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they’d have to wait till another time. She was freezing. But she was getting a feel for the place. Tomorrow she’d explore further afield. And at least she’d met Mrs Hazlitt. It was reassuring to know that she wasn’t the only woman in the house.
    Mary deliberated about what she could make for the evening meal. In the pantry, she ran her eye over the rows of bottled fruit and preserves. Someone had been busy. There were a dozen or so big Vacola bottles filled with peeled tomatoes: soup, perhaps? There were plenty of onions and garlic, but no fresh basil.
    On a shelf crammed with various flours, she found a packet of yeast. If there was any life left in it, she could make bread rolls; if not, cheese scones. After that the men could polish off the leftover mutton. The soup, with a roll or scone, should be enough for Mrs Hazlitt.
    Mary ventured further into the pantry. Hadn’t Paul said something about a meat room? She found a screened door and pushed through it to be greeted by the smell of raw meat. There was a bandsaw, and a scrubbed pine table; a sink in the corner. Hanging on the other side of the room was the cloth-shrouded body of a dead animal. Although she’d learnt basic butchery at the cooking school, she’d never had to use those skills and wasn’t eager to start now.
    Back in the warm kitchen, she set to work chopping onions. She was feeling the beginning of optimism. She could fix up the house, even without the paint job and new carpets it needed. Under the grime, it was well designed and solidly built and all it needed was some work. The room that she was most curious about was Mrs Hazlitt’s, so different from the rest. There were no signs in that room to indicate that Paul Hazlitt ever slept in it.
    Mary sighed. The Hazlitts were turning out to be nothing like she gracious family she’d imagined, and she doubted whether closer acquaintance would make them more likeable. But there was an element of mystery about them, and getting to the bottom of that might prove to be interesting enough to make her stay here worthwhile. In any case, with the nearest town sixty kilometres away, and no car, she had no way of leaving.

4
    B Y THE END OF THE WEEK, Mary had come to grips with the cleaning jobs. Martin’s and Paul’s bedrooms had been the worst, grimed with dirt and rank with sour body odours. She’d discovered the room where they watched TV in the evenings, a lounge at the front of the house furnished with little more than a bulky moquette-covered suite, a flat-screen television and a fridge. The seat of the settee bore deep impressions of the men’s bodies, the carpet in front of it scuffed bare of pile by their feet. The couch’s broad padded arms were ringed with stains, probably from beer cans, judging by the contents of the fridge and overflowing waste bin. The room stank of dust but, mercifully, there was no trace of cigarette smoke; and a thorough airing and going-over with the vacuum cleaner had greatly improved the ambience. She’d drawn signs of approval from Martin for her cooking, although neither man could be said to be effusive. And Mrs Hazlitt was eating, like a very small bird, it was true, but Mary was enjoying the challenge of preparing food for her that combined maximum flavour and nutrition with minimum volume.
    When she heard the Piper take off after dinner on Friday, Mary felt a lift of the heart. Paul and Martin wouldn’t be back till Monday, three days away. They went up to Perth most weekends, she’d learnt, and without their silent presence she might have a better chance of unravelling the mystery of Mrs Hazlitt. The Piper passed beyond hearing, and Mary was busy in the kitchen when she sensed movement behind her.
    Mrs Hazlitt was leaning against the doorframe, watching her. She was wearing the long white gown, with a cream knitted wrap over it, sheepskin boots on her feet. Mary was startled, then curious, then pleased.
    ‘Would you like to come and sit in the warm?’