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film of flour covering the kitchen as he attempted to thicken the stew he was making with a cup of flour and water. James, Gerard and I sat on the top step watching her desperately tramping around the base of the tree like Pooh searching for the Heffalump. Eventually I couldn’t stand it any longer and I started down the stairs, imagining I would think up an excuse on the way to stop her and bring her inside.
    â€˜Dawn!’ I heard someone say. The voice was deep and penetrated the wall of surging cicadas.
    My mother froze. I stopped too, halfway down the garden, wondering where the voice had come from. For a moment I thought it was Dad, fed up with waiting for Mum to climb the tree to come and see him. Then I saw Vonnie at the bottom corner of the garden, leaning on a single grey fence post where the Kings’, the Johnsons’ and our back yards met.
    â€˜Leave him for a while, Dawn.’ Mum was with Vonnie now by the back fence and I was on the grass between her legs my hands reaching up and grabbing at her calf muscles.
    â€˜You’ve got to let the dead get on with it,’ said Vonnie.
    My mother was instantly accepting that Vonnie knew what was going on.
    â€˜I can’t leave him alone,’ she said.
    â€˜Don’t let him rule your life.’
    From the ground where I was lying the tree appeared to have grown larger than our house.
    â€˜Go mad if I do,’ said Mum. ‘And mad if I don’t.’
    Vonnie shook her head, I wasn’t sure if she was agreeing or disagreeing. ‘You can’t live with the dead,’ she finished.
    â€˜Can’t live without them either.’ My mother’s addendum.
    Vonnie hauled a box of paw-paws on to the grey stump. ‘From the Lus.’ She flicked her head in the direction of the Vietnamese family who lived next to her.
    â€˜The fruit bats had a party last night.’ She pointed to a clump of paw-paw trees in the Lus’ garden. In the failing light they resembled a row of women wearing great circular hats and carrying buckets on poles balanced across their shoulders. Mr Lu’s shovel rose and fell and a pad of dirt hit the pile he had already scooped into his wheelbarrow. If I crawled through the hole in the Johnsons’ fence I could see the Buddha that sat under the macadamia nut tree on a plinth raised up on four bricks.
    The tree blew up behind us revealing the veined underside of its branches. I felt as if it could grab me and lift me to the sky.
    â€˜I talk to Tom most days,’ Vonnie said, passing the paw-paws over the fence. ‘When I’ve got a minute, but not the other way round. I don’t let him interrupt me. Unless its important.’
    My mother nodded keeping her back to the tree. A new resolve seemed to be spreading through her body, the arches of her feet rose to greet some new possibility.
    â€˜I’ve only lived for him these past few weeks,’ she admitted. ‘I’ve not cooked. I’ve not talked to them.’ I knew she was referring to us. ‘I’m sorry, love.’ I lay my head against her thigh and allowed her to smooth my hair, pulling at bits and straightening them between her melancholy fingers.
    â€˜They understand that,’ said Vonnie. ‘But now give them some time. And be careful. Talking to the dead isn’t something everyone understands.’
    â€˜Vonnie, I’m that grateful to you,’ my mother was crying. ‘I needed to be told. I’m sorry, I’ve lost it a bit these past few weeks.’
    With fresh determination we traipsed up the back yard and closed the door on the spreading arms of the poincianna tree and Vonnie’s clothes trolley rumbled back down her path.
    Inside the kitchen Mum whipped the serving spoon from Edward’s confused hand and hugged him. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, pushing him into a chair and serving the gluggy rice and burnt stew he had made. ‘It’s going to be