October 1964 slipped into being without fuss or ceremony. Canberra was like that, calm, orderly, a city still deciding what it wanted to be. Norman and Sandra had been there scarcely ten months, yet the rhythm of the place had already settled into them, or perhaps they into it. Most of what had unfolded since their arrival had been deliberate, planned with the steady patience learned from years of war, migration, and sheep.

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1963 arrived without asking permission. Australia moved forward with the quiet certainty of a continent convinced of its own luck. Sir Robert Menzies remained Prime Minister, his voice familiar from radios perched on mantelpieces and workshop shelves. Newspapers spoke of Australian military advisers already in Vietnam, small numbers for now, though the tone suggested temporary things had a way of becoming permanent.

Canberra in 1960 with a population of around 56,000, felt less like a city and more like a polite suggestion someone had started building before fully committing. Roads led somewhere important-looking and then ended abruptly, as if changing their mind mid-decision. Signs pointed toward departments still in scaffolding. Gardens appeared planned by committees, sensible shrubs, dignified paths, nothing too expressive.