Isla leaned in close against Grandma, who was warm and smelled of buttered toast. She considered what to say. She could tell Grandma that she did not like this big, cold house where everything creaked and shook. That she would be glad to leave. But she had a feeling Grandma knew this already and besides, it wasn’t exactly true. She would not be glad to leave, because Grandma would be left behind.

Grandma tapped her ear. ‘Out with it,’ she said.

‘I like Mandy more than Mummy,’ Isla whispered. This was exactly true, and she knew it was very bad.

Grandma tapped her ear again. ‘Don’t you have anything worse than that?’

‘Not really.’

‘Well then.’ Grandma turned to face her. ‘Your secret will stay here, in my house, and I’ll keep it safe for you. All right?’

Isla nodded.

‘She must be terrific, this Mandy, is she?’

Isla nodded again. She would go and see Mandy when she got home and she would tell her everything about England. She tightened her fists inside her pockets. Wanting to go home was like waiting for your arm to stop hurting. If you thought about it too much it made it worse.

‘You’re nowhere near as bad as me,’ Grandma said, standing back up. ‘I’d say this calls for a dozen Hail Marys and a biscuit.’

In the hallway, Mummy had somehow got the suitcase shut on her own. She was sitting on it, with her hands resting on her huge, round belly.

‘I wish I lived up the road in Sydney,’ Grandma said. ‘I could pop over to see you every day and we could get on each other’s nerves, like normal people.’

‘But you won’t come,’ Mummy said. ‘Will you?’

‘Haven’t we been over this a hundred times?’

Mummy put her face in her hands.

‘I hope to God I’m wrong,’ Grandma said, and she led Isla by the hand into the kitchen.

54

Sydney, 1997

Isla stops at the top of the coastal path to look down at the beach. It’s windy down there and the waves are crashing in from the south. The sand is covered in seaweed and foam, driftwood; a large hunk of polystyrene. It’s not the best morning to say goodbye. She stands for a moment breathing the fresh air, but the wind is too strong. She walks through the yard, kicking through the long grass, and lets herself into the house.

Her dad is in the kitchen, dressed for work. She moves around him, making coffee, tidying. He’s hurt that she’s leaving and too proud to say so, or to admit that he’d hoped she might stay. He’s making a big effort, keeping a lid on the drinking, burying his empties in the bin. Her mother’s house rules have been wordlessly reintroduced, despite her absence. Soon he will have no one to hide from. She is leaving him to face himself and she is more glad than guilty. Her bag is packed and waiting by the door.