Chris was still there when Demetrios the New Australian Cas porter wheeled the umpteenth head injury through the door on a trolley. Demetrios is Greek, and has organised an interpreter service to cope with all the nationalities we get in these days of New Australians galore. I like the N.A.s very much and I think they’re good for the country—less steak-and-chips, more Beef Stroganoff. But my family loathes them, and so does Miss Christine Hamilton. A pity, because Demetrios thinks Chris is a bit of all right. He’s single, quite tall and not bad-looking in a slightly alien way, and he told me that portering is only temporary. He’s going to Tech at night to learn car mechanics because he wants to own his own garage one day. Like all N.A.s, he works very hard and he saves every penny. I think that’s why most Old Australians loathe the N.A.s. N.A.s think of a job as a privilege, not a right. They’re so happy to be somewhere that their tummies are full and their bank books have a bit in them.

Anyway, after casting Chris a languishing look and getting a glare in return, Demetrios pushed off and left us with the patient. Said patient was turpsed to the eyeballs, stank of beer, wouldn’t keep still, refused to co-operate. Then when I bent over him to shove a sandbag on either side of his neck, he puked beery vomit all over me. Oh, what a mess! I had to leave Chris cursing and the junior wiping up the floor, get myself to the Cas women’s staff room and take off my uniform, shoes, stockings, suspender belt, bra, panties, the lot. I had another uniform in my locker, but no underwear and no spare pair of shoes, so I had to wash them in the sink, wring them as dry as possible and put them back on, even my stockings. It is strictly forbidden to have bare legs. My beloved old shoes will never be the same again, a tragedy. For three years they’ve pampered my feet, now I’ll have to buy a new pair and break them in—hell when you’re permanently on your feet. As you can’t wring out shoes, I put them on soaking wet and squelched back to Cas X-ray leaving a set of wet footsteps behind me. Matron was visiting, eyed me up and down.

“Miss Purcell, you are wetting the floor, and that is very dangerous for other people,” she said icily.

“Yes, Matron. I am aware, Matron. I apologise, Matron,” I said, and bolted through our door. You don’t try to justify yourself to Matron or Sister Agatha, you just escape as fast as possible. But isn’t she amazing? She’s only met me once, but she knows who I am and what my name is.

It went on like that—one of “those days”. But I sent the junior off at four and battled on alone, so it was well after eight when I took the dirty laundry to the Cas chute and hunted someone up to put in a request for special treatment to our floor from the cleaning staff. Having entered the register and prepared tomorrow’s cassettes, I was free to go.

When I got outside, I found that one of those March storms had built up and was about to burst. Of course I had my brolly, but a look up and down South Dowling Street revealed that all the taxis had decided to get off the road before the deluge broke. It was either walk home, or sleep on a plastic sofa in Cas, and I didn’t think Matron would approve of the latter.

Someone came out of the Cas pedestrian door just as a huge gust of wind howled down to send leaves, bits of paper and tin cans flying. I didn’t bother to look until whoever it was stood so close to me that I realised it must be someone I know. Mr. Forsythe, no less! He gave me that dazzling smile and pointed with the tip of his big black ebony-handled umbrella toward the H.M.O.s’ parking area. All the Rollses and Bentleys had gone, leaving a Mercedes from the 1930s and a sleek black Jaguar saloon. His, I took a private bet with myself, was the Jag.

“It’s going to pour in a minute, Harriet,” he said. “Let me drive you home.”

I dared to give him a proper smile in reply, but I shook my head emphatically. “Thank you, sir, but I’ll manage.”

“It’s no trouble, truly,” he persisted, then gave a hoot of triumph when the heavens opened and the rain bucketed down. “You can’t possibly wait for a bus in this, Harriet, and there isn’t a taxi for miles. Let me drive you home.”

But I wasn’t going to budge. Hospitals are seething hotbeds of gossip and we were standing in a very public place, people coming and going constantly. “Thank you, sir,” I said firmly, “but I stink of vomit. I’d prefer to walk.”

My chin was up, my mouth was down. He gazed into my face for a moment, then shrugged and put up his umbrella, which had a silver band around its handle engraved with some message from Geoffrey and Mark. Off he ran to the black Jaguar. Good guess, Harriet! A 1930s Mercedes was the sort of car a psychiatrist or a pathologist drove. Orthopods were orthodox. As the black Jaguar swished by me I could see the blur of his face behind the fogged window, and a hand giving me a wave. I didn’t return it. Instead I waited a bit longer, then put up my brolly and started the three-mile plod home. Better this way. Much better.

Monday,

March 28th, 1960

Between Cas and cooking, I haven’t had the energy to write in my exercise book for a long time. But tonight something happened which I can’t get out of my mind, so maybe if I write it down, I can banish the ghosts and get some much-needed sleep.

Jim summoned me to an emergency meeting upstairs in their flat, which is a curious mixture of frilly Bob and unvarnished Jim. I’ve known for ages that the Harley Davidson motorbike chained to our plane tree on Victoria Street belongs to Jim, so it wasn’t a surprise to find Harley Davidson posters plastered on the walls. They are always at me to come to their meetings, a regular event, but I’ve resisted them until tonight—sheer cowardice, I admit. I just didn’t think I wanted to get mixed up too closely with a group of women who mostly seem to have men’s names—Frankie, Billie, Joe, Robbo, Ron, Bert and so on. I love Jim and Bob because they are a part of The House and Mrs. Delvecchio Schwartz has told me sternly that Lezzos have a hard row to hoe (her metaphors are always wonderful, but I never know when she’s pulling my leg, the old horror). When Jim begged me to come tonight, I understood that I was on trial, so I went.

Much to my surprise, Toby was there. So was Klaus. No Mrs. Delvecchio Schwartz, however. There were six women I didn’t know. One, who was introduced to me as Joe, is a barrister—a Q.C., in fact. That’s awesome, to get to the top of the legal tree in a skirt. Or rather, a tailored suit. Stop it, Harriet! This is not the time to digress. I think my idle remarks are because I’m dodging having to put the subject of the meeting on paper.

The players in the drama weren’t present—Frankie and Olivia. I gathered that Frankie is a bit of a Lesbian idol, very dynamic and attractive, also very masculine. She had just taken up with Olivia, who is nineteen, very pretty, and from a stinking-rich family. When Olivia’s father found out about his daughter’s sexual inclinations, he didn’t just hit the roof, he set out to teach her a lesson. So he pulled a few strings that saw Frankie and Olivia snatched off the footpath where they were walking their dog and hauled to the holding-cells in a cop shop somewhere on the outer rim of Sydney. There they were raped non-stop by a dozen of the Boys in Blue all last night, then this morning at dawn they were chucked onto the road outside Milson’s Point station, their dead dog too. Both of them are in the Mater Hospital, brutally damaged.

I sat there feeling so sick that I thought I’d have to excuse myself and lose my dinner, but pride kept my gorge down, I hung on. After one look at my face, Toby transferred himself from the far side of the room and sat down on the floor next to me, sneaked his hand out to grab mine. I clenched it like grim death. Joe the Q.C. was talking about legal action, but Robbo said that Frankie refused to give evidence, and poor little Olivia was going to be transferred to the acute psych unit at Rozelle as soon as she was physically well enough to be discharged from the Mater.