A few months after our Benedict, or Benny, was born, I was standing on a chair trying to change a stubborn light bulb when an old friend called in to see us. When it comes to dead light bulbs, I don’t mind change. In the case of dirty nappies, I had recently discovered a more conservative streak.
Our visitor was one of many who dropped into our lives from the main road between Sydney to Melbourne that ran day and night not far from the small town in which we had a small house. In fact, the Hume Highway used to be the main street of Gunning. It was still part of our lives, both for those it brought and those it took away. Today, it was bringing. Our friend had with her a number of beautiful baby things which she had knitted herself, including a bonnet and mittens, the kind of things that make baby photos look identical to those of a child’s grandparents. She told us that she was part of a knitting group which met every week and shared ideas.
She held Benny until he went to sleep and then started telling us about her daughter.
‘I am so anxious about my daughter,’ she said.
We took Benny to his cot. When we were ready for adult talk again, our visitor took up the thread.
‘I can’t sleep at night worrying about my daughter,’ she resumed.
We had a cup of tea as we listened to her worries about the daughter and the additional worry of not being able to sleep because of those worries. By the time she got up to leave, it had already slipped past nine o’clock.
‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ she said as she struggled to find her car keys. ‘I toss and turn in bed thinking about my daughter.’
We watched her worried tail-lights fade into the bottom of the street.
Our friend was eighty-two and her daughter was sixty-one.
After she left, we listened to Benny, already starting to stir in his room.
We didn’t say anything for a while.
‘You know,’ said Jenny, ‘this is quite a long-term situation we have here.’