But I stood her up at Trades Hall. Because I could. And because Mr Parish and Carlito had taught me the power of doing such things.

NONNO’S WILL, 1960

When Nonno died, he left everything to Papa. Everything. The house in Coburg was quarantined for Nonna’s use until she died, and then it would become Papa’s. The savings in Nonno’s savings account: Papa’s. La Coccinella: Papa’s. Ornella, you got nothing. A girl would get married. Of course she would. After that, she would be her husband’s responsibility. And there was Carlito, waiting in the wings.

But Papa could not run both 123 and La Coccinella. It was too big a job. So he sold 123, and took Rosa to work with him at La Coccinella.

Papa was twenty-five. He felt like a seasoned old man. He had money in the bank and he had his first child on the way.

Yes, I was about to be born to my shapeshifting mother, with her impenetrable moods, and my pint-sized father, altogether too small to ever get a proper hold on. And, in between, you, Ornella: smelling like perfume and pork fat, and entirely visible, from the very beginning.

Why is that? Why are you visible in a way that Mother isn’t. I think it’s because, as you have so often said, with relish: ‘Owen, I don’t have a creative bone in my body!’

ARMIDALE

At the end of 1963, Mother took me to Armidale, New South Wales, for Christmas. We went on the train. I had never been on a train journey longer than Hawthorn station to Flinders Street. Papa didn’t come with us. We took sandwiches and drinks and Mother had a novel to read and I had a satchel full of toys and crayons.

We changed trains in Sydney. I could later say, at school, that I had been to Sydney. But I’d only been to the station. I wouldn’t go to Sydney for years—not until Julia launched Mother’s book in Glebe, in 1986, where it sold out on the night and we had to send someone in a taxi to get more from the warehouse.

We arrived in Armidale late in the afternoon, and it was still hot. Then night came. Suddenly. And it was suddenly cold. I grizzled for my jacket but Mother paid no attention. Her shadow was long and stretched out on the platform and I think she thought we were forgotten. I sucked the hem of her dress while we waited. I was not a baby anymore, but I still sucked on things and my favourite thing to suck on was damp beach towels. They were nice and sea-salty. But Mother’s clothes were not nice and sea-salty. For one thing, Mother didn’t sweat. I don’t recall Mother ever sweating. Papa: he streamed with perspiration, but Mother was always cool as a tutumber.