Dad found us a place on the other side of Glebe, in a suburb called Forest Lodge. I had no idea why it was called Forest when there was no forest anywhere near, but maybe it was named by someone who missed the forest so much they thought a word could conjure it. Our new home was five rooms and an outdoor loo and a verandah choked by oleander, and Dad parked the truck in the front yard. But at least Jack and I had a proper room to sleep in and Mum perked up as soon as we were out of Aunt Joy’s. The only problem, it seemed, was that there were two pubs in less than two blocks and so Dad never had to travel far for a drink.

I began to look for work, as we were all meant to have a job—to do our bit. I was glad. I had no intention of spending the rest of my life fetching Dad home from the pub and mixing Mum’s headache powders. My skills weren’t particularly useful, for there were no dairies which needed an extra hand with the milking, but then our neighbour Mrs Thompson said she had a typewriter and could teach me to type in exchange for help with the housework. And so I would do the housework early and then, in the stifling heat of midday, sit in front of the Remington learning where the letters were on the keyboard. Before having children (three, and another on the way), Mrs Thompson had worked as a typist, and after explaining the intricacies of the machine while I cranked the mangle or scrubbed the kitchen floor, she told stories of the larks she’d had with the other girls in the office, the speeds some of them would type and the relief at seeing the tea cart at ten when their fingers began to cramp. She made it sound as though her office days were the best days of her life.

At night, back home, while the rest of the family sat outside waiting for the southerly to bring cool air, slapping mosquitoes and smoking cigarettes, I would sit with a dummy keyboard and practise typing the pages from a book. Sometimes Jack would come inside and dictate to me, putting on silly accents so I couldn’t help but laugh.

‘Don’t look at your hands!’ he would snap in a German accent. ‘Vat a naughty girl.’

My silent typing became fast. There are no errors when you can’t see what you’ve typed.

At Mrs Thompson’s my fingers flew across the keys with a satisfying sound, that jostling click click click click then ding! when you reached the end of a line. Every week she timed me, and when I could type sixty-five words per minute she said I was ready to try out my skills in the world.