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‘Hello, darling,’ his mum said. ‘Why haven’t we seen you lately? I have moussaka in the oven, with eggplant and tomatoes from the garden. You could come out and have dinner with us.’

‘I’d love to, Mum, but I’m flat strap here at the moment. You know how the pub gets on holidays.’

‘I’ll pop some in a container and freeze it for you. Next time we’re in town I’ll bring you some.’

‘I’d love that. Listen—I wanted to ask you both something.’

‘Anything. What is it, son?’ said his dad.

‘Do you remember who won best fruit cake at the Twilight Markets last year?’

‘Oh …’ said his mum. ‘Yes. A shock win. Poor Carol.’

‘It was a retired nurse who won,’ said his dad. ‘From Lismore. Her hair reminded me of Margaret Thatcher’s.’

‘Yes, that’s right. Joan Sloane. She put an entry into the Bush Poetry Muster, remember, Robbo? Last year. Frank Featherstone gave it a Highly Commended.’

‘Why do you want to know about Joan?’ said Robbo.

‘It seems she and Carol had a barney recently. Over fruit cake.’

‘Goodness me. Come on, Will, don’t just drop a bomb on us like that and then withhold the details. Tell us everything.’

‘I don’t know more than that. I heard this second hand from Carol’s great niece.’

‘I didn’t know she had family here.’

‘Jodie.’ The ideal time to ask for more info, perhaps. ‘She’s in town because Carol’s family think living alone in her house is getting too much for Carol. Apparently, Jodie and her brother used to come and stay here with Carol when they were kids in the school holidays.’

‘Is she pretty?’ said his mum.

‘Now, Patty, don’t put Will on the spot,’ said his dad.

‘Thanks, Dad.’ But his mother was as inquisitive as his dad was easygoing, and wasn’t at all easy to fob off, so he summarised the situation for her so she didn’t drive him and his dad mad with questions. ‘Yes, she’s pretty. No, I’m not having some romance you don’t know about. Yes, I’ve thought about asking her out. No, I don’t know anything about her other than she’s related to Carol, she’s a physiotherapist and she doesn’t smile as often as she should.’

‘Huh,’ said his mum. ‘You could do with a little romance in your life, Will. Just saying.’

‘Mum, boundaries. Remember them?’

‘All right, keep your hair on. We’ll see you soon.’

Chapter 9

The tin Carol had brought home from the Historical Society had been sitting smack bang in the middle of the kitchen table for two weeks now, on a teapot trivet, and it was not, apparently, to be touched. Even with gloves on.

‘You keep staring at that thing like it’s about to burst into flame,’ said Jodie, on one of the many occasions when she tried to pry some information out of her great aunt. ‘It’s an old tin. What’s so special about it?’

But Carol wouldn’t say.

Jodie stopped asking the day Carol pulled out a handkerchief, mopped her eyes, and said, ‘I’m feeling very old today, pet.’

She’d said, gently, ‘Would you rather I left you in peace, Carol? Go back to Katoomba.’

‘Promise me you won’t leave until after the Christmas Twilight Markets,’ her great aunt had said.

She’d promised, of course she’d promised, but she was still tempted to wait until Carol had gone to bed one night then open the tin. The contents rattled alluringly (she knew, because she picked the tin up from time to time to inspect it). She and Will (who she’d taken to having coffee with most mornings at the pub) had run out of ideas, both sensible and ludicrous: pastry beads, crochet hooks, hair curlers, stolen pink diamonds from the Argyle mine heist in the 1980s, silver sixpences bearing teeth marks used for generations of Christmas puddings …

Nothing about it seemed special. Dull metal, dints and scratches, and that embossed word,Willow. Not much to be upset by, she would have thought. She even did an internet search on Willow. They’d manufactured biscuit and tea cannisters in Melbourne from 1897, made everything from armaments in World War One to baking trays and cake tins, and were still in business today, albeit using plastic rather than metal.