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her youthful sensitivities. Just as Miss Grainger’s comments about how good her work was felt like a pat on the head, Mrs Howard’s indifference made her feel scolded. When cleaning or dusting in a room that Mrs Howard was in, Elizabeth would fuss and work harder in the hope of being noticed. This only seemed to irritate Mrs Howard more. She would respond with a frustrated, “Come back and do that later.”
    The girl noticed that Mrs Howard was bitingly curt if her husband had just left, had just arrived or was about to leave. Elizabeth had been curious yet frightened of Mrs Howard from their first meeting but she was also intrigued by the fine bone features and luminous skin with soft trails of veins, like a fragile flower petal. She was fascinated by the silky flowing floral cloth that hung softly over Mrs Howard’s twig-like figure. Elizabeth had been surprised that Mrs Howard was not much older than Miss Grainger; she seemed to be made from a totally different material. For Elizabeth, it was easy to work out; everyone at home was descended from different animals. Elizabeth was dinewan * , and so was her mother. But her father was biggibilla, echidna. Elizabeth thought, even though she was white, that Miss Grainger was like a rabbit and Mr Howard was like a fox and Peter was like a camp dog and Mrs Carlyle had been like a sheep. Mrs Howard didn’t seem to be made from anything. It was as though she had come from thin air.
    * dinewan = emu
    But it was Mr Howard’s presence that filled Elizabeth with an anxious anticipation. He was tall and muscular, with tawny features and eyes a colour Elizabeth had never seen before, the stagnant green of slow-moving water. They would sweep past her, sparingly acknowledging her — she could have been painted into the fine patterned wallpaper. Like Miss Grainger, her eyes would follow his figure as he moved past, though Miss Grainger’s stare lingered.
    Elizabeth had little chance to explore the town, except when doing errands for Miss Grainger. At those times, she enjoyed the walk amongst the banks, stock companies, and hotels housed in wattle and daub with corrugated-iron roofs and plaster surfaces ruled to give the impression of masonry or bricks.
    She was, on occasion, sent to the Chinaman’s store for forgotten or newly needed provisions. She felt trepidation when face to face with the Chinese shopkeeper. His abrupt speech sounded like a barked order.
    Elizabeth would not have been nearly as brave had the shop owner’s daughter not been there. Behind the crowded rows of food, the large canvas bags of flour, the large crates of oils and the tins of tea leaves, the girls would talk timidly.
    â€œYou’re new here,” the Chinese girl said to her on Elizabeth’s first unaccompanied trip to the store.
    â€œYes. I’m at the Howard’s house. I work there.”
    â€œIt is so big.” The Chinese girl said, her eyes widening, “What is it like inside?”
    â€œWell, there are lots of glass and shiny things. A big chandelier and the biggest table decoration you ever saw.”
    â€œYou’re lucky to live there.”
    â€œWell, the part I live in is like one of those crates over there. And all those fancy lights and ornaments, they just make for more dusting.”
    The girls’ giggles quickly escalated into laughter.
    The Chinese girl had two names, Elizabeth would learn. She was ’Helen Chan’ for white people but was born ’Chan Xiao-ying’. Helen’s secret name was like music. Xiao-ying, like a soft breath, was much more captivating than Helen, just as ’Garibooli’ was to ’Elizabeth’. The language Xiao-ying spoke with her father was Cantonese. When he used the language he knew best, his voice softened and he would appear a calmer man than the one who spoke English.
    The physical differences between Xiao-ying’s family and her own fascinated Elizabeth. They