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that a big one, on to the backseat…Ah, that looks like Michael now.”
    The Reverend Michael Potter-Clowes was riding his bicycle through the gathering dusk down the rough dirt track. He was shaken about so much that Betty thought he’d have done better to walk. He was a long, thin, birdlike man, unmarried, who was looked after by a widow who came in to cook and clean for him. He was generally liked or tolerated in Bundaroo, and thought of as a bit of an eccentric, or a throwback. He was a hoarder, and he had a great collection of back numbers of the Bulletin, which Betty sometimes went along to the shabby wooden house that served as a vicarage to read—loving, especially, the cartoons and jokes, but seriously reading her way through the political stuff as well. She liked the Reverend Potter-Clowes well enough, but they were never entirely easy with each other. Betty knew he thought her very bright and didn’t know how to live up to his assessment.
    â€œAh, Betty!” he now said, when he had been introduced to the newcomer and had made inquiries about his wife and son. “I have some news for you. The Bulletin this week says that in a fortnight’s time they will be launching a summer holiday competition for young people.”
    â€œOh,” said Betty flatly. “It will probably be some awfully difficult quiz that you need encyclopedias and things to find the answers to.”
    â€œNo, it’s not. It’s apparently a competition to find budding young journalists. It’ll be just like writing an essay, I should think—a bright, entertaining one. That’s very much up your alley, isn’t it?”
    â€œWell, it could be. Yes—that might be interesting.”
    â€œBetty would make a very good journalist,” said her father loyally. “She notices things.”
    â€œSo what do you think about the Czech situation?” the vicar asked, turning to Bill Cheveley.
    â€œOh, don’t you worry about Czechoslovakia,” put in Paul Naismyth. “Country like that—only existed for twenty years. Nobody’s going to rush in and fight for a country that’s just a name. It’s so remote nobody gives a damn about it.”
    â€œSo was Sarajevo,” said Betty’s father. Now Betty knew for certain she thought Hughie’s father a blatherskite. There was another awkward silence. Then the ill-assorted little group of men began to make their way to the Holden waiting outside.
    Later that evening Betty’s mother said to her, when she came in from putting little Oliver to bed, “When they said Sam Battersby wasn’t coming tonight, you said ‘good.’ ”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhy?”
    Betty waited for a while before replying.
    â€œI don’t like the way he looks at me.”
    Betty’s mother seemed about to say something, then thought better of it. The Grafton Hotel and what went on there was man’s business. This was something that seemed to straddle her world and her husband’s.
    Thinking back on things later, Betty decided that that week was the one when matters began to crystallize. When what was to come was started on its accelerating course.
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    The phone call from her brother Oliver came two nights later. Bettina had been intending to ring him, and wished she had: she wanted to ask him if he’d like to stay for a few days, and it would have looked better if she had called especially to invite him. She realized she was appearing grudging, and blamed Mark for it. He was not the reason for her preferring not to have visitors who stayed in the flat, but he had certainly strengthened her dislike of it. And she had loved her baby brother, been so protective of him, in those long-ago days in Bundaroo.
    â€œOllie! I was just about to ring you. I get so confused about the time differences and was afraid I’d ring you when you were asleep.”
    â€œIt’s early morning here, and I