But, not to worry, there’s singing in the mountains, laughter in the trees, dancing in the light of evening fires. There’s whispering in hearts and minds and shadows. That’s enough for me.

That’s enough from me.

Chapter 32

Oriwia

‘Star Tearoom was saved by Chappy’s garden,’ Oriwia said. ‘I’ll show you.’ My grandmother, requesting that I bring a stool, led me to her bedroom where, though the window was open to its last notch, there was a heaviness of late summer air, a woolly weight, a smell of baked wallpaper, hardened polish, forest, sacks, church pews, camphor.

‘Dusty butterflies,’ my grandmother said of the atmosphere, rushing forward, unlatching the window and flinging it outward.

A quilted counterpane of old-gold nylon covered the bed and flounced down to touch the floor like a large gown. Under the cover would be all those trappings my mother had spoken to me about.

Eighteen months before, as a new arrival and having decided I must follow all my mother’s instructions, I’d asked my grandmother to enlighten me as to the mysteries of making this kind of bed. She explained and demonstrated the spreading of sheets and blankets, which had to be folded back at the top end and tucked in all the way round under the mattress. The bed cover cocooned the pillows and concealed all this art underneath. It took effort, but my skills improved after a few days.

On arrival, wanting to do nothing but sleep, I wondered how I would get into such a tight bed, but I stepped up onto it and managed to slide myself in so as not to disturb the tucking. It was like being in an envelope. The next night I pulled out some of the tucks and made myself comfortable, though it was still not easy to unravel myself when the night became hot.

Grandmother’s bedstead was of dark brown wood with matching bedside cabinets piled with books. Dressing table, tallboy and a free-standing wardrobe left little space to move about. On top of the wardrobe was where Oriwia kept albums, framed photographs wrapped in old sheeting, and boxes of other memorabilia.

‘It has a scenic cover,’ she said of the album she wanted me to find. ‘Yachts in a harbour and the hills behind. There’s no wind. They’re becalmed. They won’t get anywhere.’

She asked me to bring water, and together we went outside to sit in the shadehouse. Sensing an opportunity, I took my tape recorder with me.