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stone at the shed and heard the tinny sound of it hitting.
    â€œYes,” the youth called timidly.
    â€œCome on!” the woman called back. “Get cracking! Mr. Coles has jobs for you to do. He’s already been up for hours.”
    The youth half-registered that there was something a bit shrill about the way she spoke, and that she held herself away from the mud as though it disgusted her.
    â€œBreakfast is on the table in the kitchen,” the woman said, then turned and began picking her way back towards the house.
    The youth straightened his clothes and combed his hair. He wanted to wash his face but didn’t know where there was a tap. He went out of the shed and sank to his ankles in a patch of mud. The mud was very cold and clinging. As he plonked his way through it, trying to keep his balance, he came into sight of the dogs chained near the house. They began to bark at him. He reached the house and followed a concrete path through some flower beds to a back door. He was out of sight of the dogs now, but one of them kept up a steady barking. From somewhere on the other side of the house came Mr. Coles’s voice telling the damned cur of a thing to settle down.
    The youth was at the back door trying to scrape some of the mud off his shoes with a twig when Mr. Coles appeared.
    â€œAh, there you are, lad,” he said. Then he noticed how muddy the youth’s shoes were. “Um, better not tramp any of that mud inside on Mrs. Coles’s floor. Just slip your shoes off before you come in, there’s a good lad.”
    Inside the door was an alcove with coats hung neatly on pegs and a row of pairs of gumboots. Beyond the alcove was a kitchen. It was quite poky and dark and there was a big black old-fashioned stove that took up nearly one whole end of the room. A small table stood against the wall and on it was laid breakfast for one—a bowl of cereal, a plate with scrambled eggs on it, and two slices of toast with a little jar of marmalade. And there was a pot of tea. The scrambled eggs and the tea had gone nearly cold, but the youth was so hungry he hardly minded. As he ate he looked through the window over the kitchen sink at the hills rising in the distance. Then he noticed a framed photo on the wall above him. It showed a wide, shallow-looking river with gum trees along it, and under it were printed the words: “The Banks of the Burracoola.”
    The youth felt cold. It was that clammy coldness you get when you’ve slept in your clothes, then thrown your blankets off, then gone out hurriedly into the morning air—that feeling that your body doesn’t know what temperature it is supposed to be and so can’t adjust itself.
    From somewhere in the house came voices. A woman was complaining about something and Mr. Coles was trying to reassure her. The youth could tell that much even before he could make out what was being said.
    â€œAnd I suppose I’m to go fetching the help out of bed every morning and in all weathers . . .” The voice had the shrill tone.
    â€œOf course not, dear . . .”
    â€œHonestly, you’d let people impose on you till kingdom come!”
    â€œWell, it’s only the lad’s first day . . .”
    â€œOh, I’m sorry. I hadn’t realised we were running a holiday home for total strangers.”
    The woman’s voice had begun to get a tremor in it, and Mr. Coles was murmuring to her about not getting over-emotional.
    â€œDon’t start that!” the woman snapped. “Just don’t!” There was the sound of a door slamming.
    The youth had finished eating when Mr. Coles came into the kitchen. He seemed a bit distracted.
    â€œWell, lad,” he said. “We’ll go across.”
    The youth had no idea what he meant by that.
    â€œDamn it all!” said Mr. Coles, as though forcing his mind onto matters at hand. “We should’ve fitted you out with some gumboots in town. Just