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married Father. After Mr Khan’s suspicious death, our storytelling included new tales of Arabian sheiks riding frisky white Arab stallions who rescued fair maidens from imprisonment. We shared our fantasies about Mr Khan, that he was really a sheik. Pauline told me she should have run away with him when she had the chance.
    Not long after, Pauline fell sick with tuberculosis. During her fevers she fantasised about what could have been between her and the handsome Afghan. The doctor told Mother that such fantasies were part of the condition. He also told us she could have fits and have unusually strong feelings towards men.
    Pauline made sure we did not forget Mr Khan, and she convinced us about Father’s involvement in his death. Despite the chronic illness that made Pauline weak, she found the energy to be a good hater of Father. She blocked him from her life by avoiding him and never talking with him unless it was necessary. Mother was the natural buffer between us and Father. She soothed many blazing outbursts of blame and criticism.
    At this point Sister Kathleen said she didn’t want to hear any more of the story that evening for she was upset about the handsome and innocent Mr Khan. When I said I had more to tell her about Father and his violence she said she didn’t want to hear any more for now, she needed time think about what I’d told her. It was nearly a week before she came to see me again. I hadn’t seen her around the hospital and I thought maybe she was avoiding me, but she told me she had been ill for several days. She also told me she couldn’t stop thinking about my family having to live with Father’s violence, and that the story about the charming Mr Khan had so upset her that it made her cry as though she’d known him herself.
    â€˜Honestly, Mary, I think if I’d been there, I’d have taken the shotgun to your father myself.’
    â€˜I can tell you, there was never a day I didn’t have those feelings. But you think these things, you never carry them out.’

8
    When we sat down to talk, I asked if she felt strong enough to listen to more of the story that followed Mr Khan’s death, for she was still clearly upset by what I had told her.
    â€˜Of course I want to hear the story, all of it. When I went home last week I felt very sad about the Afghan hawker you spoke about and it took days to get over it. But I am ready.’
    I was curious, ‘Where is home exactly?’
    â€˜I go home to Angaston on the train when I have several days off together. That’s where my mother and father live. My father used to be a publican there, but since he’s retired, they live on the edge of the town where they raise poultry and a few animals.’
    â€˜When you went home, did you tell them about me?’
    â€˜Not Father, but I did tell Mother when we were alone. After you told me about Mr Khan I had to talk about it. I was very upset about that, Mary.’
    â€˜I wish you hadn’t but I understand your need to share this sad story. What does she think about you knowing me?’
    â€˜She told me to be careful.’
    We looked at each other and laughed.
    â€˜Really …’
    â€˜Yes, but I told her you were very sick and you had no strength to raise a carving knife to me.’
    Again we shared laughter, the mood was almost lighthearted as I continued.
    Not long after Mr Khan’s death, Father demonstrated a serious act of violence on a neighbour’s farm. It took place during a child’s birthday party at Mr Blenkiron’s house, less than half a mile from our house. I was invited to go with Bertha, August and Willy and while we were enjoying the party one Sunday afternoon, several Sedan lads appeared uninvited and started disturbing the peace by throwing stones onto the roof of the house and howling like wolves. It transpired that one of them hadn’t taken kindly to being rejected by one of Mr