‘And Dad,’ said Ruthy, ‘the other wonderful thing is that I can have a place in a special school for young writers over the Christmas holidays at the University of Adelaide.’ She clapped her hands as she made this exclamation, in a way that invited Dad to say ‘hip hooray’ and clap too, before he’d realised what he’d agreed to.

Dad just looked at her with a funny, sad kind of look. He ran his hands through his black curly hair, and then made a sort of washing motion with dry hands over his face as though he was using a flannel.

‘Have you told your mum about this, Ruthy?’ he asked.

‘Not really. I thought I’d save a lovely surprise until you got home,’ she said. ‘I don’t want you to always get the good news second-hand.’

‘That’s not why,’ I said, before I knew the words were coming out of my mouth. This happened a lot to me, words just turning up and pouring out before I’d even really thought them. ‘You didn’t tell Mum because she would be cross, and we have had almost twenty cross or head days in a row, and you didn’t want to go back to the pattern.’

Dad’s mouth started to open, I was guessing to ask me what I meant, but he must have worked it out because he stopped.

‘Ruthy, you know we don’t do worldly things except go to school or to work,’ he said. ‘Not only would it be hard for Mum to take you into town every day, but you know most of the school holidays are taken up with Sunday school camp, summer Bible retreats and catching up with your Sunday school friends.’ He started to give her a little knee bounce, which is something we all liked him to do. ‘It just wouldn’t work.’

‘But Dad,’ she said, with a beseeching look on her face, ‘it’s only nine ’til twelve weekdays for two weeks, and there will be really special people there – proper published poets and novelists. And they will teach me all sorts of things and read my writing and give me feedback. I will work really hard. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please?’ Ruthy held Dad’s face between her hands, pleading inches away from his nose.

‘I’m sorry, Ruthy, the answer is no. And if I were you, I wouldn’t even tell your mother about it. It might make her cross and even stop her from going to the ceremony to get your certificate,’ said Dad.

‘Why, Dad?’ asked Caleb. ‘Why would it stop Mum from going to the Sunday school prize night? It’s her favourite night in the year almost. She’s made a new dress for it and everything. She’s made the girls matching yellow dresses with polka dots on them for Dorcas and I’m getting new shorts.’

‘It’s not Sunday school prize night, you dummy,’ I explained. ‘It’s a special one at the university for kids who won writing prizes.’ There goes that mouth again. Dad gave me a warning look.