It had taken Marge Campbell a little while to adjust to Pietro. She’d welcomed him as warmly as possible – she had nothing against foreigners, but it had been difficult to come to terms with the fact that her Vi had married one.

On Pietro’s first visit the three of them had sat in the front room drinking tea.

‘The front room,’ Violet had remarked as she’d carried in the tea tray, ‘gosh, Pietro, you’re getting the royal treatment.’

‘Don’t be silly, Vi,’ her mother had said, ‘we always entertain guests in the front room – you know that. Now, Pietro, how do you take your tea?’ She’d spoken loudly and enunciated clearly. ‘Do you like milk?’ And she’d held up the milk jug, just to ensure that he understood.

‘He speaks English, Mum, and he’s not deaf.’

But after ten minutes or so, Marge had relaxed and she’d found herself warming to the young man. His manners were impeccable and he was certainly handsome; Vi’s child was bound to be a looker, she thought.

‘Is beautiful, your farm,’ Pietro said.

Lucky had given him the use of the Land Rover for the day, and Pietro had been hugely impressed as he and Violet drove through the valleys and over the hills of her father’s lands. As he’d driven over the cattle grid and up the broad path to the rambling homestead, with its huge verandahs and groves of poplars, he’d been lost in awe.

‘Never do I see a farm so beautiful,’ he said to Violetta’s mother.

‘Property, Pietro,’ Violet reminded him.

‘Property, yes.’ He smiled at Marge. He liked Violetta’s mother; she was nice and she looked very like Violetta except much older. And a bit tired, he thought. ‘Always I forget is property. In my country, is farm. Violetta she correct me.’

Now that she was getting used to it, Marge found it rather pretty the way he called her daughter Violetta.

‘We have farms here too,’ she said, ‘don’t you listen to Vi – she just likes to show off.’

Violet grinned. Her mum had taken to him, she could tell. They were getting on like a house on fire.

‘So tell me about your farm, Pietro. Vi said you grew up on a farm.’

Violet flashed a warning at her mother. She’d said no such thing. She’d told her mum that Pietro had lived on a farm as a child, but that his parents had been killed in the war and he’d been brought up in an orphanage.

Marge blushed, realising that she’d put her foot in it.

But Pietro didn’t seem to mind.

‘My farm is high in the mountains,’ he said. ‘Much more high than here. And I have goats. I have a pet goat. Her name is Rosa.’ Pietro intended to tell Violetta’s mother everything he could remember about his farm. He would tell her about the mountains in springtime and how he’d helped Rosa have her baby. But Violetta’s mother interrupted him.

‘How nice.’ Marge decided it was time to check on the roast; Violet’s signals were painfully obvious. ‘I’ll just see how lunch is going. Cam and the boys’ll be back any minute; they’ve been out for a morning ride.’ She disappeared to the kitchen.

‘Why you not wish I should talk to your mother, Violetta?’ Pietro asked, a little hurt. The signals had not gone unnoticed by him either.

‘I want you to talk to her, sweetie,’ Violet assured him, ‘I just don’t want her asking questions, that’s all.’

‘Ah,’ Pietro said, ‘she does not know.’ Violetta had not told her mother that he had only fractured memories of the farm, and no recollection of his parents. Perhaps she was ashamed, he thought.

Violet could see he was hurt and she cuddled up to him on the sofa.

‘I just want to give them some time, Pietro. I mean, I’m married, I’m going to have a baby – they’ve got a lot to get used to, without … you know?’

‘Yes, is correct.’ Violetta was right, he thought. He must not seem strange to her family, he must try to fit in.

 

Marge dumped the oven dish onto the newspaper which she’d laid out on the Laminex-topped kitchen table and turned the legs of lamb with a carving fork. She always cooked two, but the way her boys ate, there was rarely any meat left. She wished she could have added an extra leg with Pietro here, but there wasn’t enough room in the oven of the old Kooka. It was time Cam bought her one of those new-fangled stoves that had more space, she thought. Crikey, there wasn’t enough room to cook a decent sized roast as it was – she had to keep rotating the other two pans with the vegetables.

She heard Cam and the boys talking on the back verandah as they took off their boots. It was a rule of hers: no work boots in the house, and the men always obeyed – the house was her domain. Then there was the closing slap of the back flywire door and all three of them barged into the kitchen.

‘Smells good, Mum.’ It was twenty-one-year-old Johnno, the younger of her sons. ‘Jeez, I’m starving, I could eat the leg off a skinny priest.’

‘Mind your language,’ she said meaningfully.

Johnno raised an eyebrow that said ‘what language?’, but twenty-four-year-old Dave got her drift.

‘He’s here, is he?’

‘In the front room,’ she said.

‘Strewth, you’re laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?’

‘Course she’s not,’ Cam reprimanded his son. ‘This is Vi’s husband and we’ll welcome him into the family the proper way. You just mind your Ps and Qs, Dave.’

Dave and Johnno exchanged a look. Any other member of the family would have been welcomed into the kitchen; the front room was for bunging it on.

‘Go and wash up and we’ll have a cup of tea before lunch,’ Marge said.

‘A cup of tea?’ Another incredulous reaction from the boys, and this time Cam agreed – the rules didn’t need to be stretched that far.

‘Give it a break, Marge,’ he said. ‘We’ll have a beer.’ And they trooped off to the laundry to scrub up for Sunday lunch.

 

When Cam had told his wife about their daughter, Marge was aghast.

‘You mean she’s been married for three whole months?’

‘Three and a half. Fifteenth of October – I checked with the Registry Office.’

‘And now she’s pregnant …’

‘So she says.’

Shocked as she was, Marge’s mind had worked swiftly. ‘Oh dear God, that’s why she married him.’

‘Not according to Maureen: she says Vi’s only two and a half months gone.’ Cam hadn’t dared admit to the earlier warnings he’d had from Maureen about Violet’s imminent love affair. But Christ alive, he thought he’d nipped it in the bud. How the hell was he to know it’d get so out of hand?

Then, when he’d told his wife about his run-in with the young Italian, much to his surprise, Marge had turned on him.

‘God in heaven, Cam, what have you done?’

‘Me? What have I done? The kid attacked me!’

‘With no provocation on your part, of course.’ Marge knew her husband only too well.

Cam was exasperated beyond measure. Maureen had said the same thing. What was wrong with the stupid cows? Why did everything have to be his fault?

‘Jesus Christ, woman, why blame me?’

‘Don’t blaspheme,’ she said automatically. Despite the fact that in becoming a Campbell woman Marge had lost touch with the church, her Irish Catholic upbringing regularly came to the fore.

‘It’s not my fault Vi married a bloody Dago.’

‘For goodness sake, keep your voice down – what would the boys say if they heard you talk like that!’ The boys couldn’t have heard – they were out rounding up strays – but the mere thought of it sent a shiver down her spine. Cam had rammed home to the boys his ‘all men are equal’ ideals for years, and now he was about to be exposed as a hypocrite.

‘Christ, Marge, it’s different when your own daughter marries one.’

It was then that Marge read him the riot act.

‘Now you listen to me, Cam. Your daughter’s married to an Italian whether you like it or not, and she’s going to have a baby. You welcome that boy into this family, and you start showing off around every pub in town about how your little girl’s been married for three months and how proud you are. And you make sure everyone knows the very date she married, because when she starts to show I won’t have people saying that my daughter had to marry because she got into trouble. Do you hear me?’

He certainly heard her. He’d never heard her so loud and clear in the whole of their marriage. Cam had always ruled the roost and Marge had always run the house, just as the Campbells had done for generations. But not this time. This time it was her call and there was little he could do about it, because she was right.

‘How do I explain why she kept it a secret?’ he asked sulkily.

‘She didn’t. We knew all the time. Vi was being romantic – everyone knows what Vi’s like. So she eloped and then she came back and told us. And she wanted to keep it a secret for a while because she likes a bit of drama – that’s what you say, Cam. Tell it all around town, go on a pub crawl. Tell them in Jindabyne and Dalgety and Berridale too, and you be sure you tell your mates in Cooma. You can make a joke of it, if you like – you’re good at that.’

He was, Marge thought, and he’d get it right. Cam was good at bullshit. It was a term she never used, but it was spot on. She’d check the story with Maureen, she thought. Something sounded very fishy. Why would Violet get married without telling her own mother? The girl had obviously feared her father’s reaction; maybe she’d seen through Cam’s ‘all men are equal’ ravings – that was bullshit too.

Cam had wandered off, thoroughly chastened, and Marge had rung Violet and told her to bring her husband home for the Sunday roast.

 

‘I am most sorry, Mr Campbell,’ Pietro said, rising from the sofa as Cam and the boys appeared.

‘Over and done with, son,’ Cam muttered, ‘let bygones be bygones,’ and he shook the Italian’s hand. Dave and Johnno looked on, mystified – they knew nothing apart from the surprising fact that their little sister had married an Italian without telling anyone. ‘These are my boys,’ Cam loudly announced. ‘Dave and Johnno, this is Pietro.’

These were not boys, Pietro thought, these were giants.

Sandy-haired and freckle-faced, Dave and Johnno had their father’s powerful build, but they towered over Cam.

‘G’day, Pietro,’ they both said, and one by one they shook his hand vigorously.

‘Gedday, Dave, gedday, Johnno.’ Pietro returned their handshakes with equal force.

‘You want a beer, Pietro?’ Cam asked, as Marge appeared with a couple of bottles and glasses.

‘Yes, I like beer very much, thank you, Mr Campbell.’

Cam caught his wife’s glance. ‘I think under the circumstances, we should make it Cam, son,’ he said and he busied himself with the beers, avoiding whatever look Vi might have been giving him.

But the awkwardness soon dissipated – Dave and Johnno, blissfully unaware of the sequence of events, made sure of that.

‘Oh come off it, Mum,’ Dave said, when Marge told Violet to set the dining room table, ‘Pietro’s one of the family, isn’t he? What’s wrong with the kitchen?’ The dining room, like the front room, was for bunging it on, and besides, it was Sunday – the Sunday roast wouldn’t be the same in the dining room.

It seemed to be the general consensus of opinion and, although Marge had been trying to do things ‘the European way’ in deference to Pietro, she was quite relieved. It meant she didn’t have to be running from room to room with the food.

Lunch was a raucous affair, the boys downing their beers and spearing meat from the huge platter onto their plates with their forks. Pietro had never seen men eat so much meat.

‘Want some more spuds, Pietro?’ Johnno slid the bowl of roast potatoes across the table.

‘Thank you, yes.’

Marge was about to pass him the serving spoon, but Pietro speared a potato with his fork the way he’d seen the others do; he was determined to fit in. Ah well, she thought, it was probably a good sign.

Dave was keen to know how Violet and Pietro had met.

‘At Hallidays,’ Violet said. ‘It was love at first sight.’ There was no conscious attempt at exaggeration on her part; it was the way she remembered their meeting. ‘I thought he looked like a film star. And he does, doesn’t he,’ she said proudly.

With all eyes upon him, Pietro was plainly embarrassed, so the boys didn’t take the mickey out of him like they normally would have.

‘Why’d you keep it a secret, Vi?’ Johnno asked.

‘You know me.’ She shrugged, and her smile was teasing. ‘I like a bit of drama.’

That’s what Mum had said, Johnno thought. Jeez but Vi lived in a world of her own.

Dave was thinking exactly the same thing. He’d given up trying to figure out his sister, but he’d been keen to meet the Italian; he was very protective of Vi and very much the big brother. Pietro seemed like a nice bloke, though, and Vi was obviously happy, so good on ’em both, he thought. Hell, like Dad’s always said, one bloke’s as good as another. Bit weird, though, he thought, having an Eyetie in the family.

‘You work for Kaiser, don’t you?’ he asked.

‘This is true.’

‘What’s it like, Pietro, working for the Yanks?’ Johnno stopped midway through piling a third serve of meat onto his plate. ‘They say they’re real slave drivers.’

‘No, they are good. And they pay good too.’

The rest of the main meal was given over to a discussion about Kaiser and its radical work methods. The boys were fascinated; even Cam, who had remained relatively silent, found himself interested in what the Italian had to say, and Pietro felt relaxed as he answered their questions. Violet was as pleased as punch.

Then, as Marge dished out the apple crumble and ice cream, the conversation turned to the Cooma Show. It was well over a month away yet, but the Show was the most important event on the yearly calendar and always came up for heavy discussion.

‘Will you be riding this year, Vi?’ Johnno asked.

‘Nup,’ Violet replied with ease, ‘don’t have time to get back into training, we’re too busy at the store.’ The boys didn’t know about her pregnancy. Her mum had said she was not to tell a soul.

‘Not even Dave and Johnno,’ Marge had warned her, ‘not until everyone’s got used to you being married, Vi – it’s better that way.’ Violet had known exactly what her mother meant.

‘Bloody shame,’ Dave said to Pietro, ‘Vi’s one of the best horsewomen in the district.’

It led to proud boasts of family sporting prowess; the boys, like their father, were excellent riders and regularly collected show trophies. And then, of course, there were Cam’s annual blue ribbons for prize livestock and Marge’s awards for chutneys and relishes. The Cooma Show was quite a Campbell affair.

Pietro basked in it all. What a fine family, he thought. Over second helpings of apple crumble, when the talk turned to childhood reminiscences, he persuaded himself it didn’t matter that he had none of his own to offer. One day his child would be a part of this family, and would grow up with his or her own memories.

But an hour and a half later, as he and Violet drove back to Cooma, Violet chattering nineteen to the dozen about how successful the lunch had been, Pietro decided that it did matter. The fact that he had no reminiscences of his own to share with Violet’s family was indeed of little consequence, but it was now more important than ever that his child should know who he was. His child should know that he had once had a family. It was imperative to Pietro that he discover his past.

 

‘So tell me about your background, Ruth.’

Why? she thought. Why did she need to tell the doctor her background? She had no desire to talk of the past.

‘Your medical background, of course,’ Maarten said reassuringly, pen poised over the patient’s record card on the desk before him; he’d registered how quickly her guard had gone up.

‘Oh.’ Ruth felt rather foolish. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘Any major illnesses I should know of?’ he prompted.

‘No.’

‘Any family history of heart disease?’

‘No.’

‘Are your parents still alive?’

‘No, my mother died of pneumonia when I was a child.’

‘And your father?’ He concentrated on his notes, but he sensed her hesitation.

‘Accidental death,’ she said. Kristallnacht, she remembered it so clearly. ‘He was killed in 1938.’ The receptionist had given the doctor the form she’d filled out: it showed the country of her birth as Germany, and it was plain that the name Stein was Jewish. Let him make of it what he will, she thought.

He stopped his scribbling and looked at her, his expression one of heartfelt sympathy and understanding.

‘There were many accidental deaths in those times,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she answered shortly.

She was very much on the defensive, Maarten thought. Her manner was altogether different from that of the relaxed young woman he’d chatted to in the park just two days ago.

He asked her several more questions, steering clear of anything she might possibly consider personal, then put down the pen and stood.

‘Right, that’s enough grilling,’ he said in his comfortingly jovial bedside manner. ‘Let’s see what shape you’re in.’

As he sat beside her and wrapped the blood pressure gauge around her arm, Ruth felt relieved that they were getting on with the physical examination. She didn’t know why she’d been so tense, but it was always the same when people asked her questions about her past: the walls automatically went up. Heavens above, she thought, the man was only doing his job.

‘Ah, 120 over 80, excellent,’ he said, and he smiled as if she’d come top of her class. Then, with his pencil torch, he examined her ears, eyes and throat. ‘Say ah,’ he instructed, making Ruth feel like a child.

It was Maarten who was tense now. He was touching her, actually touching her, it was Ruth’s skin he was feeling, and he wondered how she could be so unaware of the electricity which he could sense pulsating between them.

He instructed her to stand and he held the stethoscope to her chest, but he was not listening to the rhythm of her heart. He was watching the rise and fall of her breasts, remembering them naked and how they’d felt, how she’d remained so still and accepting as he’d worshipped her body.

‘Turn around.’ She did. ‘Breathe in,’ he said, holding the stethoscope to her back, ‘breathe out.’ But he wasn’t listening to her lungs. He was gazing at her hair and recalling how he’d run his hands through it and how it had felt like silk between his fingers. She wore it short now; he preferred it longer, but he liked the way it displayed her neck. He longed to bend his mouth to that neck, to feel his lips brush her flesh, and his eyes strayed to her shoulders, bare in the sleeveless summer dress, the shoulders he’d massaged with such love all those years ago. He remembered how she’d enjoyed the evening ritual of his massage; she hadn’t told him so, of course, but he’d felt her body’s response. As he’d caressed her flesh to the rhythm of ‘Barcarole’, he’d known that for her, too, the music and his touch had become one – it had been something intimate and precious that they’d shared.

He could hear the familiar refrain now and he was on the verge of humming the melody as his fingers hovered longingly over her skin.

He pulled his hand away as sharply as if he’d been burned, shocked back to the present and how close he had come to revealing himself.

‘You’re in excellent health, Ruth,’ he pronounced, startling himself with the sound of his own voice. ‘Just the blood test and we’re done.’

He took the blood sample, concentrating upon the task at hand, divorcing himself from the past and from the fact that this was Ruth. His Ruth. And then he saw her to the door.

‘The results should be back next week,’ he said, ‘and I’ll instruct the clinic to send your X-rays directly to me – your appointment is arranged for tomorrow morning, you said?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Excellent.’ He accompanied her into the reception area. ‘Edith will arrange an appointment for you.’ He nodded to the grey-haired woman seated at her desk behind the counter, and then returned his gaze to Ruth. ‘We’ll have the report all finalised on your next visit.’

‘Thank you very much, Doctor,’ Ruth said.

He didn’t remind her to call him Maarten – he didn’t trust himself. ‘My pleasure. I look forward to seeing you next week.’ And he returned to his consulting room, where he stood by the bay windows watching her walk down the street, shaken by the effect she’d had upon him.

‘Miss Stein is here, doctor.’

‘Thank you, Edith.’ He didn’t look up from his notes. ‘Give me five minutes and then show her in.’

The moment Edith closed the door, he stopped the pretence of his paperwork and gazed at the mantelpiece clock, counting the minutes, just as he’d counted the days until he’d next see her. The week had passed slowly, but he was prepared this time: he would not allow himself to be caught out again. He must resist the temptation to reveal his identity – she was not ready for that yet; he had to ease himself gently back into her life.

‘Ruth.’ He rose as Edith ushered her in. ‘How nice to see you, do take a seat,’ he said, accepting the folder which his receptionist handed him.

As Ruth sat, Maarten opened the folder, settling himself once again behind his desk.

‘The results are all here: your X-rays show no abnormalities,’ he said, and then he ran through the analysis of her blood test. ‘Everything quite within the acceptable limits,’ he concluded. ‘You have a clean bill of health, I’m happy to say, and I’ve completed a full report for your employers. It’s in there with your X-rays,’ he said, passing her a large envelope.

‘Thank you, doctor, that’s excellent news.’

‘Maarten, please.’ He smiled and sat back in his chair, friendly, relaxed. It was time to establish a personal relationship. ‘So I take it you’ll be starting work any minute now?’

‘Yes, I’m looking forward to it.’

‘As a teacher and an interpreter, Lucky said.’

‘That’s right, teaching English to migrants and assisting social workers and psychologists.’

‘How very interesting.’

She was rising to go, so he quickly stood – he had no alternative.

‘I wish you every success, Ruth.’

‘Thank you.’

He accompanied her to the door. ‘Remind our friend Lucky when next you see him that he owes me a game of chess,’ he said in a last bid for some personal contact.

‘Yes, of course,’ she replied. It was not likely she would be seeing Samuel in the near future, but the doctor didn’t need to know that.

‘Such a fine man, and such a very dear friend.’

‘Yes, he is.’

As he opened the door, Ruth offered her hand. ‘Thank you for all your help, Doctor Vanpoucke.’

He didn’t insist again that she call him Maarten. It was plain that under the circumstances she wished to address him professionally, and besides, there were two other patients waiting in reception.

‘Not at all, my dear,’ he said as they shook hands, ‘any time I can be of service, you know where to find me.’

As she left, he signalled Edith to give him five minutes before showing in the next patient and, closing the door behind him, he crossed to the bay windows and once again watched her as she walked down the street. Things were not proceeding according to plan at all, he thought.

Maarten was frustrated by the outcome of what he’d initially considered a breakthrough opportunity. Offering his services as a doctor was not working in his favour; she perceived him purely on a professional basis. It was understandable, most patients did, and he supposed it had been foolish of him to expect otherwise. But in order to reassert his power over her, he had to develop a personal relationship – and quickly, he thought. Cooma was a man’s town. A woman like Ruth would attract a great deal of attention – they’d be queuing up for her favours.

 

Rob Harvey arrived at Dodds in a jeep.

‘Good heavens,’ she said, ‘a jeep.’ She seemed taken aback.

Oh hell, Rob cursed himself, he’d got it wrong. He’d thought she might find the jeep novel and exciting, but he should have picked her up in the Land Rover.

‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘they can be a bit blowy. Do you want to grab a scarf?’

‘Certainly not,’ she said, ignoring the offer of his helpful hand and leaping into the passenger seat with a professional agility. ‘I like jeeps.’

He wondered when and where she’d travelled in jeeps, but it wasn’t his place to ask.

‘Where to?’ he asked, climbing into the driver’s seat. ‘Any preferences?’

‘Wherever you want to take me,’ she said. ‘I’m in your hands.’

The jeep had reminded her of Israel and the kibbutz – but she convinced herself that it didn’t matter. She realised that she actually did like jeeps: she liked the bounce of them and the wind in her hair. And she was relieved to find that jeeps no longer held any threat in her memory.

Rob took her around the Snowy first, the Guthega dam, and the works in progress, and explained the plans for future development. She was awe-struck by the breadth of the Scheme. But as they drove through Adaminaby and he told her about the planned flooding over the next several years, she said, ‘How sad.’

‘Yep, you’re right,’ he agreed.

To Ruth, Rob Harvey was an interesting mix: at times a man of few words, simple and direct; at others, one who was articulate, learned and intelligent. And beneath it all, she sensed a man who was shy with women. Rob Harvey was an individual of intriguing contrasts, like the country of his birth, she thought as he drove her through the valleys and plains of the Monaro and up into the stark high country of the Snowy Mountains.

‘Mount Kosciusko,’ he said as the jeep bumped over the rough roads and the mountain loomed up ahead: ‘the tallest mountain in Australia.’

They drove as far as they could to the upper slopes, and he stopped the car at Ruth’s request. They got out to walk to one of the patches of snow that nestled here and there in shady nooks. How long had it been since she’d seen snow? she wondered as she bent and scooped up a handful, scrunching it into a ball. She aimed at the trunk of a blackbutt a good twenty yards away and hit her mark with perfect accuracy.

‘Good shot,’ he remarked.

‘I loved snow fights when I was a child.’

‘Oh yes?’

He didn’t enquire any further, and she realised how extraordinarily respectful he’d been of her privacy. She hadn’t offered one shred of information about herself, and he hadn’t asked. Had she really communicated such a desire for secrecy? She supposed she must have, and then thought there really wasn’t any need.

‘I grew up in Berlin,’ she said. ‘We had regular family holidays in the Alps when I was a child.’ She scooped up another handful of snow. ‘But after the war I spent many years in Israel.’ She made another snowball and hit the tree trunk again with deadly accuracy. ‘No snow in Israel,’ she smiled. ‘I hadn’t realised how much I missed it.’

‘You’ll get plenty of snow here in the winter months,’ he assured her. ‘In fact, you won’t even be able to travel these roads half the time – not until the snowplough’s cleared them.’

‘And we’re in Australia,’ she said, ‘isn’t that amazing? One doesn’t think of Australia as a country with snow. Well, we ignorant ones don’t, anyway,’ she laughed.

He felt privileged that she’d shared her past with him, brief as the exchange had been; what a different woman she was to the one he’d met only three weeks ago. That woman had rarely ever smiled, and this one was actually laughing.

‘Come on,’ he said, ‘we’re not even halfway through the guided tour.’

He drove her across the treeless plains and through the boulder country, explaining the flora and fauna as they went.

‘It really should be Lucky showing you around,’ he said. ‘He’s the one with the real gift of the gab, he can paint pictures like no-one I know – I reckon there’s a touch of the poet in him.’ Then he paused, feeling like a dill. ‘But of course you’d know that.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I do.’ So Lucky had told Rob Harvey that they knew each other, she thought. It was a sensible move. They had to stick to their story; they’d already told Maarten Vanpoucke, and discreet as the doctor might be, word was bound to get around. It was wise to tell as much of the truth as was possible.

‘It must have seemed strange that we didn’t mention our friendship that night at Dodds,’ she said.

‘Not really. Lucky said you were both a bit caught out and that you didn’t want Peggy to feel awkward, you know …?’ He shrugged, starting to feel awkward himself, and hoping he wasn’t putting his foot in it.

‘Yes, a reunion of old friends seemed a little tasteless at an engagement celebration. Lucky and I were very close during our university days.’ She smiled. ‘But of course that was a million years ago.’

Her reply was candid and comfortable, and once again she’d put him at his ease; she tended to have that effect on him, he thought.

‘He’s a beaut bloke, Lucky,’ he said.

‘Yes, he is,’ she agreed.

They returned to Cooma in the mid afternoon – it was Sunday and Rob was picking up several of the men to take them back to the camp.

‘So when do you start work, Ruth?’ he asked as they drove into town.

‘Tomorrow,’ she said. ‘My medical clearance was finalised last week and I report for duty first thing in the morning.’

‘Best of luck,’ he said as he turned off Sharp Street into Vale. They were only a block from Dodds now, and he wanted to ask her out to dinner next weekend, but he wasn’t sure how to put it. A sightseeing drive was one thing, but dinner was a different matter altogether.

She seemed unaware of his dilemma as they turned into Commissioner Street and he did a u-turn to pull up outside the pub.

‘I’ll be moving out of Dodds in a week or so,’ she said. ‘The Authority’s lining up accommodation for me.’

‘Right, that’ll be nice.’ Perhaps lunch might be a better idea, he thought distractedly as he walked her to the main doors.

‘Thanks so much, Rob. I’ve had a wonderful time.’

She shook his hand warmly, but the gesture seemed such a closure to the day that he faltered over his invitation.

‘Any time. Perhaps we might do another drive next weekend?’ It was all he could come up with.

‘I’d like that,’ she smiled. She had sensed he was working up the courage to offer a more intimate invitation, and she didn’t wish to encourage him. She liked him a great deal but she wasn’t ready for a relationship.

Well, it hadn’t been a ‘no’, Rob thought, cursing his own inadequacy as she disappeared into Dodds. At least she wanted to see him again.

 

Maarten Vanpoucke was deep in thought as he walked down Vale Street. He’d stepped out of Hallidays store into Sharp Street just in time to see the jeep rounding the corner, Ruth smiling and talking animatedly to the man driving. It had shocked him. Was she already being courted?

As he crossed Commissioner Street, he saw the jeep pull away from the kerb outside Dodds. He knew she was staying at Dodds; the hotel was listed in her medical file as her current address. Perhaps her escort had merely taken her for a drive in the country. He certainly hoped so; there couldn’t be any competition. He had to devise a plan: he needed to socialise with her. Once they developed a friendship, it wouldn’t take long for him to exert the power which he knew he still had over her. He’d felt it in her presence: even though she herself had been unaware of it, the bond between them was as strong as ever.

It would be Lucky who would provide the link, he decided. How ironic that it should be her own husband who would open the doors for him. And how convenient that he himself was the only one to know of their marriage. At least he assumed that to be the case, and it would certainly work to his advantage. He would make his move next weekend, he thought. Lucky was always in town on a Saturday.