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It’s the final night of the summer holidays. The beach bonfire. The pile of sticks on the sand has grown steadily over the last few weeks, the sun sucking the moisture from the gas­white branches.The day expires in stagnant heat.

We remember my mother’s birthday with red eggs. Grandma shells them with practised fingers. Her lips move, offering thanks to the small plaster Virgin Mary watching from above the sink. She looks tired, the Virgin, the paint peeling from her smock. The radio scratches out its sermons. We eat in the kitchen beside my mother’s photo. We don’t speak. The eggs’ briny scent. I save the rich, fatty yolks til last.

I lay back in the bath and tried to relax. A vase of Mum’s camellias dropped petals onto the tile. Early blossums. It was three days after Christmas. My brother was moving about down the hall, the floorboards creaked beneath his restless boots.

Matthew had met us on the front porch, his moustache twitching. There was some confusion over rooms. He had moved in downstairs, the room we used to share.

Mum was too sick to look after herself, he said. He looked angry, wizened.