FOR THREE DAYS straight, Anna had stayed inside, limbs aching, senses dulled. She’d heard Tom come and go – mainly go. She lay on the bed, watching the fan slowly spin above her. The fever had gone. She felt drained but light. Hungry. Downstairs in the kitchen, Anna made herself toast and coffee. It was Saturday. She had a 10 am appointment. Harry. On the table in front of her sat a jar of preserved lemons, packed tightly in salt. It was 8.30 am by the clock on the oven. She knew things were coming to an end.

Tom wasn’t sure why he’d followed Anna to Fremantle. They’d met in Kalgoorlie and lived there in an old miner’s cottage on a wide street one back from the row of brothels in gaudy Hay Street. It was a fine life – endless, disused tracks to explore by car, frosty winter mornings, a rawness you couldn’t find on the coast. Tom had never told her about his vasectomy. He’d had it done before he knew her. He’d agreed with her that children were a blessing, been attentive in the bedroom, encouraged her to become an art therapist. Tom had done what he could.