Now for the sticky caramelised apples. Thomas’s favourite dessert. Poor old Thomas, according to Margie, was eating nothing but rice crackers he was so distraught over the Sophie business. Sophie had broken it off two weeks ago, just before he was going to take her to Fiji, of all the ridiculous places, to propose. (What was wrong with right here on Scribbly Gum Island?) The family was up in arms about it; they were probably more upset about Sophie’s defection than Jimmy’s death.

The fact was that Connie was actually upset about the Sophie business too. She’d been quite taken with her the few times she’d met her. Not that she’d met her that often. It was like pulling teeth getting Thomas to come to the island these days. But she’d come to the house for afternoon tea a month or so after Jimmy had died and Connie had felt marginally better just looking at her. It was those dimples–a thumbprint on either side of her mouth. The dimples were still there, even when she wasn’t smiling.

Her enthusiasm for the house and Scribbly Gum Island had reminded Connie of Jimmy, the way he was that first day he rowed her out to the island, his cinnamon eyes all shiny. For years, before she packed away those dreams forever, Connie had imagined hers and Jimmy’s child. She’d always thought they’d have a son, a miniature version of Jimmy, but when Connie looked at Sophie she found herself imagining what it would have been like to have had a daughter. It was strange, feeling that old pain for a child, like hearing the notes of an old song.

When Sophie had seen Jimmy’s boots still sitting there on the back veranda, she’d stopped, put her hand on Connie’s arm and said, ‘You must miss your husband so much.’ Not in a sappy, sentimental way. No. She looked genuinely sympathetic. ‘Yes, I do,’ Connie had said, and had had to suppress a tremor in her voice. ‘Yes, I do.’

Everyone in Connie’s family seemed to expect her to just get on with it, as if the death of your husband was to be expected. Five days after Jimmy died, Enigma actually had the hide to say, ‘What a grumpy face you have today, Connie!’ Grumpy! But Sophie said, ‘You must miss your husband so much.’ Such a simple thing to say, and the girl was probably being polite, just well brought up, but for some reason Connie had found it profoundly touching. How wonderful to have a daughter like that!

Sophie wasn’t right for Thomas, though. Connie could tell. He was too damned grateful to have her. A woman wants to be adored but she doesn’t want reverence. Thomas was trying too hard. He had the strained expression of a man who is under-qualified for his job. He laughed too loudly at her jokes and sat too close to her. Sweet, serious, worried Thomas; he needed a woman who made him feel like a man and Sophie needed a man who could give her a run for her money. He was just plain too wimpy for her.

Still, it would have been nice to have had Sophie there at family events. She clearly loved the island. She might even have convinced Thomas to live there. She would have brightened up the place, like Jimmy did. Yes, Jimmy’s daughter would have been just like Sophie, and maybe the island would have been a different place with her light-hearted touch. She was the missing ingredient they needed. The hint of nutmeg.

Connie stirred brown sugar in melted butter and watched the sugar dissolve. Would six apples be enough? There had to be enough food and it had to be perfect. If her standards slipped, Laura would be on her case about getting somebody in to help, or even suggesting she move off the island to a retirement village. She, Connie Thrum, in a retirement village filled with doddering geriatrics!

It had been terrible the first time Connie washed sheets after Jimmy died and she realised he wasn’t there to pull them out of the machine for her and carry them out to the line. She’d leaned over, tugging uselessly at the wretched heavy things, which had got all twisted around the rotor, and when she realised it was hopeless she’d kicked the washing machine in futile rage and really hurt her foot. Then she’d found herself sitting on the laundry floor, sobbing like a baby. It just seemed so unfair and undignified that after all the hard work of her life, all the striving and the planning and the worrying, she would end up defeated by two wet sheets. She didn’t know what she would have done if Margie hadn’t turned up and made her a cup of tea and kept up a meaningless stream of comforting Margie-babble while she lifted the sheets out of the washing machine and pegged them on the line for her. Now, whenever Margie came over she quietly helped herself to a load of washing (even stripping the sheets off the bed and remaking it) and brought it back the next day all neatly pressed and folded. It wasn’t necessary of course, Connie wasn’t a helpless old woman, but still, bless her.

Anyway, Connie could still damn well cook them all a bloody good meal.

What was that extra fellow’s name who was coming tonight? It was driving her batty trying to think of it. It was right there on the tip of her tongue.

Two hours later she still hadn’t remembered his name and there he was at the other end of the table, nodding politely as Veronika ranted away about something.

Looking around at the self-absorbed faces of her family, Connie felt an overwhelming desire to send everybody home and eat cinnamon toast alone in front of the television.

There was Ron, sitting in Jimmy’s place with such a smarmy, self-satisfied expression on his face that Connie wanted to give him a good slap. Good Lord, he’d been a shy, gawky teenager when he first started courting Margie, and now look at him, sniping away at her. And there was Margie, pretending so hard to be happy when she’d been unhappy for years. It made Connie furious. The silly ninny was on some new diet where she ate nothing but ‘protein’. This apparently meant she couldn’t eat Connie’s roast potatoes. ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Connie snapped, and spooned out three for her. ‘You’ve loved my roast potatoes since you were a little girl.’

‘Oh, Connie,’ said Margie reproachfully.

‘Aunt Connie, you’re sabotaging Mum’s diet!’ cried out Veronika.

‘Nobody actually force-feeds your mother,’ said Ron. ‘She could just leave them on her plate.’

‘Nobody supports her either,’ said Veronika.

‘I support her!’ said Laura. ‘I keep inviting you to join my tennis club, Margie.’

‘Yes, well, I am thinking about it,’ said Margie uncertainly.

‘I wouldn’t bother, Aunt Margie,’ said Grace. ‘Mum’s tennis friends spend more time worrying about their manicures than actually playing tennis.’ Grace’s tone was light but Connie noticed she didn’t look at Laura as she spoke. It was Jimmy who had first pointed that out to Connie. ‘Have you noticed that Grace never looks at her mother if she can help it?’ he’d said. ‘There’s something not right there.’