Jemimah felt almost disconnected from reality as she followed Nan out to the ute. Although she’d stopped sobbing, her breath still caught on uneven hiccups and her eyes were wet with unshed tears. She couldn’t remember ever being so upset - her whole body ached from crying as though she’d been physically ill and it felt as though her head was swollen to twice normal size.

Thinking that there was an axe murderer in the house had been nowhere near as bad as witnessing the disaster she’d brought upon the Turnbulls. How could she ever bear it? She pressed her hand to her mouth as that horrible moment that Pastor Turnbull hit Michael replayed again and again in her mind. Worst of all were their expressions - the condemnation in Pastor Turnbull’s eyes, the hurt and confusion in Michael’s.

And it was all her fault -- because instead of simply looking over her shoulder and seeing who was there, she’d imagined an unbelievable scenario and plunged them all into a terrible nightmare. This was what she got for having stupid romantic dreams about Michael Turnbull and wanting more than anything to make a good impression on him and his family. Now they couldn’t possibly think worse of her.

They reached the back of the car about the same time as the dogs did, and Jemimah froze as they snuffled around her, looking mutely to Nan for help.

Nan shooed the dogs away, and put her arm around Jemimah. “It’s not really the end of the world you know,” she chided gently. “Is it really going to matter one iota in a hundred years time? In ten? No - in a couple of weeks it will all be forgotten. You don’t feel like that now, but you take it on trust from me.”

Jemimah shook her head, Nan just didn’t understand and she couldn’t control her voice enough to explain. Even if one day things would be okay between Michael and his dad, her relationship with the Turnbulls had been ruined forever.

Nan lifted down the esky from the back of the ute, and although Jemimah felt she ought to have offered to carry it for her, she felt too numb and weak to do anything and mutely followed behind Nan as she carried it into the kitchen.

Michael Turnbull and his dad were both in the kitchen, chatting over the weekend plans at Michael’s church in Sydney, as if nothing had ever happened. Pastor Turnbull had a wet tea-towel wrapped around his fingers, but Michael’s packet of frozen peas had been abandoned on the kitchen counter.

Nan put down the esky and felt the thawing packet and put it in the fridge. “Guess we can always have peas and gravy for tea.”

Pastor Turnbull shook his head, chuckling and then looked past Nan to catch Jemimah’s eye with a warm smile. “Are you doing any better, lassie?”

Jemimah shrugged, and Michael began to apologise again. The sincerity in his voice made her want to start crying all over again, and she just shook her head to stop him and sat down at the table, her back to the family.

“Just let it be, Mikey,” she heard Nan quietly say as she focused all her attention on trying to blink away her tears. One escaped and dropped in a tell-tale dark spot on the tablecloth, and then another. It was no use -- she was a pathetic baby and felt utterly ashamed. Michael and his dad -- who had every reason in the world to still be upset over what had happened -- seemed to have been able to put it behind them, but she couldn’t.

Jemimah’s chair scraped on the tiles as she got up, and without a backward glance or even excusing herself -- she escaped to the bathroom. She didn’t think the tears would ever stop, but eventually they did, and after washing her face and drying it on one of Nan’s soft, fluffy towels she felt spent but as though the storm had passed.

Self-conscious about her dreadful manners, she slunk back into the dining room, where the Turnbulls had long begun eating lunch. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, as she slipped into her place, eyes downcast, but apart from a brief response of “You’re fine, lassie,” and “Don’t give it a thought,” the family continued with their conversation.

Jemimah had never felt less like eating, but began to pick at the food on her plate. The chicken she’d been served was beyond her, but at least she managed a few mouthfuls of the coleslaw.

“That’s something I was meaning to ask you,” Nan turned to her after a while. “Did you hear from the Harts? Have they found a snake?”

Jemimah looked at her in surprise and then shook her head. She’d completely forgotten about the snake, and now it was the least of her worries. Even if there were a hundred snakes in her house she’d rather go home as soon as possible than make things any worse for the family here.

“What snake?” Michael asked, putting down his fork. Jemimah had noticed that he’d eaten very little of the chicken himself, and could only imagine how much his face must be hurting. It looked even worse now than it had earlier -- already turning a horrible black and blue. She looked down quickly, unable to suppress the catch in her breath or the fear she was about to start crying again.

“It sounds like there is a snake in the roof over Jemimah’s bedroom -- the boys think it’s probably come up during the picking. They were going to see if they could find it today and let us know how they got on. That’s why Jemimah stayed over last night, when I heard about the snake I brought her back home with me after the social night.”

“Ah, that explains why I didn’t see Jemimah’s car,” Michael remarked as though the information was merely an interesting piece of the puzzle that had led to the morning’s drama.

Nan went on to tell the men about the social night, and although a couple of questions were addressed to Jemimah she was unable to answer with anything more than a nod or shake of the head. She was beginning to feel more settled as the conversation continued on around her, but was miserably self-conscious about the hiccuping breaths that she still couldn’t control.

“I was thinking of taking Jemimah for a run over to the Jones’,” Michael said as he began gathering the plates. “I haven’t seen them since before school started this year, and Jemimah might find it interesting.”

“What a lovely idea,” Nan agreed. “You haven’t been to see the ostriches yet have you, Jemimah?”

“Ostriches?” After her experiences with the Harts, Jemimah was getting used to misunderstanding terms that the locals took for granted. Obviously they weren’t talking about the giant African birds that you only saw in zoos.

“Yes, the Jones’ breed them. It’s only a side line -- but they’ve been doing it for several years and have quite a nice setup.” Michael picked up a huge, white egg from the kitchen dresser as he returned to the table and put it in front of Jemimah. “That would fill you up for breakfast, wouldn’t it?”

She lifted it, fascinated, and finding it lighter than expected. She turned it over and saw the tiny hole at one end. Remembering how much her cheeks hurt with the effort of ‘blowing out’ raw hens’ eggs to use for craft as a child, she couldn’t imagine how this had been done. As though reading her thoughts, Michael explained that it had been an infertile egg, and they’d made the hole and then sat it over an ant’s nest, and let the ants do all the work.

“Are you going to drive?” Pastor Turnbull asked, and Michael shook his head.

“I thought we’d take the quad, if that’s okay.”

“Yes, fine. You might need to check the petrol, though,” his dad answered.

Jemimah looked at Michael in confusion. “The quad?”

“The quadrunner. It’s a four wheeled motorbike -- it will be good fun.”

The Harts had a couple of those farm bikes and she’d seen Mr Hart and the boys zipping around the place, sometimes with a couple of Marlene’s kids on the racks on the front and back. It had looked like fun, but it was out of the question for her to go with Michael, especially after the trouble she’d caused him.

She shook her head. “Thank you, but ... not today.”

“Jemimah -- it’ll do you the world of good. Exactly what you need,” insisted Nan.

“No, this was meant to be---” Jemimah drew in a shaky breath, feeling like she was on thin ice emotionally, “---to be Michael’s weekend off. He doesn’t need to ...” the word ‘baby-sit’ came into her mind, “to cheer me up.”

“I’d feel a whole lot better if I could, though. Besides, I don’t want to sit around feeling sorry for myself, either. Please?”

Jemimah shrugged and Michael grinned. “I’ll take that for a yes. I’ll go and ring Mr Jones and check it’s okay.” He was out of the room before Jemimah could renege.

“And I’d better get you out a pair of jeans and a t-shirt.” Nan too, was on her feet and down along the hallway as if she knew Jemimah would pull out if given half a chance.

Feeling powerless to resist her fate against their determination, Jemimah rose to gather the few things left on the table, but Pastor Turnbull put out his hand to stop her. “I’ll get those shortly. Just sit a little while, there’s something I want to ask you while it’s just you and me.”

Jemimah sat back down, meeting his kind eyes across the table. “Yes?”

“You’ve been railroaded into going over to the Jones’ with Michael -- are you really comfortable with that? If you’re at all worried about anything ...”

Jemimah stared at him uncomprehendingly as he continued.

“I just want you to know you can tell me anything. I know I’m Michael’s father, but I promise you, if there’s more to the story about what happened this morning you can be assured I’ll--”

“No!” Jemimah cried, horrified that he could still have any doubt over Michael’s integrity. “No -- it was exactly ... exactly what I said before. I’m so, so, sorry. Please believe me.” Having thought she’d cried herself empty before, Jemimah soon discovered she was wrong. She put her head in her arms as her sobs returned in full force and found no strength left to fight them.

“That’s fine with Mr --’ Michael stopped short in the doorway.

The silence lengthened, and when Jemimah could bear it no longer she looked up to see Michael watching his father as if waiting for an explanation. Jemimah mopped her face with her crumpled hanky. Would this nightmare never end?

Pastor Turnbull met his son’s eyes directly. “I wanted to give Jemimah a chance to tell me anything about this morning that she mightn’t have felt comfortable discussing with us all together earlier.”

“Oh.” Michael’s eyes momentarily widened with a flicker of pain that was immediately hidden. He nodded, “Yes, quite right.”

Jemimah wanted to reassure Michael that of course she’d had nothing to add -- but that was ridiculous -- he knew that as well as she did. All she could do was try again, through her tears, to say how sorry she was.

“Here we go--” Nan bustled in, her arms full of clothes but stopped mid-stride as she looked from one serious face to another. She shook her head determinedly, and Jemimah felt a small measure of relief that at least Nan entertained no doubts.

“Time to get you two out of here.” Nan handed Jemimah the pile of clothes, and turning to Michael nodded her head toward the door. “Scoot! You go get the quad ready. Jemimah will meet you outside once she’s changed.”

Jemimah stood, but didn’t move until she’d heard the screen shut behind Michael. Then she turned back to Pastor Turnbull. “Please - what can I say to make you one hundred per cent convinced about what happened?”

“I am, lassie. After talking to Michael earlier I was ninety-nine per cent convinced -- but I had to hear from you on your own. All right?”

She nodded, and he came round the table and folded her into his arms in a big hug. It only made her cry more, but by the time he let go she felt a lot better.

“That’s the end of it, then,” said Nan briskly, gently taking Jemimah by the shoulders and turning her toward the door -- and entirely spoiling the no-nonsense effect by kissing her on the cheek. “Now, you go and have some fun.”