After lunch we assembled in the yard. All the teachers stood in a line by the shed while Miss Monk, the Grade Seven teacher, addressed us. On special days Mr. Hand, the headmaster, spoke; the boys marched across from the Moreton Bay fig-trees; the band came in its red and gold uniform, with the silver flutes, and the fat boy who beat the drum. We saluted the flag, and said we were Australians; that we loved our country and honoured our king and obeyed his laws. We sang ‘The Song of Australia’ — about the sunburned country I could not find — and ‘God Save the King’. On Anzac Day and Remembrance Day we stood still for a minute that went on and on; on Arbor Day we went down the street to plant a tree.

And we read of Black Diamond the pit pony who worked in the dark and was blind when she came up to the light; I prayed that I would not be picked to read the ending because I knew I would cry. We read of Grace Darling and the wreck of the Hesperus; recited ‘I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud’ and ‘Nicholas Nye’. We made cartridge-paper maps and charted the industries with wool and matchsticks, salt and grains of wheat. We wrote compositions, had spelling tests, and did dictation; we sang songs about the nut-brown maiden and the lass of Richmond Hill, embroidered needle-cases, drew Jonathan apples and flower-pots. I copied a picture of a lady in a crinoline saying goodbye to a soldier in a red coat, called ‘The Last Adieu’. I held it up at the front because it was the best.

Then I was in Grade Six, and in September I would be eleven. All the boys had gone — there were just girls again. Mrs. Caire was our teacher. She was a fat woman, and we pretended that Mr. Goodman was her boy friend; girls were always saying they saw them kissing after school. Because I was the tallest I led the marching; I turned in the wrong direction, and Mrs. Caire told me I was stupid; I was sent to the back in disgrace. Everyone looked at me and I went red; my eyes filled with tears; the bird danced in my chest. I never led the class again.

Some girls were members of a secret society called the Caterpillar Club. They made long cloth sausages like the ones Carol’s mother used to keep out the draughts; they tied them about their waists after school. They did something rude — they got into trouble. All the sausages disappeared.

In winter we ate our lunch in the shed, and bought hot pies from the Blue Shop lady who came to the gate with her trolley. Sometimes I went home to lunch, and Janice Budden and Rosemary Hearn came too; we listened to the ‘Dr. Paul’ serial on the wireless, and wondered what would happen next. Sometimes my grandmother made egg and bacon sandwiches and potato-chips she put into a paper cone; she handed them to me over the gate at half past twelve. The other girls were jealous; said that I was spoilt.