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Laura paused at the driveway, a rare burst of winter sunlight blurring her vision. The 4.12 pm bus ground its way up the incline, the driver shifting progressively down through the gears to cope with the gradient. It had been years since she’d been here and as she tipped her head back to look up the slope towards the house and the small shack which echoed behind it, Laura was struck by a sense of shrinkage. She half-smiled, thinking of how things seemed smaller as you get older, seldom as large or grand as the memory recalled.

A flicker of warmth crept along her spine as she started her ascent. The bold chuckle of a kookaburra sweetened the air, and johnny-jump-ups lined the driveway. Slender stalks of jonquils were piercing the air, waiting on spring sunshine to fully emerge. A hedge of banksia trees flanked her on the right, reminding her of tales of brazen banksia men.

She eased her satchel off her shoulder as her calf muscles stretched up the slope. The breeze picked up, carrying the whisper of waves from the cove. As Laura approached the house along the side path, the chatter of a radio became louder. Laura frowned. It didn’t seem right that someone else could be living in a place that she’d loved so much.

‘Can I help you?’ The voice, sharp and close, took Laura by surprise. A tall, thin woman was beside her, secateurs unleashed and glinting in her left hand.

‘Oh.’ Laura stared for a moment, taking in the woman’s outfit. She was dressed in various shades of green, almost camouflaged in the well-established garden. Laura cleared her throat, her tongue thick after days of solitude. ‘This was my grandparents’ place.’

‘And?’ The woman’s left hand clenched and released, the blades slicing and snicking at the air.

‘I used to be happy here.’

Photo: banksia in the bush