Pip's mother lived in Newnham, which was very inconvenient of her. The bus wasn't due for half an hour, and Al was using his car. Pip decided to walk. She rolled up at her mother's place nearly an hour late, arranged her face in a dutiful expression, and pressed the bell. It rang out a ding-dong-ding, but at least it didn't play tunes, like her stepmother's bell.

There was no immediate answer, so Pip peered through the window. The state of the kitchen provided a pretty reliable guide to her mother's state of mind. It didn't look too bad today. Maybe Mum was round the back, doing something ineffectual to the garden. Pip was about to go and see when a man came into the kitchen. He had receding dark hair and a straggly ponytail, and she didn't know him. He looked startled to find himself practically nose to nose with Pip through the glass, but he grinned and waved her to the door.

Bloody cheek, she thought, but she came over and he let her in. "Hi--you must be Freedom," he said.

"Huh? I'm Pip. Who are you?"

"I'm a friend of your mum's."

"Oh, right," she said warily. "Is she sloshed again?"

"Huh?" It was a perfect echo of her own tone, but she didn't think he was joking.

"Has she got one of her headaches?"

"She's fine."

He sounded reproachful, but Pip shrugged. Her mother had been on the wagon for nearly a year but that didn't mean she wouldn't fall off again. Last time it had been an invitation to a reunion. Mum hadn't gone, but she'd come over all melancholy and drunk some cooking sherry. No harm done that time, but she'd been mortified when Pip had found the bottle.

"One day at a time," Pip had reminded her, but her mother had said wearily that there were too many days.

"Well, Freedom," said the stranger. "You've grown a bit since I saw you last."

Pip cringed. "Look, I've had a bad day and I don't want to play guessing games. Am I supposed to know you? And where's Mum?"

"On the phone to your gran. And I apologize for the fatuous remark. There'd be something wrong if you hadn't grown."

He grinned at her, and Pip blinked. He'd cut the ground neatly from under her feet. Automatically, she stuck her finger in the potted African violet. Her mother was a compulsive over-waterer, but it seemed okay today.

"We met once before, Freedom," he added, "but you were a baby at the time, so you're forgiven for not remembering."

"My name's Philippa," she said loudly. "Or make that Pip. Are you sure you're not mixing me up with someone else? I mean--Freedom's my second name."

"Pretty sure. Pip. A pip off the old block." He yawned. "How's your dad these days?"

"Okay last time I saw him. Don't let me bore you."

"I'm not bored, just sleepy."

"Why? Just got out of bed?" Pip asked sourly.

"I just got out of jail."

Pip backed away and nearly knocked the African violet off the bench. It really wasn't her day.

The crash brought her mother out of the other room, her face pinched with exasperation. "Now what?"

"He's just out of jail," said Pip hollowly.

"I know," said her mother. "He usually is." She gave her visitor a decidedly unfriendly look. "Just what have you been saying to Philippa, Stefan?"

"About what?" asked Pip.

"About me."

"Nothing," said the man called Stefan.

"Fine," said Pip's mother. "Let's keep it that way, shall we? Philippa, will you bring in the coffee?"

There was a mild threat in her tone, so Pip held her tongue, for the present.

Part One: The Flaw

Chapter One

1979

"University is freedom," said Emma West from her seat in the bus shelter.

"If we get in," said Jenny Linton, and she and her cousin, Jan Moore, flopped down beside her. "Budge up, Em. There's a splinter this end,"

"If we get in," echoed Emma, moving along as requested.

"Stop bulling, Emma," Gina Robertson said scornfully. "Everyone knows you'll shit it in. Youse lot always do."

"What do you mean--my lot?"

"You know." Gina grinned and went off as her bus arrived, but Emma didn't know, exactly. She knew she would get in. So would Jenny, and so would Jan, but it wasn't done to say so aloud. Not when most of their contemporaries aspired to nothing more than ringing tills at the local Coles Variety Store. Australia was supposed to be a classless society, but everyone was supposed to know where they fitted in. Did they listen to ABBA, Bach, or Slade Alive? Did they watch Charlie's Angels or soap operas or documentaries? Did they read paperback romances or Proust?

They were all supposed to know their places, but Emma didn't know. She had one place when she was with her grandparents, and another when she was with her contemporaries. Sometimes she wondered what she would have chosen if left to herself. Sometimes she wondered if she'd even exist if left to herself. "University is freedom!" she said again, convincing herself.

"Nothing's free," Jenny said. "Otherwise, why are we going fruit-picking?"

"Are you?" Emma asked. "Why?"

"Jan and I've decided to share a house in Hobart instead of living in."

"Won't that cost a lot?" said Emma. "Gran says..."

"That's why we've got to work, nit," Jan said. "To get a head start on the rent and stretch our studentships."

"You've got it all worked out," Emma said.

"We had to," Jan reminded, "but I don't s'pose you have to bother."

You. You lot. There it was again! First from Gina, now from Jenny and Jan, whom she supposed were part of her 'lot'. "It sounds like fun," she said. "Do you think I could come?"

Jan and Jenny glanced at one another. "If you like," said Jenny. "You'd have to pay your own way of course."

Emma smiled. A summer spent fruit-picking with Jenny and Jan was a big advance on a summer with Gran and Granda.

"Come and have a drink, and we'll fill you in on what you'll be letting yourself in for," Jan said.

"But the bus is coming."

"We can always catch a later one."

Grace West had not been to university herself, but her son Perry had. Therefore it was obvious that Emma should go, too. For years Grace had made sure Emma had every advantage. Education, deportment classes, ballet lessons, braces on her teeth ... Grace had arranged it all. Emma had matriculated handsomely; now she must spread her wings.

Occasionally, it crossed Grace's mind that Emma might meet the wrong class of person at university, but there were plenty of that kind right there in Shepherd Town. Persons such as Gina Robertson ... Grace could scarcely bring herself to acknowledge the existence of the Gina Robertsons of this world. In her opinion, young women like Gina would have been much better employed keeping their mouths shut if they couldn't learn to handle the English language with more felicity. Grace's grasp of the language was excellent. She never lied, but she could imply much more than she said, and conceal facts between the lines of the few letters she wrote to friends.

In her younger days, Grace had been an inveterate correspondent, but Emma's advent had changed that. Grace knew benefits had to be paid for, and the price of Emma had been the loss of her former life. She had paid it without flinching, paid with a sudden but plausible change of address. Purposely, she had lost touch with friends and relations. Apart from her husband Roderick, the only link she retained with her old life was Mary Tregellan, and Mary lived safely on the other side of the world.

Mary Tregellan, whom Grace had known for fifty years yet never actually met, was Grace's version of the rushes of King Midas' barber. A confessional, if you like, yet even Mary did not know everything about Emma. Nobody knew everything about Emma, and those who possessed pieces of the puzzle were unaware the puzzle existed.

Grace's long-distance friendship with Mary began in 1926, when the Empire was strong and most of the world regarded Australia as a semi-detached subsidiary of Britain. Grace's English schoolmistress arranged for her girls to exchange letters with contemporaries from "Home." Most of the resulting correspondences withered, but the one between Grace from Sydney and Cornish Mary endured, faithfully recording their passage to adulthood, their marriages, and the births of their children. The correspondence was interrupted once by the war, and once (and almost finally) by the sudden death of her son, Perry, at the age of twenty-two.

Still reeling, Grace had opened Mary's latest letter to find a loving description of Mary's latest grandchild. Crumpling the letter, she realized Perry's death had robbed her not only of her one child, but of her personal stake in the future. There was no solace anywhere, for apart from distant cousins, she had had no-one but her husband, her son and his bride.

The blow was bitter, and if it hadn't been for Emma's advent, Grace might never have written to Mary again. But Emma had come, and Grace yielded to an urge to justify her actions to herself. Being Grace, she did this so obliquely that Mary failed to read between the lines and assumed Emma's mother and father died together in the accident--an assumption Grace never wished to correct.

Emma had changed everything, and, with a cot at her side and small clothes drying by the fire-side of her new home, Grace had taken up her pen.

My dear Mary,

As you will see, I write from a new address. We have been considering a move for some time, and circumstances have forced our hands.

You may have wondered at my long silence. Not only have we relocated to another state, but I have suffered the most devastating loss that can come to any mother. Perry and his wife are dead. The authorities say that the fault lay entirely with the driver of the other car, yet the fact remains that Perry and Dottie were killed instantly while the culpable driver survived with barely a scratch.

I can scarcely take it in, and can scarcely bear to speak of it ... there is nothing left to us but memories--and Perry's daughter Emma, whom we have brought to live with us.

Roderick and I may be a little mature to take on parenthood a second time around, but I can see no reason why Emma should not thrive in our care. We are the only responsible family she has ... Emma is a lovely child; the exact image of Perry at the same age.

This careful version of the facts, with its assumptions and evasions, was as close as Grace had come to confession, and for years she had even been a little vague about Emma's age. If Mary chose to assume the orphaned granddaughter was a babe in arms, who was Grace to disabuse her? Her duty was to protect her family from rumor and speculation, and she had carried out that duty relentlessly for nearly seventeen years.

The letter she was writing today drew heavily on Emma's doings, just as letters of two decades before had drawn on Perry's.

Emma has done very well, she wrote, and next year will take up her place as an Arts student at the University of Tasmania. Had she wished, she could have aspired to any university in the country, but Emma prefers to remain close to her grandfather and myself...?

Emma hurried up the neat, pansy-bordered path of 11 Victoria Close. She was late, and Grace would want to know why. Grace always wanted to know why.

"Of course you may go out with your friends, Emma," Grace said calmly, and often. "You are of age. However, it's only courteous to let me know if you will be delayed."

"Sometimes things come up."

"Telephone," Grace responded. "Courtesy costs very little."

Grace was right, but Emma longed for freedom. Other girls shared flats in the city, went on dates, drank regularly in pubs, and made their own decisions ... well, and so would she, once she escaped the influence of Grace and Roddy and Shepherd Town. She sighed. Grace was old-fashioned, but you had to make allowances for grandmothers. And Roddy was a dear.

Grace was making afternoon tea. Only the slightest downward quirk of her mouth and the tiniest glance at her wristwatch showed her displeasure.

"Hello, Gran," Emma said. "I'm sorry if I'm a bit late. I stopped off for a drink with some friends." With the best will in the world she couldn't keep the defiance from her voice.

"A drink?" Grace's busy hands never faltered as she set out glasses and a plate of thinly sliced fruitcake.

"Tinned orange juice, that's all." Emma hated her conciliatory tone, but Grace had caught her wrong-footed again and forced her into a lie. Well, a partial lie. She had drunk tinned orange juice, but it had been pretty well laced with vodka. It wasn't illegal, and she had enjoyed the effect. She wasn't in the least bit drunk, but the plans she had made with Jenny and Jan were bubbling like alcohol in her brain. Freedom...?

"It's full of preservatives," Grace said. "Off you go and have a shower. You look flushed. You hadn't forgotten we're going out to dinner tonight?"

Emma told herself sternly that vodka had no taste and therefore could have no smell. Grace could not have detected it on her breath. Nevertheless, she was glad to escape to the bathroom.

She stood under the shower for a long time, shaving her legs and soaping herself with Grace's Lime Fresh. She shaved her armpits, then wrapped herself in two towels and went to review her wardrobe. The blue cotton dress with the tiny pie-frill collar had been pressed and laid out by Grace. Emma sighed and put it on. The years of dressing to please Grace were all but over now. In a few days she'd taste Life with Jenny and Jan. She could eat what she wanted, drink what she wanted, wear what she wanted, swear if she wanted ... She wished they could fly over Bass Strait, but the other two insisted on the ferry--she just hoped they'd agree to a cabin. She didn't want to sit on deck all night as they went through the Rip. Freedom beckoned, but you needn't be seasick to be free.

As she brushed her hair she gazed at the studio portrait of her parents, taken just before their marriage. They looked so young, and so ridiculous. Perry had an Elvis Presley quiff and Dorothy had a Doris Day bow in her hair...?

The ambience of her grandmother's favorite restaurant crushed Emma's spirit. The cheese was served, and suddenly she knew if she didn't speak now, she never would. "About this summer," she said jerkily. Her eyes rested on Grace's hands, dealing expertly with a wedge of oozing Camembert. "I've decided to go on a working holiday with Jenny Linton and her cousin. Earn some money for uni."

Grace put down the knife. "That's not necessary."

"I'd like to," said Emma. "And I can get a studentship too--I could easily live on that. Jenny says you get seventy five dollars a week."

"You'd be bonded to teach for a year afterwards," Grace pointed out.

"So what?"

"It would be awkward if you marry."

"Come on, Gran! I've never even had a boyfriend."

"The boys must walk round with their eyes shut," Roddy said.

"Anyway, I'm going fruit-picking."

"No, Emma."

Emma controlled herself with an effort. "Gran, you can't just say no like that. I'm not a child!"

"I realize that, but you'll be working hard at university. Leave this job for someone who needs the money."

"I need the money. You see--I'd like to share a house in Hobart."

"Don't be ridiculous," Grace said.

Emma opened her mouth, but Roddy held up his hand. "I suppose your gran hasn't told you yet, Emmie, but we're all going for a bit of a holiday after Christmas."

"Really?"

"You see, it might be our last chance to go away together."

"What do you mean?" She was instantly alarmed.

"Once you've spread your wings you won't have so much time for us," Roddy said simply.

"Granda, I'll always have time for you." Emma patted her grandfather's hand.

Grace picked up the knife again. "Well, Emma? Do you wish to come with us, or shall I cancel our bookings?"

"Of course I'll come," said Emma.

And wasn't that just like Grace? She might have mentioned this holiday before. Now Emma would have to make her excuses to Jenny and Jan.

On Boxing Day the Wests flew to Adelaide and took a tour of the Barossa Valley. Emma enjoyed it (though she did get a little tired of vineyards and wineries and historic homes) but occasionally she thought regretfully of the fruit-picking expedition. If only she could have done both! But Jenny and Jan were leaving in a few days. Maybe she could have arranged to catch up with them, but it was so much hassle. And--if she'd really wanted to go fruit-picking, she'd have gone--wouldn't she? Grace couldn't have stopped her.

There's a flaw in my character, Emma told herself as they toured yet another vineyard. There must be. I didn't even argue.

"Roddy West! My God!"

Roddy beamed and shook hands with the man who had hailed him. "Good Lord! Blue Walker!"

Emma stared at the small man, who had a frill of reddish hair around his crown like a monk's tonsure. Roddy looked very pleased to see him, but he was a complete stranger to her. Had he and Roddy been old army mates? School friends? Cousins, even? She was about to go and ask Grace when Roddy reached out to draw her into the conversation. "Blue, this is my granddaughter, Emma," he said with rather endearing (though embarrassing) pride. "Emma, this is an old friend from Sydney--Mr. Walker."

"Hello, Mr. Walker," Emma said.

"This will be...?" Blue Walker sounded uncertain.

"Emma is Perry's girl. You remember Perry." Roddy sounded a shade too hearty, as he always did when referring to his son. Emma's curiosity stirred. Aside from Grace and Roddy she had never met anyone who had known her parents.

"But I thought--wasn't young Perry..." Walker trailed off.

"He was killed when Emma was just a baby."

Walker winced. "Is Grace with you, Roddy?"

Roddy looked around. "She was just here a minute ago."

"She went into the winery," Emma supplied.

"Well--" The two men stared at one another, as if wondering what to do next. "Are you here long?" Walker asked. "Maybe we could have a drink later?"

"I'd like that," Roddy said, "but I'm not sure what Grace has in mind. Where are you placed?"

"We live half an hour away. Here--I'll give you our number." Walker pulled out a matchbook and scribbled down some figures. "Don't worry if you lose it--we're in the book. But why not come round tonight? We're having a bit of a gathering to see the New Year in, and I know Idy would like to see you and Grace again."

"We might at that!" Roddy slid the matchbook into the pocket of his beloved but disreputable old jacket, clapped his friend on the arm and went to find Grace. Emma would have followed, but Walker detained her. "How long have you lived with Roddy and Grace, then, Emma?"

"All my life," said Emma. "My parents died when I was a baby. Is anything wrong, Mr. Walker?"

"Not at all. I was just trying to place you--I can see you look like young Perry, now I know you're his daughter, but I expect you take after your mum as well?" Emma didn't respond, so he cleared his throat. "What was her name, now?" He clicked his fingers, as if trying to jolt a sluggish memory.

"My mother was called Dottie. Dorothy West."

"Of course. Dottie. Viv Muir's girl. I remember now." He shook his head, but his gaze seemed speculative. "Do you see your Muir grandparents at all?"

"No. I've never met them. They're both dead, I think."

"Not unless they've died since Christmas," Blue Walker said. "Idy had a Christmas card from Viv."

Emma was beginning to feel uncomfortable. "That's nice. Well. I really should find Gran and Granda. Goodbye, Mr. Walker. Maybe I'll see you tonight."

Blue Walker watched as the girl walked away. A pretty kid, but a bit of side to her. But what could you expect from a girl brought up by Grace West? Not that she'd done such a wonderful job on young Perry ... As he drove home, Walker wrinkled his forehead in thought. Perry West had been a bit of a lad, all right, even after he was engaged to Dottie. Hadn't he turned up at the local pub with some girl and come to blows with Richie Muir over it?

"You'll never guess who I ran into at the winery," he said, setting a crate of wine on his kitchen table.

"Who?" Idy Walker was a plump, still comely woman, with bright eyes and an inquisitive nose. She was busy cooking for the party, but she had time to spare for her husband's news.

"Roderick West. Remember him?"

"Of course." Idy slid a tray of vol-au-vents into the oven and began on a new one. "Dear old Roddy. How's he keeping?"

"He hasn't changed much. Seemed a bit tired, and he's lost some hair. Had his granddaughter with him."

Idy turned round.

"Name's Emma," Blue said. "Emma West."

Idy shook her head. "She can't be a granddaughter. She must be a niece or something. They never had any grandchildren."

"Roddy said she was his granddaughter. Said she was Perry's kid."

"But Perry and Dottie died during their honeymoon," Idy said. "I remember thinking it was such an irony, the wedding had been postponed twice and then that had to happen. And that's got to be--oh--sixteen or seventeen years ago. What does this girl look like?"

"Just like Perry--those round blue eyes and the butter-wouldn't-melt look. Light brown hair, curly. And a dimple. Perry had a dimple."

"Yes," Idy said dryly. "I remember he did. But he'd only been married a few weeks when he died."

"So his foot must have slipped. Oh well, I suppose it's their business, and they did get married in the end," Blue said. "I invited Roddy to bring the family over tonight, so maybe you can sort it out with Grace."

"They probably won't. But there's a funny thing. Viv Muir never said a thing about having a granddaughter. And surely I'd have known..."

Blue agreed. It was a little mystery, but he could trust his Idy to sniff out the truth.

Grace was not pleased when Roddy told her he'd met an old friend. "I hope you didn't tell him our address?" she said sharply as she applied her make-up in the motel room.

"He didn't ask for it," Roddy said.

"And of course you just had to introduce him to Emma..."

"Oh, come on, Grace--it can hardly matter after all this time. And don't you mention Emma in all those letters you write to Mary Whatsit? It's Emma this and Emma that, and why not?"

"Mary doesn't live in Sydney."

"Neither do the Walkers, now."

"They still have family in Sydney. For all you know, one of their children might even live in Chatswood. If that woman should come looking for Emma..."

"Not after all these years," Roddy said. "And if she did, would it be so very dreadful?"

"It would be a disaster for Emma."

There was a tap on the door and Emma put her head around the jamb. "What would be a disaster for Emma?"

Grace froze, then recovered. "I hope you latched your door?" she said.

"Of course. What would be a disaster for Emma?"

"Sharing a house in Hobart with a whole lot of others," Grace said. "That sort of thing leads to trouble--and always for the girls."

"I'd be with a lot of others in the residential hall," Emma said.

"That's different. There's safety in numbers, and the cubicles have locks on the doors."

"Are we going to that party at the Walkers' tonight?"

Grace blotted her lipstick. "I think not. The Walkers were pleasant enough, but they were hardly close friends, Emma, and I'm sure we'd have nothing in common with them now."

"Mr. Walker said he knew my parents," Emma went on pensively.

Grace rose. "Perhaps you should change into your blue frock. It is New Year's Eve, after all."

Emma went back to her own room. Of course, no decent person would eavesdrop, but the snatch of conversation she overheard before she knocked, coupled with Blue Walker's odd attitude, brought back an old memory.

She had been quite young--perhaps eight years old--when she found her birth certificate in Grace's deed-box. Her date of birth had been there, but instead of her parents' names it listed Grace's and Roderick's. Instinctively, she took her query to Roddy rather than Grace, and he explained that they had adopted her as a baby. They had done that because children without parents had to live in Homes, and Roddy and Gran wanted Emma to live with them. Now she was theirs, and no-one could take her away from them.

That had made her feel secure when she was eight, and the knowledge had faded into the background. It wasn't until later that she wondered why Roderick and Grace had bothered to adopt her officially. It seemed far-fetched that Social Services would have put her in an orphanage if her grandparents were willing to give her a home. In fact, the whole situation seemed unlikely.

As she stripped off her cheese-cloth shirt in the porridge-colored motel room, she pondered over the scraps of information. Perry and Dorothy West had died when she was very small. There was no mystery about that. She had never seen their graves, but that was because they were buried in Sydney. Grace and Roddy had lived in Sydney too, but after their son's death, Roddy had taken a job in Tasmania--a job from which he had retired five years ago. It wasn't very much, and some of it didn't quite fit in with what she had overheard.

"If that woman should come looking for Emma..."

What woman? Her other grandmother, perhaps? Blue Walker had said she was still alive.

Emma slid her blue dress over her head and brushed her hair. It was no use asking Grace. If Grace had wanted to discuss Emma's maternal grandmother with Emma, she would have done so years ago. It would have to be Roddy again.

The chance to clarify matters didn't come until after they returned to Tasmania. Grace went out, and Emma and Roddy were alone. "Granda, I need to ask you something about my parents," she said.

Roddy looked wary. "Your gran's the best person to talk about that to."

"Gran never answers questions she doesn't like! Look here, Granda, this is ridiculous. I need to know. Why did you adopt me?"

"Well--so you'd really be ours."

"That implies someone else wanted me. Was it my other grandparents? Mr. Walker said they were still alive."

With a shifty glance at the door, Roddy began to roll a cigarette. He was not supposed to smoke in the house, but he backslid now and again when Grace was out.

"Come on, Granda. Is that it? Did Grandmother Muir want custody instead? I heard Gran say that woman might be looking for me."

"So you heard that," Roddy said. "I was afraid you had. Why didn't you mention this then?"

"Because Gran had her No Trespassing signs out. Well?"

"There's nothing to worry about," Roddy said, "After your dad died it seemed best that you should live with us. More suitable."

Emma knew he was hiding something. "It seems odd that I've never met my other grandparents. They've never even sent me a card."

Roddy's face was a dull red. "We were never friends with them exactly. And once Perry and Dottie were gone, there was no reason for us to keep in touch."

"Wasn't I a reason?" Roddy shrugged. "It seems odd that Gran doesn't at least send them a Christmas letter," Emma said.

"You know how it is," Roddy said with a sigh. "Your gran's not ... not an easy person, and she thought it would be easier for you if you had a stable home. But you've never felt a lack, now have you? Your gran and me--we've loved you like our own child."

Emma nodded. So Grace had fallen out with Mrs. Muir. She could understand that. Grace fell out with a lot of people. Not noisily; that would have been vulgar; but coolly, politely and permanently.

But it's got nothing to do with me, thought Emma. Grace's prejudices have nothing to do with me, nor with Roddy either. She went back into her room. Roddy knew a lot more than he was saying, but he wouldn't go against Grace. And if Emma tried to pump Grace herself, she'd only stir up trouble for herself and for Roddy.

Frowning, she studied the familiar portrait on the dressing table. Difficult to think of those kids as her parents ... she knew a lot about Perry from things Roddy and Grace had said over the years, but if she wanted to know about Dorothy, she must contact Mr. and Mrs. Muir.

Emma had learned research skills at the secondary college, and she decided to apply these to the problem. It crossed her mind that Grace would be angry if she went behind her back, but what harm was there in finding her mother's family? It was odd that they'd never contacted her, and now she needed to know if the long silence had been their own decision, or if it had been something imposed by Grace.

She went to the post office and took down the Sydney telephone directory. Unfortunately, this contained several columns of Muirs, and she had neither address nor initials to help narrow it down. Directory Assistance would be no help either, for the same reasons. Emma replaced the book and thought hard. She supposed she could advertise in the newspapers, or even write to Australasian Post, but one avenue would be expensive and the other chancy. She had no idea which newspapers and magazines the Muirs took, and if Mrs. Muir were anything like Grace, she wouldn't have a saucy magazine like Post in the house. Clearly, advertising was a last resort.

The Adoption Agency was the next avenue to explore, since she supposed the Muirs' consent would have been needed. She crossed the street to a telephone booth. It took several ten cent coins and a few false starts, but she got through to Social Services in the end--and hit a brick wall. As soon as she mentioned the fact that she was an adopted child in search of information, the shutters came down with a bang.

"I don't need to know my real parents' names," Emma explained. "I know that already. I was adopted by my father's parents, and the people I'm trying to find are my other grandparents, my mother's parents. I know their surname, but I don't have a current address."

"I'm afraid we can't help you on that," said the voice. "Why not ask your adoptive parents? In the circumstances they should have some information."

"They've lost touch," Emma said. "If you could just give me a name and address--even a phone number would be great..."

"I'm sorry, but we are not at liberty to give out that kind of information."

"Their surname's Muir," Emma prompted, "And eighteen years ago they lived in Sydney."

"I'm sorry."

"So am I," Emma said between her teeth.

She'd never considered herself a particularly stubborn person, but the calmly reasonable voice of opposition roused her fighting spirit. It reminded her of Grace, patiently telling her why she shouldn't have something she wanted.

She made several other abortive telephone calls, and collected quite a file of information--most of which was negative. Most people genuinely didn't have the facts she needed, and those who had refused to divulge them. The Electoral Roll couldn't help her over the telephone, nor could the registrar of births, deaths, and marriages. She tried to find a telephone number for Blue Walker, who certainly knew her Grandmother Muir, but with such a common surname there were dozens of possibilities. That was far too many long-distance calls for her pocket.

The search took days, and became quite expensive, for she had to avoid calling from her grandparents' telephone. She went through pocketfuls of change, and waited, grinding her teeth and tapping her fingers, while switchboards asked her hold the line and then came back with polite negatives. To complicate matters more, she had applied to take her driving test before starting at uni, so she had to spend a good deal of time studying the Highway Code and piloting a nervous Roddy around the quieter streets of Shepherd Town.

It was quite by chance that she had the first piece of good luck, and having found it, she could have kicked herself for overlooking it for so long.

Grace had made one of her periodic wardrobe purges, garnering several cartons of clothes which Emma and Roddy were detailed to take to St Vincent de Paul. The sorting bins were near the post office, and Roddy made a murmur of distress when he recognized his favorite old jacket on the top of a pile.

"Why don't you keep it, Granda?" Emma asked.

"Your gran doesn't like it," Roddy said. "She reckons it's a disgrace."

"So what? It's yours. How would Gran like it if you threw out that horrible mauve cardigan she wears?" Emma picked up the jacket and shook it out. "See? Hardly a hole in it--let's put it in the back of the car, just in case you're cold sometime. Gran might easily forget she threw it out."

Roddy grinned. "I might just do that--but I'd better empty these cartons first." He began stuffing garments into the collection bin.

Emma tossed the jacket onto the front of the car to deal with later. It slid down, and as it did so, a matchbook fell out of the top pocket. Emma picked it up--and froze. It was the telephone number Blue Walker had given Roddy in South Australia. She'd forgotten about that--quickly, she put it in her shirt pocket, and went to help with the clothes.

It was agony to wait for Roddy to finish the errands on Grace's list. "I'll walk home, I think," she said as casually as she could. "I have to go to the library."

"Don't you want to have another driving practice?" Roddy asked. "Your test's next week."

"I know it backwards. I'll see you later, Granda."

She watched him drive away, then hurried to the telephone booth. She fed in some coins, propped the matchbook against the tattered phone book, and began to dial. The pips sounded and the call went through. It was the first chink in the polite stone wall.

"Hello?" It was a woman's voice, comfortable and unhurried.

"Hello." Emma's palms were sweating. "Is this Mrs. Walker?"

"Idy Walker. Yes?"

"My name's West. Emma West. You don't know me, but I met Mr. Walker a couple of weeks ago. I was with my grandfather--Roddy."

"At the winery?"

"Yes, that's right."

"What can I do for you, dear? You're not still in S.A.?"

"No, I'm back home now." The coin lamp was blinking, and Emma fed in more money. Was it her imagination, or was there a touch of reserve in the friendly voice? "Mr. Walker mentioned that you knew my mother's parents, the Muirs," she continued as the coins clanked home. "I was wondering--do you have their current address? Or better still, a phone number? We've lost touch, and I'd like to talk to them."

There was a slight hesitation on the other end of the line. "I have their number."

"Would you mind giving it to me?" Emma asked.

There was another pause.

"I tried to get it through Information," Emma said, "but I didn't have the address or even a first name so they couldn't help."

"I see," Idy said. "I can give you the number, Emma, but you should think seriously before you do anything rash."

"I only want to talk to them. Just to make contact, really, to find out a bit about my mother."

"I see. I'll tell you what I'll do, Emma. I'll give you their address, but I want you to talk to Grace and Roddy before you try to get in touch. Tell them what you've told me, and see if they have anything to tell you before you write. Just to be on the safe side."

"I've already talked to them about it," said Emma.

"And they couldn't help out with making contact?"

"Well--er--" Emma blushed, caught out in a lie.

"I see," Idy said once more, in a dry tone. "Grace wasn't too forthcoming. But you still want to go ahead?"

"Yes." At least that was true.

"They live in Sydney, and the suburb's called Willoughby. The people you want are Richard and Vivienne Muir. They live at 41b Laura Street..."

"Yes--I've got that." Emma scribbled it down. "Thank you, Mrs. Walker."

"Emma? Would it be too much to ask you not to mention my name? I'd hate Viv to think I hand out her name and address to all and sundry."

"Okay. I'm not going to harass them, Mrs. Walker. I just want to get to know the other side of my family." Emma hung up the phone, then copied the information into her notebook. She couldn't believe it had happened so easily.

Idy Walker was feeling guilty. "I should have pretended not to have the address, or at least given the girl some warning," she said to her husband.

"Queer turn-out, all right," Blue agreed. "You say she's already talked to Roddy and Grace about it?"

"She said she had, but evidently they couldn't--or wouldn't--help her get in touch."

"I'm not surprised," Blue said. "Do you think she'll go ahead?"

"I'd bet on it." She scraped a plate into the slops pail and ran water in the sink, splashing the soap-saver with unnecessary violence. "I don't know what Grace is playing at!"

"Why don't you ask her?"

"You forget," Idy said. "We have Viv's address, but not Grace and Roddy's. Even if I did get in touch, Grace would soon give me a flea in the ear."

"As it is, Viv will be giving it to you. Again."

"I asked the girl not to mention us." Idy turned off the taps. "It's a damned shame, Blue. She sounded like such a nice kid."

"Perry was a nice kid, too. That was half his trouble. But not to worry, Idy. Likely she'll take it with a pinch of salt."

It probably would have been more tactful to make the first contact in eighteen years by letter, but Emma decided to telephone instead. If she wrote, the reply might not come until after she left for uni. Grace or Roddy would see the letter, read the return address, and know she had gone behind their backs. Grace would be annoyed, and Roddy hurt. Then--perhaps the Muirs simply wouldn't answer a letter. After all, they could easily have found her, if they'd wanted. They knew Roddy's full name, and they'd had years to find the address. A letter was too chancy, and she couldn't stand the suspense.

Emma glanced at her watch. She had half an hour before she needed to walk home, so she'd make that call right now. She cashed a two dollar note in the shop. It was the last of her money, but if the call went as she hoped, she could ask her grandparents to ring her back.

She returned to the phone and dialed Information. "I'd like a number for Richard and Vivienne Muir, Laura Street, Willoughby."