At least they’d all got neat handwriting out of it, they agreed. And Olivia might never have developed an interest in art history if it hadn’t been for cranky old Sister Bernadine. Would Maxie have become an actress if Sister Frances hadn’t insisted she take the lead role in their all-female version of The Crucible? And while none of them went to Mass any more, they could hold their own in religious discussions, after being taught politics and theology by the fierce Sister Roberta.

‘As for me,’ Jeannie said as she refilled their glasses, ‘I’d definitely have been locked up if it wasn’t for the Catholic network. I might not have a good career like you two, but at least I’m not a jailbird!’

For the rest of the weekend, Jeannie had been in great form, making them laugh, exaggerating as always. She’d been full of fanciful yarns at school too. They’d all heard of Jeannie’s adventures when she was left alone in the family car as a nine-year-old. A thief had leapt into the driver’s seat and taken off, with her in the back. It involved a police chase, blaring sirens, until the car was cornered and Jeannie rescued. Ironic, really, considering what happened all those years later in Carlton.

Mind you, Olivia had to concede, Jeannie’s quick wit had been handy whenever one of the nuns or teachers caught them out of bounds or up past curfew. In the blink of an eye, she was always able to come up with an elaborate and convincing story about a bad nightmare causing one of them to sleepwalk, or a sudden debilitating cramp requiring an urgent late-night visit to the first-aid room.

It was in the years following that visit to Jeannie and Eliza that they had become more concerned about her gift for storytelling. Or compulsive lying, as Olivia began to think of it. They slowly discovered she’d been telling Eliza increasingly fanciful tales about her own childhood, her school days, her overseas travels. Eliza occasionally shared details of them during her annual holidays.

‘Well, I don’t think it was exactly like that,’ Olivia remembered saying once, after twelve-year-old Eliza earnestly told her about Jeannie running away from home as a child. According to Eliza, Jeannie had stowed away in the back of a semitrailer until she reached the outback, where she spent a week living in a tent made from leaves and branches, surviving on ants, berries and dew, until the police arrived in a helicopter and brought her home again. Yes, Olivia had said, carefully choosing her words, Jeannie possibly had once run away from home. Most children did at some stage. But for a week to the outback? Living on insects? Rescued by helicopters? No.

‘But Mum told me it happened,’ Eliza insisted. ‘She said it was the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. She even said, “Cross my heart and hope to die.” ’

Olivia had challenged Jeannie about that story, ringing her during school hours once Eliza had arrived back home. She’d kept it light, treading gently, joking that she hadn’t realised Jeannie had had such an adventurous childhood. ‘Huckleberry Finn had nothing on you,’ she’d said, before sharing some of the stories Eliza had told her. Halfway through, Jeannie had started laughing.