Pulling my pack across the floor towards the bed I inadvertently dragged a moth-eaten old sheet along with it and unearthed a fan heater that had been hidden beneath. I gave a little cry of joy and pulled it out and plugged it in. It whirred satisfyingly and pumped hot dry air onto my fingertips. I upturned a cardboard box then sat the heater on top and pointed it to where my feet would be in the bed. I rubbed my fingers together in the balmy stream. Money-munchers, Dad called those heaters. Planet-killers. Power-guzzlers to be avoided at all costs. It was probably not a kind thing to do to pensioners, I imagined, running a fan heater all night.

But to hell with it. If I had to stay one more night, I’d be damned if I was going to freeze again.

I slept. Thank heaven. Or rather, thank heater. Heater and tracksuit combo, actually – I had decided to wear the teal tracksuit Bette had brought me, and it turned out to be wonderfully warm. I slept late, woke up refreshed – amazingly – and found Bette in her usual position at the kitchen sink. Tea was already waiting for me in the pot, with a delicate little cup set alongside it, and the kettle hissing merrily on the stove.

‘Let me pour that,’ said Bette, and she slugged milk in first and then tea through the strainer and then a dash of boiling water. Steam curled up from the cup. I didn’t sniff at the milk this time. I took a sip. It was a perfect brew.

‘You’ll have to forgive your grandfather for not being here this morning,’ Bette said. ‘He’s already over at the stable. Polly seems a little better this morning, but she’s not out of the woods yet.’

‘Oh, I’m glad to hear it. About the better bit, not the woods.’

‘So he’ll be out there all morning. I hope we can still do coffee for you tomorrow morning . . .’

‘Coffee?’

‘We do coffee properly on a Wednesday morning – tomorrow – you’ll see. It will be exciting to have you here.’

Bette returned to her position at the sink under the open window. I tried to quell the uprising my stomach had started at the mere mention of the word ‘coffee’, and hid my guilty face at the mention of the word ‘tomorrow’ behind the teacup. Because I had decided. Somehow I would find reception today and I would book into the Best Western in town; it would be cheaper than staying in Melbourne and without having to replace the package, I could maybe, maybe, just afford it.

Through the open window came the sound of a car pulling up. Bette, looking out, said, ‘Oh, Leonie’s here again.’

The back door flew open and Hessel stormed inside and made a strange growling sound. ‘Wasn’t she here yesterday? Why does she have to be hanging around so much?’

I stood and watched through the window as the white hatchback pulled up and Leonie stepped out of the driver’s seat. The passenger side door opened and a young man, longish with a disordered mass of dark brown hair, stepped out onto the gravel and turned towards us. He was longer than his mum, and fair, and he wore a black leather jacket and tight black jeans. I watched as he turned away, leaned casually against the car and flicked his hair – the floppy fringe that had fallen over his eyes. He didn’t do it in a glamorous model kind of way, but in a nervous kind of way, looking about him while he did it, like he was trying to decide the best place to be, trying to figure out where to put himself. Bette had grown very still beside me, watching him. She doesn’t like him, I thought.