I had no words to say. I looked at the picture again, sitting there in Bette’s hands, on Bette’s lap. ‘I didn’t know he even existed,’ I said. ‘Mum never said anything.’

‘Yes. Well. We don’t talk about him either, so I guess that’s not surprising. It’s too upsetting for everybody.’

Everything fell into place. I understood now. ‘Is that why Mum doesn’t come back? Is that why I’ve never met you?’

‘Your mother left soon after the accident. I think it was all too much for her. I haven’t seen her since.’

Bette seemed more relaxed now, so I felt emboldened to ask her more. ‘I don’t want to upset you, Grandma, but I do want to ask: what was the accident? Do you mind talking about it?’

Bette smiled wistfully. ‘It is hard to talk about. But you should know; I’m a bit sad Cathy never told you. He had a fall. From a cairn. He was mucking around and he fell and then a rock came down, and –’

Bette motioned with her hand to her head, a gesture to indicate the rock had hit Danny’s head, the words clearly still too traumatic for her to say out loud, even after all these years. I felt my throat get tight and hollow. It was just so awful.

‘Anna, don’t talk to Hessel about this,’ Bette said.

‘But I think he left the picture for me,’ I said.

Bette slowly nodded. ‘He’s not very good at talking. Doesn’t like it very much. This is his way of talking.’ Bette waved the picture. ‘Here,’ she said as she handed it back to me, ‘put it somewhere. Keep it safe. Don’t ask him about it. And perhaps don’t mention him hanging your picture either.’

‘But I want to thank him –’

‘He doesn’t like to be thanked, and if it was to give you this photo, then I’m sure he wouldn’t want to discuss it. He doesn’t like to be reminded of past hurts.’

I put the photo in my pocket, thinking of Hessel. Thinking how devastated the poor man must have been to lose a son like that. And, in a flash of heat, I got angry. Mum had abandoned them. They had lost a son through tragedy, and then they lost their daughter through outright selfishness.

No wonder Mum had never told me she’d had a little brother that died. Then she’d have had to explain herself. Explain how she could be so awful to her own grief-stricken parents. I was thinking about a way to express this to Bette – to tell her that I understood how terrible Mum could be, to let her know that Mum had been terrible to me too – but suddenly Bette patted my knee and looked out again into the blooming forest.

‘I’ve always loved this time of year,’ she said.

And the moment was gone.

21

Our kitchen had looked like a crime scene – red splatters on white, Nassim nursing his arm, exploded glass everywhere. My hands were still shaking as Nassim drew me out of the house and we sat together in the dark street, on the gutter at the edge of the driveway. The streetlight showered the top of the big wattle tree with light, the bright leaves at the top crowding around it – a little green cluster of daytime while underneath it, in the shade it cast on the house, the night-time found its deepest point. Nassim’s shirt was spattered with wine and his sleeve had a few small streaks of blood. The tree looked the same as it always had, the view from my window every night of my life. But everything felt different.