I was a cheerful child, always indulged by a large number of aunties. I used to think that if Germany was the Fatherland and England was the Motherland, Australia should be the Auntieland. I was the first grandchild, doted on by all these women clucking over me.
Edna was named after an adored nanny, a symbol of my father Eric’s growing prosperity as a builder. One day, she wasn’t there any more. I’d no idea what had happened. Had there been a quarrel? Had she walked out? I was told nothing. But then I’d never even been told her surname. I was only six or seven at the time – and I minded.
