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father, cured of any love of God by many years in a Protestant-run orphanage, will calmly tell me, in the face of my spitting indignation, that the missions provided about the only safe haven from frontier violence. I cannot, however, be appeased on this point, even by conciliatory arguments.
    â€œWhat do you do around here for fun?” I change the topic.
    â€œI like sports. Basketball and touch footie, anything like that. I’d like to visit Sydney, ’cause sometimes it gets boring here. But I wouldn’t want to stay there all the time. This is home.”
    â€œThe pace in the city is pretty hectic. It’s not to everyone’s liking.”
    â€œMust be cool being a lawyer. I’ve never met a Murri lawyer before. My brother could have used you a couple of weeks ago.”
    â€œI do mostly land claims and heritage protection. I like it but it’s not as glamorous as it might seem from the television. It’s lots of reading and years of training.”
    â€œI never liked school. I was going to do a hairdressing course. I rang the TAFE but they never got back to me. I would like a job taking food around at the hospital, then I could see all the old folks and chat. Now Tamara is in preschool I should think about getting a job again.”
    â€œYou have a daughter?”
    â€œTamara is my third.” Sensing my astonishment, Danielle adds defensively, “I am twenty-five, you know.”
    â€œYou’re the same age as me,” I reply, hoping my surprise won’t be construed as rudeness.
    â€œHow many kids do you have?” she asks me.
    â€œI don’t have any.”
    â€œOh. Oh, well.” Danielle pauses before adding consolingly, “Diff’rent strokes for diff’rent folks.” It isn’t often that I feel as inadequate as her sympathy makes me feel at this moment.
    The car turns off the highway on to a gravel road that gives way to dust. A cloud of black dirt follows the car as it trundles along past paddocks of ubiquitous fur-ball sheep.
    The outskirts of Dungalear are marked with a wooden sign, painted with thick black letters to read: ’Dungalear Station. Owned by the Baldwins since 1905.’
    Danielle opens the gate and waits for the car to pass through before pushing the large metal gate closed. As she steps into the car again she mutters, “Owned since 1905. My great-grandfather was the king of the tribe that lived here.”
    â€œThe king?” I ask with surprise.
    â€œYeah. We have the plate to prove it. Well, my brother Jason has it.”
    The king plates, I remembered my father telling me, were given to Aboriginal men the British colonists had chosen to be the leaders of their tribes; there were no ’kings’ in traditional societies. So, the naming of ’kings’ was a way in which colonists tried to alter Aboriginal practice to suit their own concepts of hierarchy, and I am about to say as much when I notice how proud Danielle’s eyes are. I also notice that Dad, Uncle Henry and Granny have all declined to contradict her. I keep quiet as Danielle continues to talk.
    â€œNot that I would like to be back in the Dreamtime. It might have been different if the white people hadn’t come. But they did and there’s no changing that. Besides, I like it the way it is: basketball, television, CDs. I think it would have been a lot harder back in the old times.”
    When we arrive at the farmhouse, Dad and Uncle Henry approach the white wooden-framed, tin-roofed structure. Their knock is unanswered so they circle the house for signs of life. The shades are all drawn and there isn’t a car anywhere in sight.
    â€œWell, what do you want to do?” asks my father.
    â€œLet’s go on anyway. We can leave a note.”
    â€œTechnically, that’s trespassing.”
    â€œTechnically, I don’t give a stuff. Let’s not start with accusations of trespassing or the Baldwins will be in