The Final Proposal. Robyn Donald

just a few feet away; from it one pipe led to a tap, another to the lean-to bathroom at the back of the bach.

      In which, she was grateful to see, there was a proper toilet. No chilly morning trips to an outdoor privy.

      First things first. She tried the tap over the bath and only realised how tense she’d been when water spurted into the bottom and she felt overwhelming relief. Even then, she didn’t draw a breath until the year’s accumulation of debris in the pipe drained away and the water ran clear. Although it looked as though the only method of heating it was the range, at least she wasn’t going to have to carry water to the bach in buckets.

      She turned the tap off and went to check out the bedroom.

      It was lined with matchboarding, and an old double bed with wirewove and kapok mattress that smelt sourly of dampness took up most of the room. Gingerly, Jan opened the door of a kauri wardrobe to find that someone had cleared everything away there too.

      Wondering just what Fergus Morrison had hoped to achieve with the conditional clause in his will, she went back to the main room. A rocking chair in front of the range and an unpainted wooden table and chair pushed against the wall beneath the window were its sole items of furniture.

      But the view from the window stopped the breath in her throat. Long, mellow rays from the afternoon sun illuminated the panorama with an artist’s skilful hand, glinted across the beach, turned the still waters to a sheet of softly glowing pearl-blue. In the light’s fugitive glamour even the mangroves looked a little less sinister.

      ‘Yes,’ she said aloud, imagining buildings on the flat land and the voices of children and adolescents—young lives given hope and confidence, ‘it could be perfect.’

      She’d brought detergents and rags, and after changing into jeans and T-shirt she wasted a good half-hour fiddling around with kindling and paper in the firebox of the range, juggling levers and knobs only to have each promising fire die down into raw-smelling ashes. Eventually she gave up in disgust, and, thanking the twentieth century for detergents, scrubbed the porcelain bath with cold water before tackling the other fittings. They were not as old as the bath or the building, so presumably her grandfather had had them installed fifteen years ago, when he’d come to live here.