One Life. Kate Grenville

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      Also by Kate Grenville

      FICTION

       Bearded Ladies

       Lilian’s Story

       Dreamhouse

       Joan Makes History

       Dark Places

       The Idea of Perfection

       The Secret River

       The Lieutenant

       Sarah Thornhill

      NON-FICTION

       The Writing Book

      Making Stories (with Sue Woolfe)

       Writing from Start to Finish

       Searching for the Secret River

      One Life

      MY

      MOTHER’S

      STORY

      Kate Grenville

      First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Canongate Books Ltd, 14

      High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE

       www.canongate.tv

      This digital edition first published in 2015 by Canongate Books

      Copyright © Kate Grenville, 2015

      The moral right of the author has been asserted

      First published in Australia in 2015 by The Text Publishing Company, Swann House, 22 William Street, Melbourne Victoria 3000, Australia

       British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

      A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library

      ISBN 978 1 78211 685 1

      eISBN 978 1 78211 686 8

       For Stephen and in memory of Christopher with my love

      NANCE’S FAMILY TREE

      Contents

       Prologue

       One

       Two

       Three

       Four

       Five

       Six

       Seven

       Eight

       Nine

       Ten

       Eleven

       Twelve

       Thirteen

       Fourteen

       Fifteen

       Sixteen

       Seventeen

       Postscript

       Acknowledgments

       A Mother’s Story

       Illustration

      PROLOGUE

      AFTER MY mother died in 2002 it took me a few years to get out all the papers she’d left and look through them. I was afraid it would be a mournful thing to do, but the first exercise book I opened spoke to me as if she was beside me, the warmth and humour of her voice alive still: I have often thought about writing a book—people do it all the time—it can’t be that hard. Up till now I’ve never had the time or the right pencil but now that I have one foot in the grave it’s time to get on with it. I opened another. There was her workmanlike handwriting saying: There must be a way of writing a story—I’m going to try this time to write it backwards.

      My mother’s many hopeful starts all petered out after a few pages. What she left was a mass of fragments. They often began with the stories about her forebears that she’d heard from her mother. Others were about her childhood. Most were about her adult life, up to her mid-forties. They taper away after that, perhaps because by then she felt less need to look back and try to understand.

      She often quoted Socrates’ famous maxim: The unexamined life is not worth living. That terse judgment stayed with her all her life, shaping her actions and consoling her when things seemed bleak. Her sense of the past and the great sweeps of change she’d seen made her want to record, and to do more than record—to work out how her own individual life was part of the wider world. That was the urge behind the rich patchwork of fragments I was reading.

      My mother wasn’t the sort of person biographies are usually written about. She wasn’t famous, had no public life beyond one letter published in the Sydney Morning Herald, did nothing that would ever make the history books. Just the same, I think her story is worth telling.

      Not many voices like hers are heard. People of her social class—she was the daughter of a rural working-class couple who became pub-keepers—hardly ever left any record of what they felt and thought and did. They often believed their lives weren’t important enough to write down, and in many cases they lacked the literacy and the leisure time to do so. As a result, our picture of the past is skewed towards the top lot. Their written documents are the basis for our histories, the nice things they owned fill our museums, their sonnets and novels shape our imaginations. In the bits and pieces of my mother’s written memories, I had a first-hand account of a world largely left out of those histories and museums and about which no sonnets, as far as I know, have been written.

      Yet her story represents that of a generation of people whose lives were unimaginably different from the lives of every generation of their families before them. When