‘A break’s all you need,’ Ted had told her a few days ago when she’d stopped into the office to collect some of her belongings. She hoped he was right—she was so desperate that she was willing to give anything a try. She hadn’t even put up much of a fight when her mother had called to tell her about Uncle Nev’s house being available. She just packed a bag and set her GPS. And here she was, in country Victoria with no idea where she was going—much like her navigation system, if the endless circle it kept trying to lead her around was any indication.

She pulled over to the side of the road and scrolled through her messages to locate the directions Uncle Nev had sent her.

Take the Old Ferry Road for about five k’s then turn right onto Clay Target Road. When you come to an old green tank, turn into the next driveway with a wonky gate. The track splits a few metres down the road, take the left and keep going straight until you reach the cattle grid and the house will be on your right.

Clear. As. Mud.

She left the instructions on the screen and put the phone on the passenger seat, ready to grab if she suddenly got lost. She found Ferry Road and assumed it was the old one—there was no sign that mentioned a young version—t hen went straight past the green tank. Uncle Nev had neglected to mention it was lying on its side in a paddock of overgrown grass. But after a quick U-turn, Pip spotted the wonky gate and managed to follow the rest of the instructions without further mishap.

Her Audi was probably not the best-suited vehicle to drive the dirt track full of potholes large enough to lose a small child in, but she picked her way carefully along it and breathed a sigh of relief as a house came into sight.

She was pleasantly surprised by the small cottage she pulled up in front of. It was the quintessential Australian farmhouse: square, with a wraparound verandah and a bullnosed iron roof.

The house was surrounded by a fenced yard, and off to one side stood two large tin sheds that looked fairly new. Her uncle was an avid traveller, so she assumed one of the sheds usually housed his motorhome while the other contained the workshop in which he designed wrought-iron work and timber signs. After Aunty Effie died a few years back, Nev had sold up and moved from Queensland to Victoria to escape the heat, and what started as a hobby soon grew into a small but successful business.

It seemed, though, that the heat had followed Uncle Nev. The area had been in drought for the past eighteen months, one of the worst in recent history, and Nev had headed down to Tasmania to get away from it.