‘My father was a drifter,’ Gramps began. ‘Never had much work. He chopped wood, sheared sheep. Then one day he came home and said, “I got a job … on an island.” ‘“What sort of job?” my mother wanted to know. ‘“Lighthouse keeper,” he said. ‘“What?” my mother demanded. “Where?” ‘“Stephens Island,” he told us. “In Cook Strait. New Zealand.”’