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Her father had smiled. ‘I don’t doubt it, with that inquisitive and intelligent mind of yours, but trust me, my girl. Most people are frightened of death, quietly terrified of the process of embalmment, and certainly cautious, even at the lightest conversation about it, because death can be confusing as well as being final.’

‘I’m not scared,’ she’d countered.

And he had given her an indulgent sigh. ‘No. You’re not frightened, mostly because you’re very young but you’ve also been around death all of your life. I might add, Fleur, that even those who are not afraid often prefer to stay in the dark about what is happening when we step in and take over the care of their beloved.’

‘So not everyone is like us, you mean?’

‘No one is like you, Fleur. You’re unique.’

Though she hadn’t really known what unique meant, she’d understood her father was giving her a special compliment. She knew now, though, and had to wonder whether her father had forgotten all that love and affection. He had changed so much since her mother died. It was as though he no longer cared. Irma was right; he was willingly drinking himself to an early grave. But worse, he no longer seemed to care about the daughter he had once shown so much affection towards. Was he really comfortable pushing her into a partnership with the coffin-maker’s son? Why did he look so grey? He wasn’t that old. And how about the way his mind wandered now and then? He seemed blurry, as if too often distracted.

‘Jimmy Coglin!’ she muttered, still shocked, as she sewed the final run of stitches on the calico she was using to trim the inside of the coffin.

She was being especially careful, as this coffin was being prepared for a mother and her child who had died at birth; the woman had bled profusely and died soon after. Fleur had insisted that she take care of both bodies alone, even though her father had frowned, and she’d had to help him grasp why this felt so important.

‘But I have time, Fleur,’ he argued. ‘We can do it faster if we each take one of the Savilles.’

She had shaken her head. ‘It’s a mother and child. Hard to explain, but do you recall being called away by the hospital mortuary staff when we picked up the bodies?’ He frowned and then nodded, remembering. ‘One of the nurses spoke to me privately. She said she was sure the mother had died of instant heartbreak at the news of her child being stillborn.’

‘You know that’s unlikely—’

‘Dad, I can’t speak for affairs of the heart or what it is to be a mother who is heartbroken. But Mrs Saville had experienced eight miscarriages. Eight! I don’t think you can imagine what that can do to a woman. I don’t think I can either – but I believe I can get closer to understanding than you. Men seem to deliberately keep their distance from children until they’re sure they’re robust enough . . . healthy and strong and destined to survive the lives they’re born into. But women, Dad, we’re different. Each pregnancy is something special, especially if it’s a wanted child. And to be denied that child for whatever reason is painful, and I don’t mean physically. I mean it is mentally harmful.’ She tapped her temple. ‘Mrs Saville went through that agony eight times before she carried a baby all the way through to her delivery date, and then that precious child died before she could take a breath.’

Her father had stared at her; his expression was neutral but she could see he was still at a loss.

‘Dad, I don’t want them separated. I want to keep that baby in her arms while I work on them.’

‘Don’t be rid—’

‘I’m not ridiculous. This is not just any corpse. This is about a mother and her child for me. I can’t help approaching it emotionally – I feel it at a different level. It’s hard for me to explain, but when I’m preparing her, I know I shall feel as though I’m communicating with her on the other side. Reassuring her. Letting her know her baby is coming with her and will never leave her arms. That I’m there to protect her and her child to their final rest.’ Fleur had paused and looked him in the eye. ‘Let me do this my way.’

Her father had shaken his head. ‘This is why others in the business don’t let women do these things. Too emotional,’ he admonished.

Yes, he’d certainly changed if he believed that. In years gone, his frown would have relaxed and his smile softened; he would have patted her shoulder and said something like, ‘Thank goodness for your sensitivity, Fleur.’ Now her father was suddenly impatient with her ways.

But their new life had become shaped so that he was happier at the pub than at home and, in a way – as much as she hated to admit it – that increasingly suited her. She was shouldering most of the work behind the scenes now, although her father continued to meet with the bereaved and transport their dead. Fleur was perceptive enough to understand that, although the day was coming when women undertakers would be accepted, most people did prefer to greet a sombre male funeral director in his mourning suit when organising the event or attending a burial.

Even so, there was an important conversation Fleur wished to have with her father about taking the business in a new direction. He wouldn’t like it, but she had convinced herself that he would understand because he was the one man in South Australia – possibly the whole country – who was essentially pioneering the introduction of women into his industry. He hadn’t meant to, she knew that; it had occurred naturally because he had adopted a precocious little girl in need when his wife was unable to give him a child – particularly the son he’d hoped for. He could not have known that Fleur would become intrinsic to his business, but she was the best possible advertisement for female undertakers, no matter how much the male fraternity resented her.

Last night Henry had agreed to having a serious talk this morning, but he had not woken in a good mood and she’d sensibly left him to his headache, porridge and Irma’s fussing. Irma had now taken control of everything Henry ate and drank, often preparing some of his food, certainly his beverages, for him. It was curious, but Irma was so horrible that Fleur didn’t want to think about her any more than she had to.

Fleur calmed her tumbling thoughts, reassuring herself that her father would be more receptive tonight after the pub; she would wait up for him, catch him before he flopped into bed next to the tutting Irma.

The shock of Irma spitting on Mae’s photo had not abated; the memory of saliva, launched with such ferocity and slipping down her mother’s face, was about as vicious a gesture as Fleur had witnessed. Irma had intended it to offend at the deepest level, but perhaps what she hadn’t grasped was just how revealing her action was. Now Fleur was convinced she had her stepmother’s full measure. There was no doubt at all in her mind about Irma’s intention, which was to remove Mae completely from her father’s life and potentially make a solid case for shifting Fleur as well. The push towards marriage was the first move on Irma’s chessboard towards check-mating Fleur; Jimmy Coglin was her pawn and she was using the King – Henry – to lure Jimmy into her trap.

Well, Fleur would not stand for it. She shook her head with disgust and blew out a long breath to clear her mind. She bent down to bite through the thread and stood back to admire her work, pushing the needle safely through her blouse like a brooch, so she knew where it was until she could put it away.

Inhaling again to settle herself, she could just smell the still-rich aroma of the freshly ground coffee that now sat between the tarred bottom of the coffin and the calico lining that awaited Mrs Saville. She had been dead for two days and Fleur had worked hard on the lividity of the body once the rigor had passed. Removing the copper pennies that the woman’s family had placed on her eyes to keep them closed, Fleur pondered the nagging thought that there needed to be a better way; the heaviness of the coins only made the eyes sink further. It had taken all her skill with soft cotton wool behind the eyelids to plump them realistically.

Her father had taught her how to make stitches behind the lips that tracked invisibly into the septum of the nose and back again. When pulled gently, they closed the person’s mouth permanently, but Fleur had recently designed her own method. She hadn’t shown her father yet, but it took fewer stitches via a gentle looping action that remained hidden but was more effective in ensuring a firm close. It also did not require anything such as a milk bottle or a rolled-up towel to hold the chin in place until these adjustments were made. She was proud of her invention and felt it was kinder somehow, since it required fewer needle punctures. She shuddered at the notion that some morticians used wire and a nasty-looking implement to push it through the gums of the corpse.

She had dressed her client in a charcoal-coloured worsted dress, which made even the slight colouring that Fleur had achieved by softly applying rouge at her cheekbones seem almost too warm and lifelike. It was as though Mrs Saville might wake from a swoon, but the tiny infant cradled in her arms looked to be in her final sleep. Fleur had added nothing to the child’s pale skin but simply dressed her in the robe intended for her christening day.

Fleur had managed to wash and dress both bodies without the precious child ever leaving Mrs Saville’s embrace entirely. It had been an exceptional challenge and one she was glad no one had witnessed because others would think her mad. She didn’t pretend for a moment that Mrs Saville would know it, but perhaps spiritually – wherever her soul was travelling – she might sense that her baby was still in her arms, her spirit travelling alongside. For Fleur it was an important kindness she was performing for a woman who deserved this regard, after her years of despair and loss.

Thinking this made Fleur maudlin and her eyes watered. In times gone, the mother and child might have been photographed together in their death embrace for posterity, but that habit had lost favour, probably because people were living longer, living healthier and especially because children were surviving more readily. The mortality rate today compared to when her father had begun his role as an undertaker was far more optimistic – but none of that mattered to Mrs Saville, lying here with her newborn.

Fleur clasped the mother’s cold hands that were clutching the child. It had taken quite an effort to position the baby safely and reliably so she wouldn’t fall at the slightest shift of her mother’s body. Invisible stitching that bound mother’s and daughter’s outfits at the right point had made this possible. She’d used the cunning inspiration making her father blink with consternation when he checked in on her progress.