Grandma’s words repeated in Isla’s head without meaning. She liked Grandma because she was from somewhere called Island. Grandma did not like England much either. And she liked you even when she was shouting. She was only cranky in her voice. If you made a face she would laugh and make a face back.

‘He’s not all bad,’ Mummy said. ‘He can be wonderful.’

‘Sure, can’t they all,’ Grandma said.

Isla sat up and the brick in her head banged against her bones. ‘Mum!’

The flowers were turning, their petals growing fat and leathery. She didn’t know if her eyes were shut or not. It was hot in this bed, very hot, making her skin wet. The brick was broken. It had smashed into bits and all the pieces of brick were sharp in her head, her neck, her back. Isla sat on the edge of the bed and maybe she was dreaming again. It was hard to tell. The flowers poked their tongues at her. ‘Mum!’

The door opened.

‘Mandy?’ She knew it couldn’t be Mandy but her name was in her mouth. ‘Mandy?’

‘It’s me, darling. It’s Mummy.’

Isla tried not to cry. ‘I’m hot.’

She lay back down and her mum put her hand on her forehead. Her mum could tell about the brick. She pushed the covers away and her hands were quick.

‘Oh God, you’re burning up.’

Mandy always smiled when you made a face, and she made faces back. She did good faces and she didn’t shout much. When Isla tried to see Mandy’s face she saw huge flowers with tongues lolling, green and pink, yellow and brown.

23

Sydney, 1997

It’s raining again by the time Isla reaches the back of the yard. The ocean below is grey and heaving. She stands under the tea trees and decides she won’t swim, after all. She feels cold, although the air is warm. Her shoes are letting in water. She’s about to turn back to the house when she sees a woman on the beach, wading out of the sea, tall and upright despite the waves crashing against her. Older than her, Isla thinks, but in better shape. The woman picks her towel up from the sand and dries herself off, shaking the water from her hair. Isla recognises the floral-patterned beach towel and then she recognises her mother: the new short hairstyle and the plain black costume, the good posture. Her admiration drops away and she is filled with hate, so cold and quick it turns her stomach. She wants to kick her across a room.

She stays where she is, watching her mum walk over the sand with the towel over one shoulder, scaling the path without pausing to check her footing. She sees her face as she draws closer: preoccupied, frowning. Isla raises a hand and waves. She doesn’t truly hate her, does she? Maybe she does. Maybe she always has.

‘Hey,’ Louisa calls out. ‘Are you going to swim?’

‘No. Looks cold.’