Mr Knox sat back in his chair. ‘Look, Veda, if I had the time and didn’t have to make money, I’d bloody sort it for you. Believe me, I would.’

‘You’re very good to me, both of you,’ said Mother again. ‘It’s just … it just seems so impossible for me to get anything in print. I always thought the work was in the writing, but now I see that the true work comes after the writing. And it’s not the sort of work I’m good at. I feel deadened by this process of pushing myself forward.’

‘It’s not in women’s nature,’ said Mrs Knox.

‘I thought it was in mine. I used to be brave. I used to be tough as old leather.’

Mrs Knox leaned towards Mother. ‘Veda,’ she said. ‘You are brave. Don’t give up because a couple of silly editors don’t know a poem of originality when they see it.’

‘You’ve got to get the ear of that Parish chap,’ Barrington said. ‘For god’s sake, he’s got every literary connection in the country. If anyone can bloody well get you introduced to the right people, it’s him.’

Mother went red. She poured herself another drink. ‘I just can’t,’ she said. ‘I tried once and I can’t a second time. It feels ridiculous to be making a fuss in the first place. I feel ridiculous for letting this matter so much … I don’t know, I feel a kind of … paralysis.’

‘Get your husband to talk to him,’ said Mrs Knox.

Mr Knox nodded. Mrs Knox smiled. I looked at the wild things gnashing their teeth and rolling their eyes and felt seasick. Maybe it was the Polly Waffle, but it seemed to come directly from the story. Or maybe it came from Mother. I could see her. She looked green, smiling wanly at Mrs Knox: she looked seasick too. She looked scared.

Mother took Mr Knox’s advice and had a conversation with Papa. She decided to cook him a special dinner. The days when Mother could just bring up a subject with Papa were over; she had to make special efforts now, she had to put on a special show. So you came over and you brought your overnight bag, Ornella. You were wearing the green dress you had made yourself from a Simplicity pattern. You had pinned up all your hair like Mary Poppins. You will say you never wore such a hairstyle, but you did, and if you’d had a carpet bag and a parrot-headed umbrella, you would’ve convinced every child in Melbourne who’d been to the Odeon that you were Mary Poppins, in the flesh. You got me into my pyjamas in five seconds flat.

When you stayed with us, you slept in the narrow cane bed in the enclosed verandah, where the walls were thin and the outside world felt very close. The swish of wind and trees was both near and far. It made you feel cosy, like you were in the hull of a ship.