Sasha lay in bed. Bright blue light flooded in through her curtains and she could hear a hollow cooing of a bird. Yesterday she’d seen a flock of bright parakeets in the tree outside the hotel. Today, Frankie had said they would visit a park with kangaroos. She was going to take photographs of every different animal, then she could show them to Irene. She’d been keeping her diary, as well, writing painstakingly detailed entries for each day, sticking in airline stubs and postcards, drawing pictures, like the one of the bright blue butterfly, and the miniature tree dragon. She would write about the kangaroos and their joeys and try and make the funny feeling in her tummy go away. Sometimes, it was hard to breathe properly.

In the adjacent room, she could hear Adrian and Frankie murmuring; there was a little gurgle. Were they laughing? It didn’t sound exactly like laughing. She shifted, careful not to make a sound that would wake Aggie, who’d been up half the night with a tantrum that had ended only when she fell asleep; then sat up. Clem lay quite still under her sheet, but her eyes were wide open and unblinking.

‘Sasha,’ she hissed.

‘Shhh. Yes?’

‘I’ve been awake for hours and hours.’

‘Me too.’

‘As soon as I went to sleep I was awake again, even though we were so late.’

‘It’s jet lag.’ Sasha tried to make her voice sound calm and reassuring, like Irene’s. ‘Your body clock’s all wonky. It’ll get better.’

‘Can we get up now? What time is it?’

‘I don’t know. It’s morning anyway.’

‘No. At home, I mean. What time is it there?’

‘At home it’s night time.’

‘I wonder what Mummy’s doing now.’

‘Probably sleeping.’

‘Maybe she’s dreaming about us.’

‘It’s different for grown-ups. I don’t think they really dream.’

Irene brushed her teeth in front of the round, speckled mirror. She put on her flannel pyjamas and then pulled the shutters to. She tugged the sheets loose and climbed under them, laying her head on the stiff bolster. It was very quiet and very dark. For a moment, she let herself think of the girls, but they were so very far off. After the storm of her year, she had washed up here.

Nineteen

Irene lay quite still, waiting to know where she was. A slit of light showed through the shutters; she could smell coffee and hear the clatter of plates. Voices drifting up from outside and under her cheek stiff, clean cotton. She sat up and in the grainy half-light saw the door to the shower, the tall cupboard, her violin and her open case; her jeans slung over the back of the chair. Memory seeped back, filling up the strange absences.