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Tom nodded. ‘He was someone who earned and spent all he had on living. He didn’t think to save or aspire. But if he kept it a secret, then I forgive him. He wasn’t trying to keep it for his own use – he simply didn’t want to bring that problem of money into our simple lives. And maybe he never knew.’

‘And you’re comfortable about the money?’

Tom gave a slight lift of his shoulder to show he was not entirely convinced but said, ‘I’ve reached a place of understanding, and perhaps resignation, regarding Dad. I think to him this money was likely another reminder of all that he wasn’t and could never be. He didn’t come from money like my mother, and he didn’t have the potential to earn a lot. So I imagine that, while he adored Mum, he knew she deserved more and he’d never provided much for us . . .’

‘Other than love and laughter,’ Fleur said softly.

Tom nodded with an appreciative smile. ‘For sure . . . and in droves – at least until Mum passed away. I think the money also just reminded him about Adelaide and the life she’d left behind for him. I know from conversations I overheard when I was young but didn’t fully understand that Mum’s family never enquired after us. They really did not care.’ He sighed. ‘But when I came to Adelaide, I remembered the solicitors Mum had talked about and I learned of this money. I had no idea what to do with it. And then I met you again and you told me your dream.’

‘My dream?’

‘That you want to open a new business that trains women to be the very best undertakers and morticians, and a specialist funeral home that caters to bereaved parents of newborns and young children.’ He gave a gentle smile.

Fleur felt her emotions being stirred on so many levels; the fact that Tom had absorbed her hopes with such gravity felt like the sun was sending its rays directly into her heart to warm her. But, more importantly, they were speaking this aloud as though it was not just plausible but something to follow vigorously, like a new pathway opening for them.

Her father had never taken her suggestions very seriously; he had been tolerant of her ideas, appreciative that she was always thinking ahead for the future of the business, but she knew that deep down he was set in his ways. He had felt he’d already taken the business into a new era, and Fleur suspected he couldn’t quite look forward as far as she could to a time when women might lead a new way in undertaking. Tom being her own age, a child of the twentieth century . . . well, it meant he was more open to a new age of women’s rights and their aspirations. He’d been born to an independent thinker, not manipulated by wealth or society. If anything, Moira Catchlove had defied all the rules and, in doing so, had raised a son who admired women with agency.

‘I do have a lot of ideas. Like cremation – it feels primitive, but it’s catching on with the liberal-minded and the forward thinkers, who can see that cemeteries are going to become full. Once that happens, they’ll have to start being positioned further and further away. And you know, Tom,’ Fleur finally said, grateful for his silence while she gathered her thoughts, ‘when I was young and still learning about undertaking and work in the mortuary, a newborn who died didn’t get their own burial.’ She swallowed. ‘If they could, funeral homes would place a dead child into the coffin of a dead woman, rarely its mother. They thought the child should be in the arms of a female.’

She watched his expression turn slack with surprise. ‘I had no idea.’

Fleur shook her head. ‘Why would you? And you must understand that this was not cruel. If anything, I believe it was a tenderness being shown. No one wanted to put a tiny newborn into the earth alone, but no one wanted to go to the expense of a coffin and all of those trappings. Add to this that at the turn of the century, many children didn’t live past the age of five, so mothers were losing every third or fourth infant. They couldn’t possibly afford all the burial fees.

‘My father and other reputable funeral homes never charged for undertaking services for an infant; they felt the sorrow of the loss and showed great empathy. But as a woman in undertaking, I have never thought that was good enough. To lose a person who has lived a life is hard enough, but to lose a child at any age is unimaginable. No one wants to outlive their children and so I’ve always felt that we need to do better for grieving parents . . . especially mothers. And that means everything from how we approach the removal of their child to how we convey them to the mortuary and how we prepare them for their final rest . . . and how we work with the mothers to let them know we understand their grief. I would ensure their lost babies have their own casket, their own private resting place, and not be buried with a stranger.’

Tom straightened. ‘So do it!’

She let out a soft gasp of surprise and smiled at him. ‘I want to . . .’

‘Start afresh,’ he urged. ‘I will build you a funeral home like no other. I’ve done plenty of carpentry alongside wool classing, and I can learn how to make coffins for you. There’s nothing hard about them as I can see, but I’ll make each with care and that will echo yours.’

‘Tom . . .’ She sounded breathless, unable to say any more.

‘I have loads of ideas, Fleur, but I didn’t want to presume,’ he admitted. ‘I want to make you tiny white coffins for babies, and light wood coffins for children, and I figured I might run some sheep on the land . . . That way we can have our own wool spun and turned into beautiful miniature blankets that you can give to any bereaved parents to wrap their child in before they lay them to rest. We’ll build a chapel at Drumminor, and if we pool our resources, we can build you the most modern mortuary with all the proper air extraction and latest equipment. And over there’ — he gestured with his hand over an imaginary map, hardly daring to take a breath, it seemed — ‘we could set up a series of gardens with rose arbours in summer and wisteria in spring for you, because if people are becoming more interested in cremation, they can scatter ashes there or bury them, or have a plaque to commemorate a loved one. That way they can visit the most pretty of scented gardens and remember those they love. We can even build a fountain and embed memorial plaques around it . . . It would be the only private cemetery and memorial gardens in all of South Australia – perhaps the country.’

Now he did stop talking, searching her face.

‘I didn’t know you had so many words to use in one day, Tom. And for once, I’m lost for words. I really don’t know what to say,’ Fleur smiled, knowing her eyes were shining with the excitement of all that Tom’s words prompted.

He waited. ‘Please, Fleur. Let me help you to make this dream a reality. Just say yes.’

She nodded, her mind already racing around his ideas; she loved him all the more for thinking so big on her behalf. ‘Yes.’

He clapped in relief. ‘And the house, Fleur. Will you move there with me and make a large family? It’s beautiful, you will love it.’

She laughed. ‘Who could say no? Yes, we’ll turn it from a house into a home. But what about Alberton?’

Tom’s eyes were shining with his own excitement and she understood. Now he had a purpose – a big project to mastermind.

‘You don’t have to close up shop,’ he said. ‘You can appoint people and train them to take over when you move up here. Perhaps the manager’s job comes with the home down there? Or maybe you provide it for your staff to use when on shift, because you will always be open for the bereaved,’ Tom continued, unable to stop the ideas from pouring out. ‘You still want to offer undertaking services to the people who know you and count on you but, if you don’t mind me saying, I think it will be the best decision you make to leave that house. I know it was once a happy home, but it became a miserable one. Leave all that sorrow behind, Fleur, and build your own home, fill it with love and laughter . . . and lots of children.’

She grinned; his excitement was infectious. ‘Lord and Lady Catchlove of Drumminor, eh?’

This was their last day at Witchelina. Tomorrow they would take the train back to Adelaide and start their new life. But first, Tom explained, he wanted Fleur to experience a moment from his childhood.

She’d allowed herself to be persuaded to journey with him in the dark to his old childhood cottage at Paradise and to climb a tree before the sun rose. Tom helped Fleur to sit beside him in the same coolabah tree that had stood the test of time through drought, winds, rain and even earthquakes. There was no water in the old creek, but the weather was mild and a soft breeze was tumbling over the range, wafting at her hair. She was wearing her green dress for him.

‘Tom, is this safe?’ she asked, swatting at tiny flies.