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people had mobile phones, and what they did have were the size of bricks.
    Nausea roiled in my stomach for several mornings and then I realised my period was two months late. The morning after the doctor confirmed my pregnancy, I became so sick I almost staggered into the street to ask a passer-by to call an ambulance. Jemima, my flatmate at the time and James’s cousin, arrived home unexpectedly, burst into the bathroom and caught me heaving over the toilet. I was a mess. My nose ran and eyes streamed from the effects of a roaring cold. After a brief but successful inquisition, she couldn’t get to his parents fast enough to tell them all about it.
    They arrived at our flat later that day. James’s father, Sir Randall, smiled sincerely when I answered the door. Lady Margaret, the old bitch, barged past and looked around with flint-eyed scorn. They listened to my confession with great interest and then suggested they get in touch with James and tell him I was ill. Randall comforted me. ‘Perhaps he’ll be able to come back early,’ he said, patting me on the arm. He offered to go out and ring James; naively, I accepted.
    Randall hadn’t been gone two minutes, before Margaret, who was no lady when it suited her, took the opportunity to vent the hatred and scorn which previously found outlet in sly put downs. This is Eloise, our colonial friend.
    ‘You can’t imagine we would allow our son to ruin his career by marrying a common little upstart like you? You’re getting on a plane back to Australia and never contacting him again. We’ll make sure of it.’
    The accusations turned ugly. ‘How do we know it’s our son’s child? Jemima swears she’s seen you with other men. Jemima and her friends will soon let James know you’ve been playing around behind his back.’
    ‘No, no! That’s not true. It’s James’s baby,’ I croaked.
    ‘Who do you think he’ll believe? Oh no, we’ve got plans for our son and they don’t include you!’
    Randall arrived back shaking his head in sorrow. James, he reported, was horrified by the news and needed time to come to terms with it. He suggested I return home and he would follow later when he cleared some business matters and sorted things out at Cambridge. We’d decide what to do then.
    Even I, the dippy, ever-hopeful innocent, recognised the brush-off. Any confidence our relationship would recover after our argument and his ten days of silence evaporated like mist in the indescribable pain of betrayal. Ill and heartbroken, I became putty in the expert hands of his parents. I should have refused to go until I could talk to James face-to-face. But then, remembering his rejection, would coax myself into believing it had all worked out for the best, including my fairytales, carefully constructed to protect Ally—or myself.
    My eyes flew open. Had my mobile vibrated? I flipped open the cover and shaded the screen. No missed calls. I forced back tears of disappointment. ‘She’ll be home when I get to Brisbane. It will all have been a mistake,’ I told myself, clinging to a fragile control.
    Perspiration prickled under my armpits. I kicked off the blanket and switched on my reading light. 5 am, with an hour left to travel. Bracing myself against the movement of the coach, I staggered to the toilet. My frightened eyes stared at me in the minuscule mirror, tangled hair falling out of its customary knot. My mouth, a blotchy red gash in the harsh light, bore testimony to every one of my forty-five years. Tears trickled down my cheeks.
    As a very small child I had attended church, but only because Mother wanted to show off her extensive number of flowered hats and play the organ for the service. Incongruous, when I remember that she left my father for another man when I was five, but there in the lurching, smelly toilet cubicle of the coach, I prayed for Ally’s safety, hoping God would overlook my tendency to talk to Him only when I needed something.
    At the Transit Centre, I