Will is one of those kids who get bored easily, like a grasshopper on hot sand, Dad once said, although it’s just Will’s head that tends to be hyperactive, thoughts bouncing from one thing to another with no gaps in-between. What is extremely annoying is his need to always be right. He’ll create arguments out of nothing, just so he can have the last word. It is very tiring.

I remember the day he started school. He was really cute then, this cool little kid who wouldn’t let go of my hand. My friends thought he was adorable. Now they see him as a gigantic pain. I sincerely hope he grows out of it.

The bread comes out of the oven, two perfect loaves. Does that please him? No, he wants to know why the oven doesn’t have a thermometer on the door, and the answer – that it is a very old stove – does not stop him.

“Why not put a thermometer on it? It would save guesswork and failure.”

Grandma doesn’t answer. I think her deafness is sometimes selective.

He stands in front of her. “I’m surprised you and Grandpa haven’t thought of doing that.”

“Oh, shut up, Will,” I tell him.

So he turns on me. “I kneaded your bread dough for twenty minutes, all my work put into an oven of unknown temperature. Is that practical? It could have burned. It could have been raw.”

“The bread is perfectly cooked.”

“That’s sheer chance!”

“No!” I tell him. “Grandma told me when to take it out. She could smell it.”

He will not give in. “The oven door needs a thermometer. They could easily get one and stick it on with heatproof glue and then you’d know –”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, because Grandpa appears, rubbing his hands together. “A good afternoon for the garage!” he says to Will.

Grasshopper Will is onto the next thing. “What are we doing?”

“You know those surf-casting rods in the roof?” says Grandpa. “We can take the reels to bits and fix them. Have you ever cast from the beach for snapper?”

“I’ve read about it,” Will says.

“That’s like reading about swimming,” Grandpa says. “But I’ll show you and your sister. You can have a rod each.”

Will gives me a look, like the glare when Grandpa asked me to drive the boat, but he doesn’t say anything. I smile at Grandpa and say thank you several times.

Lunch is potato and watercress soup with warm bread, then Grandpa and Will go out to the garage, taking one of the lanterns because the day is so dark with rain.

Grandma switches off her radio and gets out her knitting: big needles, thick wool. She has a large plastic bag full of knitting yarns, and I sort them into balls of different thicknesses. While I’m winding a skein of green bouclé wool, she says, “I’m told you don’t like our conversations.”

I look at her. “What conversations?”

“Your grandfather and I. You and your brother have a problem with the way we communicate.” She puts her knitting down in her lap, which is her way of expecting a response.

I’m nervous. She’s been told whatever it was that my stupid brother said to Grandpa last night. “You mean – Will?”

She doesn’t answer, just stares at me with those strong blue eyes that are about as useful as my phone.

I go on winding the green wool. “It’s just – just that you seem to fight a lot.”

She nods. “Is that what you call it? Fighting?”

“Um, well, yes, it sort of sounds like it.”

She grunts, then says, “We’re not around kids much, these days. It’s easy to forget how young you are.” She picks up her knitting and pushes one of the thick needles into a stitch. “So you think we fight, eh? I’ll tell you this, girlie. You have to be very close to have that kind of freedom, very close indeed.” Two more stitches and she says, “What about you and William?”

I look at her.

“You fight,” she says.

“That’s different,” I say. “He’s my brother. He’s not –”

“Not what?”

Since she’s asking, I have to say it. “I just know I will never fight like that when I have a husband!”

She laughs. I’ve told her something seriously serious, and she’s treating it as a joke. I remember Will suggesting that she and Grandpa thought they were normal and we weren’t, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling angry. I sort out an appropriate answer. “I believe there’s a peaceful resolution to every problem,” I tell her.

There is another burst of laughter, and she says, “I said the same things at your age!”

I put down the ball of wool and make the excuse that I need to go to the outhouse. The rain is heavy and there is no such thing as an umbrella, but there is a sheet of plastic by the door that I can put over my head. I run across the sodden grass and fling open the wooden slat door. How dare she say that I am like her! Imagine it! Comparing my little brother and me to an old married couple! I know she’s old and probably getting dementia, but really, there is no excuse. I sit for ages, thinking about it. She always has to have the last say. That must be where Will gets his overwhelming desire to be right from.

Water thuds on the outhouse roof, reminding me of last night’s possum. With the plastic sheet over my head, I open the door.

As I go towards the house, Will comes running out of the garage. He almost bumps into me, stops, stares at me like I’m some kind of monster. His face is wet. He looks terrified. “Grandpa!” he whispers.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

He starts to cry. “I think Grandpa’s dead.”