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‘Have you killed him, Jimmy?’ Don asked, giving a fresh bray of laughter, although it now had a nervous quality to it.

‘No, but I’d like to. He’s breathing, look.’

Tom was aware of them pausing to scrutinise him. He kept his eyes shut, mouth slightly agape, pleased he was dribbling and hoping it was blood.

Brian tutted. ‘He looks very bloody.’

‘Good,’ Coglin sneered.

‘Let’s go, Jimmy,’ Brian urged. ‘I’m not getting caught up in this.’

‘Yeah,’ the donkey said. ‘You can buy us a beer.’

Tom anticipated it but hoped it wouldn’t come. He’d hoped in vain; Jimmy’s heavy-booted foot caught his chin and snapped his head back. He might have registered the blow as it connected with his jaw, but nothing else.

Tom now tried to move, and gave a soft moan as the pain shot through him again . . . and his world went quiet and dark.

18

Fleur spent a restless night, getting up before sunrise, not waiting for breakfast but leaving a message for her father that she would see him later.

No pressing tasks and no jobs on today to my knowledge. I’ll be back soon. Off to fetch the oysters for your meal, among other errands. Fleur x

She wasn’t trying to be mysterious but she didn’t know how to explain what she was up to. On paper it would sound as though she was a jilted date stalking the man who let her down. If her father had been up, she would have explained face-to-face that she was genuinely concerned about Tom, and that she knew in her heart he would never have let her family down without good reason. She needed to know that reason, because she had a bad feeling about it.

At the woolstores she received the same frustrating and vague remarks as at the pub.

A man called Charlie Hunter introduced himself, looking almost appalled to see a well-attired woman arrive into the vast, busy space. ‘Madam, when a woman arrives at the shearing shed, do you know what we say?’

He had ten years on her, with a pleasant face and a charming way about him.

‘I don’t,’ she replied, going along with him.

‘Someone will murmur the phrase “ducks on the pond”.’

‘Is that so?’ She grinned. ‘Am I a duck?’

‘It’s meant to be polite,’ he said, grinning back. ‘Everyone in the shed is immediately warned to be on their best behaviour. To be honest, it’s very unusual for a woman to come here.’

‘Am I really that frightening?’

He laughed. ‘Quite the opposite. You’re very lovely, and I would hate for you to be offended by the language or behaviour that working men sometimes . . . well, you understand.’

‘I do. And I’m warned, thank you, but I shan’t take much of anyone’s time. Mr Hunter, I’m Fleur Appleby,’ she said, holding out a hand, which he gently shook.

‘Call me Charlie.’

She couldn’t help but pause and take in a sweeping glance of the frenetic activity and noise. ‘I’ve lived here all of my life and never seen inside the woolstores. All those bales!’

‘Here, walk a little with me. Let me show you.’ He inhaled. ‘What do you smell?’

Fleur felt impatient but, knowing she needed his help, she again went along with his generous manner, knowing he was being polite. ‘An earthy smell,’ she said, frowning. ‘Not unpleasant. I’ve never been to a sheep farm so I—’

‘Not farm, Miss Appleby. They’re called sheep stations. Comes from the military term, I reckon, but that’s a guess. And earthy is right . . . you’re smelling the lanolin, which is the grease from the wool.’

‘Ah,’ she sighed, understanding. ‘It’s enormous,’ she remarked. ‘So impressive.’

‘All the wool from South Australia passes through here to its next destination. Most of this will be loaded onto ships, bound for Europe.’