Cecilia House

By Simon Gandossi

Life is a precious gift and it can change within the blink of an eye, something Patricia discovered at a young age. After an extremely tragic event her loving family, good friends and many dreams and aspirations were all gone. An unwanted child sent to what was supposed to be a place of lovingness and warmth. Instead she soon discovered that those responsible for her care added so much more pain and sadness to many lives. What occurred within the walls of Cecilia House was one of the most despicable and unimaginable acts to ever happen within an organization whose duty it was to protect innocent children.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Sep 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796006728

Simon Gandossi

Simon Gandossi is an award-winning Author and Historian whose vision is to inspire his readers through creative historical storytelling. Growing up on a small farm and spending his weekends at local museums, his passion for all things history entered his life early on. Ultimately, this led to him becoming a finalist in a writing competition, earning an award, and authoring several acclaimed books: “Elsa”, “For Beau: The Sarah Ashdown Story", and most recently, “Cecilia House". When he isn’t writing, you can find this history buff playing tennis, listening to classical music, cooking northern Italian food, or teaching himself different languages. He is also an avid antique collector and aspiring filmmaker

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Copyright © 2019 by Simon Gandossi.

Library of Congress Control Number:     2019914841

ISBN:                 Hardcover                     978-1-7960-0674-2

                           Softcover                      978-1-7960-0673-5

                           eBook                            978-1-7960-0672-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 09/27/2019

Xlibris

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Epilogue

This book is dedicated

to those children and their families affected by the structural abuse at the hands of those whose responsibility it was to care for and protect them. Their voices went unheard then, but they are being heard now.

Chapter 1

19 JANUARY 2015

R uth and her husband, Geoff, spend their entire week off cleaning out the attic. After her mother passed away a few years ago, Ruth has been unable to bring herself to look at or throw away any of her mother’s things. It is late in the morning, and whilst her husband works tirelessly, sifting through her old clothes, Ruth takes her time and holds each object in her hand. She puts nothing in the garbage bag, instead throwing them in a pile in the corner.

‘At the rate you work, we won’t finish until we are in a retirement home, and why does everything smell like mothballs?’ Geoff says, smelling some clothes.

‘I can’t throw any of this out. Tomorrow I will see about getting a storage locker,’ Ruth replies.

‘Just keep a few things. I know it’s hard, but there is no sense in holding onto everything. Besides, it’s been too long now, and we need to clean this all out. I will take most of her clothes to the op shop.’

As they sort through some old boxes, Ruth finds a large dirty and damaged brown box. She opens it to find many pages of handwritten notes, some old photos, and other old documents. She flicks through the pages and finds it was written by her mother. As she begins to read, she realizes it is a story about her mother’s life. She cries because she has never been told much.

‘What’s wrong?’ Geoff asks.

‘After so many years, I think I have just found what I have always wondered my whole life,’ she replies.

‘A diary?’ he asks.

‘No, something much better.’

Geoff does not seem interested and continues working. After a few hours, they finish up, and Ruth takes the old box with her downstairs.

‘Geoff, I need to be alone for a while. There’s something I need to read,’ she says, heading to her bedroom, box in hand.

*     *     *

22 AUGUST 1939

We had a very old toilet at the back of our home. The seat was made of wood. One day my father walked out to use it. We heard a very short yell and ran out to see what had happened. When he sat down, a rather large splinter went into his backside. My sister and I watched, trying not to laugh when my mother had to take it out. Every time I think about my childhood, that is one of the stories that always makes me chuckle. Times were much simpler then. We took what we had and made the most of it. Never would I choose to be a child growing up today.

My name is Patricia, and it may have seemed strange at 14 years old, but my father was still reading me bedtime stories. The fine days turned into cold nights, and hearing him read to me whilst holding my hand warmed me more than any blanket. He read from no book. Every night he would make up a story. He never ceased to amaze me with the amount of stories he was able to come up with. He worked on the docks, but he wanted to be a writer, he told me so many times before.

My mother kept telling him to treat me like an adult, but he did not want me to grow up too quickly. She spent more time with my 17-year-old sister, Mona, who was more than just a sister to me. She was so protective and never short of advice. Such contrasting people, we were. I was short and skinny with light brown hair, and she was tall and skinny with blonde hair. She made a joke one day that I looked like the postman who came around about nine months before I was born.

Who was the prettier one? Mona by far. I lost count of the amount of times she had been courted. Flowers filled her room so much, she could have opened her own florist store. In one week, she received so much chocolate, my parents gave some as gifts for friends’ birthdays. Even her drawer was full of pieces of paper with poems written on them from boys hoping they would be the one she chose. I had been told many times I was pretty but never really paid much attention to those who said it.

My parents were also very different people, and I wondered how on earth they had fallen in love with each other. My father was a man with big dreams of becoming a famous author, and my mother was a woman with no aspirations at all and who was quite content being just a housewife. She was a very pretty woman, but she rarely showed it. She was also a very reserved person, and I never saw her show much affection towards my father in front of us. Sometimes when they thought we were asleep, I could hear them making love. I just put my hands over my ears so I could hear none of it.

I suppose I was like my mother, in a way. I was sometimes shy around new people and kept to myself most of the time. All I had were two good friends, Gladys and Wendy, who both lived so close to me, we often snuck out at night to meet in a crudely put-together treehouse Wendy’s father had made. I have no idea how it had not fallen down with us in it. The wood was old and the nails rusty. When the wind blew, it made such a loud creaking sound.

In the treehouse, we had a large money box, and every now and then, we put into the tin what money we had to save up to travel the world. Gladys had tried to run away several times but never made it very far. She said her backside still had scars from her father’s last belting. Her father was not abusive; he just disciplined her when needed. My father never once hit me – not that I ever gave him reason to.

Gladys was a fascinating girl with curly blonde hair, pretty and definitely the most imaginative out of all of us. ‘When that money tin is full, we are heading to Europe and then America,’ she always said, never telling us how on earth three young girls would actually do such a thing.

Apart from that, the tin would barely hold enough to buy a few days’ groceries. Wendy and I just agreed and tried to change the subject when we could. Wendy too was pretty; she had long dark-brown hair and a slim figure, but she never liked anyone talking about her looks.

I was surprised Wendy had not run away. Her father drank so much and was often violent. We always saw a bruise on her. One time she had a black eye and told us she walked into a door. We knew she was lying and considered telling the police. Her mother lived on the other side of the country; they had divorced a few years earlier. Her brother went to live with her. He knew what his father was like and didn’t hesitate to go. Wendy should have gone but just could not bring herself to leave us.

A few times, we sat in the treehouse talking and were scared to death when, as always, an empty bottle hit the side.

‘Come get your dinner!’ her father would shout.

We would climb down and run quickly back home. I told my father everything about Wendy’s father. He said there was no helping a man like that until he was ready to help himself.

If our parents knew what we did in the treehouse, then we would most certainly be in trouble. Wendy stole cigarettes from her father, and we smoked them. One night I snuck back in my room that I shared with my sister and found her sitting up on the side of her bed.

‘You smell of tobacco. Have you been smoking?’

‘Yes, I have,’ I replied. I could not be bothered trying to deny it.

‘If Mother or Father finds out, you will be grounded for a long time.’

She was sometimes overbearing, but I loved her for it because I knew how much she cared for me. One night we even took some of the scotch of Wendy’s father and got a little drunk. He drank so much, I doubted he would even know it was missing. Laughing, drinking, and smoking, we had an absolute ball, and during those times in that small treehouse, there was no outside world to us. When I tried to climb back into the window one night, I fell onto the bedroom floor laughing. Mona put me in bed and shook her head.

‘I hope you get all this rebellious behaviour out of your system now. When you are my age, you will realize how immature you were,’ she said as she tucked me in.

We lived in a beautiful home once owned by my father’s parents. Oh, how I miss my grandfather – or Poppy, as I called him. He would always make me laugh, pulling faces, squirting water at me from the hose, and picking me up and spinning me around. I miss my grandmother’s cooking. The Sunday roast and the apple pie she made would make any person’s mouth water. When she died, it seemed he had lost his will to live. He sat alone most of the day. He ceased being a loving and funny grandfather and became a silent, lonely old man. When he died, I could not stop crying for weeks.

I never met my mother’s parents, and to be honest, I have no idea exactly what happened to them. All she told me was they had died when she was young and to never ask any more questions about the matter. That was fine with me; the love and attention I had from my other grandparents more than made up for their absence. This was why it hurt so much when both of them had died so close apart.

I hated myself after my grandmother died. I knew I should have done more to help Poppy. I saw him every day, but I never really sat down and told him how much I loved him. I still cherish many things he owned – his old tobacco pipe, his glasses, and a few other objects most would consider mundane. I kept most of them in my bottom draw. If I couldn’t sleep or was sad, I would take them out and hold them.

I was closer to him than to my grandmother. She was very religious and often forced him and us to go to church. She never hit us and hardly got angry. It just seemed she loved God more than her grandchildren. I remember a time my poppy refused to go to church. He planned on meeting with some friends.

‘You dare defy the Lord? Sunday morning, we go to thank God for what we have. If you do not come, then hell awaits you,’ she said very calmly in front of all of us.

His face went red, and I knew it took everything to hold his anger in. He ended up coming to church with us. I always found it boring there, and I did not even know what the priest was saying. I never paid any attention. Despite everything, I knew he loved her with all his heart.

We never went back to church on Sundays after they had died. I was thankful for that. God meant nothing to me. I always believed in what I could see and hear. Again, I told my father this, and he hugged me, saying I was becoming such an intelligent person.

The town of Fremantle, where I lived, was big and exciting and very close to the ocean. Our summers were spent swimming at the beach. My parents and Mona went sometimes but hardly got into the water. My mother was scared of sharks, my father of getting sunburnt, and Mona of being mobbed by young single boys seeing her in a bathing suit. She always said it was better for her to go to the beach during winter; that way, no one would be there.

Gladys and Wendy had no fear. They would swim so far out, but I remained in the shallow. In those days, no one seemed to care. It was a great way to cool off in the scorching heat of summer.

We also attended dances on Friday nights. They bored me too. Adults would line the girls on one side and the boys on the other, and we had to dance with whomever they chose for us. I always ended up with a boy who stood on my feet more than the floor. A few even tried to kiss me on the cheek; all were unsuccessful.

As the gramophone played old music, we held onto each other’s hips and swayed from side to side. I would look over at the girls to see them trying not to laugh. I remember one dance where a boy had his hands up too high on Wendy’s hips; she kept pushing them down. I looked closely at them both, knowing any second, Wendy would do something.

‘Any higher, and I will punch you in the face,’ she said.

The boy never listened, and when he moved them up again, she did as she had promised. She punched him right in the nose, and he fell down. I suppose her father taught her how to hit people; he was good at it. She was removed and told never to return anymore. The boy’s parents reported it to her father, and in return, she was slapped across the face several times. We could see how bad it was the next day. I took her to see my father, who said he would report him to the police.

She begged him not to say the usual thing. ‘Oh, he was just drunk again. He didn’t mean it.’

Sometimes we would walk around the town, browsing in the shop windows. My father gave me some money every week, which I saved most of the time. The town was always busy on Saturday mornings because all the stores closed early. One Saturday, we went to Wendy’s house to get her. Her father, whose hair was a mess and who looked so awful, said she could not go out for a month. We did not dare argue with him and left. As we did, Wendy climbed out of her bedroom window and ran over to us.

‘He won’t even know I am gone.’

We had a normal route of getting into town, but Wendy wanted us to take a longer way.

‘I want to show you both something,’ she said.

I was not happy that we had taken a longer way. It was a warm day, and I always used to sweat badly in such weather. We normally did what she wanted because we both felt sorry for how she was treated by her father. The street we turned down was a very narrow one. All the houses were made of limestone and had silver tin rooves, each with a chimney. Small yet charming places, they were, with beautiful gardens. I had been down this street a few times and never paid much attention to who lived there.

We stopped outside one of the houses, and sitting on the patio was an elderly lady knitting on a rocking chair. Wendy waved and told us to come meet her. Gladys and I looked at each other, wondering who this lady was. She smiled and invited all of us to come in for homemade lemonade. I was about to say, ‘No, thank you’ when Wendy interrupted and said we would all love to. She had an Irish accent and was such a thin lady and very fit; she almost jumped off the rocking chair and went quickly inside.

‘She is always excited to have company,’ Wendy said.

‘Who is she?’ I asked, grabbing Wendy by the arm.

‘She’s just someone in need of some friends and a chat every now and then,’ she replied.

‘Wendy, I am sure she is, but wouldn’t it be better to find someone her own age?’ Gladys said.

‘Let’s go in,’ Wendy said, walking in first.

I was confused and also a little frustrated. I had been looking forward to going into town. Wendy making new friends was fine with us, but she needed to find some who weren’t old enough to be her grandmother.

Inside, the house was stunning, with beautiful polished jarrah floors. The formal dining room had a large table that sat six people. The glass display cabinet with plates, saucers, and cups looked so expensive, I imagined it would be seen only in a rich person’s home. The kitchen was so clean, I had first thought she had never used it before. It had a wood fire stove almost twice as big as my parent’s one and a refrigerator that looked like it had been bought the day before. The outside was deceiving; it looked small but was, in fact, a very big home inside, much too big for someone her age. We sat down, and she brought out a jug of lemonade.

‘This is my own recipe. You will not taste anything like it elsewhere. In all this excitement, I forgot to tell you my name. It’s Catherine O’Brien. But you all can call me Cath.’

‘This is Gladys and Pat. Cath is from Dublin. She has been here a long time,’ Wendy said.

Gladys and I remained silent initially. We were still dumbfounded as to what we were doing there. This was noticed by Cath, and she put our minds at ease.

‘Girls, I can see you are a little concerned. I saw Wendy walk past my house crying one day, and I asked her to come in and tell me what was wrong. She told me all about her father. Back home in Dublin, I experienced something similar. My father drank more than he should have. One day he stumbled home drunk and was hit by a horse and cart. He was killed, and I was raised by my mother and elder sister.’

‘Are your mother and sister still alive?’ I asked.

‘No, young lady. I am the only one left. I came here when I was 22, right after my mother passed away. My sister did not want to move her family here, so she stayed there.’

‘What did you do here?’ Gladys asked, sipping her lemonade.

‘I became a midwife. I delivered so many babies, I really lost count,’ she replied, smiling at me.

The more she spoke, the more interesting we found her to be. She spoke about her travels to London, Paris, Berlin, and many other places. Gladys was so fixated on her when she spoke about Europe. I was too, and when she told us about the food, the people, and the landmarks, I wanted to jump on a ship then and leave.

‘When we have enough money, we are all going to do what you did,’ Gladys told her.

‘Oh, my dear, you are much too young right now. When you are older, I am sure you will experience everything this wonderful world has to offer. I myself have thought about returning many times. I never had any regrets leaving to come here, but I feel I have done all I can, and it is time to go back to Ireland.’

She showed us very old photos of her family, becoming a little emotional at times. She also had a very good sense of humour and used it to make Wendy smile. Wendy would always get a little sad when others spoke about their families.

‘I wish I could convince my father that there is more to life than drinking,’ Wendy said, looking at the photos.

Cath held her hand. ‘If I saw your father, it would take me all but two minutes to convince him that there were. If I failed, then at least he would go home very sore and bruised.’

We laughed, and when she brought out some homemade biscuits, we stuffed ourselves silly. I wondered why Wendy had never mentioned Cath to us earlier. I suppose she thought we would not come with her. She was probably right. Many, including my parents, may think that a woman of her age who wanted to spend time with three young girls was strange. She seemed very genuine and sincere in wanting to help Wendy. She spoke to us a little more about Europe and informed us that the big dreams we had would only come true with hard work and determination.

‘These biscuits are wonderful. I would love to give my mother the recipe,’ I told her as I helped myself to some more.

‘My dear friend who is no longer with us gave me the recipe. When one cooks for themselves for so long, it is hard to know if it is any good or not.’

‘You never married?’ Gladys asked.

‘I once met a young man from a wealthy family. When they found out I had come from a poor home in Ireland, I never saw him again. Oh, how I wish I had children, but I won’t allow myself to dwell on the past. Life is much too short for that, young ladies.’

She, in such a quick period, had come to mean something different to each of us. To me, she reminded me of my grandparents. To Gladys, she was everything she wanted to be in life, and more importantly, to Wendy, she was the love and attention that was missing from her own family. It was truly a wonderful start to the weekend.

Chapter 2

C ath was the type of person who made you feel you could do anything. If a person wasn’t sure what they wanted to do in their lives, then after talking to her, they would soon want to find out. We finally saw on Wendy’s face a smile that wasn’t just for show. Gladys and I had often told her to smile despite what she was going through. It always looked so fake, but with Cath, we both knew it was sincere. Cath took a photo and showed it to Gladys.

‘That’s me. Do you know what is in the background?’

‘Of course, I do,’ Gladys replied very excitedly.

She showed it to Wendy and me, and we too knew where she was standing. In the background was Buckingham Palace. Cath told us she had spent several days in London before sailing to Australia. We were so envious and wanted to hear more, but we had to go home. I needed to be back at a certain time, and that was fast approaching. We thanked and said our goodbyes to Cath. She told us her home was always welcome to us.

Wendy wanted to go into town alone. She did not seem quite herself. Neither of us blamed her for not wanting to return home. We just did not want to see any bruises on her face the next time we saw her. I tried to talk her out of it, but she was a stubborn girl at times. If I did not have to go home, I would have gone into town as well.

‘By now, everything is closed. Would you please just go home and get some rest?’ I told Wendy.

‘Maybe she will let me live with her. Oh, how happy I would be there with Cath! Walking into a house without being yelled at by a drunken man is something I want so much,’ Wendy said, looking like she had so many things on her mind.

She was happy inside Cath’s home, but leaving, she was the exact opposite. It was a great idea for Wendy to live there, but her father would have been against that. If he finds out about Cath, who knows what he may do to her? Gladys told her to go home and said we would see her at school on Monday.

‘I need some fresh air,’ she replied, walking away quickly towards the town.

Gladys and I stood and watched her walk away. Even though it may have meant me being punished for being late, I wanted to follow her. In the end, I decided not to and said my goodbyes to Gladys. I then made my way home. I was only fifteen minutes late, but still, that had angered my mother.

‘When we give you a time to be home, that is when you arrive, not later.’

‘Sorry, Mother. There were so many people in town, it took us much longer to leave,’ I replied.

My father didn’t really care. He was reading the newspaper, shaking his head at the cricket scores. ‘Such a talented team, and they have not won a game in months. I think we should go and watch a match next week. What do you say, darling?’

‘Yes, Father, but only if Wendy and Gladys can come with us. Then we can all be bored together,’ I replied, smiling at him.

‘Remember, we are all going to Alice’s birthday next Saturday,’ my mother said.

Alice was my parents’ goddaughter. My father and her father had gone to school together and had been friends ever since. He also worked on the docks, and her mother was a stenographer. Both Mona and I rarely saw them. My father often asked why I didn’t spend much time with Alice. We were the same age, after all. Truth be told, she was a tattletale, and if she knew what us girls did, then it would not have taken long for my parents to find out.

She was also very dull. The last time my father had tried to get us to do something, she sat in the milk bar, eating for an hour. She was a chubby girl and stopped often to regain her breath every time she walked. A normal walk into town took ten times longer with her – not that her weight had anything to do with it, mind you. She just needed to learn how to keep secrets. Alice, luckily for me, did not go to my school.

Monday mornings meant the start of our school routine for the week: get up around 6:00 a.m. and wash ourselves and then prepare our own lunches. Mother made us make everything; she said it was good experience for later in life. She taught us cooking, cleaning, and basic sewing. I was never just going to be a housewife, but it was always good to know the simple things. I always washed first; Mona took the longest, and I hated waiting for her to make herself look pretty.

It was not a long walk to school, about fifteen to twenty minutes or so. It was an all-girls school, and even though the teachers were very strict, I enjoyed going. I had a few ideas about what I wanted to do in my life. Of course, things favoured men in those days. Maybe a teacher or even a lawyer – I had some time to think about it.

Mona never talked much about that sort of thing. I always imagined she would be an actress, going to Hollywood from a land far, far away and being noticed everywhere she went. Mona was always in plays at school, which I had to sit through sometimes and watch.

‘A girl from Fremantle makes it in Hollywood and becomes rich and famous,’ I always said.

She always replied I was dreaming, but in fact, she was very good on stage, showing no nerves at all.

Wendy wanted to marry a doctor and become his secretary; however, with the way she used the typewriter, one letter would take her all day to type. Gladys, of course, had no career in mind then; she just wanted to travel and see where life took her.

Mona and I began our walk to school dressed in our black-and-white uniforms. We walked close to each other, unlike some other siblings. Big sisters often walked in front, not wanting to be seen with them for some reason. Mona had no problems at all with me walking next to her. Gladys and Wendy would sometimes join us, and that morning, only Gladys did. She ran up behind me, trying to scare me.

‘Stop it, and where is Wendy?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know. She probably is already at school,’ she replied.

As we got nearer to the school, a boy approached us and asked Mona if he could escort her the rest of the way, and she said yes. They both walked away, with him carrying her books. The boy’s school was not far from ours. From what I had heard, their teachers were much stricter. Mona said some boys had been caught looking at the girls during physical education, and they were caned a short while later.

‘You know, some boys really are stupid. She could make him carry her on his back if she asked,’ I said.

‘I want to go on your back,’ Gladys replied, trying to jump on me.

‘Go away! You know I am fragile.’

‘I have an idea. Let’s miss school today and go to town.’

‘You really do like trouble, don’t you?’ I replied.

‘I am not well. Cough, cough,’ she said very unconvincingly. ‘Quick, Pat, feel my head.’

She pulled me in the other direction, and I tried to pull away, but she was stronger.

‘Come on, Pat,’ she said, laughing, eventually letting go.

We walked fast, laughing most of the way to school. She poked her tongue out, saying I had no sense of adventure. I shook my head and walked just a little behind her. I did not want her jumping on my back and injuring me. She came close and put her arm around me and began talking about the photo of Cath in London.

‘You know, Pat, we could go there and have tea with the King and Queen.’

‘Oh yes, of course. I am sure they will let us just stroll in and do as we wish. Perhaps they will allow us to stay there and be waited on hand and foot,’ I replied sarcastically.

‘Your Majesty, I would like two crumpets with my tea, and please serve them to me on your best and most expensive silver tray,’ she replied, laughing.

‘You are a silly girl, Gladys,’ I told her, giving her a small hug.

She often made me smile. Her sense of humour could brighten anyone’s day.

Our school’s design was a reminder of days gone by, with limestone walls and creaky wooden floors inside. The garden was beautifully kept, and we had a large oval to run and play sport on. We often used the same room for our classes with a few exceptions. That morning, our first class was history, and Wendy was nowhere to be seen.

‘Good morning, class!’ our teacher, Mrs Beaumont, shouted.

‘Good morning, Mrs Beaumont!’ we all shouted back.

The empty seat where Wendy sat was noticed by her, and she asked me where she was.

‘I don’t know, Mrs Beaumont. She said nothing to me about not coming today,’ I replied.

She was angry because if a student was to miss class, then her parents needed to advise the school. I was a little worried, as was Gladys. I could tell that when she looked at me. Mrs Beaumont was the only teacher who allowed us three to sit together. We would sometimes chat amongst ourselves, and that annoyed our other teachers. She reminded us every now and then that if we talked too much, we would be separated.

Mrs Beaumont had a unique style of teaching and could be a very entertaining teacher, to say the least. For example, when she spoke about the Great War, she would make the sound of the bombs or gunfire. She wanted to recreate a certain moment using her not-so-good sound effects. How none of us laughed was beyond me, but it was an effective teaching method because almost everyone enjoyed her class and received good grades. I was also amazed she was allowed to do that. A majority of our teachers were very serious and rarely laughed.

It was just a very quiet class that time. We revised what we had learnt the previous week. I was distracted about where Wendy might have been. I could not focus at all. When the class ended, we hoped she would be in the next one, being typing. Typing was one of the classes where we had to go to a different building. It was one of the biggest and oldest rooms in the school, and as such, many things needed to be fixed.

Typing was supposed to prepare us for life after our education. I and a few others found it demeaning; they thought all we may be good for was being a secretary of some kind. Again, Wendy was not there, and the teacher, Mrs Appleby, asked me why. She was unhappy about her absence when I told her I had no idea where she was. I doubted her father was in any condition to pick up the telephone.

Mrs Appleby would read out a paragraph, and we had to type