‘It will take a while to get used to the heat,’ Esther confessed. ‘Back home, where I’m from, rain means cold, or a clearing of thunderstorms.’
‘The heat makes for the beauty of the place,’ Rachel said. ‘Even Auckland—there’s beauty here. The colours. So many colours of green. You should ask your sister to take you to the Domain or Albert Park. When Alfred and I landed in the fifties, Auckland was much smaller. The bush seemed to come up to our front door. We had to build our own house. It was a shambles, really, of timber and mud. But it felt wonderful, building a place together. It fell down, of course, in the storm of seventy-four.’
‘Did you rebuild?’
The woman paused. ‘I did. My sons helped. Alfred had died by then, dear. He’s buried up on the gully at Symond’s Street.’
‘Rachel is
