‘Don’t they give you homework at that school?’ Mom calls out from inside. ‘Come in so we can skype your pa and then you can do some before dinner.’

My hockey stick came with us on the plane, ready for me to use right away. The grass at the front is too long, but not much too long, so I’ve been dribbling across it, imaging oncoming defenders, stick checks, shots at goal. I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been out there. I’ve had my mind on the ball, only the ball, not Max or Richard or Venn diagrams or home.

When I go into the kitchen Mom’s staring at her phone.

‘Do you not have plates at school?’ she says, frowning. ‘I just got this email. It’s from the P and C – the parents’ organisation. They’re having a fashion parade at lunchtime on Thursday. It’s a fundraiser. I bought a ticket, but the invitation says to bring a plate. Do they have plates there, or . . .’

‘I haven’t seen any.’ I really haven’t. Maybe they don’t have plates. ‘Either people have lunchboxes or, if you buy from the tuckshop, you get it in a paper bag or maybe on a paper plate, but not a real one.’

‘No plates.’ She shakes her head. ‘I wonder what kind of plate I’m supposed to bring. A dinner plate, probably. There’ll be a meal. What if they serve soup? I’d need a bowl for that. Eish! Do I take a bowl too?’ She takes a step back and throws her hands in the air. ‘This place takes a bit of getting used to.’

I want to tell her that she has it easy, that she doesn’t have a classroom to deal with – in fact a whole school and everyone who goes there – but if I start talking about it I won’t stop. It’s better if I just go and get Hansie. On the way to his room, I notice that the house smells a bit like Mom’s cooking now, and a week ago it didn’t.

Hansie is lying on his blow-up travel bed, facing the wall and holding his favourite bear. His thumb is in his mouth, but his eyes are wide open. We’re all stuck getting used to this, each in our own way.

‘Time to talk to Dad,’ I tell him.

He looks at me and blinks.

‘Time to engage the superhero power of speech. Do you think you can do that?’

He doesn’t move.

‘I think you might need to fly.’

I rush forward and pick him up with both arms. That at least gets a snotty laugh. I carry him, flying superhero-style, all the way to the kitchen. He makes an Iron Man landing, one foot at a time, complete with powering-down sounds.

Mom has already got through to Dad on Skype, and the first thing I hear him say is, ‘What about knives and forks? Do you have to bring them as well as the plate?’

‘Not mentioned,’ Mom tells him, and shrugs. ‘Look who’s here.’ She smiles and moves aside so that all three of us can fit in front of the camera. ‘Is it Superman today or Iron Man?’

‘Iron Man,’ Hansie says before blasting her with his imaginary repulsors.

She moves a stool in front of the laptop so that he can kneel on it.

‘Boys, howzit,’ Dad says. ‘It’s good to see your faces.’ He’s in his donga again, though the wall behind him is one I haven’t seen before. ‘So, Josie, this plate. If they didn’t say to bring a knife and fork, maybe just stick to the plate. Could be a safety thing. You know how crazy they are about safety here. Like everyone needing to wear their seatbelts. I know it’s the law at home too, but they seem to be real sticklers for it here. For any rules. It’s all rules here, and I bet they’ve got rules about cutlery too.’

‘Seatbelts are a good idea,’ Mom says. ‘They save lives. There’s nothing to be gained by being macho and not wearing one.’

Dad nods. ‘Well, yes . . .’

‘It’s a different country,’ she says. ‘That’s why we’re here, remember?’