (Imagine sailing all this way across so many oceans simply to jump overboard with your destination in sight!) Occasionally the Herald reported the suicide, supplying a name and how many children were left behind; often there was no name, just a body fished from the harbour. When she and Alasdair had returned home, passing the same spot, the constables were gone. Eleanor had put none of this in her journal.

How proud I was then of my husband, the statesman, who has stood at the Premier’s side this whole time and whose tireless campaigning must surely rival that of Mr Reid himself, she wrote and then she stopped writing and placed her pen on the blotter. Her hands were quite pale in the lamplight; a flattering light, but still the lines were visible. One could disguise the cruel march of time on one’s face, one’s body, but on the hands there was no hiding it. Gloves, yes, while in company, but alone there was no denying it. A flicker of panic stirred within her, consuming all momentarily, then as quickly dissipating.

She snapped the journal shut and pushed it away from her, and at the same moment a knock came at the door.