‘Lot of the squatters are like that. You wouldn’t believe the way some of ’em live, with no woman to take care of things. More like savages than men. Gav’s better’n most, I’ll say that. Don’t mess around with none of them native girls, neither, like a lot of ’em do.’

Lorna was shocked. ‘Native girls?’

‘Plenty of ’em in the bush.’ Mary started putting the dried plates on the shelves at the side of the stove. ‘Lots o’ men take up with a black woman. S’pose it’s natural enough. Not too many of us white ones around, are there?’

Lorna had wondered whether there would be enough to keep her busy. Mary soon removed any doubts about that.

No one was allowed in the office where Gavin Henderson carried out the paperwork of the run but the rest of the house had to be kept clean, even though most of it was hardly ever used.

‘Very particular Gav is,’ Mary confided. ‘Likes everything spotless.’

There were candles to make, clothes to wash, ironing to do, food to cook, as well as the three dairy cows to be looked after.

‘Ever ’ad anythin’ to do wi’ cows?’ Mary asked when they had finished in the kitchen.

‘Before I got married I used to look after my father’s wee herd. Make the butter, such like.’

‘You kin look after this lot, then. Cows an’ me, we don’ git along. Right now we need more butter. The men get through it at a hell of a rate. The cows need milking, too. Not Bluebell, she’s dry. You can’t miss her, she’s only got one horn. But Agnes, the big one, and Buttercup, they needs to be milked. If you kin take ’em off my ’ands, that’ll be grand.’

Mary told her the cows were kept in a paddock near the house so Lorna took a halter and went looking for them. The air was warm and full of the pepper smell of dust and dry vegetation. There were many flies.

The three cows were grazing at the bottom of the paddock close to the river. Lorna got the halter around Agnes’ neck and led her back to the shed, the big beast following docilely. She tied her up, washed her down with water that she drew from a barrel outside the shed door and settled down to the milking.

The cow’s flank was soft against the top of her head, her gentle smell filling her nostrils. The milk squirted, ringing, into the bucket that she held clamped between her knees. The frothing liquid climbed higher and Lorna thought, yes, this is what it was like, nothing has changed, I have come home again.

When she had finished she took Agnes back to the paddock, fetched Buttercup and repeated the process. Then she carried the brimming buckets into the stone-floored dairy, rich with the smell of milk, of life. She put the buckets on the floor and covered them with damp cloths. The milk for making butter had been left in shallow pans to separate the cream from the buttermilk.

Lorna carried the wooden butter churn into the kitchen, scalded it with water from the kettle simmering on the side of the fire, and fetched the pans of separated milk. She scooped the cream into the churn and poured the buttermilk into a tall jug that she had also found in the dairy.