They’d come up for a Sunday picnic at Mundaring Weir, because Mrs Stone had wanted to visit, and it was easier that way than having her at the house. Now that they were planning renovations, there was an excuse, but it was really because Pen couldn’t bear having her mother in her so-called ‘personal space’. ‘I do love her, but …’ Pen often said to Derrick privately, and he would interrupt: ‘You don’t have to say any more. I understand.’ Derrick thought Mrs Stone meant well, but there was only so much of her people could take. Pen wasn’t even sure she meant well. ‘What a tragic waste of a life,’ Mrs Stone said now, leaning over the edge of the walkway and gazing into the vast body of water as if it were no more than a puddle. Pen couldn’t bear to look down into the depths – it made her dizzy. She always had the feeling, looking at the great dam wall, that it was about to fall, the way you sometimes felt the sky could fall. Or that a chink might suddenly appear and before they knew it, they’d be swept away.
