Containing himself, distancing himself. George had been doing that all morning. Occasionally, when he least expected it, it came rushing in at him again, threatening to overwhelm him. Then he had to stop whatever he was doing and take deep breaths until he was strong enough to push it away from him once more. He wasn’t going to give in though.

Mentally gauging the length of each log, he stood in front of the wood pile. They were uniformly eighteen inches long and he planned to rearrange them so the pile was even more orderly than usual. The whole afternoon lay in front of him. He would stack the logs in the timber frame he had constructed the previous Sunday.

He began to arrange the logs between the constraints, with their rough sawn edges facing out. Or facing in, it all depended on your perspective, and he feared he was losing his. The growth rings, year after year, were exposed to view. The big logs he would stack first and afterwards he’d slot between them the more slender pieces of wood.

The day was hot and the woodpile was in the sun. He took off his felt hat and wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. Eileen was indoors having a rest. He could do with one himself but he had to keep his exhaustion at bay, just as he had to keep his loneliness at bay too. He drove himself on, not heeding the splinters, not heeding the heat.

After several hours he heard the fly-screen door slam but he didn’t turn. He knew it was Eileen. She didn’t say anything and he didn’t stop working. He didn’t even turn around, but he was aware of her standing on the verandah, watching him.

‘Quite a work of art, that,’ she said at last. ‘Reminds me of the Royal Easter Show.’ Her voice was not unkind.

He stopped at this, at the memory of those piles of fruit and vegetables, and the beautiful arrangement of the more colourful vegetables into the coat of arms of New South Wales. The background to his meeting with Eileen all those years ago. He felt a prickling behind his eyes. Eileen’s kindness was not what he needed at the moment, and it wouldn’t be genuine, it would be part of their war of attrition. It isn’t fair to Andy. He could hear again the savageness of her tone the previous night.

He had to hold himself together, he had to be self-contained. Taking a deep breath, he turned slowly to look at his wife, who was standing on the verandah and smiling at him.

‘Nice to see you being tidy, George.’

For once he was glad of the veiled reproof. It would stop him falling apart. He thought of the shopfront window of Cadwallader’s Quality Meats. Of the exquisitely arranged display of chops and steaks, of the orderly rows of sausages and the mounds of tripe decorated with sprigs of fresh parsley. He knew he was always tidy but Eileen would never look at that display.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she added.

She brought it out to him in the old enamel mug with the chip on it right where his mouth went. Unhygienic it undoubtedly was, but it was his favourite mug and had belonged to his father before him. Gratefully he took it but didn’t look at her face. When she’d gone back inside, he sat down on the stump he used as a chopping block and again wiped the sweat from his brow.

That morning Peter Vincent had telephoned to tell him the news about Lorna Hunter. He knew about this policy in the abstract but it had never before happened to anyone he knew. Never to a kid who was in the same school as his sons. It must be a mistake and he was going to phone the Burford police himself this afternoon. That sort of thing couldn’t be allowed to happen in a civilised place like Wilba Wilba Shire.

Yet if Peter was right, what would it be like to lose your family? He couldn’t bear to lose his. They meant more to him than anything. Without warning he began to weep. For the callousness of authorities who would take away half-caste children, their families were only Abos after all. For Jim, whose cleverness meant that Jingera was not big enough for him. And for Eileen who no longer loved him, he was quite sure of that now.

Putting the half-empty mug down on the ground, he rested his head on his hands. Softness and love, that’s what might have been. But not for the likes of Lorna Hunter, if Peter was correct. Not for himself either, as long as he refused to yield to Eileen. He knew that soon he’d have to resume constructing his barrier. There was no meaning to life, there was no order to life, unless you imposed it.

Only at this instant did it occur to him to put himself into Eileen’s shoes. Maybe it wasn’t just the expense that was bothering her. Maybe it wasn’t fairness to Andy either. Maybe she was thinking she was losing a part of her family; in a way she was. Even though the scholarship was the right thing for Jim, and George was absolutely convinced of this, the children were Eileen’s life and now unexpectedly part of this life was about to be removed. At such a prospect Eileen might well be feeling a sense of loss. Or even of anger, and what better way to manifest this than to refuse any physical contact with him? How insensitive he’d been not to think of this before.

On the other hand he wasn’t entirely to blame. If only Eileen had been able to say to him, George I’m going to miss Jim terribly, if only she’d been open with him. Then they could have talked things through and avoided this awful alienation. He would have to tread more lightly with her. Although Jim was going to be allowed to seize this opportunity, he himself would need to work harder at understanding Eileen’s point of view. She might never soften but he had to try to understand what she might be going through.

At this point he rubbed a handkerchief over his face. It was as wet as if he’d just washed it and his mouth felt dry. Picking up the mug of tea again, he deliberately sucked at it, slurped at it, something he would never do if he were not alone. When the tea was finished, he carried the mug to the back verandah and left it on the splintered planks. Constructing the wall of logs was allowing him to put things in perspective. Constructing the wall was holding back the worst of his unhappiness.

Jim, washing his hands in the bathroom later that same afternoon, wasn’t aware that his father was on the phone until he came into the hallway. Dad had his back to him and was holding the receiver up to one ear and a cupped hand over the other ear. The radio in the lounge room sounded quite loud, even through the closed door, but Dad was speaking softly in spite of this. Jim might have gone straight past him and into the kitchen if he hadn’t heard him mention Lorna Hunter. He stopped still. This wasn’t exactly eavesdropping, he just wanted to know more.

‘I’m phoning about Lorna Hunter,’ his father repeated, rather more loudly this time. ‘Can I speak to the officer in charge? … Surely you can put me through.’ There was a pause and then he continued, ‘What about the parents? No one in Jingera seems to have heard anything … Oh, I see, well I won’t hold you up then. I’ll try again some other time. Thank you. Goodbye.’ Muttering something about the police all being stupid fools, he put the receiver down before noticing Jim standing in the hallway.

‘News about Lorna?’ Jim said, trying to give the impression that he’d only just come out of the bathroom.

‘There’s some news about Lorna,’ Dad said, looking worried. ‘But I don’t know if it’s true. That’s the trouble, son. I don’t know enough yet.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Time you fed the chooks, isn’t it? We don’t want your mother rousing on you again, do we?’ Before limping down the hallway, he gave Jim a distracted pat on the shoulder. Into the lounge room he went and shut the door firmly behind him.

Jim stood still for a moment longer, puzzling over his father’s conversation.

There was something unusual about Lorna’s absence, that much was clear. Perhaps the rumour he’d heard from Zidra was wrong and Lorna hadn’t moved to the Sutherlands’ property. Another report had it that the whole family had been shifted back to Wallaga Lake, but perhaps Lorna had run away instead. Perhaps she’d become a Missing Person and that’s why Dad was on the phone just now. Although wanting to ask his father more, he guessed from the overheard conversation that he didn’t know anything much.

And it was the first time ever that Dad had told him to feed the chooks.

Jim went outside anyway, although he’d already fed the chooks that day. Needing some time to think, he went straight to that favourite hiding spot of his, under the fig tree below the chicken run.