We were home, in the house in Hawthorn, all of us together for a change. Papa had unbuttoned his vest. He ran his hand through his hair and looked tired. ‘I’ll cook a banquet for your book launch, okay? You can invite whoever. I’ll do whatever you like: lamb, veal. We’ll have a big celebration. Then, after that, you’ve got to stop drinking. Once and for all. For good.’

Mother’s eyes looked brightly unseeing at Papa. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That sounds fair, Jo.’

I thought she was mocking him, but Papa seemed satisfied with her answer. I knew Mother hated Papa these days. She had an iron glint in her eyes when she looked at him. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Well. I’m going to bed. You’ll take Owen to school in the morning?’

‘Oh yes, Jo,’ said Mother.

What was Papa even talking about? Didn’t he know I rode to school by myself?

‘Alright, well, I’ll see you in the morning.’ He went to go to the bedroom and then turned back. ‘I’m serious—you’ve got to do something about it after the launch, Veda. Okay?’

‘Okay Jo,’ said Mother.

Papa eyed her strangely. He hesitated again and then came over to her and put his hands on her shoulders. But it wasn’t a patient loving-hands-on-shoulders; it was a listen-to-me-and-do-what-I-say hands-on-shoulders.

Mother was an alien to those hands. She looked at Papa, clean in the eyes, and smiled the strangest smile. I felt panicky. The house smelt bad. Some of the washing had fallen into the flowerbeds and every time I looked through the windows and saw it I felt strange.

Mother angled out from under Papa’s hands. ‘Just give me a second, Jo,’ she said and went into the bathroom.

They had forgotten I was there, both of them. Maybe they thought I was in bed. Or maybe I was supposed to be in bed, and was hiding behind the yellow velvet curtains, watching? How else did I see these things, Ornella? It doesn’t make sense.

I heard the toilet flush and Mother came back into the room, swaying a little and waving her hairbrush. It was a large old-fashioned hairbrush: yellow, made of some kind of bone perhaps, heavy. I knew it could be lethal. She wove it around in front of Papa’s face while she talked very low and very determinedly at him. I couldn’t hear what she was saying. Papa put his hand up at the hairbrush, and pushed it away as though it annoyed him.

‘Yes, push it away,’ Mother said. ‘Push it away, Jo.’

Because she couldn’t wave it in front of him anymore, because he’d put his hand up, Mother turned as if she had had enough. But then she turned back suddenly, lifted her arm and brought the hairbrush down on the side of his face. It thwacked hard on Papa’s cheekbone.

‘Jesus!’ Papa said. He caught hold of Mother’s wrist. He tried to pry the hairbrush out of her hand but couldn’t. ‘You’re a lunatic! Stop this!’