She looked up from a tray of seedlings as I came down the greenhouse aisle. I’d found her easily, through her father, who still worked for the forestry department in New South Wales.‘Sandra?’‘Yes.’ She was tall, with dark, curly hair cut short, wearing green work clothes.‘I’m Jack Irish.’She took off a rubber glove and we shook hands. A long, slim hand, strong. I’d spoken to her on the phone at home the night before. She lived outside Colac and worked for a commercial tree nursery.‘I’ll take my break,’ she said. ‘We can talk in the kitchen. The bosses are in town.’I followed her out of the greenhouse and down a gravel path to a weatherboard building. We went in the back door, into a kitchen with a wooden table.‘Sit down. Tea or coffee?’‘Tea, please.’ I sat where I could look out of the window, at a green hill with mist hanging on it.She switched on the kettle, put teabags in mugs, got a carton of milk out of the fridge, stood waiting for the kettle to boil.‘Nice place to work,’ I said.‘It is.
