MUM TRUDGED along the riverbank with a shovel over her shoulder and a plastic bag in her hand. Barky and I followed, dead leaves and strips of bark crackle-crunching underfoot. Birds called, insects flittered, and a hot breeze disturbed the few remaining patches of wheat-coloured grass.

We passed my special place — the little ‘beach’, a sandbank just after the bend. In summer, when we were kids, and there was more water, Petra and I had shimmied on our bums down the almost-vertical drop. We’d swum, and paddled ‘the rapids’ in my rubber dinghy. When we were twelve or thirteen, we’d had picnics, sunbaked, smoked cigarettes, and discussed the hair growing on our bodies and the boys we liked.

A bit further along from my special place was our pet cemetery. Tree shadows lay long across the chook-sized hole Mum dug next to Rosemary the sheep’s grave. She took Dixie, inside her coffin — a small Pac King box — out of the plastic bag and placed her in the earth. Barky watched on, head tilted, ears pricked up in delight. I hoped he wouldn’t come back later and dig Dixie up.

‘Rest in peace,’ Mum said as she shovelled dirt on top.

‘Thanks for all the eggs.’ I brushed a fly from my face, trying not to think about what happened to all our dead animals during floods.

Every second or third year, the river broke its banks; the driveway and Broken River Road would disappear. Deceptively slow-moving so it didn’t seem dangerous, the deluge crept towards the house. The community flurried around, organising sandbags, telling stories of possums and rat families found in cupboards, snakes curled inside biscuit jars. Reminiscing about past floods — 1974, arguably the worst — and speculating on how high the water would rise this time.

As a kid, I had imagined how wonderful it would be if the whole house floated away, and we had to live like that; townspeople on dry land could throw us food and supplies as we sailed past. There were constant warnings in the news about not allowing children to play in floodwater: the main cause of death during floods. I had paddled in a plastic storage tub — my boat on the sea — while the adults were busy trying to protect the house.

Mum whispered something in my ear. I turned, but she wasn’t beside me. It was just the trees — speaking to each other, watching; they knew things, secrets. There was a faint buzzing sound in my ears, not dissimilar to the droning of the fans. Must be from the heat.

‘Stop daydreaming and hurry up,’ Mum said, heading back towards the house.

Crickets clicked inside cracks of the dry earth. A kookaburra cackled. I ran to catch up with Mum. Barky started barking, and Mum screamed at him to get away. I smelled alcohol on her breath. She grabbed my arm, hard enough to bruise, and pushed me backwards.

I stumbled against a tree. ‘What did you do that for?’

Mum swung the shovel through the air, sideways. It made a whistling noise. And a thwack as the blade sliced off the head of the tiger snake I’d almost stepped on.

Mum exhaled smoke as she poured a can of beer into a glass. ‘What do you want for tea?’

I shrugged. ‘Maybe not chicken.’

Her cigarette fizzled when she dropped it into the empty can. She turned, and slapped my face.

I put my hand to where she’d hit.

‘Can’t you see how fucken tired I am?’

‘But I didn’t say —’

She slapped me again. ‘Make your own fucken tea. Not that you need any.’

I had no words, but she screamed at me to shut up, and that I was a stupid, fat bitch. She gripped my upper arms and slammed me against the wall. The brown and orange flowers on the wallpaper blurred together for a moment.

Barky barked. I found my voice. ‘Stop! You’re hurting me.’

She gouged her fingers deeper into my flesh before letting go and raising her hand to hit me again. I shielded my face. But she slumped forward and cuddled me. ‘Sorry. So sorry. Didn’t mean it.’

Sweat stuck her sinewy arms to me like tentacles. I peeled them off, and rushed towards my bedroom. Five big steps across the foyer, don’t stand on the cracks, touch my door handle ten times.

I slammed the door behind me. Tears ran soundlessly from my eyes into my mouth as I stared at the red welts on my arms.

I heard Mum crying too. Another can of beer hissed open. A truck geared down on the highway. A record crackled on the record player in the dining room: ‘Mama Hated Diesels’.

A knock on my door woke me. I couldn’t remember falling asleep, or even feeling tired. My nose was blocked, my eyes stung. Mum cleared her throat, and the door opened slowly. She held a plate of my favourite: Kraft cheese — the type that came in a blue packet and didn’t need refrigerating until after opening — on toast, melted under the griller until it bubbled and started to burn on top, but was still gooey underneath. Four slices.

‘Thought you might be hungry.’ She set down the plate on Jon Bon Jovi’s face on the magazine next to my bed.

I couldn’t look at her.

She stood there, fiddling with the hem of her T-shirt, for a minute or so before leaving the room. I ate all four slices of toast. Pig. Mum was right: I was a fat bitch.