“What was that?” she heard one of them ask as she ran by. “A girl or a boy?”

Even when she existed and people noticed her, she was indiscernible. Those who spotted her were unsure who she was and, indeed, what she was. And, if the indifferent tone of the woman who asked, “What was that?” was anything to go by, people weren’t that interested anyway.

For a while, Clare was lonely. It hit her when she heard other students laughing as they passed beneath her window. Sometimes she added slices of bread to her stash of fruit from the dining room. She found a remote spot in the garden beyond the library where the sparrows gathered. Clare broke up the bread, scattered it on the lawn and watched as the little birds converged to eat. It felt good to feed them and she chuckled at how freely they stuffed themselves. Oh, to be a sparrow.

As a student, on the rare occasions when she was at home with her family, Clare often felt as if she was the girl waiting in the wings for the opportunity to join the performance. Or perhaps she was an understudy who had no idea when she might be called upon to step onto the stage and take up a starring role in her life again.

She watched Linda and Angus come and go from the house as they did things together and with friends, living their lives the way she had once lived hers, with joy and spontaneity. It was not that her siblings and parents ignored her. It seemed, though, that her place in their lives had become something they allowed for, moved around and revered. They tiptoed by, trying not to disturb the space Clare occupied in the world for fear of what might happen if they did. She was, it seemed, something of a museum piece.

At mealtimes, there’d be a knock at her door. Someone, usually Linda, would peep in. “Um . . . Supper’s on the table, if you want, Clare?”

The banter and laughter would die down when she entered the room and they’d avert their eyes from her plate, desperate not to appear to be watching what she placed there and what she did with it. Someone, usually her father, would make an early effort to engage with her.

“I thought of you today when we took delivery of six quiver trees for the Walters’ garden, Clare. Remember how you loved the quiver tree forest in Namibia?” he said.

“Yes, it was beautiful,” she replied, loving him for making an effort.

“What’s the Afrikaans name again, Dad?” asked Angus.

“Kokerboom.”

“Ja. That’s it. Remember Linda thought it meant, ‘cocoa tree’ and cried when there was no chocolate when we got there,” said Clare’s brother.