Arecurring dream had run throughout the half-century of her life – a dream where the foundations of the house she was living in were being washed away by high tides. The dream was not unusual, she knew – and was no doubt tied to subconscious fears of some kind. The details didn’t interest her – they were all bound to be bad. Who needed reminding of their insecurities these days?

The night she’d driven past 33 Earle Street – past the first old weatherboard home the family had moved into when they’d come to Australia – and watched unfamiliar urban profiles looming high over where the house stood, it had felt a lot like being in that dream – except different.