When I told Jill that evening what Mum had said, she replied, ‘I don’t know what you’re making a fuss about. I told you years ago Nan was Aboriginal. The fact that Mum’s owned up doesn’t change anything.’ Sometimes, Jill was so logical I wanted to hit her. ‘Jill, it does mean something, to have admitted it. Now she might tell us more about the past. Don’t you want to know?’ ‘Yeah, I guess so, but there’s probably not much to tell.’ ‘But that’s just it, we don’t know. There could be tons we don’t know. What other skeletons are lurking in the cupboard?’ ‘You always did have too much imagination!’ ‘I’m going to keep pestering her now till she tells us the whole story.’ ‘She won’t tell you any more.’ ‘Maybe not,’ I replied, ‘but the way I look at it, it’s a beginning. Before, we had nothing. At least now, we’ve got a beginning.’ ‘Mum’s right about you, you should have gone on the stage.’ When Mum popped in a week later with a large sponge cake filled with chocolate custard, I was ecstatic.
