Read Digging to Australia for Free Online Page B

first important letter I’d ever received. I knew it must be important because of the anxiety in Mama’s eyes and because it was old. The writing was unfamiliar. I could not read it at home, not even in the privacy of my own room. I couldn’t read it with the attention of Mama and Bob fanning up from the dining room like radar waiting for some signal of my reaction.
    I unplaited and brushed and replaited my hair; and cleaned my teeth and went downstairs.
    â€˜I’m going,’ I called from the front door, buttoning up my coat. Mama darted out from the dining room. She looked at me questioningly. ‘All right?’ she asked.
    â€˜Fine.’ I was breezy. ‘See you later.’
    â€˜Happy bir –’ she began but I snapped off the word with a slam of the door.
    It was a rusty day. Hydrangeas faded to old pink hung on the walls, cotoneaster berries glowed from hedges, the leaves of cherry trees blazed against the blue sky. I walked towards the school, and then turned. It wasn’t to school I was going today. I had to be alone to read the letter, absolutely alone with nobody listening.
    I skirted the long drenched grass of the cemetery. The angel met my eyes with interest, a little quirk beside her mouth. I pushed through the hedge, in a scatter of raindrops and wrecked gossamer. Pools of milky sunlight glistened on the leafy ground. The lamp hadn’t gone out and glared weakly against the sun. A bird had streaked a white dropping on the seat of my swing. I wiped it off with my handkerchief, and then I sat down, holding the envelope in my hand, my heart skittering in my chest. I could hardly bear to open it. I considered not doing so. Screwing it up and shoving it deep into the spikiness of the hedge. I was at a hinge-point in my life, a fork.
    And then I slid my finger under the flap and tore it open. Inside was a thin sheet of folded, lined paper. I smoothed it out, but did not at first read. I ran my fingers over it like a blind person, as if somehow I could soak the meaning up through my fingertips. The writing was extremely small. It was written untidily, as if by a person in a hurry, or in distress. I breathed in deeply, and then I read:
    Dear Jenny,
    You are only a baby in a pram. You are asleep. I’m sitting beside you in the kitchen. All I can see is a little patch of your fluffy hair and the curve of your cheek. When I have finished writing this I will go. I have my suitcase packed. I’ll put my coat on and go and that is the last I’ll see of you. Mum thinks it best that I disappear. I wanted you to grow up knowing the truth, but Mum thinks not. She thinks it would muddle you, that you should grow up innocent. You should be reading this on your thirteenth birthday. Mum thinks that by then you’ll be old enough to understand. I don’t know. I know nothing about children although I am your mother. I am eighteen. I’m going away. I’ve promised never to come back. I’m going, but replacing myself with you. That is the deal. I’ve promised Mum and Dad, and I don’t break promises. Mum and Dad will bring you up as their own. I wonder whether you have guessed the truth, or whether they’ve already told you. It is useless to try to guess the future. I am a bad girl, a disappointment. I’m not strong. If I was I would take you. It will be hard for me to walk out of the door without you. It will tear me in half. There are sharp strings pulling from my womb and my breasts that bind us together. It will take all my strength to break them. I must be doing the right thing. Mum and Dad will give you a better start than I ever could. I’ve no money. I’m not a good person, not good enough for you. I am doing the best thing. The sensible thing. Don’t hate me, Jenny. I will always think of you. Don’t hate me, although I hate myself.
    Jacqueline
    I folded the letter carefully and put it in my pocket. There was a stillness in the