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lying in a particular way the past aligns with the present and I forget my plump pillow and the feathers beneath me and am in my old bed again, the ridge in the sheets where they have been turned to mend a tear, the salt smell of everything, my book shelf and lamp, the rough wooden walls, Addie tossing nearby, the heavy winter quilts holding me safe.

    The Coorong, 1855
    After that first foray we clung to the house, going about with each other for company if we had a mind to explore. I could not help glancing back. As insubstantial as the house was, and composed of so many of the elements that lay all about or grew from the ground or were of the ground itself, it seemed not unlikely that while my attention was elsewhere it could fly away in a strong gust of wind or subside into sticks and mud in the rain.
    In one of the bursts of energy that overcame Mama she found our old school books and slates and brought them out. ‘You must keep up with your lessons,’ she said, ‘else you will all become savages.’ It gave her some purpose. Her enthusiasm often wavered and it fell to me to keep our school going between times. Hugh and Stanton were too big, and there was nothing I could teach Fred except mathematics, and Addie did not wish to learn and Albert would rather be out of doors. He was not interested in schoolwork, finishing it quickly to be done and then chafing at Fred to leave with him. But Fred stayed for as long as he could.
    Mama was often seen looking from a window or holding to the rail of the veranda as if on a ship on a stormy sea. At first I waved, until I perceived that nothing would reassure. Still, for her sake, for weeks after we lost our fears we did not go beyond the limits that Papa had set for us: up to the stock route, a half-mile away at least, to the shores of the lagoon and around the curve of our point. There were paths all across the land leading to and from different places: an expanse of cockle shells below the house, a small hill from which we could see a long way up the lagoon, a good suck of water nearby, a stand of she-oaks. As we accustomed ourselves to the space and explored further we began to feel and not only think of it as our own.
    In those days Papa was sure of our future success. He rode the run to check on the cattle, which were eating their way along the lagoon shore and into the scrub. Each day, Papa and the boys laboured to fence new areas, creating paddocks that they could be moved between. He wore his gaucho’s hat, which he said all cow hands wear in Argentina, tilted down rather severe at the front, which a person could not help thinking of as foreign even if they had never left these shores. He had it from his travels before he married Mama and never wore another when he was out working and would not part with this one, old as it was. From a distance we could tell Papa from anyone by his hat, which had a wider brim than was usual and the dimple in its crown almost disappeared with age. I wondered whether Papa missed those carefree times and being here returned him to them.
    At first we were in the expectation of seeing more blacks. I overheard a low conversation between Papa and Mama one evening on the subject.
    Papa stretched his legs towards the fire, warming his feet. His chin was sunk against his chest. He watched the flames rather than Mama, and spoke as if he hardly expected an answer. ‘They are wary, naturally. Who could ever know how many of the black women have been taken.’
    â€˜Have they?’ Mama asked.
    â€˜I know it to be so. Those Kangaroo Island men are rough: whalers and sealers, and escaped convicts too. They row across and up the lagoon; take the women when the men are hunting I suppose. With determination, it’s not so far, and they are the most proficient rowers. They are accustomed to the pursuit of whales, my dear. If you saw them … I assure you they are most impressive. Even if the blacks here saw a boat coming,