An Australian short story by John Cantwell read by Peter Finch
When our father came early to the grey bedroom that chill Saturday morning in the winter of 1932, I knew then that the time I'd been half afraid of for a whole unhappy week had come at last. My sister Daph, who was six and a bit, lay asleep beside me in the three-quarter bed we always shared. I'd been promised a bed of my own when I was nine, and I was nine, but there was no money to buy a bed. The pit where our father worked had been closed for a year. It was Depression.'