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“Did they kill the Aborigines?” asked the small, angular, dark- haired boy, his big eyes quizzical.

“Yes,” replied the teacher, her brow furrowed with the gravity of the subject, “yes they did.”

“Good,” squealed the beautifully sculpted lemon-haired girl, sitting at the back of the class, “there are too many of them.”

Embarrassed laughter trickled amongst my classmates, lapping against my burning ears. In silence, I stared at the front of the class, water swimming in my eyes.

I would confide my humiliation and hurt to my closest friend, Kate. Kate is now living in Charmony, France, with a ski instructor she met on a train from Brussels to Amsterdam. Kate would have listened to me explain and complain about Cynthia Kerrigan-Mullins with patient attention.

Kingsley and I were raised in a mostly white suburban neighbourhood on the southern outskirts of Sydney. We were the only dark children in school — kindergarten, primary and high school. I liked to speak out, in my martyr voice, about the dead black voices buried beneath the heroic tales of white men struggling to cross craggy mountain ranges to discover inland treasures — land, gold, caves and lakes: “I hope they let the Aborigines know that the mountain range was there when they
discovered
it.” Hateful eyes would aim in my direction, as though I had given away the end of a suspenseful story. I shrugged off their hostility; I felt ashamed for the golden children and said as much to Kate during our soulful talks in the library corner.

Such rebelliousness is liberating but it's also isolating. I didn't mind; I had Kate. And when she wasn't there, I was always able, through books, to be carried to imagined worlds where cruelty lurked in the most sophisticated souls and comfort could be discovered in desolate landscapes. As I slipped into worlds created by jane Austen, Charles Dickens, Henry James and the Bronte sisters, I had my own retorts and strategies to the restrained or bubbling emotions of the characters I met. None of them, in my mind, mistook me as exoti-cally Other. No mention was made of my skin colour. My romanticism would have surprised anyone who knew my cynical self, except Kate, my sharer of secrets, loves and fears.

I had my own clash of wills with Mr Darcy, Mr Rochester, and Heathcliff — especially Heathcliff, whose wild legacy of malice and revenge inexplicably drew me in. I always felt that if I had known him, if I were there in the house when he arrived, if I were Catherine, I could have made him happy and set his demons free. I understood the meanness that grew out of him, how the crimes of one generation leave a legacy of bitterness and the stigma of prejudice and, for some, the hope of reconciliation. I relished a passionate, epic struggle and a calm hope-filled ending, a triumph.

My brother fared better within the concrete walls and black lace iron of the school. His skill in sports — leading try-scorer in football — provided an effective antidote to unpopularity. The good in him was considered by others to be there “despite his blackness”, but not his athleticism, as though his Aboriginality carried a special sporting gene. This magical gene must have skipped me, the lover of words on pages. I would watch Kingsley slam his flesh against other bodies into the soil, his teammates yelling and playfully smacking his strong, broad back, blowing with weighty breaths as together they strode triumphant from the field. I would stand back, watching lovingly, as he won acceptance in the public arena.

As a sensitive child, Kingsley had become quite skilled at avoiding confrontation. If he couldn't forgive, Kingsley could push things to the furthermost regions of his mind, to barren desert plains, a place where things could be abandoned to eventually die. He was uncomfortable with my aggressiveness, my unwillingness to let go, I could tell. He had heard unkind things about me and seen messages scrawled on the toilet doors at school that he hoped were not true. These things he also pushed aside. He wanted a corner for silence, a place for introspective peace. He had wished back then that I would be more like him — less confrontational, less angry — but as we grew older we turned more and more to each other and grudgingly began to appreciate each other's once annoying and puzzling differences and attitudes. We both developed a need to understand the world we lived in — a world of rising deaths in custody and cyclical poverty — and we sought a way to change it.

From high school, we reached for the knowledge of law. I grabbed it with passionate and explosive enthusiasm, Kingsley, my quiet, thoughtful brother, with measured, analytical determination. In just a few years I became disheartened by realities that I had hoped were not possible: ever increasing incarceration rates and police officers caught on videotape at a party parodying the deaths of Aboriginal prisoners.

Kingsley grew more reclusive and secretive; he no longer sought acceptance, just his corner and place of peace. He stopped playing football and would spend his weekends reading, studying and writing. I found it harder to engage him in conversation unless we were talking about work. Our abilities, like our personalities, complemented rather than clashed as we lived within the walls of our shared understanding, as though we were under a protective shell. Joining each other in legal practice seemed inevitable with our shared fervour, complementing skills and dislike of the thought of facing the rough, rarely yielding political arena of Indigenous rights alone.

Law is a language. It becomes less mysterious the more you study it and speak it. You come to understand what the jargon means and how the arguments counter each other. You can understand how power flows through society if you understand the power of legal rhetoric. Legal language is bewildering until it becomes familiar, falling into place, and you then can use the words, get comfortable with them and employ them to show that you belong, that you have mastered the language. Then you rarely, if ever, stop to notice the bewilderment on the faces of others. It is too ambitious to think that you are going to change the world if you understand the language — and you have to be careful that the language does not seduce you — but you are better able to recognise what is going on, to find a name for it. It is just a matter of putting flesh on a skeleton. Justice Brennan put it like that in the
Mabo
case. He said that the court cannot change the principles of law, like the doctrine of
terra nullius,
just so that they fit in with the values that we have in contemporary society, if the change would “fracture the skeleton of principle which gives the body of our laws its shape and consistency”. The Court cannot depart from its established principles, he said, where the departure would fracture this “skeleton of principle”.

So you have to find a way to put the flesh on while keeping the skeleton intact. Kingsley says that this is not the point of the case, that it is simply a justification for finding native title when it was not recognised before and that I am dwelling too much on the excuses. But I believe you can tell a lot about people from the way they make up an excuse, the way they seek to justify things.

I love Kingsley, my dark, moody counterpart, most in all the world. I had achingly missed him while I was studying in Paris. He could not understand my decision to go away for a year. There was so much to do, he had said simply. He was right, of course, but I needed the time to step back, to think through larger issues, to explore myself, to try to regain my idealism that seemed to have crumpled so quickly when faced with the enormity of the task of law reform ahead. I thrived on the practical, day-to-day litigation but something in me had always wanted to take some time to think about the bigger picture, to return to my youthful ideals and their promised hopes. When I was given the chance to study on an international law program in France, I took it. No one seemed to understand my need to leave except Kate, my confidante, perhaps because she knew my insecurities and fears. She left for London, anxious for the chance to explore the better parts of herself and reinvent the rest, at the same time I left for France.

Paris made me swell with self-assurance. When the Parisians realised I was not Armenian or Algerian, my exoticness was celebrated. And I had met Christoph, whose cobalt eyes would look right into me, whose touch would fall through my skin. He loved me, I confidently knew, and I longed for him in a way that words fail to capture. But I resisted his offer, his insistence, to join me when I returned home. In Sydney I was no longer
la Aborigine.
I was a coon, a boong, a gin. He would hear the taunts about genocide, like, “Good, there are too many of them.”

And what of his light white skin and tall Nordic looks? I knew what people would say about me. I was already so light-skinned; he would make me whiter. I feared he would cause me to betray this aspect of my identity that had made me who I was. So I left Christoph and his deep undemanding love for me, as though it was something that could not transcend the winding, cobbled streets of Montmartre or the summer stench of the Seine. My martyrdom seemed almost complete: more scratches, more nails, more needle-jabs.

I fall asleep in the thin shell of the rickety small-town hotel room with a far distant memory of Kingsley's round-moon childhood face, stained with tears, and my attempt at consoling motherly sister words. This merges with one of Kate's witty retorts as we bask in the twinkling sun by her swimming pool, then I am in the sanctuary of Christoph's arms, our bodies press together naked in the dark, leaving nothing between us but skin.

2

1995

I
AM SIFTING THROUGH the articles in the
Aboriginal Law Bulletin
when my father rings to tell me we will be leaving in half an hour. I smile as I replace the receiver. He is in the room next door but too lazy to walk over. He's a man who has learnt to enjoy comfort.

I join him in his room at the designated time only to find that we are waiting for Uncle Henry, who will be another hour. I bristle at my father's deceitfulness. I could work in the extra time, finish reading an article on native title extinguishment, but my father wants company and has tricked me. Kingsley, in such circumstances, would just retreat back to his room, but I am held captive by my inability to resist my father's pouts and demands.

“Give your work a break. You don't need to be at it every minute of every day,” he snaps.

“Did you sleep well, Dad?” I ask, only to change the subject.

“No. These beds are awful.”

“It's hard to believe that this is the best hotel in town.”

Dad grins. “Well, we could have stayed with Henry — then you'd think this was the Hilton.”

Uncle Henry lives in one of the weatherboard, cardboard-thin houses at the Aboriginal settlement. He has several nieces and nephews staying with him. At the moment they number five. Some are blood, others he just loves and feels responsible for. Since most of the family's time is spent outside, away from the house, there seems to be plenty of room even though two are already permanently settled in the comer of the living room.

I was uneasy at the prospect of staying with Uncle Henry. I'm shy in front of strangers and so many at once seemed overwhelming. I've been rescued by my father's desire for comfort and privacy. “I've had too many years of living like that,” he says, his voice a whisper.

“So what's the plan for today?” I ask.

“When Henry gets here we'll pick up Granny from the hospital and she'll take us out to Dungalear.”

Dungalear is the place where my grandmother was born. She died many years ago. Granny, who we are to collect, is the eldest member of my Aboriginal family and the last to speak the old language fluently. Granny is the cousin of my grandmother, Elizabeth, and one of the few people living who remember her as a little girl before she was taken away by the Aborigines Protection Board. Granny has been the link to our heritage for me, my father and every other member of our now scattered clan.

Granny is resting in her wheelchair on the back porch of the hospital, looking out over the burnt yellow grass as we arrive. A nurse with brown, neatly clipped hair and a spotless blue uniform accompanies our little party, guiding us to the patient.

“Here she is,” chirps the nurse. “She was up early this morning.
Weren't you Mrs Boney?
She had her bath before everyone else.
And you look very nice, Mrs Boney.”

The nurse speaks louder when addressing Granny as though the older woman is hard of hearing. Granny stares out into the paddock ignoring the perky, prim woman. I don't blame her. Granny is a crumpled, leather-skinned woman with snake-like hands whose presence commands silent respect but she takes this deference with little acknowledgment.

“Well, I'll leave you to her,” sings the nurse as she retreats, her rubber soles squeaking against the linoleum.

“Hi, Granny,” Henry says as he stoops to kiss her.

“What took you so long to get here?” she asks testily, staring up at his big frame.

“I had some things to sort out this morning,” he replies, the gaze of his dark eyes lowered to the floor.

“You were dawdling,” she snaps back.

Granny turns to look at Dad. “What took
you
so long?”

“I've been busy in Sydney.”

“Huumph,” Granny replies, unimpressed, her gaze levelled steadily at him.

I didn't expect such ferocity from the old woman I had heard so much about. I begin to feel intimidated and regret that I have come all this way to meet her.

“So you're Bob Boney's daughter.” Granny eyes me.

“Hello, Granny.”

“She looks like your mother,” Granny remarks to my father and I feel a swell of pride at the connection. Dad has told me of the likeness — around the eyes — but many think I look more like my mother's family than my father's.

“She's come all the way from Sydney, too. She was the one studying in Paris,” Uncle Henry offers.

“I know that,” Granny snaps at him. She turns to me again, “What did you want to go there for?”

I don't know whether Granny is referring to Sydney or Paris so I stand mutely, hoping she will ignore me.

Granny decides that the trip to Dungalear can't take place unless we first go to town and fetch Danielle from the Aboriginal Foundation. Danielle is a niece of Henry's, making her a distant cousin of mine. Dad and Uncle Henry think Granny, given the chance to leave the hospital, just wants an excuse to visit the Foundation, which is the meeting place for the town's black community.

It is another hour before Dad and Uncle Henry place Granny and her wheelchair into the car and we arrive at the tin hall, which rests on a slab of concrete. I begin cursing myself for obeying my father and not bringing any work to do, for not even running into my hotel room to grab the
Aboriginal Law Bulletin.
Dad, Uncle Henry and Granny have wasted time in organising medical supplies and chatting with the nursing staff and other patients before we even leave the hospital. I could have read the journal cover to cover by now and done a significant bit on one of the affidavits that await me on the carpet of my hotel room while all this organising and side-tracking takes place. The side trip to the Foundation only increases my frustration.

Dad and I follow Uncle Henry into the Foundation to find Danielle. Henry saunters towards two old men sitting on blue plastic chairs beside a battered wooden table. They greet him with enthusiasm as he pulls up a seat. I hover near the doorway.

“Reggie. Tom. How are you blokes doin'?” Henry is met with nods and grunts. “You blokes know Bob Boney?”

They nod at my slightly built, greying father.

“G'day,” Dad returns, taking a place at the table. He shifts his body on the rickety seat to find his balance on a chair that has long ago lost its stability. When he feels safe from falling over he turns to Henry, “Aren't we here to find Danielle?”

“Haven't got that far yet,” replies Henry, and turns his attention to the older men. “We've got Granny in the car. We're taking her out to Dungalear station.”

“Hey Shirl,” yells Reggie. A woman appears from an adjacent kitchen, her hands clasping the hem of her floral dress.

“Yeah? Wha'cha hollerin' for?”

“Granny's out front. Henry and Bob Boney're takin' her outta the hospital for the day.” Shirl leaves the room followed by three other dark, large-bellied women with thin, stick-like legs. They all acknowledge Henry as they pass and he flirts confidently back at them.

“So do you think they'll let you onto Dungalear?” asks Reggie. His eyes are dimmed from working in the mines. His liquorice skin is creased and his pale fingers, which are never far from his face, are twisted and gnarled.

“Dunno. Guess we'll find out when we get there.”

The old men smile between themselves as Henry speaks.

“Good luck,” replies Tom. His glasses move against his face as he grins. He strokes his white beard with obvious mirth.

“Say, did you hear about Reggie's nephew? Tell him the story Reggie.”

Reggie shuffles in his chair and straightens his back.

I return to the car. Granny is sitting with her door open, holding court with Shirl and the other women. They are discussing the nursing staff at the hospital. I sit silently, my irritation gnawing at me, sweat forming on my forehead as the temperature in the car builds. The circle of men and the circle of women are deeply engrossed in conversation and I have the sinking feeling that I'm not going anywhere for a while. I think of my carefully laid out piles of paperwork on the hotel-room floor. I sigh as the clock counts off another hour.

The car slides noiselessly along the road as it leaves the huddle of houses at the edge of the town. The two cousins in the front seat are talking about Reggie's nephew.

“Sometimes kids are just born bad,” says Dad.

“Sometimes there's reasons,” replies Uncle Henry.

“Sometimes not,” Dad answers.

Granny looks out the window as the landscape melts beside the car. She seems to be looking beyond the pastures, fences and houses. I imagine that she can see silhouettes of almost forgotten faces imposed on the curves of the road and long-gone bodies pressed into the branches of trees. I watch her and imagine that the landscape must sing to her with memories — joyful and secret, sinister and sacred.

I sit in the middle of the back seat but the car is large enough for me not to feel cramped. I ignore the
Bob and Henry Show,
as I call it when the two cousins bicker like schoolboys or old women. I look at Danielle, who was the cause of our visit to the Foundation, her strong jaw-line, a defiant chin and thick black hair plaited and pulled back from her face. She is slightly darker than me and without my too-thin European features. I wonder if anyone seeing us side by side would guess we are related, albeit distantly.

As the car passes an old church surrounded by gravestones, Danielle observes, “A cemetery is not a nice place to end up, but if you want to meet God that's the way to go.”

“I'm not in a great hurry to get there myself,” I reply.

“Do you believe in God?” Danielle asks me.

“Sort of. I mean, I believe in something. Some force. But I do not believe in churches.” I hate questions about God and spirituality. I've no comfort with things I cannot articulate.

“Me neither. Reverend Phillips — he's the local Reverend — he comes to the Foundation. He tells me that if I'm smart I'd go to church.” Danielle rolls her eyes. “But the older folks seem to like him.”

The loyalty to or defense of the church that the older people express puzzles me. The churches were a destructive force that caused irreparable damage to Aboriginal culture through their attempts to Christianise 'the heathens'. Yet even my 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.

“What do you do around here for fun?” I change the topic.

“I 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.”

“The pace in the city is pretty hectic. It's not to everyone's liking.”

“Must be cool being a lawyer. I've never met a Murri lawyer before. My brother could have used you a couple of weeks ago.”

“I 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.”

“I 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.”

“You have a daughter?”

“Tamara is my third.” Sensing my astonishment, Danielle adds defensively, “I am twenty-five, you know.”

“You're the same age as me,” I reply, hoping my surprise won't be construed as rudeness.

“How many kids do you have?” she asks me.

“I don't have any.”

“Oh. 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.”

“The king?” I ask with surprise.

“Yeah. 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.

“Not 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.

“Well, what do you want to do?” asks my father.

“Let's go on anyway. We can leave a note.”