‘I’ve been thinking. A lot. We keep hearing about climate change. Worse fires… But we don’t really know. The history we know is so… white. Fires could have been a lot worse in Aboriginal times.’

‘Maybe.’ Aboriginal times. That was how Leanne thought. To her, history was past tense, progressing through developmental steps to an inevitable Now. But perhaps her ideas were developing. ‘Harmony’s around somewhere. But I knew you’d want to see the baby. Beckwith Junior. We still haven’t decided on a name.’

Beckwith Junior stared at Leanne’s full, wet nipple and let out an almighty roar. He was on track to rival Harmony.

‘Harmony said you’d settled on Braydon.’

‘It might still be Braydon, in the end.’ Leanne fastened her nursing bra, plugged a dummy into the baby’s mouth and passed him to me. He sucked and stared, fiercely. His face was as round as Caleb’s had been, topped with similar curls, soft as air.

Leanne watched. ‘The nurse says it’s gas. But I know he’s smiling.’

I passed him back. At the door, Leanne smiled, exposing a missing tooth. ‘I don’t care what anyone says. You saved us. I think you’re a top sheila.’

I came into the classroom once the parents had left. Donations had been generous, encompassing books, art supplies, a television set and even a box of wooden descant recorders. I clapped my hands together, ready for the day to begin, and we split the kids into two groups. For the older class, Jeannie would use a whiteboard at the front. I’d teach the younger children at the back, using an old green-painted blackboard.

The children arranged themselves on mismatched chairs. I tried not to think about missing faces. Many families, their homes and businesses destroyed, had left the valley saying they doubted they would return. Their children would be enrolled elsewhere. Other students, like Sean Henderson who now studied through Distance Education, might be at home. But of course, I noticed the missing chair where Matilda Miller should be sitting with her tiny friends. And Violet Gillan would be missed by the older age group. There was as much heartbreak in these classrooms as there was hope.

Teaching might have seemed a matter of routine and predictability to my mother, but in reality, it was a life full of surprises. No two children were ever alike. No child was ever the same from hour to hour. They swung between moods, trying on different personalities. Who they would grow into was a matter of experimentation. And if one small child had four personalities to swing among, it was exponentially more chaotic to deal with twenty children. There was no predicting what might happen in a classroom. And these variables would be multiplied today.

‘Let’s start with a music lesson,’ I said. ‘I’m going to hand everyone a recorder and a white label to write your name on.’