‘I barely remember him,’ I reply. ‘But I’ve seen pictures of us all on a beach in Dorset when I was two. Then there was Desmond. We went to live with him, too. I have vague memories of collecting eggs on his farm in Yorkshire. Mum flitted from man to man for a few years after that. Most of the time we lived in a little flat in East London, until she met Bill and we were off again. I liked living by the sea.’
As if to illustrate my point, through a break in the pale-grey bark of the gum trees, we can see the city of Adelaide and beyond it, the ocean sparkling cool and blue.
‘Wow. Do you mind if I stop and take a photo?’
‘Course not.’
I manage to pull over on the side of the road near someone’s driveway, and turn off the engine. While Ben waits patiently in the passenger seat, I remove my camera bag from the footwell and take a couple of shots.
I climb back into the car, commenting, ‘The views up here must be amazing in the winter.’
‘In the winter?’
‘When the leaves fall off. You can barely see the coast at the moment for all the gum trees.’
‘Oh.’ I can hear the smile in his voice. ‘The leaves don’t fall off. They’re evergreens.’
‘Sorry. What an idiot.’
‘You, Lily Neverley, are anything but.’
It’s the first time he’s said my full name. Warmth radiates through me as I check my mirrors, indicate, and pull out of the driveway and back onto the main road.
We continue to drive along winding roads and through tiny towns and barely-there communities. Occasionally I stop to take a photo of a broken-down car in the middle of someone’s backyard, or horses the colour of rust grazing in a yellow paddock. Sometimes we run parallel to fields full of lime-green grapevines stretching out beside us, but we’re almost always driving in the shadow of towering eucalyptus trees. At one point we pass a sign for a total fire ban.
‘See how some of the gums are black?’ Ben says. ‘This whole area almost burnt to the ground back in 1983. They called it Ash Wednesday.’
‘Do you remember it?’ I try to work out how old he would have been.
‘I was at primary school in Mount Barker. We were evacuated and I was taken to my nan’s house because my mum was out of town on one of her many soirées. It probably would have been safer at school,’ he says. ‘I still recall Nan filling the bathtub with water and soaking towels in it to place in front of all the doors.’
‘That must’ve been terrifying!’
‘It was. A couple of my mates’ houses burned down. Luckily I didn’t know anyone who’d been killed.’
‘How did Josh’s mum die?’ I ask out of the blue.
‘Drink-driving accident.’
‘No way?’ I glance at him in horror. I thought it must have been cancer or a serious illness. Not an accident. That’s one of the worst ways to go. ‘What happened to the guy who did it?’ I ask.
‘She was the one who’d been drinking.’
There is a silence. I’m too shocked to respond.
‘She ploughed the car head on into a tree,’ he goes on.
‘Shit.’ My reaction sounds so feeble. ‘Was she an alcoholic?’
‘No. She’d been on a work day out to some of the wineries. None of her colleagues thought to make her take the bus home.’
‘Bloody hell. I can’t believe Josh still drinks and drives.’
Ben sighs. ‘Neither can I. Take a left here.’ I make the turn and then he says, ‘Hey, do you fancy a coffee?’
‘Sure.’ Are you kidding me? That’s practically a date!
‘Have you been to Hahndorf yet?’
