Free The Other Side of the World by Stephanie Bishop

Henry’s breath hot against her neck, the tightening of his arms around her. His mouth is open against her shoulder. His teeth at her skin. They are the same person then, she thinks. I am the same. “I love you,” she says, the feeling inside her rising. In that moment it does not matter where they are, where they have come to. In that moment she does not know, cannot remember.
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    In the morning Henry reaches over and strokes her hair. Charlotte smiles. He thinks she has come back to him, that here she will be different, no longer the thin, sickly woman who paced the fields.
    â€œDid the light wake you?” he asks.
    â€œYes,” she replies. “It’s so bright.”
    There is the sound of wind rising and falling in the trees. A birdcall. The distant horn of a train as it pulls out from the station. Henry gets up to make tea. He likes the quiet of the early morning, padding through the house while the children sleep. It is good, too, to commence the day with this act of service. It always feels like an ablution. Charlotte loves him for the tea and heloves her for her gratitude. Over time he has learned to make the tea exactly as she likes it. Very hot, but quite milky, yet strong at the same time.
    He fills the kettle and sets it to boil on the stovetop. While he waits for the water to heat he steps out through the back door, into the garden. A thick mass of dry buffalo grass stretches towards the far edge, ending at a line of bright green banana trees. A warm breeze brushes his skin. Above him the leaves on the trees move up and down, around, side to side. The cicadas are inside the trees, shrieking, and every time the wind gusts they seem louder, closer. Behind the trees stands a wire fence with a red iron gate in the middle. A sandy path meanders away from the gate, leading down behind the backs of houses, through low-lying bushland, and on towards the river. The sun rises this way, entering the yard over the high fence crowded with purple-flowering potato vine. The sea is in the other direction. Inside, the kettle begins to whistle and Henry dashes in towards the stove, the flyscreen door banging shut behind him.
    He warms the pot, stainless steel and dented on one side, then takes a tin from the pantry and measures out the tea leaves. One spoon, two spoons, three. He pours in the water, replaces the lid, and eases the tea cozy over the handle and spout as though pulling a bonnet onto a baby. He brews the tea, then places the pot, cups, and milk jug on an enamel tray patterned with red and white roses. He shuffles towards the bedroom, sets the tray down on the bedside table, turns the pot three times clockwise, and balances the silver tea strainer on the rim of the first cup. He lifts the pot and pours. A stream of amber liquid tumbles into the strainer, where it pools and glints. Steam rises from the water’s surface. Charlotte lifts herself up onto the pillows, leans over, and turns on the radio.

T ime passes differently in a new place; there are differences of wind and light that change the feeling of time. And there are things Charlotte must find out—the whereabouts of shops, libraries, parks—that change the feeling of space. Little things take a long time: finding marmalade in the grocery store, finding her way to the post office to send a letter home. Everything is hot and bright and far apart. She would ask for help, for directions, but has trouble understanding the answers, deciphering the mash of vowels. By accident she discovers Penguin books and Kellogg’s Corn Flakes, Ajax laundry detergent, and Imperial Leather soap: things she knows from home. When she finds these things she feels sudden comfort, sudden sadness—a mix of feeling a long way away and very close. Little things that are familiar but which rightly belong somewhere else. She buys these things and brings them back, and says to Henry, “Look, I found things from home,” realizing as she