Tears snaking down her cheeks, Viv tentatively puts her hand to Gwyneth’s cheek. ‘You’re so beautiful.’

Gwyneth steps back, shaking her head. ‘Don’t.’

‘Is she your daughter, Viv?’ Amber asks. Her aunt nods and Amber frowns. ‘But – but you didn’t have any children.’

‘She left when you were five,’ Rita says. ‘You used to adore her. You were probably too young to remember properly.’

Amber tries to search her memory. There’s something there, at the edges …

Gwyneth’s fists clench and unclench. ‘Left. Did I leave? Or was I pushed?’

‘It was only meant to be for the summer,’ Viv says to her, eyes pleading.

‘Your mother was devastated,’ Rita continued for her sister. ‘But you were so out of control after …’ She looks at Amber, her voice trailing off. ‘Then you just disappeared off the face of the earth.’

‘Did you even try to find me?’ Gwyneth asks in a trembling voice.

‘Of course I did!’ Viv shouted.

‘She did, love,’ Rita says, nodding vehemently. ‘Spent weeks in London, hanging posters up.’

‘Clearly didn’t try hard enough though,’ Gwyneth says. ‘I know what I did was awful, but I was your daughter.’

‘You are my daughter,’ Viv whispers.

‘Why would you send your own daughter away?’ Amber asks her aunt. ‘What did she do that was so terrible?’

Viv’s eyes drop to the stumps of Amber’s hand. ‘It was just a moment of madness. But she blamed herself, drove herself crazy with it.’

Lumin shakes her head. ‘I – I don’t understand.’

‘I told you, remember?’ Gwyneth says gently. ‘Before you went to uni.’

‘Told her what? What are you talking about?’ Amber asks with a trembling voice.

‘You didn’t tell Amber?’ Gwyneth asks Viv and Rita.

‘Tell me what?’ Amber shouts again, getting unbearably frustrated.

Gwyneth looks at Amber. ‘I’m so sorry, Amber. I never really got the chance to say just how sorry I was. It’s my fault you lost your fingers.’

Chapter Thirty-Three

Gwyneth

Winterton Chine

24 December 2009

I felt the memories rush at me as I looked at my little cousin Amber. Not so little now but tall and beautiful and strong, a typical Caulfield woman. But despite this, I still remember her as the chubby-faced child I used to look after, running around our house and causing havoc. The constant pleas to ‘play, Gwenny, play!’ The heart-soaring love I felt for her too, despite how frustrated I grew at the constant requests for me to babysit for her. My aunt Rita was so busy with the gift shop, especially being a single mum and all. And my parents were determined I learnt that you had to earn your money. So I often found myself being called on to babysit three, even four evenings a week. When other kids my age enjoyed their summer evenings on the beach or at the local arcade, I would be stuck in looking after my little cousin.