The pool occupies the centre of this fenced-off rectangular block of land. Close-cut green grass rings it on three sides. On the fourth side are bleachers that stay empty except during school swimming carnivals. The one building – low, red brick, tin roof – has a metal turnstile through which to enter, and another through which to exit, as well as a canteen and change rooms. The canteen has its roller door up for the day. Here, on the other side of an orange countertop, children line up in their bathers to buy Redskin lollies, cans of lemonade, and iceblocks that stain their tongues orange. The change room stinks of urine and chlorine.

A boy wearing a headband and tie-dyed singlet is watering the grass so that within the boundary of the wire fence everything is wet, while everything outside it is bone dry. The deep end of the pool is empty of people; serious swimmers come early. Later in the day, teenagers will commandeer the back corner to sunbake and flirt. But right now, the water belongs to mothers, children and retirees. Toddlers leap from the edge, launching themselves at one another’s heads. Inflatable balls go up and down in the air as if the pool itself is juggling them. A yellow frisbee spins across the lawn.

Petey paddles close and grabs my ankle. He spits water at me in an arc, makes a gappy smile and wriggles away like a tadpole. The family clown, from the moment he was born. Joanne plays with Daniel, both of them in blow-up rings, bumping off one another. She’ll drift away soon, having forgotten what the game was. Sarah, always on duty, is showing Joe how to hold his breath underwater, pinching her nose between her forefinger and thumb, blowing her cheeks out like a pufferfish and dropping to the bottom of the pool while he stands on the step and looks down at her, making no move to follow. Meanwhile Jemima sleeps peacefully in her pram behind us, next to the half-dozen towels we’ve thrown on the grass like a bad hand of cards and the esky packed with honey sandwiches, celery sticks, cubes of rockmelon and lamingtons layered between sheets of greaseproof paper.

‘Go,’ Lou says. She reaches forward and splashes water at my legs. ‘Swim it off.’

‘A walk maybe?’

‘Walk where?’ She frowns. ‘But sure, go ahead.’

I walk across the puddled concrete and sit on a wooden bench outside the entrance to the toilets for lack of idea about what else I could do. Lou is right: the day is gorgeous. And there is nowhere to go. Wisps of fairy-floss cloud decorate the sky. A breeze cools my feet.

I’m an inch away from a new beginning, counting the days, ignoring news stories that warn the prime minister is on shaky ground, making changes too quickly, unnerving the business community and ordinary Australians. He isn’t unnerving me. I’m glad he brought the rest of the troops home from Vietnam. Ten years was ten years too long. And who has a problem with using tax money to keep Australians healthy? Maybe changing the national anthem was too much for some people. Not me. He’s giving me exactly what I need: free uni will change my life.