‘I’m so blessed to be the mother of daughters,’ Grandmother sighed. ‘When I’ve got all my daughters around, I don’t need any help. I don’t want anyone else in my kitchen!’ Mother, hands dripping, came and put a kiss on Grandmother’s crinkly head and Grandmother made a fuss about hot water dripping on her skirt.

I had never seen Mother so happy. She had a crisp outline in her shirt, a proper profile when she turned to look out the window. She was pretty and young and she had a good figure and a clever brain. She was not a hog or a frog; she was not a cow or a sow; she was not even a witch or a bitch; she was beautiful and she was my mother! That night I lay in the dark in a twin bed next to hers, with the covers tucked tight across my chest. I could hear Mother breathing next to me in her own bed, I could see her shape beneath the blanket, and I felt one hundred per cent happy. Why oh why had Mother ever left these kind Merino people who so obviously made her happy?

It became apparent at dinner later in the week.

It was Sunday. We’d been in the Tablelands for four days. We’d had Christmas dinner. And we’d gone visiting on Boxing Day. Mother’s mood was still heightened. She laughed and clapped her hands and made Gramp open a bottle of wine for Sunday dinner, which, it was clear, was something they only did on special occasions. Gramp promenaded around the table with the bottle and everyone had a little, just to be sociable. Except Grandmother, who put her hand over her glass. Mother filled hers to the brim. When Gramp said grace—a thing I’d never heard before—Mother said it along with him in a voice that was not quite right: a little too loud, a little too sing-song. I saw Grandmother’s shoulder twitch. I saw her look at Gramp, and then at Jane.