She was a few years older than Lorna, in her middle twenties, perhaps, and the man was ten years older again.

The woman came across, the man hanging back a little, and spoke for both of them. ‘Mary Curtis. My husband George …’

They shook hands.

She gave them a keen look. ‘New arrivals?’

‘We docked in Sydney two weeks ago.’

‘You’ll find things strange to begin with,’ she told them. ‘George did, when ’e first got ’ere. But you’ll soon get the hang of it.’ To Andrew’s embarrassed astonishment, she took up one of his hands and inspected it. ‘Hands like a towny,’ she said. ‘What you do, ’fore you come out?’

Andrew was not used to plain-spoken women. Stiffly he said, ‘I had a small goods store.’

Mary Curtis laughed. ‘You’ll need to harden up your hands pretty fast. Not many shop fronts, where you’re goin’.’

‘I’ve nae doot we shall manage very well.’

His cold response did not bother her. ‘Course you will, Andy. Tha’s what I said, remember? Only thing, you might suffer a bit gittin’ there.’

Until now George had not spoken. Now he said to his wife, ‘Best cut your yack and get movin’. There’s breakfast to be got ready. ’E’ll be lookin’ out for ee, ee don’ get on with it.’

He had a home accent, somewhere from the west of England, Lorna thought but was unsure, unfamiliar with English accents. His outspoken wife must be a local girl—she had Henderson’s way of speaking.

They walked across to the house and followed Mary into the kitchen. The room was dark and still with the homely smell of recent cooking. A banked fire was burning low in the range.

Mary took charge, shooing the men out from under her feet. ‘You lot wait outside. We’ll call you when it’s ready.’

As Mary bustled about, Lorna watched, doing what she was told but being careful not to get in the way.

‘There’s tea in the big brown container in the cupboard,’ Mary said. ‘Fetch it for me, won’t you?’

She had already raked the fire, added more wood and set a big kettle of water to boil. Now she tipped out flour, added water and mixed it into a dough.

‘What ye making?’

‘Damper.’

She shaped it with swift, confident hands, and wiped her forearm across her forehead, leaving a smudge of flour.

‘There’s a plate of chops in the meat safe outside the door. Bring ’em in here.’

A flat metal plate was heating on the fire. To one side, the damper was cooking amid the ashes. The chops spat and sizzled as Mary arranged them on the plate.

‘Gav used to like ’em boiled,’ she said.

Lorna frowned. ‘Gav?’

‘Gavin Henderson. The squatter.’

‘Is that what ye call him? Gav?’

‘’Is name, i’n’ it?’ She poked the chops around with the blade of a large knife. ‘I reckon they’re much nicer grilled like this. So long as you don’t let ’em git too dry, o’course.’

She turned the damper, turned it again, and in no time at all breakfast was ready.