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His companion shook his head. ‘Apart from that one time when he was drunk.’

‘But you worked with him after my mother died?’

‘I did. And I agree, he was different after she passed away. He didn’t sing. Didn’t entertain us with his whip or showmanship. And if he played his harmonica, they were sad songs around the fire. The cancer took him fast. I think your father welcomed death, to be honest.’

‘I think he did too. I hate him now for keeping the truth a secret.’

Jonesy gave a sound of disgust. ‘Don’t waste the energy, lad. Your mother loved you and Vern provided. He did the best he could. He loved her with all his heart and most of him died when she did.’

‘The best he could?’ Tom repeated, sounding incredulous.

‘Yes,’ Jonesy replied, ‘under the circumstances. Another man might have been stronger, less jealous, more capable of showing love to someone else’s child. But Vern’s shortcomings haven’t hurt you. I’m guessing you’re strong of mind and character; you’re independent, capable of earning well for yourself.’

‘You’re not suggesting I should thank him.’

‘No, I’m not doing that. But we all make choices in life. Just accept he made his, as your mother made hers . . . and you’ll make yours. You wouldn’t have been any better off for knowing the truth, I’ll wager.’ Jonesy took another long drink, and then took a while clearing his throat, a wheeze now arriving. ‘But I doubt you’d have had a better life if your mother had stayed with her posh family. They’d have punished her daily and treated you with their sneers of disappointment. At least with Vern, your mother found some measure of happiness, and you probably grew up happier and more in control of your life than if you’d been raised alone by her within their house. They say ignorance is bliss, don’t they?’

Tom nodded.

‘Well, then. Move on. He’s been gone twelve years and if you feel he wasn’t a good father, then you lose nothing in the knowledge that he wasn’t your father anyway.’

‘That’s a strange logic, Jonesey.’

‘Yeah, well, a dying man can think this way, lad. Get on with your life, making it the best it can be. Find a good woman and love her. Start your own family and be the best father you can be and make up for the shortcomings of the man who helped raise you.’

The neatness of Jonesy’s advice appealed to Tom. But could he let it go that his mother and father had upheld a lie to their deaths?

Jonesy leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and Tom realised he’d slipped into sleep. He returned to his cot and stared at the ceiling. The more he prodded at what he’d learned, the more it felt like the truth and the further he felt himself drifting from the compass of his life, which had always pointed to Paradise on Witchelina Station and life as a wool classer.

He thought about school and how proud his mother was that he was doing well in his spelling, dictation, essays and grammar. His teacher at the time, Mrs Napier, had sent home a report that Tom was excelling in geography and arithmetic. For no reason that he could fathom, carpentry was his favourite subject. He decided his pleasure in it was the challenge of and the precision required to make perfect joints for the timber shapes he crafted. He’d made his mother three fine vessels: one for her sewing, another for her outdoor tools and had been working on a new box for the kindling when she’d died. He liked building her practical gifts. He recalled how, even at his young age, he’d designed the box – more of a cradle, really – to stand above ground so the sand could blow through it rather than pile up on one side during dust storms.

He looked at the shadows on the hospital ceiling through the mosquito net that was not yet in use and remembered how he’d completely lost interest in his schoolwork after her death; there was no one left to impress with his high marks and academic tasks. Within a year, he’d found himself cutting up newspaper into rough six-inch squares to be used in the school’s pit toilets; that had been his punishment for not doing his homework.

And then Witchelina rescued him. He’d waved farewell to school and joined the station full time. He’d known no other life, but suddenly that life felt false. He knew he was probably being irrational – perhaps the fever was making him think unreasonably – but Jonesy’s revelation was still hurting. It hadn’t been just an emotional jolt . . . it felt now like a stabbing pain in his throat, as though he wanted to howl his despair to the skies.

But that wasn’t his way. He kept his hurts tight within.

‘Here’s your broth, Tom. Do you feel like trying some?’ The cheerful nurse was back. ‘Did you speak with Jonesy?’

Tom nodded. ‘Yes, but not for long,’ he lied. ‘Didn’t say much.’

‘Ah, well, it would have brightened his day to have a conversation with someone who wasn’t a nurse.’ She smiled.

It hadn’t brightened his day, though. In fact, it had cast a shadow over his already darkening thoughts. A notion that had been niggling before his illness had been let out to roam his mind again. Jonesy’s truths had unleashed it fully.

Leave, it said. You’ve always wanted to see what was beyond the desert. Go find out.

8

PORT ADELAIDE

Fleur was finishing some final touches on one of the coffins. Now that her father had some casual workers, she no longer had the unpleasant task of painting the bottom of the vessels with tar. It was necessary to seal the wood and keep the contents within the confines of the chest as it decomposed deep in the ground, but she hated it.

She had learned from an early age that this sort of fact, such as tarring the bottom of coffins, or setting out a bowl of Condy’s Crystals (or a plate of coffee grinds if the crystals were not available) to help with the odour of decomposition, was not to be raised in polite conversation, despite how interesting she found it. Fleur had absorbed, rather than needing to be told, that almost everything her father did in his work – and she now did too – was not for general discussion.

‘Death needs its mystique, Fleur,’ Henry had counselled his child when she had not even reached double figures. At her frown, he’d explained. ‘No one really wants to know what we actually do. It’s a kindness to them – the mystery of our undertaking needs to remain that way. We handle the care of the dead privately. Then the death of a loved one is easier to cope with. Does that make sense?’

‘But I would want to know,’ she said, sounding puzzled.