She has kept so many of these habits she grew up with, in spite of being so far away. How easy it would have been for her just to give up and eat like the rest of us, using her fork as a shovel, her knife only when necessary, ignoring the different forks and spoons and the order in which they are used. But she’s hung on, and it makes me think it is out of longing as much as habit.

‘Grandma,’ I say, pushing my plate away, ‘you must be so excited to be going back to Sydney. How many years since you’ve been home?’

She pats her mouth with her napkin, lipstick smearing the linen pink.

‘Sixty-eight,’ she says. ‘But Sydney isn’t home, love. Never was. Home is the farm we lost when I was sixteen.’

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 2

I remember leaving like it was yesterday. The sky breaking open with rain, Blackie’s howls fading the further we drove away.

Up until that point my life had been defined by milking.

Waking before dawn while the sky was grey, my limbs heavy, I pulled a dress and apron over my nightclothes. In the kitchen the sounds of my two brothers scratching, blowing their noses, Mum passing us cups of tea, too early for actual words. Smoke from a twig fire in the stove. Our boots from the verandah and we walked to the shed, rocks and sticks crunching underfoot, the first greenish light visible beyond the bush to the east. There Dad waited for us with the buckets, milkers already tied by one leg with a rope, the damp, sharp smell of urine-soaked hay. Cows snuffled, lifting their heads from the trough of bran. Some lowed at the sight of us, glad for the prospect of relief from the weight of milk in their teats. I dragged my stool beside one and ran a hand along her side gently, the warmth and silkiness of her hide. Then, both hands on her full udders, I began to pull and squeeze, smelling the milk as it came, leaning my head against her flank. Her long tail swatted me, her untied back leg quivered and stamped. Sometimes I wondered if the cow pretended I was her calf, her sweet gangly-legged thing, come back to nurse. Mostly my mind wandered other places though, for my hands knew this motion as my lungs knew to breathe, and I went from cow to cow, passing filled buckets to my dad. He put the milk into the hand separator—the cream would be delivered up the road to the butter factory, and the skimmed milk sent to Sydney in a big truck with steam-driven refrigeration to keep it cold. Some farms had milking machines now, but not small ones like ours.