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Tom gazed around the enormous warehouse. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen any space this big under one roof.’

Hunter chuckled. ‘Wait until they get going for the day and constant activity fills this quiet space,’ he warned. ‘But it is impressive. See that sawtooth roofline?’

Tom looked to where he pointed, nodding.

‘Lets in loads of natural light, which I’m pretty sure you wool guessers appreciate. Bit different to the shearing shed, eh?’

‘Sure is,’ Tom said, just going with the stranger’s conversation.

‘Full of the same boozers and bullshit artists, but you’ll find some former cockies and ex-shearers. And, of course, the ladies.’

Tom frowned. ‘Ladies?’

Hunter grinned. ‘A grand old gang who do the catering for the buyers and staff. Top tucker,’ he said with a wink. ‘D’ you smoke?’ When Tom shook his head, the man’s jaw dropped open. ‘Bugger me, what’s wrong with you?’

‘Bad lungs,’ Tom lied. He’d just never taken to it, having grown up watching too many men with hacking coughs end up spitting blood into their ragged handkerchiefs.

‘Ah, well, you’re lucky then, because there’s a smoking ban in the woolstores. Bit of a bastard, but that’s how it is. Good luck, Catchlove. See you round.’

The man in charge of the wool balers for the day returned. He signed a chit and handed it to him. ‘Show that to the bloke in charge.’ And before Tom could ask more, the man had turned away and was dealing with selecting another worker from the anxious group of men waiting to be picked.

Tom made his way inside. Years of wool passing through the vast space meant the timber floors had absorbed lanolin and the familiar, earthy smell comforted him immediately. Towering timber supports held up the enormous floors where the wool would travel up the various levels and ultimately to be loaded onto ships.

Tom understood he was to work on the ground floor, where the bales came in for weighing, cataloguing and, of course, testing – his role – ensuring the wool inside each bale matched the description branded on its outside and that it had been properly skirted and classed at its origination. The man who’d hired him impressed upon him that the top-line reputation of Australian wool internationally had to be preserved through this final rigorous testing; Tom’s new role carried that weight of responsibility.

The workday began with a loud whistle and turned the stores into a beehive of relentless activity. Everyone had a job and they got busy, each focusing on their individual role. It was a flurry of motion and noise, from the sack trucks being used to unload the wool bales from the lorries, men weighing them, and others hauling them off to line them up. Buyers streamed in to value the thousands of bales. All the rookies and casual fellows lucky to get a day’s work were given the unenviable task of what was called the ‘oddments’ section. Tom could see that this included sorting the crutchings, which were stained, maggoty or flyblown, all the bits they collectively knew as ‘dags’.

Meanwhile, the wool that really mattered was lined up in bales and opened for checking. Tom’s job, alongside a small mob of classers, was to help the stock agents as they made their appraisals. He was one of the fellows who would pull out roughly ten pounds of the wool and drop it on the floor to be inspected. Depending on Tom’s decision the bales would then be moved up the floors to the top where agents awaited to do their buying. But first Tom had the tricky task of cramming that ten pounds of wool back into the bale by hand. It was as arduous as any day’s work in the shearing shed, but he enjoyed the familiar ache in his muscles as he began to expend his energy.

The hard work was the perfect distraction too, and the hours passed quickly in this experience that was new and yet somehow so familiar; the smell of the wool, the feel of the lanolin on his fingers again, the muted sound of the floorboards and the tufts of fibres floating in the air was all reminiscent of home and his beloved shearing shed. Now and then it also reminded him of a twisted and broken young man bleating like a frightened sheep, and that led him to think about the death of his parents and his helpless sister, and just how alone he felt. On they went – the thoughts couldn’t be stopped, but they could be diverted, redirected.

Tom knew he needed to let the past go. He needed to make sense of this new life he’d thrown himself into and find where he might fit.

If Fleur were being honest, she would have to admit that Jimmy Coglin – or James, as Irma had begun referring to him – had turned himself out better than she’d imagined he might for the snobbish dinner that her stepmother had organised. It was laughable how her manner of speaking had changed to reflect her hostess role in front of the Coglins. Suddenly she was using tongs, linen napkins, smiling a strange new smug smile, and communicating with poor Nan as though she were a royal servant and a subtle wave of Irma’s bejewelled hand needed to be interpreted precisely. It could mean one thing or something else entirely; that was Nan’s problem to navigate.

Irma was powdered and rouged from forehead to the lace collar of a navy wool dress Fleur had not seen before. That would explain her almost secretive trip into the city earlier that week; Fleur had seen the box from the Myer Emporium in Rundle Street. It must have cost her father a princely sum, going by the quality of the dress. Clearly Irma was out to impress from every angle, although the new sleek lines of the current fashion did not suit Irma’s rotund, shorter stature.

Fleur knew the fashionable tailored looks suited her taller, slimmer shape well, but she had not dressed to please Jimmy Coglin – or his father, who kept staring at her from the other side of the table. She had dressed with some care only because she’d wearily agreed to go to the Semaphore Palais with Jimmy after an early dinner with their parents and Irma. It was her way of escaping the orchestrated event, which was trying so hard to be something it could never be and seemed to have a more sinister aspect: Fleur was concerned that by sitting down with the Coglins, she was giving her tacit agreement to an engagement with Jimmy and that felt repugnant. She would have to explain to him after the dinner that she was simply being sociable.

Irma, meanwhile, looked delighted. Fleur believed her stepmother was imagining herself seated at a long, polished table over which hung chandeliers, set with crystal, solid silver and the finest European china. Somewhere like East Terrace, where the grand bluestone homes were stacked over several stories with lacework and balconies. Irma had forgotten, or chose to ignore, that they were near the port, so far from East Terrace that most of those city dwellers had likely not seen the port since the day they’d arrived. While the Applebys were perhaps considered a family of means, their home was modest, with none of the grandeur that Irma was projecting with her lace and linens, her strange new accent and pinched lips, her expensive garments and the sugary glances she kept casting towards Jimmy as though the deal was done.

The excursion to the Palais was Fleur’s only ticket out and, given it was a dance gathering for autumn, she was outfitted in a favourite evening dress she’d owned for a couple of years but not got much use from. It was fashioned from a new fabric called rayon chiffon that was crease resistant, and it was cut on the bias to follow the lean lines of her body masterfully, with the flourish of short butterfly-style sleeves and a ruffle from her knees. The dress was essentially white but featured an artfully washed-out geometric pattern of red and charcoal. A patent black belt cinched her waist, matching black pumps that had low-enough heels for dancing.

Her plan was to accompany Jimmy to the dance hall and then gently explain that Irma’s plans were premature, unfounded in any reality, and that she was sorry he had been misled. She was sure she could walk the tightrope between honesty and giving offence, putting it to Jimmy in such a way that he would not feel jilted. However, going by the nervous glances full of expectation that he kept sliding her way, she would need to work fast. This evening she would nip any anticipation of marriage firmly in the bud.

‘Are you looking forward to the Palais tonight, Fleur?’ Jimmy asked now, as if he’d dropped in on her thoughts.

Stars! Now he was putting on some sort of performance too.

‘Er, well, it’s quite a long time since I’ve attended a dance there, Jimmy. I’m certainly intrigued to see it again.’

‘I wish the Palais de Danse was still operating on the Torrens,’ Irma joined in enthusiastically, dabbing at the last remnants of steamed treacle pudding and custard on her mouth. Fleur watched the laced-edged napkin come away not only with custard but a waxy carmine imprint of those lips, and her insides clenched again with anger that Irma was so careless with Mae Appleby’s treasures.

She desperately wanted to correct Irma’s pronunciation of the floating dance boat that had been all the rage during the 1920s on Adelaide’s main waterway. Irma had slaughtered the words but it seemed no one but Fleur minded. Instead, Irma’s comment set off the older people at the table on a trip down memory lane, including her father. She didn’t mind his indulgent smile and remarks about its Arabic decoration because she knew he was probably remembering happier days with her mother.

‘James, can I offer you a glass of port?’ Irma asked, cutting across Henry’s reminiscences about dancing with his first wife on the floating palais.

‘Er, no, thank you, Mrs Appleby.’