The whole situation made you miserable, Ornella. Papa even got his name changed by deed poll and he called your parents Nonno and Nonna, which were your words for them—because they were so old, so grey, their English was so bad, (so embarrassing).

But what kind of Italian family has no son? Papa was a prime specimen of native Australian-ness rolled up in unfulfilled filial longings.

Papa didn’t forget his other life though. He didn’t forget camping under Princes Bridge: the sound of water lapping at the pylons, the smells of brick-dust and clay and possum droppings, the violent rattle of traffic overhead. There was a scar on his wrist from a piece of glass or a razor blade. He was always, at heart, a small man, hoping for the best, never quite despairing.

WEST BRUNSWICK PROGRESS ASSOCIATION HALL

It was you, Ornella, who begged Papa to attend that fateful dance of 1958. Nonno wouldn’t let you go on your own. A girl had to be chaperoned. Once through the door of the West Brunswick Progress Association Hall, you abandoned Papa. Naturally. (Who could blame you? He was not your keeper. And Carlito was waiting for you, with his full repertoire of masculine wiles.)

Papa made his way to the refreshments table. He took a fruit punch and rolled a cigarette one-handed, which he proceeded to suck on, propped up by a wall. I imagine him like Humphrey Bogart, with his top button done up and the waist too high on his trousers.

Mother, sitting a few feet away, also smoked. But while she smoked, she scribbled in a small book in her lap. In between attacks of writing, she sat almost entirely still, inhaling and exhaling cigarette smoke.

Papa had never seen a woman writing so publicly, in a notebook. It shocked him.

Mother didn’t notice him until her cigarette went out. Then she looked up, waved her dead cigarette at him and he obliged. The flame went poof! between them like a French movie, and his metal lighter made a click as the apparatus fell back into place. In that moment of illumination, Papa saw Mother’s eyes, a bit yellow in the reflection of the flame—‘tiger’s eyes,’ he says—which always embarrassed me, for in reality Mother’s eyes were a very boring grey.

‘What are you writing?’ Papa asked.

Mother glared at him and stashed her notebook back into her purse.

‘Do you like to dance?’ he persisted.

‘No,’ said Mother. ‘I’m here with my friend.’ She brushed away some ash that had fallen into her skirt and pointed to a plump woman in a green dress, whirling on the dance floor. ‘That is Esmeralda,’ my mother said. ‘She’s a pharmacist’s assistant.’

‘And what are you?’ Papa didn’t mean it rudely. He didn’t really know how to talk to girls, let alone women. And Mother was definitely a woman.