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to write the most original projects, she went to public libraries for the
latest information, she brought slides and foreign music and newspapers
to the classroom, so much so that she feared Caroline would think she
was trying to rob the show. Nothing of the sort happened. The teacher
always praised her for her grasp of things, her good work and her help:
“What would I do without you?” she said, smiling. “Do you want to
become a geography teacher later? You’d be brilliant.”
Muriel’s aim was to see her place and know her family, if she had
a family, or her friends, whoever she was living with. So, she had invited
her for her last birthday party, that was her sixteenth birthday, along
with Fred, Steve and Joël, several girls from the class, some of the kids
with whom she had been playing in Canterbury, when she was small and
her parents lived in the West, some Randwick neigbours (not many: her
father was a good neighbourhood fan, he would have the whole electoral
district over, if she let him), and three or four more teachers. But, when
she had asked her, Caroline Matthews had looked panicked. “My God!
Randwick... It’s so far. You know, I don’t drive. I could catch a bus, but
buses don’t run after 9 p.m. on Sundays, I believe. You don’t want me to
be stranded somewhere late at night, do you? —But, Miss Matthews, I’m
sure you could stay at home overnight, we have a spare room for guests.
Or my Dad, my Mum or someone would drive you back.” As the conversation
went on, she began to realize that her plan had failed. She could
not insist any more without being impolite. On the day of the party,
Miss Matthews sent her a big book on the mountains of France, with a
birthday card that said: “To Muriel, my best student, for her sixteenth
birthday. Her friend, Carol.” And then, on a separate sheet of paper,
thick hand-cut pale green paper, in a different handwriting: “Muriel, I
am terribly sorry I cannot spend this glorious day with you and your
family and friends. I cannot tell you the reason yet. But be assured it
has to do with me, not with you. I hope that my situation will change
one day, a day not too far from now; then you will understand how much
I regret that I cannot be present to share this joyful event with you.
Hopefully we can see more of each other after your graduation. Life is
sometimes like the high mountains pictured in this book, hard to climb,
hard to stay at the top, and even harder to climb down and return to
normal in the green valleys underneath. Love, Carol.”
She had been deeply touched by these words and the gift. She
tried, unsuccessfully, to guess Miss Matthews’ date of birth in order to
make her a gift on the same occasion, an old watercolour of Sydney
harbour that she had found in a good shop in Paddington, where she
had been with her parents to purchase an Art Deco dressing table which
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