‘Using the Lord’s name in vain at this time of year?’ Ben tuts jokingly.
‘Seriously, this is genius. Genius!’
When Mum and I lived with Desmond in East Yorkshire, I remember him taking me to see a house in a place called Driffield which was decorated with the most outrageously brilliant Christmas lights, spilling all the way down the garden. But this, I have to say, takes some beating. It seems as ifallof the residents in this town have adorned their houses with festive displays, so street upon street is brightly lit by millions of multicoloured bulbs.
‘Look at that one!’ I cry at the sight of a full-size Santa on a rooftop, equipped with sleigh and reindeer to boot.
‘Take a photo, then.’
‘Hold on, hold on.’ I wind down the window and hold the camera as steadily as I can so the shot doesn’t blur too much.
‘Pretty specky, hey?’ I assume he means spectacular.
‘I bloody love it!’
‘I told you we could do lights well here.’
‘Say no more on the matter.’ I wave my hand at him dramatically.
‘Speaking of lights, have you seen the view from Mount Lofty yet?’ he asks.
‘Mount Lofty, up the hill from where Michael lives?’
‘Yes. Up the hill from whereyoulive.’
I laugh. ‘Yeah, yeah, okay, whereIlive. No, I haven’t seen the view from Mount Lofty yet.’
‘Right, then, that’s the next stop. Do you want to drive?’
‘Too bloody right I do.’
‘Now you’re starting to sound like an Aussie.’
It’s nine o’clock by the time we reach Mount Lofty summit. I carefully park the car and we climb out and walk towards the restaurant and gift shop. Ben leads me along the right-hand side of the building and turns back to point down the hill.
‘That’s Piccadilly Valley down there,’ he says. There’s a sign next to him and I skimread it to find that the name Piccadilly ‘probably’ came from the Aboriginal wordPiccodla. Piccodla made up the eyebrows of Urebilla, the giant whose body formed the mountain ranges.
‘That’s interesting,’ I say. ‘And there’s me thinking it was named after Piccadilly in London.’
Ben chuckles. ‘It probably was. There’s a sign outside a church in Piccadilly saying a Mrs Emma Young named it after Piccadilly in London back in 1853.’
‘Oh. I think I prefer this explanation.’
‘It’s certainly more romantic. Can you see your house?’
I follow the line of his finger. ‘Which one is it?’
‘Here.’ He puts his arm around me to draw me closer. It’s a perfectly innocent gesture on his part, but it sets my insides on fire. ‘There,’ he says.
‘Oh, yeah,’ I reply, actually not seeing the house at all because my head is buzzing too loudly for me to be able to concentrate. He lets me go, but I’m a mess. I know I’ll relive this moment over and over again later.
Around the front of the summit building there’s a tall white obelisk. It would look striking against the blue sky – I’ll have to come back in the daytime to photograph it. And then I see the view.
‘Wow!’ The city of Adelaide is lit up and sprawled out in front of us.
‘Check out the moon!’ Ben exclaims.
I turn around to see anenormousyellow disc rising above the dark hills in the east.
