‘Tell me, Granny, about when you used to live with unicorns.’

‘…’

‘Dad told me about the unicorn you kept in your garden when you lived in France. He says it was his favourite story when he was a child.’

‘Yes, I told him a lot of amusing stories about my childhood. At the time, you see, I was not ready to confess it had not been a happy one.’

‘Tell me a story about your childhood now, please, a real one.’

‘Well… My father would read books, hundreds of them… Strangely enough, he kept them in a cupboard, whose access was of course strictly forbidden. But sometimes he would lock it and actually forget to take off the key. First opportunity I had, I climbed on a chair, and slowly, very slowly, turned the key in the key-hole, making sure to avoid any creaking / that there would be no creaking. When the door opens at last, it reveals a sea of books.  A feast for my eyes:  they are so beautiful, so beautiful. Not in the sense of being leather-bound, or in rare and valuable editions. No. It is this promise of future delights that I find enchanting: all these stories, sentences, words, words, worlds to explore. I feel I will never know want or grief again… Heart beating, I put my hand in, quickly, as in fire, picked up Colette’s Gigi and Camus’s L’étranger, simply because they were the easiest volumes for me to reach. And my life has never been the same ever since.’

‘Et tous ces livres étaient en français?’

‘Oui, j’ai appris l’anglais plus tard, au lycée…’

‘Granny, you like books so much, you could write one.

‘Trouble is, I’ve been living here for so many years now, I wouldn’t know in what language to write it, English or French.’

‘Well, both, of course! Oh, Granny, it’s obvious, you are a centaur.’

‘A…’

‘You are half-French and half-Australian, just like centaurs are half-human and half-beast.’

I have no time to ascertain which part is which, for she swiftly goes on:

‘They are ancient and very wise, those, like unicorns… They don’t really exist outside stories, but they exist, really – in stories.’

And now I’m staring in open space. A clearing in a forest in the moonlight. A scent of wet wood, moist moss and fresh new leaves. The centaur is standing beside the unicorn. I can see the graceful head of the latter, its bright horn, delicate legs, snow-white hair and the faint glow that irradiates from them both. And at the foot of an immense oak tree spreading high its silver boughs, a manuscript – a manuscript with my name on the cover. My pulse quickens. On a cushion of silk and velvet – un livre d’un vert profond. Sur la couverture est inscrit mon nom en lettres d’or. There is no title yet and the unicorn traces one with the point of its horn, in refined gothic letters that shine bright and luminescent on the sea green book: Des licornes dans un rayon de lune in the forest of your dreams.

I look at this child beside me – grateful for her luminous presence, for the stars in her eyes:

‘You know, I think you are right. They are very wise – and I reckon I could write a book…’

‘At least I have the title now’ I silently remark to myself.