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my leg, will it get better?’
    Mama snorted. ‘Licking a thing means beating it.’
    Beating it? Well, if that’s what it took . . .
    She folded the blankets and the rubber mats and piled them in the corner. For tomorrow and the day after and the day after that. Then she dropped a Milly-Molly-Mandy book in my lap and went to get supper. I pulled the blankets over my head, curled up my fist and rammed it into my calf as hard as I could. My ankle next, my foot, up and down, beating and beating until the pain got so bad I had to stop. I tossed off the bedclothes and lay waiting for my leg to move. Nothing. Above me, I heard Tim pattering across the floor, his singsong voice, and Mama’s voice echoing in my head . . . You are going to get well. You are going to walk. I will make it happen .
    Would she? In two months I hadn’t got any better. I stared out the window at the darkening sky. Winter lay over the vegie patch and the tree I used to climb stretched bare arms out to the air. Mama hurried to the clothesline to gather washing in a bucket. I remembered that bucket, remembered sitting in it, though I wasn’t even three. Mama had wanted to take my photo.
    â€˜Stick Bertie in the bucket,’ she’d said to Dad. ‘She’ll look cute.’
    The air was full of sunshine, the grass cushy beneath my feet. Dad hoisted me into the bucket and I folded my legs, thinking how silly it was. While Mama fiddled with the camera I leaned to one side, felt the bucket tipping and leaned further until I toppled over, just as she snapped the picture.
    â€˜Little bugger. Put her back in, Ed.’
    Dad righted the bucket but this time I refused to fold my legs. The photo shows me dangling from his hands, legs blurring as they pedalled the air, a big smile beneath a dome of black hair.
    In my dreams, I pedalled the air still, I walked and ran. Every morning I woke and reached for the edge of the bed and wondered if I’d ever walk again.
    One Saturday when Mama was out and Dad and I were in the kitchen working on my leg, the knocker on the front door banged. Dad wiped his hands on his overalls. ‘Tighter than the ruddy fan belt on the Vauxhall, those muscles, CP. Who’s that, do you reckon?’
    Grandma swept in. She was short and stocky and had fire in her eyes. She tilted up her cheek for Dad’s kiss.
    He bent over and pecked it. ‘Hello, Ma.’
    â€˜Edric.’ Grandma was the only person in the world who called Dad Edric. Everyone else called him Ed. Mama said Edric sounded like he was supposed to be called Edward but Grandma hiccupped at the wrong moment and it came out Edric. Tim and I laughed our heads off but Grandma didn’t. She unpinned her black straw hat and smiled at me. Then she saw my leg.
    â€˜Lord in heaven, I could put my finger and thumb around that stick. The child will never walk on that.’
    My heart crumpled.
    â€˜She’ll walk,’ Dad said, carrying me to the couch in the living room, ‘or Lily May will die trying.’
    Grandma snorted. ‘Trying? Where is she? Leaving you to do women’s work.’ She dropped into a chair and her brown wool skirt pulled tightly over her legs. My eyes sneaked past the top of the lisle stockings that sat in rolls over her knees, into the fleshy dark cavern beyond.
    â€˜Well, child, it is not for us to question God’s will.’
    God gave me polio?
    â€˜Grandma . . .’
    â€˜Quiet now, dear. I’ll read you a story.’ She pulled a Bible from her bag. It had pictures in it. She pointed to one with a fingernail made strong by rubbing cream into it from the milk bottle tops. ‘This is Moses.’ Moses was a wild-looking man with hair down to his waist, a long dress and a big stick. ‘Moses believed!’ Grandma hoisted a finger into the air. ‘And his faith was rewarded. Faith!’
    â€˜Who’s Faith?’ I asked Dad after Grandma had