Leeds, 1967
Isla sat on a wooden chair in the kitchen wearing a sweater that was much too big. The windows were steamed up and it was dark outside, like always. You couldn’t go outside in that perishing cold. The kitchen was the only room that wasn’t perishing, because of the stove, but it wasn’t warm in here either. It wasn’t warm anywhere in England. You had to wear a vest and socks and a sweater inside the house, and you could catch your death in the bathroom: there were icicles at the window, and it was best not to sit down for too long on the toilet seat. Grandma had a pot under her bed that she used in the night because she did not want to catch her death, and one of these days she would get the chill on her chest and that would be the end of it.
Grandma was tidying up the kitchen, wiping the crumbs from the bread board into the sink with the flat of her hand. Isla could tell Grandma was nice, but she didn’t like her. England made her hate everything, even nice things. The worst thing about England was that it was a bit the same as Australia, but everything was a bit wrong. Isla did not like the way English houses were tall. She did not like stairs. She liked flat, wide houses with just the roof on top. English people thought they had it right about houses, this was the thing that made Isla want to cry. They thought their way was right and nobody cared what she thought.
“You’re not eating your toast?” Grandma stood next to her. She was looking at Isla and Isla was looking at the toast. “Why don’t you try it? You must be starved.”
“It’s not Vegemite,” Isla said.
“I think it’s the same thing.” Grandma showed her the jar, which was brown and curved, with a yellow lid. “It’s your mum’s favorite.”
Isla shook her head.
“You might like it if you try it.”
“It’s not the same.” Isla hated Grandma for not understanding this. “And I don’t like it burnt as well.”
Grandma took the plate away and tipped the toast into the bin. “I don’t blame you, lovey,” she said. “Horrible stuff.”
Isla decided she would wait until she got back to Australia before she ate anything else. She didn’t want to eat anything English.
“How does your mum do your toast?” Grandma took the bread knife and balanced it on the loaf.
“Mandy makes it for me how I like it.”
“Mandy?” Grandma said her name funny. “Who’s Mandy when she’s at home?”
Isla didn’t know how to answer this question. She swung her feet under the table until she wasn’t thinking about Mandy saying goodbye.
“Will I toast it lightly with a bit of cheese?”
Isla looked down at her hands and shrugged one shoulder. She liked cheese on toast but was not ready to break her fast.
From the hallway the telephone rang. Grandma went to answer it, but Mummy ran down the stairs and got it first.
“Someone’s awake,” Grandma said.
Isla listened to her mum on the phone. She was talking loud, the way she did at home when she called England. “Hello,” Mummy said. “Yes, it’s me.”
Grandma was listening too. She stopped sawing at the bread and tipped her head toward the door.
“It’s great to be home,” Mummy said. “Really lovely. Bit cold!”
Isla knew her mum wasn’t talking to Daddy. It was her pretend voice. Grandma went back to slicing the bread.
“Have you spoken to him?” Mummy said. There was a long pause, then, “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“Are you sure you won’t have a bit of Marmite on this toast?” Grandma said.
“No, thanks,” Isla replied.
“You sure now?” Grandma was doing a face. It was quite a good one. She could do her eyes crossed and one eyebrow up higher than the other.
In the hall, Mummy put the phone down. She said something to herself that Isla couldn’t hear.
“Grandma?”
“Yes, lovey?” Grandma stopped doing the face.
“Why are we here?”
Grandma reached up and turned the grill off. She wiped her hands on her apron and held out her arms. “C’mere,” she said.
Isla climbed down from the chair.