As the Crow Flies Read online

  I must have been one of those rare children who loved going to school from the first day its doors were opened to me. The classroom was a blessed escape from my prison and its warders. Every extra minute I spent at the local school was a minute I didn’t have to be at St. Hilda’s, and I quickly discovered that the harder I worked the longer the hours I was allowed to remain behind. These became even more expandable when, at the age of eleven, I won a place at Melbourne Church of England Girls’ Grammar School, where they had so many extracurricular activities going on, from first thing in the morning until late every evening, that St. Hilda’s became little more than the place where I slept and had breakfast.

  While at MGS I took up painting, which made it possible for me to spend several hours in the art room without too much supervision or interference; tennis, where by dint of sheer hard work and application I managed to gain a place in the school second six, which produced the bonus of being allowed to practice in the evening until it was dusk; and cricket, for which I had no talent, but as team scorer not only was I required never to leave my place until the last ball had been bowled but every other Saturday I was able to escape on a bus for a fixture against another school. I was one of the few children who enjoyed away matches in preference to home fixtures.

  At sixteen I entered the sixth form and began to work even harder: it was explained to Miss Benson that I might possibly win a scholarship to the University of Melbourne—not an everyday occurrence for an inmate from St. Hilda’s.

  Whenever I received any academic distinction or reprimand—the latter became rarer once I had discovered school—I was made to report to Miss Benson in her study, where she would deliver a few words of encouragement or disapproval, before placing the slip of paper that marked these occurrences in a file which she would then return to a cabinet that stood behind her desk. I always watched her most carefully as she carried out this ritual. First she would remove a key from the top left-hand drawer of her desk, then she would go over to the cabinet, check my file under “QRS,” place the credit or misdemeanor inside my entry, lock the cabinet and then replace the key in her desk. It was a routine that never varied.

  Another fixed point in Miss Benson’s life was her annual holiday, when she would visit “her people” in Adelaide. This took place every September and I looked forward to it as others might a holiday.

  Once war had been declared I feared she might not keep to her schedule, especially as we were told we would all have to make sacrifices.

  Miss Benson appeared to make no sacrifices despite travel restrictions and cutbacks and departed for Adelaide on exactly the same day that summer as she always had. I waited until five days after the taxi had driven her off to the station before I felt it was safe to carry out my little escapade.

  On the sixth night I lay awake until just after one in the morning, not moving a muscle until I was certain all sixteen girls in the dormitory were fast asleep. Then I rose, borrowed a pen torch from the drawer of the girl who slept next to me and headed off across the landing towards the staircase. Had I been spotted en route, I already had an excuse prepared about feeling sick, and as I had rarely entered the sanatorium at any time during my twelve years at St. Hilda’s, I felt confident I would be believed.

  I crept cautiously down the staircase without having to use the torch: since Miss Benson had departed for Adelaide, I had practiced the routine each morning with my eyes closed. Once I had reached the principal’s study, I opened the door and slipped in, only then switching on the pen torch. I tiptoed over to Miss Benson’s desk and cautiously pulled open the top left-hand drawer. What I hadn’t been prepared for was to be faced with about twenty different keys, some in groups on rings while others were detached but unmarked. I tried to remember the size and shape of the one Miss Benson had used to unlock the filing cabinet, but I couldn’t, and with only a pen torch to guide me several trips to the cabinet and back were necessary before I discovered the one that would turn one hundred and eighty degrees.

  I pulled open the top drawer of the filing cabinet as slowly as I could but the runners still seemed to rumble like thunder. I stopped, and held my breath as I waited to hear if there was any movement coming from the house. I even looked under the door to be sure no light was suddenly switched on. Once I felt confident I hadn’t disturbed anyone I leafed through the names in the “QRS” box file: Roberts, Rose, Ross…I pulled out my personal folder and carried the heavy bundle back to the principal’s desk. I sat down in Miss Benson’s chair and, with the help of the torch, began to check each page carefully. As I was fifteen and had now been at St. Hilda’s for around twelve years, my file was necessarily thick. I was reminded of misdemeanors as long ago as wetting my bed, and several credits for painting, including the rare double credit for one of my watercolors that still hung in the dining room. Yet however much I searched through that folder there was no trace of anything about me before the age of three. I began to wonder if this was a general rule that applied to everyone who had come to live at St. Hilda’s. I took a quick glance at the details of Jennie Rose’s record. To my dismay, I found the names of both her father (Ted, deceased) and her mother (Susan). An attached note explained that Mrs. Rose had three other children to bring up and since the death of her husband from a heart attack had been quite unable to cope with a fourth child.

  I locked the cabinet, returned the key to the top left-hand drawer of Miss Benson’s desk, switched off the pen torch, left the study and walked quickly up the stairs to my dormitory. I put the pen torch back in its rightful place and slipped into bed. I began to wonder what I could possibly do next to try and find out who I was and where I’d come from.

  It was as if my parents had never existed, and I had somehow started life aged three. As the only alternative was virgin birth and I didn’t accept that even for the Blessed Mary, my desire to know the truth became irrepressible. I must eventually have fallen asleep, because all I remember after that is being woken by the school bell the following morning.

  When I was awarded my place at the University of Melbourne I felt like a long-term prisoner who has finally been released. For the first time, I was given a room of my own and was no longer expected to wear a uniform—not that the range of clothes I could afford was going to set the Melbourne fashion houses afire. I remember working even longer hours at university than I had done at school, as I was apprehensive that if I didn’t pass my first year general papers, they would send me back to spend the rest of my days at St. Hilda’s.

  In my second year I specialized in the history of art and English while continuing with painting as a hobby, but I had no idea what career I wanted to pursue after leaving university. My tutor suggested I should consider teaching, but that sounded to me rather like an extension of St. Hilda’s, with me ending up as Miss Benson.

  I didn’t have many boyfriends before going to university, because the boys at St. Hilda’s were kept in a separate wing of the house and we were not allowed to talk to them before nine in the morning and after five o’clock at night. Until the age of fifteen I thought kissing made you pregnant so I was determined not to make that mistake, especially after my experience of growing up with no family of my own.

  My first real boyfriend was Mel Nicholls, who was captain of the university football team. Having finally succeeded in getting me into bed he told me that I was the only girl in his life and, more important, the first. After I had admitted it was true for me too and lay back on the pillow Mel leaned over and began to take an interest in the only thing I was still wearing.

  “I’ve never seen anything quite like that before,” he said, taking my little piece of jewelry between his fingers.

  “Another first.”

  “Not quite.” He laughed. “Because I’ve seen one very similar.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a medal,” he explained. “My father won three or four of them himself but none of them’s made of silver.”

  Looking back on it now,