The Story Thief

by Kyra Geddes

Genres: Historical Fiction

Synopsis

Fact and fiction meld into one in this stirring family saga set against shifting landscapes and pivotal moments in Australian history.

Lillian was born in 1892, the same year Henry Lawson wrote 'The Drover's Wife' and cemented his place in Australia's literary canon. When Lillian reads the short story as a teenager, she is convinced that it is based upon her own family and becomes determined to prove it. But as the years pass, the truth becomes more problematic, and Lillian must decide what is more important: holding onto the past or embracing the future.

The Story Thief is about mothers and daughters, love, loss and the power of words. Ultimately it is about how each of us must find our own way to live.

Release date: April 30, 2024

Publisher: Affirm Press

Print pages: 416

Sample

Prologue

January 1900

On the morning after my eighth birthday, I awoke to the smell of smoke.

I had been dreaming about yesterday’s johnnycakes spread generously with golden syrup and was disappointed when I opened my eyes. The square curtain tacked over the window above my bed had not yet been tied back but already there was enough light to see the whole room. My brothers’ shared bed lay empty, but Esther was still fast asleep beside me, her head pressed moistly against my shoulder and, as always, taking up too much of the pillow.

I put my free hand to the ground and as my fingers closed around my birthday gift – a thick book of fairytales in almost perfection condition – they tingled with anticipation; it was not often I had the chance to read before morning chores. Yet the sight of my brothers’ unmade bed and the unmistakable stench in the air had set off a sick feeling in my tummy, as though I’d drunk milk left in the sun for too long.

I wriggled out of the bedclothes, taking care not to wake my sister, and peered into Mother and Father’s room. Empty. When I reached the large bark kitchen, my footsteps silent on the earthen floor, I found the hearth cold and none of the usual breakfast preparations underway. A cockroach scurried out from behind the dresser, then disappeared into one of the large cracks beneath the kitchen table.

I hurried out to the verandah and circled our small timber house, screwing up my face as the smell of smoke intensified. A glance at the thermometer, hanging crookedly on its rusty hook, showed the mercury nudging its way towards one hundred. Another scorcher on the way.

I stepped off the verandah and ran towards the paddock, looking for Mother or the boys. Father was away, droving. The hot breath of the wind made me run faster and, as I arched my back, I could feel the sweat-damp cotton of my nightdress already beginning to dry. Finally, I caught sight of Mother in the distance, Baby Eadie on her hip.

‘Mummy!’ I ran towards the lopsided figure in the mulga-dotted landscape. ‘What is it?’

‘There’s fire coming,’ she said, clutching the baby to her chest and pointing to the horizon. Our old dog sat beside her, panting softly.

My throat was suddenly hurting, as if I had swallowed a large stone. ‘How fast?’

‘Don’t know.’ Mother’s nostrils flared as she lifted her face and sniffed at the air. ‘Depends on the wind.’ She wiped her nose with the edge of her apron, leaving a faint smear of red dust above her lip.

‘Where are the boys?’ I asked.

‘Filling buckets from the soak. I sent them down at first light.’ She paused. ‘I should’ve known. I saw it in the colour of the sun last night. Like a picture, it was.’

‘The fire might not come this way.’ I was pleading. ‘You said it came close that last time, when Father was back, but then it turned.’

‘Depends on the wind, child. This westerly seems real set in.’ She grimaced then kissed my baby sister’s head, an instinctive gesture that I had witnessed countless times each day and which left me feeling faintly jealous. ‘No more questions, Lillian.’ Her voice took on a sharp steel edge. ‘Enough time’s been wasted already. Where’s Esther?’

‘Still asleep.’ Despite my mounting sense of dread, I was pleased to have woken before my sister. Though barely two years older than me, ten-year-old Esther had always been our mother’s chosen helper, and I the baby of the family – up until last year, when Edith was born. Baby Eadie, as we all still called her. As for Tommy and Jacky, they ignored us girls most of the time, begrudgingly completing the chores expected of them and bragging of a different future. At seventeen, Tommy was almost a man now and had gone droving with Father last winter. Soon he would be leaving us for good.

‘Why didn’t you wake her? Go on and do it now.’ She shook her head and grunted. ‘After that, you’ll ride to your uncle’s place and get help. You know the way.’

I gasped. Panic robbed me of the ability to speak as my lungs fought against the smoky air. A flock of black cockatoos passed overhead, their raucous screeching momentarily drowning out the roar of the wind. Despite the warning suggested by their wild cries, they flew slowly, seemingly confident in their ability to outpace any danger.

‘Go on now, Lillian. Just do it,’ Mother said, her voice as firm and unflinching as her hand when raised in discipline against any of us kids. ‘I need Esther to take the baby and see to the house while I get everything else sorted with the boys until your uncle gets here.’

I clenched my fists but said nothing. With spiralling fear, I listened as she began muttering a plan: shift the animals, wet the woollen blankets, cover the wood heap, move any alcohol and lard far from the house.

I had not moved, and Mother abruptly turned to me. ‘What’s the matter, child? We’ve no time for any bosh.’

‘It’s just the smoke. It stings.’ I brushed away my tears with the heel of my hand.

She looked into my eyes, her features softening briefly, then gazed back at the smoke-filled horizon. ‘All right, my girl,’ she said. ‘I’ll send Tommy instead. He’ll get there the fastest of any of us. You can ride with him to your uncle’s place and stay there, out of harm’s way. Just do as you’re told. Uncle Bill will sound the alarm and ride back here on his own horse. We’ll need all the help we can get.’

Relief made me brave. ‘Don’t worry, Mother. We won’t let that fire get within cooee of this place, you’ll see.’ I took Baby Eadie from her arms.

‘Go get Esther and get yourself dressed. I’ll send Tommy up with the horse.’ Already walking back to the house, she swung around to issue one last instruction. ‘Hurry now, my girl, I’m counting on you.’

~

It was Old Mary who told me the news.

‘They’re all gone, girlie. Gone into the fire.’

I doubled over as if punched in the stomach.

Mary kept talking, and though her voice was soothing and her dark eyes pooled with kindness, I could take in nothing more of what the Aboriginal woman said.

I turned towards the doorway of my uncle’s crudely built house where his new girl-wife stood watching me. ‘I – I want to go home,’ I hiccupped. ‘I want to see my mother. I shouldn’t have stayed here. I’m needed at home.’

‘Home? Don’t talk to me no more about home, you stupid little wretch,’ my so-called aunt hissed. ‘I’ve got me own troubles to worry about, thanks to you. Your lot have made me into a widow – and here’s me not even twenty years old. What in God’s name am I s’posed to do now?’ She glared at me and spat at the ground, her pregnant belly swollen and protruding, like an accusation.

I opened my mouth to speak but the words wrapped themselves around my dry tongue and turned to dust. I turned and ran, without looking back, without stopping, running even as my breath became one long ragged cough and my legs cried out in pain. For all I knew I was running into the arms of the fire itself. Running to my mother. I could almost hear Baby Eadie, who would be crying and hungry by now, ready for a feed.

I ran until the tears, now tasting of smoke, dried on my cheeks and my legs gave out. I fell to the ground, watching rather than feeling the flakes of ash land on my skin, waiting and hoping for someone to come and get me. After an hour, or perhaps two, it finally dawned on me that no one was coming. That none of them would ever come for me again. Slowly I made my way back to my uncle’s lonely shack.

Chapter 1

Parlour Day

I awoke to the smell of smoke.

I leaped from my dormitory bed. I must have cried out because the other girls were all sitting up and looking at me with alarm.

‘Fire,’ I breathed. ‘Hurry!’

‘Another one?’ asked Dora, darting to the window and flinging back the curtain. ‘I can’t see anything.’

Hilda, though slower to rise, was the first to perceive my mistake. ‘Don’t open it, Dora. You’ll only let more smoke in. It must still be from yesterday.’

Fragments of the prior afternoon started to pierce through my confusion.

‘It’s all right, Lill. It’s just smoke in the air.’ Hilda guided me to the large dormer window so I could see for myself. ‘The wind must’ve blown it back our way.’

I rubbed my eyes with both hands, willing them into focus. I was sure I’d heard someone calling out for help. The wail of an infant?

‘It’s all right, Lill,’ repeated Hilda. ‘Come on, I’ll open the window for you – but just for a few seconds. You’ll see.’

The shrill thrum of cicadas entered the room. Though their song of summer was both loud and comforting, my nostrils continued to twitch. Sensing the danger that no one else could perceive, I forced myself to breathe in the smoke-filled air and peered down through the weak blue light of dawn, looking not only at the grounds outside the convent’s main school building but also at the Rose Bay bushland encircling it. The scene was just as it should be for this time of morning. Sister Harris was carrying a bucket of kitchen scraps towards the henhouse, Mrs Spicer was watering her geraniums, her husband was carting firewood across the yard, and the sun was just coming up over two steamers crossing paths on the grey-blue harbour below.

I turned to my best friend and sighed pitifully.

Hilda eased the window shut and gently led me back to bed. ‘Close your eyes a few more minutes, Lill. It’s nearly time for morning prayers anyway.’

The other girls groaned, pulling their sheets over their heads in protest.

I lay in my bed, ashamed and still trembling, while Hilda stilled any further complaints. The dormitory became quiet once more. Now the window had been opened, the air was even more acrid than before, and shutting my eyes only made it worse.

I blinked a few times and tried to think. There had been a bushfire yesterday. It was not just another one of my bad dreams, not this time. Nor was it the first fire I had experienced in my eight years living at Sacred Heart. This one – thankfully – was only small. The fire must have started somewhere nearby, but before it could spread anywhere near the school buildings, Mr Spicer and the other men had succeeded in driving it down to the water’s edge, where it put itself out, leaving only a narrow line of blackened bush in its trail and a pervasive smell in the air. My breathing began to slow down as my mind finally accepted that the danger had passed. Though modest in size, our resident fire brigade was well-practised and prided itself on the efficiency with which these occasional small summer fires could be extinguished.

According to school folklore, however, it was God Himself who had kept the convent safe right from the start. We had all heard the story of how Reverend-Mother Salmon and the others had miraculously fought off the great fire of 1888 using the power of their devotional garments, a bizarre claim meant to be proven by the fact of Mother Moran’s perfectly intact scapular being found among the ashes. Quite how they had stopped the flames was unclear. Nevertheless, when I was younger, I too had faithfully accepted this account, taking comfort from the idea that nothing could harm me here. Inevitably though, as the years passed and my reasoning matured, I came to ask myself why God had not intervened to keep my own family safe during our time of need. Perhaps God’s protection could only be earned through unwavering faith. But then what of my baby sister? Surely no one could blame Baby Eadie for lacking faith.

It wasn’t only smoke that triggered memories of my past. Sometimes it was the familiar rumbling of possums on the roof at night, reminding me of the hiding my brothers would get for cursing them when they should have been asleep. Other times it was the sight of a young wallaby chewing methodically on tender new leaves and eyeing me from a distance, or the piercing echo of a flock of cockatoos, stark white forms wheeling in a sapphire sky. From there, my thoughts would lead to other half-remembered glimpses from my past: the howl of a wild dog as dusk turned to night; emu tracks, pointed like arrows in the dirt; passing mobs of kangaroos or the occasional lone male; a string of camels outlined against the sunset or a swarm of grasshoppers that filled the air with sound; and the spine-tingling sight of a great big goanna as it scuttled past on all fours, long claws raking the earth. What had happened to all those creatures after the fire? Where were they now if not just in my dreams?

~

If I timed it just right and if the clouds kept their distance that day, the sunlight would hit the chapel’s stained-glass windows and cast a rainbow at my feet. Squinting and tilting my head to one side, then the other, it was easy to imagine myself disappearing into that rainbow.

Since Father’s death from a sudden fever, barely two years after I had been sent to Sacred Heart, I had all but given up on prayer. But even after that second devastating loss, which had officially left me an orphan, I still drew comfort from being in our school’s new chapel, especially during those rare moments, like now, when I could claim this space for myself.

In the beginning, long before Hilda came, I had yearned for more attention, craving touch and something else I could not articulate. But eventually I had come to see my solitude as a kind of blessing, one that allowed me to keep a safe distance between my heart and anyone, or anything, that might come close to it.

Nevertheless, these precious interludes in the chapel did not come often. Most hours of the day were taken up with a strict timetable of lessons, prayer and religious instruction, relieved only partially by the surprisingly delicious meals cooked for us by the French nuns, while our few short periods of scheduled recreation were usually monopolised by communal games such as rounders and cache-cache, the French equivalent of hide and seek.

I owed my place here at Sacred Heart in Sydney’s eastern suburbs to Mr O’Loughlin, a wealthy Scottish grazier for whom my father had worked. From the moment we met, when he came to rescue me from my uncle’s shanty and from his spiteful girl-wife who had barely looked at me during those few weeks I’d had to live with her, I’d been struck by the elderly man’s gentle spirit.

‘Your father’s always been a good worker, Lillian. Honest. Loyal, too.’ His pale eyes had glistened. ‘That’s why, when this evil fire came and took your family – while your da was away droving my sheep, I don’t forget that fact – I said to myself, I have a duty to this man.’ And then, as I now knew was his habit, Mr O’Loughlin had crossed his chest with a fast and fluid motion, as if whipping cream for a cake.

At the time of my arrival, Mother Scroope had instructed the other girls not to ask questions about my family or why I would not be going home for the holidays. Bull-nosed Ivy had persisted the longest, demanding to know – with her crooked teeth and mean eyes – why my father never came to see me.

‘He’s a drover, ain’t he?’ I’d retort, fighting the urge to pinch Ivy’s skinny arm and tell her to shut up and mind her own business. ‘Father’s too busy finding feed for Mr O’Loughlin’s sheep over the border. He can’t just come whenever he likes, you know.’

My chest tightened in memory of my flimsy excuses. It’s too far for him to come, I had told myself then. Surely, he would come if he could. But another voice, from deep inside, had always known why Father stayed away, and why he had never replied to my letters. For I alone had survived when the others had not.

Kneeling before the altar, I breathed in the calm air of the chapel and sighed as the bitter feeling slowly receded. Despite the heat and lingering smoke outside, the chapel was light and airy, its marble floor remaining cool to the touch. All along its length, softly hued stone walls rose sheer from the floor, arching towards each other to meet at their highest point. I returned my gaze to the five lancet windows above the altar. One for each of them. The large central window was for Mother while the smaller arched windows on either side, graduating downwards in height, lay claim to my brothers, Tommy and Jacky, and to my sisters, hardworking Esther and dear little Baby Eadie.

I took another deep breath and looked up just as morning sunshine flooded in through the stained glass, jewel tones kaleidoscoping before me. As always, the sight of the rainbow filled me with awe, causing the tears, which I had managed to hold in until now, to spill down my hot cheeks like wax from a candle.

A bell rang out in the distance. I rose from my knees with a sigh, brushing away my tears. Convent life was governed by all manner of rules and restrictions, leaving me as tightly bound as the stitched hem of my school uniform, with its coarse holland cloth. And although the feel of hard pavements and floorboards no longer felt strange beneath my feet, there were still days when I longed to remove my black stockings and stiff leather boots and run barefoot into the bush.

~

Later that day, once all traces of smoke had blown away, we were allowed back outside. Being a Saturday, and thus Parlour Day, some of the girls were expecting visitors; Hilda and myself were among them.

‘Mr Quong Tart’s Tea Rooms!’ Hilda sang the words like an anthem, while linking her arm through mine and dancing me around the lawn. ‘At the Queen Victoria Building!’

Hilda’s mother would soon be here to collect us in the family’s newest carriage. Outings between vacations were strictly limited, and we had required a special dispensation, presumably granted in recognition of all that the Fitzwilliam name represented. I adjusted my gloves and allowed a quick squeal of my own to burst out.

Tall, slim and fashionably dressed, Lady Fitzwilliam had a voice like butter and round gliding vowels that confirmed her aristocratic origins. At two o’clock sharp, she stepped down from the carriage to greet us both. Although Hilda had introduced me to her mother on several occasions, I had never been invited to join them on an excursion before today. Having already started bobbing, I wisely reassessed the situation and instead made the full Sacred Heart curtsy: one, two, three, down … four, five, six, up.

Triumphing over the afternoon heat with a palm-leaf fan, Lady Fitzwilliam stretched languidly on her seat as we rolled out of the school grounds.

‘Hilda, darling, why aren’t you waving back?’ Hilda’s mother smiled at the trio of animated faces waving madly from a second-storey window.

‘Not to them.’ Hilda dismissed them with a nonchalant sweep of her hand. ‘Why should I?’

‘Please speak nicely of your classmates, Hilda. They look perfectly charming. Such pretty girls, too.’

‘And don’t they know it!’ Hilda rolled her eyes. ‘Not one of them would normally give me the time of day. I bet they were just trying to make themselves look good in front of you.’

Torn between loyalty and politeness, I avoided Hilda’s knowing glance.

‘It’s true, Mother. That’s how Lillian and I came to be such good friends – wasn’t it, Lill?’ She turned to me for corroboration.

I nodded reassuringly.

‘She was the only one to stick up for me when I first came to Sacred Heart. Those other girls teased me and said I was fatter than a prize-winning cow, and Lill was the only one who defended me.’ Hilda gave an audible huff. ‘And then another time, when we overheard them saying that even my name was ugly, Lill convinced me they were wrong. She said lots of girls have names like flowers or jewels – like Pearl, Daphne, Ruby or Violet – but that there’s more to life than just being a pretty decoration with nothing of value to say.’

Conscious of Lady Fitzwilliam now appraising me with fresh eyes, I almost wished I’d brought a book to hide behind, however ungrateful it might have made me appear. Instead, as the carriage wound its way down New South Head Road towards town, I leaned back in my seat and gazed politely into the distance while Hilda and her mother discussed family matters – talk of the new baby soon to be expected by Hilda’s older sister, imminent plans for redecorating, recurring troubles with the servants.

My best friend had often complained to me about her mother, claiming they had nothing in common. Yet as I listened to them talk, stealing quick glances as Lady Fitzwilliam gave a small laugh or stroked Hilda’s arm, a painful twinge of jealousy shot through my chest. Hilda didn’t know how lucky she was. No matter how hard I tried, Mother’s image was slipping ever further from my memory, more of a shape or outline now, than rendered flesh and feature. Sometimes the sound of her reading voice would come to me, or the calloused touch of her hand, but these evocations were always fragile and the moment I tried to grasp hold of them they would elude me like the eye of a needle in a dimly lit room.

The carriage gave a sharp jerk and I flinched, ricocheted back in time to my first carriage ride during my 1500-mile long journey to the convent. Chaperoned by Mr O’Loughlin, we’d travelled all the way from my uncle’s shanty to Sydney, the legendary metropolis I knew only from Mother’s bedtime stories. If I closed my eyes, I could still hear the crack of the whip from the Cobb & Co. coach and see the clouds of white steam gushing forth from the incoming train at Bourke.

Even harder to forget was the smell of stale beer and the sickening sound of bareknuckle fist fighting outside the Great Western Hotel. Shaking his head with disapproval, Mr O’Loughlin had given the men a wide berth as we entered, shielding me from view, then looked back with concern as their jeering suddenly grew louder. Beside the huddle of shearers, I saw a Chinaman, no older than Tommy. Though he showed no sign of having been amongst the fighting, he stood cowering in fear.

‘Poor wretch,’ muttered Mr O’Loughlin. ‘They mean for him to fight the winner.’

He pushed me further inside the building with strict instructions not to come out. I watched him approach the shearers and whisper something into the ear of the man who’d grabbed hold of the Chinaman’s collar, then press something into his hand. Tobacco juice ran down the shearer’s jaw as he opened his mouth and bestowed an ugly toothless smile on Mr O’Loughlin, before letting the Chinaman go free.

‘Funny how money always talks,’ Mr O’Loughlin had said as he joined me inside and asked the hotelkeeper to show us to our rooms. ‘Especially for those who are otherwise hard of hearing.’

Back then, I hadn’t understood what he’d meant, but over the years I had seen how he found ways to use his wealth to help those in need, not least of all me. That afternoon in Bourke, Mr O’Loughlin had also given me another piece of advice.

‘One mustn’t judge a book by its binding, lass. Just because a man has yellow skin, or even black skin, and ours is white, that doesn’t make him any less worthy in God’s eyes. Lord knows I faced enough discrimination as a Catholic in my younger years, I’m not about to do the same thing to someone else.’

Bleary-eyed and weak the next morning, my window seat on the train had revealed nothing but dusty plains, littered with dead or dying livestock, proof enough that the drought existed in places other than my own forlorn backyard. Then came the unexpected sensation of climbing upwards into the mountains, where the brown landscape gave way to alien grey-green hues, followed by the excitement in the carriage as the train passed through the famous Lithgow Zig Zag on its way to Sydney Terminal.

I think I slept through most of the relatively short onward journey to the school at Rose Bay, riding in the omnibus pulled by the four greys who laboured valiantly up the hill three times each day, forced to repeat their climb over and over like that king from Greek mythology. Finally, I remembered waking up to the spectacular sight of Sydney Harbour, shimmering in the haze of early autumn and dotted with little steamers and pleasure boats. This was immediately followed by my first glimpse of the nuns dressed in their black habits, small faces framed with white goffered coifs, and encountering the peculiar nasal accents – I soon knew as French – with which some of them spoke. My new home could not have been any more different to the one I’d left behind. Most painful of all was the realisation that I was expected to address each of these women as Mother or Sister, this latter title being reserved for those without teaching responsibilities.

‘Do you play the pianoforte, Lillian?’ asked Lady Fitzwilliam, abruptly shattering my daydream.

‘Unfortunately, no, Lady Fitzwilliam. I’ve never taken lessons.’ I blushed, knowing the additional cost of piano tuition was not something that would naturally occur to her.

‘I was hoping you might encourage my daughter to practise more diligently.’ Lady Fitzwilliam cast a resigned look at Hilda. ‘Her sister sings and plays beautifully, and I’m quite convinced Hilda would be equally accomplished, if only she made more of an effort.’

Hilda frowned, while I felt another stab of envy.

‘Drawing then?’

I shook my head again, trying desperately to think of something interesting to say to divert the attention from myself. For the first time, I felt grateful that the nuns had succeeded in removing all traces of my once broad Australian accent.

A diversion came of its own accord as we neared the end of William Street. Hyde Park loomed before us, its cool green perimeter formally signalling the city’s importance.

‘Mother, can you have the carriage take us down past the harbour before we go on to the tea rooms? It’ll give Lillian a chance to see more of town.’ Hilda tilted her head to one side and batted her eyelashes. ‘Pretty please.’

Lady Fitzwilliam extended a long, graceful arm, glancing down at the delicate diamond watch circling her wrist, then nodded graciously and instructed her driver.

With the city now laid out before us, Lady Fitzwilliam asked no further questions and joined Hilda in pointing out the sights as our carriage turned right onto College Street. Though I shyly returned each of the smiles Lady Fitzwilliam bestowed, I felt awkward in her presence, and wondered how much she had been told about my situation. As the grand society doyenne Hilda had described, she probably spent her days presiding over gala charity events and raising hundreds of pounds in subscriptions for orphanages and the like. Perhaps I was just another poor soul to be pitied? Even so, her smiles appeared genuine and beneath her finely bejewelled exterior I sensed the same kindness of spirit as Hilda possessed.

‘Look, that’s St Mary’s Cathedral,’ said Hilda, elbowing me in her eagerness to ensure nothing went unseen. ‘I went there years ago with Mother and Father for the opening by Cardinal Moran. You’ve heard the nuns talk about St Mary’s, haven’t you, Lill?’

The carriage continued down Macquarie Street, flanked by grand sandstone buildings and elegant townhouses, offering tantalising glimpses of the Botanic Gardens. Obediently, I looked from left to right as Lady Fitzwilliam was called upon to confirm the name of numerous imposing structures – Burdekin House, the hospital, the Royal Mint and too many others to remember. Despite our bird’s eye view from the convent, I’d had little idea that all this existed. The world was so much bigger than I had imagined.

The traffic grew heavy. We were forced to a temporary standstill beside a rank of hansom cabs, and I couldn’t help but gape at the cabbies in their three-piece suits and flashing gold watch chains. Like a collection of prize roosters they stood in line, chests expanded with self-importance as they puffed on their pipes and stared back at me from under jauntily set bowler hats. Nearby on the pavement, a man was kneeling beside a display of watercolour pictures, his crumpled clothes in stark contrast to most of the passers-by. One lady, covered head to toe in black mourning attire, smiled and dropped a few coins into the artist’s upturned hat before continuing her promenade. One day, I vowed, I would come back here and buy a painting myself.

The road steepened as Sydney Harbour came into view, familiar yet different from this vantage point. I counted a dozen or more steamships in port, some docked and others blowing plumes of dark smoke into the air, unwelcome blemishes on an otherwise blue sky. Scattered along Circular Quay, ferry terminals promised passage to various seaside destinations – Manly, Milsons Point and Watsons Bay, home to many of the poor day students who came to Sacred Heart.

‘Wharfies,’ said Hilda, indicating the men loitering in small groups at the harbour’s edge.

My breath quickened at the sight of one man’s bearded profile. Something about the way he was leaning against the heavy iron gates, eyes to the ground and back to the water while he chewed his tobacco, reminded me of Father. But this time, on top of my usual reaction – a bilious mixture of guilt, hurt and anger that he’d cast me aside so cruelly after the fire, and even that he had died and left me an orphan – a new feeling came to me: sympathy. I had never once bothered to consider whether he might have been lonely throughout his long months droving, whether he’d had enough to eat or a soft bed in which to sleep. My only thought, then until now, had been of