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.I pulled out my personal folder and carried the heavy bundle back to the principal's desk.I sat down in Miss Benson's chair and, with the help of the torch, began to check each page carefully.As I was fifteen and had now been at St.Hilda's for around twelve years, my file was necessarily thick.I was reminded of misdemeanors as long ago as wetting my bed, and several credits for painting, including the rare double credit for one of my watercolors that still hung in the dining room.Yet however much I searched through that folder there was no trace of anything about me before the age of three.I began to wonder if this was a general rule that applied to everyone who had come to live at St.Hilda's.I took a quick glance at the details of Jennie Rose's record.To my dismay, I found the names of both her father (Ted, deceased) and her mother (Susan).An attached note explained that Mrs.Rose had three other children to bring up and since the death of her husband from a heart attack had been quite unable to cope with a fourth child.I locked the cabinet, returned the key to the top left-hand drawer of Miss Benson's desk, switched off the pen torch, left the study and walked quickly up the stairs to my dormitory.I put the pen torch back in its rightful place and slipped into bed.I began to wonder what I could possibly do next to try and find out who I was and where I'd come from.It was as if my parents had never existed, and I had somehow started life aged three.As the only alternative was virgin birth and I didn't accept that even for the Blessed Mary, my desire to know the truth became irrepressible.I must eventually have fallen asleep, because all I remember after that is being woken by the school bell the following morning.When I was awarded my place at the University of Melbourne I felt like a long-term prisoner who has finally been released.For the first time, I was given a room of my own and was no longer expected to wear a uniform not that the range of clothes I could afford was going to set the Melbourne fashion houses afire.I remember working even longer hours at university than I had done at school, as I was apprehensive that if I didn't pass my first year general papers, they would send me back to spend the rest of my days at St.Hilda's.In my second year I specialized in the history of art and English while continuing with painting as a hobby, but I had no idea what career I wanted to pursue after leaving university.My tutor suggested I should consider teaching, but that sounded to me rather like an extension of St.Hilda's, with me ending up as Miss Benson.I didn't have many boyfriends before going to university, because the boys at St.Hilda's were kept in a separate wing of the house and we were not allowed to talk to them before nine in the morning and after five o'clock at night.Until the age of fifteen I thought kissing made you pregnant so I was determined not to make that mistake, especially after my experience of growing up with no family of my own.My first real boyfriend was Mel Nicholls, who was captain of the university football team.Having finally succeeded in getting me into bed he told me that I was the only girl in his life and, more important, the first.After I had admitted it was true for me too and lay back on the pillow Mel leaned over and began to take an interest in the only thing I was still wearing."I've never seen anything quite like that before," he said, taking my little piece of jewelry between his fingers."Another first.""Not quite." He laughed."Because I've seen one very similar.""What do you mean?""It's a medal," he explained."My father won three or four of them himself but none of them's made of silver."Looking back on it now, I consider that this particular piece of information was well worth losing my virginity for.In the library of the University of Melbourne there is a large selection of books covering the First World War, biased not unnaturally towards Gallipoli and the Far East campaign rather than the D Day landings and El Alamein.However, tucked away among the pages of heroic deeds performed by Australian infantrymen was a chapter on British gallantry awards, complete with several colored plates.I discovered that there were VCs, DSOs, DSCs, CBEs, OBEs the variations seemed endless until finally on page four hundred and nine I found what I was searching for: the Military Cross, a ribbon of white watered silk and purple horizontal stripes and a medal forged in silver with the imperial crown on each of its four arms.It was awarded to officers below the rank of major "for conspicuous gallantry when under fire." I began to hypothesize that my father was a war hero who had died at an early age from terrible wounds.At least that would have explained his perpetual shouting as something that had been brought on by so much suffering.My next piece of detective work came when I visited an antiques shop in Melbourne.The man behind the counter simply studied the medal, then offered me five pounds for it.I didn't bother to explain why I wouldn't have parted with my prize had he offered me five hundred pounds, but at least he was able to inform me that the only real medal dealer in Australia was a Mr.Frank Jennings, of Number 47 Mafeking Street, Sydney.At that time I considered Sydney to be the other side of the globe, and I certainly couldn't afford to make such a long journey on my tiny grant.So I had to wait patiently until the summer term when I applied to be scorer for the university cricket team.They turned me down on account of my sex.Women couldn't really be expected to understand the game fully, it was explained to me by a youth who used to sit behind me in lectures so that he could copy my notes.This left me with no choice but to spend hours of practice on my ground strokes and almost as many on my overhead smash until I was selected for the ladies' second tennis team
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