My brother is asleep on the couch at his in-laws’ summer house in Norway. The room is full of the light of the afternoon sun. From the TV, there is the soft rumble of a stadium crowd then silence, followed by the distinctive knock of a cricket ball on wood. For a moment the crowd gets louder and the players on screen shuffle around, but nothing changes and a commentator’s sharp, low voice cuts through.

I realise he’s watching the first Test of the Ashes. It’s 2023 and I’m visiting for the first time since Covid. I estimate it has been at least 15 years since I saw, or heard, a game of cricket. When Ponting, Warne, Gilchrist and McGrath lit up Australian screens. When my dad was still alive and I was young enough to be home when he’d watch it.

The familiarity of the scene – the warm summer, the slow afternoon, the large head snoring – sends me back in space and time to the various back yards of our childhood. When Dad taught us how to pace out a bowler’s run-up, how to turn side on, lift your left arm straight up and look down the inside at the middle stump. The correct way to grip the bat, keep an eye on the ball and stay in your crease. The house........

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