They ran Merinos, Mother had told me. I didn’t know what a Merino was, but by the end of the visit I knew it was a kind of sheep. On the wall in the sitting room was a picture of Gramp’s Prize Merino of 1952 with curly horns and big slabs of wool hanging in pieces across its back. It looked laden down with wool. It must have been a great relief, I thought, to get rid of all that wool. There was probably a skinny little sheep underneath that wanted to gambol. Gramp had the soft hands of a sheep farmer. ‘Feel them,’ he said and they were soapy and smooth. Grandmother had crinkled white hair that reminded me of sheep’s wool. Everything was sheep sheep sheep here: we sat in the kitchen and Gramp told Mother, ticking them off on his fingers like a shopping list: ‘1500 merino ewe hoggets, 560 border Leicester-merino cross, 200 first cross ewe lambs …’ Mother clapped her hands softly as though he were singing her a song.

In Armidale, Mother came into focus, Ornella. I could see her properly for the first time. She was a real person: of average height, with clear skin, symmetrical features and golden hair. Her eyes were grey, but sparkly too. When she moved it was with a nimble grace I hadn’t seen before. She tripped happily about her parents’ kitchen, picking up a cup, putting a jar in a cupboard. At home, she had two ways of being: uptight or sloppy. She either moved with great deliberation or she slumped. Both states of being were disturbing to me. Both were unhappy. Now, in Armidale, she put an apron on, tying it at the back and smoothing it at the front. She pushed her hair back from her face and fastened it with two pins. For the dishes, Grandmother had a little wire basket with a piece of Velvet soap in it. Mother held this under the hot tap and the bubbles bubbled out over her wrists.

At home, Papa always did the dishes. At the end of the night or before he left for work. Mother couldn’t bear dishes. They depressed her, she said. She said she took one look at them and felt life was not worth living. (She said this frequently in fact: ‘Life is not worth living’ until one day I climbed up onto her chest and put my hand in her mouth to stop her.) Now she plunged her hands into the dishwater and happily clinked dishes in the rack for her niece to dry. She smiled tolerantly when Grandfather teased her that she’d ‘make someone a good wife one day’ and when she finished the dishes she flicked him with the tea-towel.