A Lesson for Lina

by Sally Rippin

  ‘That’s good news. I look forward to working with you both next year. In the meantime, I have something for you.’ Sister Rosemary shuffled back and placed the package in Lina’s hands.

  Lina stared down at the gift. Really? Sister Rosemary has bought me a present? she thought in disbelief. Then as soon as she began to pull away the paper she knew what it was. A brand new copy of The Diary of A Young Girl by Anne Frank. Tears pricked the corners of Lina’s eyes and before she could stop herself, she rushed around the side of the counter and threw her arms around Sister Rosemary’s soft, thick waist. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘I will treasure it.’

  ‘Don’t go telling anyone, though,’ the nun said gruffly. ‘I can’t go around buying every girl at St Brigid’s their own book, all right?’

  Lina drew back and smiled.

  ‘Tea?’ Sister Rosemary said and Lina nodded.

  The two of them squeezed into the back office to drink tea from Sister Rosemary’s good floral teapot among the piles of books still to be covered then sorted and shelved. As she sipped her tea, Lina thought about how incredible it was that each and every one of those books, stacked neatly into towering piles, had a story nestled between the covers just waiting to connect with a reader, the way that Anne Frank’s story had connected with her. Could I write something one day that would change someone’s world the way that Anne Frank’s words changed mine? she wondered, caressing the cover of her new book. Without this book I may never have met Julia, or become friends with Sister Rosemary, or believed that a young person’s words could possibly make a difference.

  And as she gazed out the small office window towards the rose gardens blushing with multi-coloured blooms, nestled in the vast well-kept grounds of St Brigid’s, Lina felt so very thankful. Whenever I think my life is hard, she promised herself, I will think of Anne Frank, who never even had the chance to go to high school.

  ‘Oh,’ Lina said, suddenly remembering. ‘I wrote another story. I was hoping you might read it for me?’

  ‘Of course!’ Sister Rosemary said.

  Lina pulled the sheets of folded paper out of her bag and handed them over. ‘It’s only my first draft . . .’ she said, feeling suddenly shy, but Sister Rosemary was already skimming over the words at lightning speed.

  ‘My goodness!’ Sister Rosemary said. ‘This is excellent! What a story. Do you really know this young man? The Mysterious Chinese Boy, as all the papers are calling him?’

  Lina nodded.

  ‘What a story!’ Sister Rosemary said again. ‘And beautifully written. I love this part where you write about what a difference a letter can make. Oh, you’ll have to type this up and send it into the Age, my dear. They will most definitely want to publish it.’

  ‘Really?’ Lina said, feeling her heart jump about. ‘You think so? Do you think it’s a problem that I don’t say his name? He asked me not to tell anyone.’

  ‘Of course not! It’s an excellent story, just as it is. And a lot more interesting than all the other stories the Age has been running on this boy because it’s told from the perspective of a friend. As you’ve written here, his father says: It’s not important to know who it was that made a difference, only that a difference was made. That’s a great quote! Come back at lunchtime to type it up and I’ll prepare an envelope for you to send it off. Oh, there’s no doubt about it. You’re a true writer, my dear.’

  Lina felt her chest fill with pride. A true writer! she thought happily. Sister Rosemary thinks I’m a true writer. ‘Thank you, Sister!’ Lina said, jumping up as the school bell rang. She tucked the story back into her bag and ran out of the library to tell Julia.

  JULIA read Lina’s story and agreed with Sister Rosemary that it was good enough to send to the Age. The two girls spent their lunchtime in the library typing it up. Lina also typed a letter addressed to Stella Davis, and everything was folded neatly into a crisp white envelope with the St Brigid’s logo in the top corner. Lina kissed it once for luck and left it for Sister Rosemary to post. Now that the story was out of the way, it was time to study for exams.

  All that week, Lina and Julia sat side by side at lunchtimes, poring over their Maths books. They’d made a pact that even though Maths was their least favourite subject, they would try to pass it as well as they could. In the evenings, Lina studied alone in her room. Sometimes her thoughts would turn to the story about John, wondering if it had ever reached Stella Davis’s desk, but then she would force her mind back to her books, scolding herself for being so easily distracted. I’m going to have to do well at school, she reminded herself, if I want to be a journalist.

  One evening, Pa knocked on her door and poked his head around the doorway.

  ‘I’m off to work,’ he said. ‘How’s your study going?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Pa!’ Lina said, looking up from the textbook on her lap. She was sitting on her bed, all her books spread out around her. ‘I didn’t get the chance to read you the paper!’

  ‘No, no! You must study,’ her father said. ‘That’s much more important.’ He came in and stood beside her to look at the textbook she had open. ‘What’s the subject?’

  ‘Maths,’ sighed Lina.

  Her father scrunched up his face in sympathy. ‘Can’t help you there, I’m afraid. It was always my worst subject, too.’

  Lina smiled. She loved hearing how alike she and her father were.

  Papa hovered a little longer. ‘Are you okay studying here on your bed? You sure you don’t want to use the kitchen table?’

  Lina shook her head. ‘I can’t concentrate in there, with people coming in and out. I’m fine here. Really.’

  Her father smiled and stroked her hair. They both knew she was lying. They both knew that all Lina wanted was a room of her own with a little desk in it. A quiet place to write that she didn’t have to share with her grumbling old nonna, who complained if she kept the light on for too long.

  A room of her own and a typewriter were the two things Lina wished for every time the candles were blown out on a cake, a chicken bone was snapped or a dandelion was puffed away in the wind. But there was no point in fretting; Lina knew that having these things was as unlikely as blitzing her Maths exam without studying. She looked back down at her textbook.

  ‘Oh, I nearly forgot!’ her father said, slapping his forehead. ‘I didn’t just come in here to interrupt you and stare at your Maths book,’ he joked. ‘Here. It came today.’ He pulled out a crisp white envelope from the front pocket of his navy overalls. Even before he had handed it over Lina could see her name typed neatly across the front, the familiar logo in the corner.

  She gasped. ‘It’s from the Age!’

  Her hands trembled as she carefully unstuck the flap on the back of the envelope and gently eased out the crisp, folded paper from within. She skimmed over the typed letter to the name at the bottom. ‘It’s from Stella Davis!’ she gasped. ‘She wants to see me!’

  Lina’s father sat on the edge of her bed. ‘Really? How does she even know you?’

  Lina blushed. ‘I sent her a story I wrote,’ she said meekly.

  ‘Not the one about our family?’ her father said in surprise.

  ‘No, no. Of course not. I wrote another one. About the Olympics,’ she added quickly, which wasn’t exactly untrue.

  ‘That’s brilliant news, mia cara! Does she want to publish your story in the newspaper?’

  Lina read over the letter again. ‘Um, she doesn’t say that exactly,’ she said. ‘But she wants to meet with me to talk about it. She said I can go in to meet her at the Age this Saturday. At 10 a.m. Oh my goodness. That’s tomorrow! Oh dear! Will you take me, Papa? When you get home from work? You won’t be too tired?

  ‘Of course I will take you!’ her father said, pulling her into his big bear arms and squeezing her tight. ‘Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss it for the world! My daughter! The journalist!’

  ‘But we have the Christmas party at Julia’s tomorrow night, too, remember?’ Lina worri
ed. ‘When will you sleep?’

  ‘I can sleep in the afternoon. Don’t you worry about that. Oh my clever, clever girl! Just wait till I tell everyone at the car plant tonight. My brilliant daughter having her first article published in the newspaper!’ He kissed her hard on both her cheeks and squeezed her once again. ‘Ma!’ he called, as he dashed out of the room. ‘You’ll never guess what our clever daughter has done!’

  Lina sank back onto her pillow, the letter clasped to her chest, a smile so wide she felt her face might split in two. Stella Davis wants to meet me! Tomorrow! The Stella Davis! I can’t believe it! She had to pinch herself to check she wasn’t dreaming.

  THE next morning, Lina and her father were dressed in their best clothes long before it was time to leave. Lina was in her green chiffon dress and her father had on his Sunday suit, his hair slicked back and his hands scrubbed clean. Even though he hadn’t slept all night, his eyes shone as brightly as those of a young boy. ‘I told everyone at the plant,’ he said proudly. ‘They all wish you the best of luck, Lina. They’ll all be looking out for your name in the newspaper next week!’

  ‘I hope so,’ Lina said, happily. ‘Just imagine!’

  As they made for the front door she quickly ducked back into her room to check her reflection in her grandmother’s long, speckly mirror. Am I too dressed up? she worried. No. This will have to do. Unless I wear my school uniform I don’t have anything else as nice to wear. Oh, I do hope Stella will like me. And Pa. I can’t wait to tell her that he’s a journalist, too.

  They took a tram to Collins Street and arrived with plenty of time to spare. Lina looked up at the grand old building of the Age as they approached, the row of Australian and British flags flipping jauntily in the wind. Olympic banners still hung from the second-floor balcony and at the very top was the famous statue of Mercury, messenger of the gods, balanced precariously on one foot.

  Which floor is Stella Davis on? Lina wondered, looking up at the five levels of windows. Is she writing some important news story right this very moment? Lina felt a rush of anxious excitement, like a flood of icy water streaming through her veins, and she pulled at her gloves, which were sticking to her hands with sweat. She sensed her father was nervous, too. They had hardly spoken at all since they had left home, each of them lost in their own private thoughts.

  They walked up the steep brass-railed steps and through the enormous double doors into the foyer. Even from there, Lina could hear the noisy chatter of typewriters, the shouting of the copyboys and the clanging of the press. A thrill passed through her. It was exactly as she had imagined it would be.

  ‘Good morning?’ said the woman at the reception desk to Lina’s father. ‘May I help you?’ She raised a finely plucked eyebrow and brushed a manicured hand over her stiffly set curls.

  Her father shuffled backwards slightly, always uncomfortable when forced to speak English with strangers. He put his hand on Lina’s shoulder, gesturing for her to step forward with the letter. Lina had already pulled it from her handbag and she lay it on the desk in front of the woman.

  ‘We’re here to see Miss Stella Davis,’ she said nervously, pointing to the letter.

  The receptionist glanced down at the paper, then looked up and said briskly, ‘Second floor. Do you know which room is hers?’

  Lina shook her head and chewed her bottom lip. The woman’s face softened and she stood up, brushing down her skirt. ‘Follow me,’ she said, kindly. ‘My legs could do with a stretch anyway.’

  They walked up a wide staircase to the next floor, which was carpeted and quieter now they were away from the noisy production rooms. The receptionist led them along a corridor to a dark wood door with a frosted glass window set into it. Written across the glass in elaborate gold lettering were the words: Stella J. Davis. Lina took a deep breath as the receptionist opened the door and announced their arrival.

  Her father hovered in the doorway, but Lina whispered, ‘Please, Papa. Come in with me?’

  ‘You sure?’ her father mumbled. ‘There’s a seat out here in the corridor.’

  Lina nodded and took his hand. They stepped into the room as Stella looked up from the papers she had in front of her.

  Quickly, she stood up and strode around her desk, her hand stuck out in front of her. ‘Lina!’ she gushed, in a voice that was much deeper than Lina had expected. ‘And this must be your father?’ she said, shaking his hand firmly. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Gattuso. You have quite a writer in your family!’

  Lina looked to her father to see if he had understood, then said, ‘My father is a journalist. Was, I mean. In Italy.’

  ‘Really?’ said Stella, nodding her head, impressed. ‘How fascinating. Well, it’s lovely to meet you, Mr Gattuso,’ she said. ‘Are you happy to wait for Lina outside? We won’t be long.’

  Lina’s father looked at her, confused. ‘Sorry,’ Lina murmured in Italian. ‘She wants you to wait outside, after all. Is that okay?’

  ‘Of course,’ her father said, smiling, ‘I might catch a little shut-eye anyway.’ He squeezed Lina’s hand then walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  ‘Well, you are quite the budding young reporter, aren’t you?’ Stella said, returning to her desk.

  Lina felt herself blush. ‘Thank you!’

  ‘Please, sit down.’ Stella gestured to the straight-backed wooden chair in front of her desk. Then she sat down on her own leather-buttoned swivel chair, smoothing her fitted beige skirt underneath her, and pushing up the sleeves of her striped cotton skirt. She wore her trademark slash of red lipstick and tightly twisted French knot. She looked older than her photograph, Lina thought, and harder somehow, but this only made her seem all the more impressive. I can’t believe I’m actually sitting in front of the Stella Davis, she thought. Wait till I tell Julia!

  ‘So,’ Stella drawled, resting her elbows on the table and chin on her hands, like she had all the time in the world. ‘Tell me about this story you sent me.’ She glanced down and Lina noticed it was lying on the desk right in front of her. Stella put on her narrow reading glasses and read out Lina’s words: ‘The Story of the Mysterious Chinese Boy who Changed the Future of the Olympics.’

  ‘The title’s a little long . . .’ Lina mumbled but Stella didn’t seem to hear her.

  ‘It’s an incredible story, Lina. One I’m sure newspapers all around the world would be interested in.’

  ‘Really?’ Lina said, feeling thrilled. Oh my goodness! she thought. She’s going to publish it!

  Stella nodded and peered over the top of her glasses. ‘You say you know this boy?’

  ‘I do!’ said Lina proudly. ‘We catch the bus together sometimes. He even showed me the letter before he sent it in.’

  ‘Extraordinary!’ said Stella smiling widely and leaning back into her chair. ‘What’s his name?’

  Lina opened her mouth, then stopped herself just in time. ‘I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone. He doesn’t want his parents to know. I think I told you that in my letter, didn’t I?’

  Stella rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t be silly, Lina. The story will be nothing without a name and a photograph. Just tell me his name and I’ll send someone over to sort it out with his parents. I’m sure they’ll be very proud of their son once he’s famous!’

  Lina bit her lip. Stella was her hero. If Lina gave her John’s name, maybe she would publish her story and maybe even ask her to write more stories and maybe even train her as a journalist! I could become a famous writer, thought Lina. First published at twelve! It was everything she’d ever wanted.

  Surely John would understand? But then his face came into Lina’s mind and she knew that really he would be devastated. She couldn’t break her promise to him. ‘Hmm. I don’t think I can. He’s  . . . he’s a friend.’

  Stella took off her glasses and narrowed her eyes. ‘Oh, Lina, that’s disappointing,’ she sneered, her top lip curling. ‘I thought you may have had it in you to be a journalist. Like your father. If yo
u really want to be a journalist, you have to be a little tougher than that, my dear. You can’t let a few friendships stand in the way of a career. Lord knows, I couldn’t count the number of friendships I’ve broken over a story,’ she huffed. ‘So, are you going to tell me his name or not? You know I’m really rather busy here. I wouldn’t normally find the time to see a schoolgirl, you know.’

  There was something about the way Stella said ‘schoolgirl’ that made Lina’s skin crawl. Lina felt the anger bubble up inside her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, more firmly now. ‘I told him I wouldn’t tell anyone his name. If you don’t want to publish my story, I can understand that, but I can’t break my promise.’ Lina began to stand up to leave.

  ‘Well, I do have your address, Lina,’ Stella sighed, holding up Lina’s envelope with the little blue St Brigid’s logo on it. ‘And the name of the school you go to. It would be very easy for one of our investigative journalists to find this boy just by doing a little undercover work. We already know you catch the same bus as him. You might as well just tell me his name now and save us the trouble. If you cooperate, there might even be a little mention of you in the article. You’d like that now, wouldn’t you?’ She smiled.

  Lina felt her blood run cold as it dawned on her: Stella wasn’t planning to publish her story at all! She just wanted all the information so that she could write it herself. And now, because of Lina’s stupidity, she had pulled John into this terrible mess. Lina felt dizzy. She wracked her brain to try to come up with a way out. A way that would protect John and keep his story safe.

  And at that moment she knew what she had to do. She hung her head and forced out the lie, even though it made her feel sick to the stomach to do so.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t really know him,’ she mumbled, feeling her cheeks burn. ‘I was just pretending.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Stella said, her eyes glittering.

  Lina sunk lower into her seat. ‘I made the story up. I didn’t even know he was Chinese until I read about him in the paper. I just pretended to know him so I could meet you. And I thought maybe you might publish my story in the newspaper . . .’ Her voice petered out.