Chapter 13
Eight o’clock, Monday morning. ‘So, you’re Charlie.’
Sam nodded uncertainly, as if she didn’t believe it herself. Don’t say a word. Her voice would give her away more than anything. She’d been practising talking like Charlie – trying to speak from the back of her tongue and limiting lip movement a little. And she needed to speed up her speech, and run the words together a bit more. It was like giving herself elocution lessons in reverse. Thank goodness Bushy didn’t seem to expect her to talk.
Sam had never met an Aboriginal person before. Bushy wore a funny, old fashioned hat – an iron-grey fedora, like Indiana Jones might wear – along with moleskin trousers, an ancient tweed jacket and a black tie. Quite an eccentric look.
He extended his hand and she shook it, limp-wristed
