Nothing displeased Andrew McLachlan more than a lack of faith.

The waiting passengers inched forward again. The odour of impatience, of sweat, mingled with the smells of the waterfront brought to them on the light breeze—dust and dung, mud, weed and salt water. A seagull perched momentarily on the ship’s rail and screeched once before rising and circling away across the sun-shot harbour.

Eventually, after much shuffling and grumbling, the McLachlans’ turn came. Lorna took a deep breath as she stepped for the first time onto Australian soil, as though feeling it beneath her feet made irrevocable the move to which they had been committed since that time, almost a year ago, when Andrew had come into their granite-built house on the east coast of Scotland and told her he had decided to sell the business to Angus Ross and move to the other side of the world.

It was only now, stepping onto the uneven cobbles of the roadway, seeing the buildings, the strangeness of the hot and avid sky, the unknown emptiness of the land beyond the township, that she accepted the reality of this new place where it was her destiny to spend the remainder of her life.

I shall no’ look back, she thought. I shall no’ think about what might have been. Scotland is gone. The old life, the friends and family, all gone now. Here is where I am, in this new place. My life begins now.

There was a freedom in having no ties, just the two of them alone in the new land. Yet they were not free yet. There were officials on the wharf who escorted them to an ugly building where men with white faces and ungiving eyes were waiting to question them.

Health.

Possessions.

Plans.

‘Sign here,’ the official said. ‘If you can sign.’

Andrew did not deign to answer that. He read the form. ‘Farm labourer?’ he said, eyebrows questioning.

‘You wanner work, don’t you?’

‘Of course.’

‘That’s how you get it. Meanwhile you’ll stay in the immigration barracks until the coach leaves,’ the man told them.

‘And when would that be?’

A shrug. ‘A week, maybe. Could be two. Whenever there’s a load.’

‘Where are these barracks?’

The official gestured at a group of men, also uniformed, waiting by the door. ‘They’ll show you.’ A smile, derisory rather than welcoming. ‘Don’t worry. They won’t let you slip away.’

‘Where shall we be going? Afterwards, I mean?’

‘Where they take you.’ And he transferred his attention to the next couple waiting in the queue that stretched out through the hot and shadowed shed to the brightness of the sun-drenched road outside.

Andrew frowned. It was not in his nature to like being so completely at the mercy of other men’s decisions. He shook his head, picked up his bag and turned to Lorna.

‘Nae doot they’ll let us know in guid time.’

The barracks were better than they might have expected, better than the cramped promiscuity of the immigrant hold they had just left. At least they could get out and see what the town had to offer.

Sydney was rowdy with the noise of passers-by. Bullocks drew two-wheeled drays creaking through the rutted streets. Red-coated soldiers marched in columns, cross-belts and muskets gleaming, or brawled their way from tavern to tavern. Peddlers bawled their wares, street shows on each corner drew people to watch jugglers and acrobats performing for pennies. Women with painted faces and ragged, gaudy dresses leant suggestively against the walls of buildings. Hanging over everything were the columns of masts webbed with rigging rising into the sky, the harsh cry and stammer of gulls, the smell of sewage and the sea.

Andrew passed like a spectre through the crowds. His dark clothing and set, white face were unspoken comment upon the worldliness of the town.

‘Nae doot we’ll be on our way shortly,’ he said.