Free Second Chances by Charity Norman

and white waterfalls. These weren’t quiet English hills. They were angular and rock-strewn, like a Chinese painting; jagged peaks and drifting swathes of cloud.
    ‘It’s the jungle,’ murmured Finn, clutching Buccaneer Bob to his cheek and stroking his left ear. ‘Jungle bells, jungle bells, jungle all the way.’
    ‘Are there snakes?’ Charlie’s voice was muffled by Blue Blanket.
    ‘No snakes!’ yelled Kit gleefully.
    ‘Does Bagheera live here?’ The twins had watched The Jungle Book on the plane.
    ‘There he is!’ squealed Finn, pointing into the shadows. ‘Bagheera— I seed him looking at me from out of a tree.’
    Soon after that, all three children were asleep. It was night-time in Bedfordshire. The boys lolled in their booster seats, soft legs dangling, baby jaws slack. Sacha was holding Finn’s hand. The locket Ivan had given her— the one with both their photographs inside—was tangled around her hair. She never took it off.
    Gradually, native bush gave way to forestry and farmland. As we crossed the last summit, Kit swerved onto a verge and cut the engine. In the sudden silence, he and I stepped out and stood leaning against the bonnet.
    Above and around us rolled an immense pine forest, but the valley ahead opened its arms as though welcoming us to the coast. In the distance lay the Pacific, glittering in a mist of opal light, beckoning all the way to Chile. On the coast, as unexpectedly lovely as a mirage, we glimpsed a little city.
    ‘Must be Napier,’ I said, squinting at the map. ‘Hastings is beyond, but I don’t think we can see it from here.’
    From our height, distance and state of jetlag Napier seemed a Greek village. White houses jumbled up the slope of a hill that rose straight out of the sea, like the shell of a giant turtle.
    ‘We’ve made it,’ said Kit. ‘This is home.’
    We based ourselves in a motel and tried to hit the ground running. Napier was a small city—about fifty thousand people—with a Mediterranean climate, a thriving port and Pacific beaches. That much we knew from the guidebook. What we hadn’t expected was its picture-postcard beauty. Flattened by a catastrophic earthquake in 1931, it had risen phoenix-like from the ashes. The result was an art-deco town with wedding-cake buildings and a seafront boardwalk. On our first morning we had breakfast in a café by the marina. We sat out on a wooden deck in the winter sun, gazing across the clinking masts of yachts to snow-capped hills. I couldn’t quite believe it was real.
    An affable estate agent called Allan, who knew we’d brought sterling and sensed an obscenely large commission, devoted himself to showing us what he called ‘lifestyle blocks’. Allan looked about sixty, with hair that swirled into a shining chocolate peak like a walnut whip. I think he had the wrong idea about us at first, and we hated everything he showed us. Modern monstrosities they were, on over-manicured subdivisions; not at all what we’d expected of this enterprising, militantly nuclear-free country. This was the land of the All Blacks and the Rainbow Warrior ; this was Mordor and Rivendell. We weren’t ready for electric garage doors and ludicrously phallic gateposts. Anyway, they cost too much; the exchange rate had been hopeless. We rejected them all, but Allan had the patience of Job.
    ‘Impress your friends!’ he crowed, throwing open the doors to yet another stone-grey kitchen. We trooped in, making awed noises about the view—which, incidentally, was stunning: orchards, basking in golden sunshine. Then Kit and I exchanged despairing glances.
    ‘Not your cup of tea, is it?’ Allan looked baffled. ‘Homes of this calibre at this price rarely come on the market, you know. The discerning buyer—’
    ‘Look, Allan,’ said Kit, holding up his hands. ‘It’s still more than we can afford. And anyway, I couldn’t live in a house that’s designed purely to impress. This place is just a monument to somebody’s