IsobelJack had not written to or telegraphed his father to prepare him for their arrival. After asking at the Picton guesthouse, Isobel did not raise the subject again but, at Christchurch, they had lunch at a small café while waiting for horses to take them on and sat at a table beside a group of men, who were loudly making plans for their onward journey. The men all wore dusty leather boots and sagging hats, and they smoked pipes over their roast mutton and boiled potatoes. Some tipped whisky into their coffee mugs when the waitress wasn’t looking, and all the while they spoke of finding work on sheep runs in the area. When he mentioned the Enderby Run, Isobel saw Jack’s face tighten at the name—that was his father’s sheep farm. And then she knew Jack hadn’t contacted his father.
They h
