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overlooking the large dam that provided not only a natural social centre for the community with its forever open bar, but also a sleepy sailing club, its members free to make desultory use of one of the area’s few dependable water sources. A precious asset when all but the deepest boreholes had dried to a trickle. However, despite the sombre nature of the day, it had not been all bad for Roz. She was beginning to appreciate her new neighbours, to savour time with them, enchanted by their open-handed hospitality, impressed by the protective way in which they had drawn around the Cryers. Just as naturally as they had encompassed my ‘outsider’ mother within their community family, so it had proved with Roz, who was beginning to feel accepted and who, despite recent events, had started to quite like the place. And daily cycling visits to my home weren’t exactly detracting from the process.
    â€œMorning, Mrs Moncton.” Roz’s cheerful call preceded her as she rounded the open door into the cool but austere sitting room that reflected my father more than it did my mother. Roz was certain he was out, or she would never have come so early. She had already learned to give him a wide berth and couldn’t understand how a woman as nice as my mother could love such an unpleasant man; “
always assuming she does”
, she had thought on occasion. She knew her own mother and father couldn’t get enough of each other, and the strength of their affection meant her home was almost always cheerful and welcoming. The ever-tense atmosphere of the Moncton home was the very opposite.
    Nevertheless, I had apparently become an irresistible lure to Roz, who by now (I later realised) was falling ever more deeply in love and was determined to see me whenever she could. It certainly hadn’t been like that from the start but, during the long weeks of my recovery, when the only excuse she’d needed had been caring friendliness, we had cemented a bond that had begun to blossom into something rather more. For Roz, at least. What she couldn’t understand was why my moods fluctuated so much. One moment I tried hard to be attentive and charming, the next I found myself growing cold and indifferent to the point of rudeness. I couldn’t help it, even though I was aware I was hurting her. But Roz had always been encouraged to be open about her emotions and she was determined to get to the bottom of the conundrum, to confront me head on if necessary.
    I suppose that day had begun as well as any. I was sitting on the step at the back of the house, enjoying the morning sun before the advancing hours drew it to its zenith and direct sunlight became too hot to endure. My mind was where it always was these days, on Cat Hill whilst, almost unseeing, I had been watching a trail of soldier ants hurry past in a long, snaking line on their way to some unguessed destination, no doubt drawn by the scent of scurrying prey. The thought of yet another victim was making me wince, but just then Roz’s cheery call to my mother cut through my reverie. Heaving a sigh of resignation, I turned to greet her.
    â€œHi, Roz. How’s it going?” She looked utterly beautiful in her wide white skirt, the light cotton puffed out over layers of crisp netting edged with narrow rainbow ribbons, the whole set off by a blouse the colour of her light blue eyes. So stunning was the effect that, momentarily, the breath caught in my throat and my heart somersaulted. For a moment she even made me forget the pain twisting in my gut. But only for a moment, until the brutal accusations came flooding back into my still aching mind. I remember wondering, “
How could I let this beautiful young girl waste her love over such a coward, such a pariah?”
Reluctantly, I killed the smile and, by sheer force of will, eradicated the tenderness she had no doubt already caught dancing in my eyes. All I could offer anyone attached to me was a