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‘No, Mae. I need Fleur with me. She’s my eyes and ears sometimes. They mostly overlook her but she misses nothing, and this seems a strange request when surely one of the prominent city funeral houses can undertake the care of their deceased.’

Mae shrugged. ‘Take Fleur, then, and stop wondering. You know, Henry, I think you sell yourself short sometimes. Let it occur to you that maybe word of your reputable services has travelled from the port to the city of Adelaide.’

‘What would I do without you thinking so highly of me all the time, my dearest?’ They shared a smile of affection. ‘I’ll scribble out some notes for Hugh. Fleur and I will take a train—’

‘Not a train, my love. By the sounds of that call, you will be bringing a body back for burial preparation. You’ll need the hearse. I’ll get Fleur dressed properly.’

3

Inside the two-storey villa on Carrington Street, Fleur followed her father towards one of the back rooms, aware of the pinched look of disapproval from the woman who wore a long apron over her dark, ankle-length dress. Fleur surmised this was not the lady of the house but her housekeeper.

‘Are you sure you wish to take the child in?’ the woman said in a superior tone that was barely a question, turning at the entrance to the room.

‘There’s a child already inside – two, in fact, if you count the dead,’ Henry replied, nodding towards someone Fleur couldn’t see. She recognised her father’s gentle but firm business tone.

‘He is the dead’s family.’

‘And Fleur is my family and very helpful in these situations. She might even be able to comfort the child, who perhaps shouldn’t be alone.’

The woman sniffed. ‘That boy refuses to move. Wait here, please. I’ll fetch the mistress.’

Fleur stepped into what appeared to be a less formal sitting room behind her father. All the furniture had been shifted against the walls to make way for a coffin, which sat in the centre of the room on a high trestle table that looked as though it had been carried in from a shed. Emerging from behind her father, she saw the wide-eyed lad staring at them, wringing his cloth hat in his hands.

‘Good morning, son,’ Henry said. ‘I’m Mr Appleby and this is my daughter.’

Fleur eyed the boy, noticing his slightly scruffy clothes; they were not dirty, but well worn. His boots were scuffed, desperately in need of a good polish and the jacket he wore was slightly too small for him, although he looked lanky, like it didn’t matter what he wore because by next week he’d have outgrown it. The thought made her smile, as did his thick and unruly fair hair that she found herself rather taken by.

‘I’m Fleur. My mother’s mother was called Flora and so I was named after her, but using the French version because my mother’s father had French ancestors. What’s your name?’

He didn’t speak immediately, blinking at her in slight puzzlement and taking a moment to digest the information as much as to assess their presence. ‘I’m Tom,’ he finally said. ‘It doesn’t mean anything, I don’t think. My father is Vern Catchlove and he doesn’t know yet, about . . .’ He looked towards the coffin.

Fleur moved towards him and noted that he took a small step back into the corner. ‘My father will make sure the family reaches him. And I think the name Tom means “strong”. It certainly sounds strong. We’re here to help,’ she offered.

‘No one can help me. My mother’s dead. My sister died too.’

Fleur looked at the simple pine coffin, schooling herself not to wince or reel back at the telltale odour of a body beginning to ripen. ‘Is your sister in here too?’

He tipped a nod at the box. ‘She only had a few breaths, I overheard the nurses say, but my mother refused to let her go. Said she’d take her to Adelaide and farewell her here.’

‘So your mother didn’t know she was dying?’

He gave a light shrug. ‘I didn’t see her before she died. She probably did. All I know is that she called my sister Amy.’

They heard women’s voices. Fleur was aware of her father stepping out of the room, but she continued with Tom without turning. ‘Where’s your father?’

She didn’t think Tom minded her question; he seemed ready enough to answer. ‘I don’t know. He’s droving . . . bringing animals down from Queensland into South Australia. Do you know where Queensland is?’

She couldn’t fully disguise a scathing look. ‘Of course I do.’

‘Sorry. You look young.’

‘And you look rough, but we’re probably both wrong.’

Fleur saw the surprise in his expression.

‘How old are you?’ he asked.

‘Eight. You?’