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serious rainfall, especially in March, which is fast approaching. But for now it appears I’m lucky, so I spend my first two days lazing around on one of the sunloungers in the back garden.
    By Wednesday the skies have clouded over. Molly walked to work this morning, leaving me the car keys for her little red Peugeot and instructions on where to collect her from this afternoon. In Australia you insure cars not drivers so, brilliantly, anyone with a licence can drive, and as I was getting sick of reapplying Factor 30 suncream for the umpteenth time, I’m quite happy to take a trip down memory lane instead.
    After an initial shaky start as I get used to the clutch, I cruise down the hill into Manly, passing Ivanhoe Park on my right, followed by the cricket ground. The ocean up ahead looks rough and choppy. Then I’m climbing again. Down below, the green stillness of the coves amazes me. It’s incredible how calm the water is here in complete contrast to the open ocean on the other side of Manly, and I watch as a lone man kayaks in amongst the moored white sailboats. I keep driving and soon I’m heading back into town, past the primary school where Sam, Molly and I first met all those many years ago. Little girls in their blue and white checked uniforms play out in the front with the boys in white shirts and blue shorts.
    At Manly beach the water is even choppier than I first thought and I see the beach is closed to swimmers. The rules don’t apply to surfers, so I pull up in one of the parking bays overlooking the sea and pause for a minute, watching them.
    A group of about fifteen guys sit bobbing on their boards, facing out into the vast ocean, looking like seals with their black wetsuits and dark wet hair. Suddenly one of them turns around and starts to paddle, then he’s up on the board, crouching as he slices up and down through the curl of the water. One by one other surfers join in, boards moving like jet skis in the surf before the waves engulf them. Then they paddle back out and resume their bobbing, waiting for the next set to come in.
    Off in the distance a lone pelican flaps and flies into the wind parallel to the horizon. I watch it for a while and almost lose it as it glides close to the surf, its wings camouflaged against the dark water and frothy white foam.
    Ominous clouds hover overhead and it starts to rain. The surfers don’t care–they’re wet anyway. I wonder how long they’ve been there. I turn on my windscreen wipers and pull out, then drive back along the shorefront, past the surf shop where dozens of surfboards and wetsuits for rent are lined up. At the end I turn right and drive up the street where we lived for the three years before we went back to England. Stopping for a moment, I look up at the ugly four-storey red-brick building with its grey stone balconies.
    Mum and I moved around, renting apartments for anything from one to four years before the landlord wanted their place back, so I wouldn’t say anywhere ever felt truly like home. But I still feel a pang of homesickness when I look up to the second-floor flat and see the small balcony where we occasionally sat out for dinner. I picture Mum at home now in her picturesque English garden and smile. Who would’ve thought she’d go from working as a struggling secretary at an accountancy firm to owning and running a quaint little tea shop in Somerset? I’m genuinely happy for her. Terry was one of the senior managers at the firm and, even though he bored me silly when I first met him, he’s a kind man and he’s good for Mum. God knows how he put up with my tantrums when they made the decision to move back to England–because naturally I blamed him for taking me away from my friends. But now that house in Somerset feels more like home to me than any of these two-bedroom units ever did.
    I suddenly wish James was here. I would have liked to showhim where I used to live. I spoke to him last night to tell him about being Molly’s