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‘According to the map, it’s down here, Fleur. We got lost once, your father and I, and I know we drove down this street several times.’ Robbie grinned and then his face fell as he saw hers. ‘I’m sorry . . . I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s all right. Really. I want to hear the memories. Don’t stop.’ She felt sorry for his fallen expression. ‘I know he normally didn’t have city funerals to undertake, so I can understand you getting lost.’

Robbie frowned as he searched along the street. ‘Number forty-three?’

Fleur nodded.

‘Here we are. Want me to park and wait?’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’ll be right over there.’ He pointed.

Fleur left the car and opened the gate of an imposing pair of villas, adjoined and built in the trademark bluestone of this neighbourhood of Adelaide. Decorative iron lace added beauty to the first storey, and it was repeated at the fence and gate between the stone pillars. Daffodils lined the path lending a helplessly cheery air as she walked up to the door but Fleur noticed the curtains were drawn and the familiar silence of grief surrounded the house that now embraced the bereaved.

She swallowed. This was going to take all her composure, but she was known for it and now needed to prove it wasn’t an empty claim. The door knocker was wrapped in black fabric, so she tapped gently at the door with her knuckles and was kept waiting a long time. She tried again, and once more there was a protracted pause before Jamie answered. The sleeve on his arm was rolled up and his braces dangled at his hips.

‘Fleur,’ he breathed. ‘I wasn’t sure—’

‘I know, Jamie. I’m so sorry you encountered Irma. She’s my stepmother and most unhelpful.’

‘I was told that . . .’ He didn’t finish, looking uncertain of how to say it.

‘I know what you were told and it’s true I am newly bereaved, but I think your family’s need is greater than mine right now.’

His brittle poise collapsed and he slumped at the door. ‘I didn’t know who to contact. Claire said there was only one person to call.’ His voice shook. He too was in shock.

Fleur found a gentle smile. ‘I like to think so. I’d consider it an honour to help your family.’

‘Come in, please.’

Fleur let Jamie guide her into the family’s sitting room, where Claire sat with her hair in disarray and red splotches on her cheeks. She lifted her eyes; even weeping hadn’t dimmed their colour of a cloudless autumn morning. ‘Alfie fell asleep,’ she whispered, nodding to herself. ‘He’s just sleeping.’ She hummed a little under her breath, a lullaby.

Fleur looked at Jamie, whose face told her everything she needed to know about this situation. ‘Jamie, shall we have a cup of tea?’ He looked like he needed something to do.

‘Yes. Good idea.’ He couldn’t get away fast enough.

‘Claire?’

The bereaved mother looked up again, slightly dreamy.

‘Do you remember me?’

Claire nodded. ‘Yes, of course. Thank you for coming,’ she said and returned her gaze to her dead child.

‘Where are the children?’

‘They’ve gone to school. Only William knows.’

Fleur swallowed the rise of painful emotion at this news. She could try but knew she wouldn’t get close to how Claire must be feeling.

Jamie returned. ‘Kettle’s on,’ he said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder.’

‘Has the doctor been called, Jamie?’

‘He came early this morning and pronounced . . .’ Fleur nodded firmly so he wouldn’t have to say it. ‘He, er, he told us to make our arrangements and I was able to drive down to the port to find you.’

‘All right. Oh, I hear the kettle,’ Fleur said and followed Jamie as he disappeared to switch off the flame, down a small hallway into a tiny kitchen. ‘Jamie,’ she continued as the whistle died and vapours settled. ‘How long ago did Alfie pass?’