Isabel decided that an Australian summer needed a fresh vocabulary to define adequately its contrast with the northern summers of her childhood. Muted sounds came from the sprawling convict village beyond the house but although the air was languid it also seemed charged with some electrical current – as if nightfall promised something she had never experienced. Having bathed after their return from the bivouac, Isabel tried to remain cool before she dressed for dinner. Wrapped loosely in a silk robe, she lay across the bed, fanning herself as she idly turned the pages of old volumes from Marmaduke’s bookcase. Curious as to which authors and literature had comforted the loneliness of his youth, she hoped this would give her some insight into his mind, the cause of his swings of mood and bouts of melancholia. Distracted by the sounds of Marmaduke washing his hair in the next room, she smiled to herself. It reminded her of bathing a dog. No doubt he would emerge smelling of that distinctive Indian sandalwood soap that she knew had been part of Queenie’s ritual when bathing him as a small boy – a touching sense memory linking him to his childhood.
