As the Crow Flies (74 page)

How
I envied those children who could immediately tell me about their parents,
brothers, sisters, even second cousins or distant aunts. All I knew about
myself was that I had been brought up in St. Hilda’s Orphanage, Park Hill,
Melbourne. Principal: Miss Rachel Benson.

Many
of the children from the orphanage did have relations and some received
letters, even the occasional visit. The only such person I can ever recall was
an elderly, rather severe-looking woman, who wore a long black dress and black
lace gloves up to her elbows, and spoke with a strange accent. I have no idea
what her relationship to me was, if any.

Miss
Benson treated this particular lady with considerable respect and I remember
even curtsied when she left, but I never learned her name and when I was old
enough to ask who she was Miss Benson claimed she had no idea what I was
talking about. Whenever I tried to question Miss Benson about my own
upbringing, she would reply mysteriously, “It’s best you don’t know, child.” I
can think of no sentence in the English language more likely to ensure that I
try even harder to find out the truth about my background.

As
the years went by I began to ask what I thought were subtler questions on the
subject of my parentage of the vice-principal, my house matron, kitchen staff,
even the janitor but I always came up against the same blank wall. On my
fourteenth birthday I requested an interview with Miss Benson in order to ask
her the question direct. Although she had long ago dispensed with “It’s best
you don’t know, child,” she now replaced this sentiment with, “In truth, Cathy,
I don’t know myself.” Although I didn’t question her further, I didn’t believe
her, because some of the older members of the staff would from time to time
give me strange looks, and on at least two occasions began to whisper behind my
back once they thought I was out of earshot.

I
had no photographs or mementos of my parents, or even any proof of their past
existence, except for a small piece of jewelry which I convinced myself was
silver. I remember that it was the man who shouted a lot who had given me the
little cross and since then it had always hung from a piece of string around my
neck. One night when I was undressing in the dormitory Miss Benson spotted my
prize and demanded to know where the pendant had come from; I told her Betsy
Compton had swapped it with me for a dozen marbles, a fib that seemed to
satisfy her at the time. But from that day onwards I kept my treasure well
hidden from anyone’s prying eyes.

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 lefthand 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, I consider that this particular piece of information was well
worth losing my virginity for.

In
the library of the University of Melbourne there is a large selection of books
covering the First World War, biased not unnaturally towards Gallipoli and the
Far East campaign rather than the D Day landings and El Alamein. However,
tucked away among the pages of heroic deeds performed by Australian infantrymen
was a chapter on British gallantry awards, complete with several colored
plates.

I
discovered that there were VCs, DSOs, DSCs, CBEs, OBEs the variations seemed
endless until finally on page four hundred and nine I found what I was
searching for: the Military Cross, a ribbon of white watered silk and purple
horizontal stripes and a medal forged in silver with the imperial crown on each
of its four arms. It was awarded to officers below the rank of major “for
conspicuous gallantry when under fire.” I began to hypothesize that my father
was a war hero who had died at an early age from terrible wounds. At least that
would have explained his perpetual shouting as something that had been brought
on by so much suffering.

My
next piece of detective work came when I visited an antiques shop in Melbourne.
The man behind the counter simply studied the medal, then offered me five
pounds for it. I didn’t bother to explain why I wouldn’t have parted with my
prize had he offered me five hundred pounds, but at least he was able to inform
me that the only real medal dealer in Australia was a Mr. Frank Jennings, of
Number 47 Mafeking Street, Sydney.

At
that time I considered Sydney to be the other side of the globe, and I
certainly couldn’t afford to make such a long journey on my tiny grant. So I
had to wait patiently until the summer term when I applied to be scorer for the
university cricket team. They turned me down on account of my sex. Women couldn’t
really be expected to understand the game fully, it was explained to me by a
youth who used to sit behind me in lectures so that he could copy my notes.
This left me with no choice but to spend hours of practice on my ground strokes
and almost as many on my overhead smash until I was selected for the ladies’
second tennis team. Not a major achievement but there was only one match on the
calendar that interested me: Sydney (A).

On
the morning we arrived in Sydney I went straight to Mafeking Street and was
struck by how many young men who passed me on the street were in uniform. Mr.
Jennings himself studied the medal with considerably more interest than the
dealer from Melbourne had shown.