After a night of disturbing dreams I awoke with a sick headache, not to mention some heartache as well. I downed some paracetamols and took a shower, but still I felt terrible. The shock, the disappointment and the guilt had caught up with me.

It wasn’t particularly early but the clouds hid the sun so I thought I’d go out for a cycle ride anyway – and it wouldn’t be too hot by the river. The Albert River is my favourite destination for a short cycle ride when I’m staying at Belivah. Not wishing to miss any of the beauty below, I walked my little red bike across the pedestrian bridge and, at length, turned onto the path leading down to the water. After parking my bike against a signpost I stood on the platform at the base of one of the huge concrete pillars supporting the bridge and I became lost in thought as I looked into the reflections on the surface of the river.

I thought of June – Mrs Conelly (as we called her until recent years) – whom I have known for all my life bar three months, because that’s how old I was when the Porch family moved up from Victoria to “The Sunshine State” of Queensland. I pictured Mrs Conelly in my mind as she was when I was a toddler on her lap – I didn’t know she was so young then but when you’re only two yourself even a twenty-eight year old looks quite mature! We always sat in the kitchen when Mum and I went across the road for a mid-morning cup of tea at Mrs Conelly’s and I used to love to watch her boil the kettle on her wood stove and go through the ritual of warming the teapot before putting in the leaf tea (no tea-bags in those days), and pouring the brew over a strainer into dainty bone china tea cups with saucers.

Mrs Conelly spoke in an Australian accent that lilted like a song and sometimes lulled me to sleep. She diagnosed my every illness, from hepatitis to appendicitis, and we Porches fondly referred to her as “Doctor Conelly”. She loved her pets, in particular, Aussie the talking galah , who was older than me and died of old age only two years ago; and we children loved Bingo the calf who did not live beyond adulthood (I wasn’t hungry the day Mrs Conelly brought over some steak!).

The only sadness at leaving Molle Road in Gumdale for wonderful Wynnum when I was ten was the parting from our dear neighbour and friend. Still, we kept in touch with visits and later with letters when we moved to England. And Mrs Conelly’s place, wherever that may have been in successive years, was always a place to visit whenever any of the Porches returned to their homeland. I was planning to see June this very week…

All alone, down on the Albert River, tears pricked my eyes. Then the sun came out and I phoned Chris, who is in England at the moment but will be joining me soon. He was still up though it was past his midnight.

“Perhaps it’s for the best that you didn’t see her – not at that stage, Darling,” he said.

I cycled back to Leah Street. My headache had passed and the memories of June, having reached a good long life well into her eighties, eased the heartache somewhat.