We arrive at the Harts’ farm around eleven in the morning. The last stretch takes us up a gentle incline under a canopy of broad-leafed trees. A sharp left turn and we’re there. At the end of a long driveway is a picture-book scene: peaked-roof house on the left, red barn on the right and a forested hill behind it all.

As we move along the driveway, the still-photograph suddenly springs to life. On our right, in the vast green meadow, two shaggy horses swing their great heads towards us. Escaping from beneath our wheels, a flock of outraged chickens squawk and scatter. On our left, bouncing away in alarm, is a family of goats. Directly in front of us now, as we bring our sky-blue travelling hearse to a halt, the door of the house flies open. Two huge dogs leap out barking a greeting, their mouths grinning wide. They are followed by a tall smiling man and one little blonde girl, plus another blonde girl and a dark-haired boy, both slightly older. Their mother is behind them and everyone is calling out hellos and sharing the news that one of their goats has just given birth to two white kids!

As if borne up on invisible conveyor belts, in a very short while the three of us travellers have been brought inside the cosy-warm house with all our luggage. We’re seated at the dining table and drinking herb tea, everyone talking at once, making introductions and sharing recent histories. The littlest child, whose name is Persephone (but everyone calls her “Peace” because that was how she first pronounced her own name) still speaks in a baby’s lisp, yet she was an attendant at the morning’s birth. “I saw the afterbirth,” she says matter-of-factly to Bins, on whose lap she is sitting. “Very clever of you,” he replies, “Do you want to look at it?” she asks, staring at him with piercing blue eyes. “Not today,” he says, staring back with his own piercing blues. Whereupon she gives him a hug.

From the edge of consciousness I hear Birk talking to Peter about the “arrangements”. There are only two bedrooms, I hear, but a number of horizontal surfaces. Birk claims that he had planned all along to sleep in the hearse, but Jeremy, the dark-haired boy and son of the house, insists that he deserves that privilege. Grace grins in my direction. “I let everyone do what they want,” she says, “until I’ve decided what’s best for ME.” She already knows it’s going to be me and Bins in Jeremy’s room, while the children will all sleep with her and Peter. “And Birk? You’ve got the living room couch.”

The rest of the day passes in a happy blur of food and chatter. By 9.30 we are all tired and ready for bed. Little chirping voices sing out “Goodnight, goodnight!” around the house. In our room, Bins and I discover that Daphne, the middle child, has covered the sloping ceiling with fluorescent stars. “I’m glad we came,” I whisper. “Me too,” says Bins and begins snoring at once.

Manjula Padmanabhan, author and artist, writes of her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere, US, in this weekly column

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