‘Oh, Ian was a disturbed man. It was probably just a nothing poem. You wrote poems for the school magazine, remember? And Rick is your proper father. Rick is good-natured and clever and good-looking. We’re lucky to have him. Anyway, I never asked Ian about his writing.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because, Emily, I don’t interrogate people. I accept what they say, and let them decide the limits of what to tell me. That’s how I am.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I’m not always trying to squeeze information out of people. I’m no journalist.’

‘Mum, I care about stories. My whole career has been devoted to storytelling in one way or another.’

‘You used to be a proofreader, darling.’

After the call, Emily turned on the television (a news bulletin) and pulled down the heavy bedspread, leaving it furrowed on the floor like a drawn-back curtain. She turned off her phone, she ran a hand over the bleached pillowcases, the cool and soft sheets. She wanted to scream. She slept.

3.

It rained early the next morning, bringing out the sickbitter smells of road oils and ozone. Emily entered the University of Sydney campus, her sneakers squeaking on the wet footpath. Summer school was over, autumn semester yet to commence: a few solitary students in the library foyer. The air-conditioning sank into Emily’s damp hair. She took the stairs to one of the lower-ground levels and walked through a cubist sequence of rooms. Along one brick wall was a series of concave brass plates, which brought to mind the inside of a clarinet. Mortuary light in the basement. As soon as search engines had become available Emily looked up her father’s name; even in Sydney she Googled his first name plus surname, finding nothing. But she had never once Googled his initials. Who string searches a name using that person’s full initials? Ian’s middle name was Wesley. She found a computer, opened an arts and humanities database, and typed I.W. Asquith in the search bar.

Chapter 11: 1938–1945

1938–1945

1.