Chapters (45)
- COVER PAGE
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- DEDICATION
- CHAPTER 1
- CHAPTER 2
- CHAPTER 3
- CHAPTER 4
- CHAPTER 5
- CHAPTER 6
- CHAPTER 7
- CHAPTER 8
- CHAPTER 9
- CHAPTER 10
- CHAPTER 11
- CHAPTER 12
- CHAPTER 13
- CHAPTER 14
- CHAPTER 15
- CHAPTER 16
- CHAPTER 17
- CHAPTER 18
- CHAPTER 19
- CHAPTER 20
- CHAPTER 21
- CHAPTER 22
- CHAPTER 23
- CHAPTER 24
- CHAPTER 25
- CHAPTER 26
- CHAPTER 27
- CHAPTER 28
- CHAPTER 29
- CHAPTER 30
- CHAPTER 31
- CHAPTER 32
- CHAPTER 33
- CHAPTER 34
- CHAPTER 35
- CHAPTER 36
- CHAPTER 37
- CHAPTER 38
- CHAPTER 39
- CHAPTER 40
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- FURTHER READING
‘I know, Mum, it’s just…’ She sighs. ‘It’s not fair for you to have to look after her. She’s meant to be helping you.’
‘She has been. This has only just happened. We’ve been having a lovely time up to now. She’s always so full of questions, and I’ve been telling her about my trip over—you know, on the bride ship. About being a girl on the farm before that. About Sydney during the war.’
‘I’m glad. I am. But what now? Is there a doctor on board?’
‘There must be a dozen.’
‘Can you get one to check her over? Tell them her history. And she needs to call me, too. I won’t yell, but she needs to call. I’ll be sick with worry.’
‘Okay, doctor tomorrow. I don’t want you to worry.’
‘You know I can’t help it, Mum. But thanks for the heads-up.’
‘Get some sleep, love. Sorry I woke you.’
I hang up and push open the door to our cabin. Hannah’s still asleep and I can see the network of blue veins beneath the surface of her skin. The skin itself looks dry, flaky; even in the dim lamplight I can tell the colour isn’t right. I wish I could go into her brain and fix that strange compulsion she has to hurt herself. I wish there was something useful I could do.
•
I hardly slept that night on the train. It was black outside and everyone else was asleep around me when I finally reached the last page. The dam they built against the floodwaters breaking, Rose of Sharon losing her baby, the family torn apart. Rose of Sharon feeding the starving man with her dead baby’s milk, from her own breast. The strange image stayed with me. I was left with that hollowness at the end, that feeling of wanting to stay in the lives of these people but not being allowed. The window rattled against my head and I saw my own reflection, yellow from the reading light, wan and worn.
I fell asleep with the book on my lap, the pages soft from use. I dreamed of picking grapes, squeezing them in my fists so they popped, and rolling their slippery skin between my fingers. I dreamed of Roy on a wagon, riding away from me, clouds of dust like a sheer curtain between us.