My brother is dead.
The bold, confident script swum before her eyes and Elsa Goody
dropped the page onto her lap. She took in deep silent breaths until the taut pain eased in her chest. Finally lifting the letter again, its words weighty, she angled it towards the candle and read to her dying father. Her voice shook as if unused to speech.
‘To Mr Goody, Goody Farm near Robe, In the Colony of South Australia.
‘Dear Mr Goody, it is with regret I write to tell you that I have, today, buried your son, George. He has died this morning.’