I can’t shake the feeling that all this is useless, that Laney never left that property. The Potters have a reputation with us that goes back generations; there’s no way they’d let us out there to look around, no point even asking. Instead, a whole heap of the uncles, aunties and older cousins are going out on the roads around the Potters’ place, hoping she made it that far. I try not to imagine my twin walking somewhere out there without food or water. Alone, maybe lost. Others will be out at different places, hoping to get lucky.

Potters’ is rare around here, having survived mostly intact through the years. They haven’t had to lease out paddocks, or subdivide like others. They have enough sons to run the place and still be able to employ a few jackaroos, none of them black. Then again, not many blackfullas will go out there. On the most western side of the property sits a mountain that none of us will go near. The elders are clear on that one.

I shove those thoughts aside as I hit Pop’s driveway. His place is an old weatherboard up on short stilts. The difference is ours is cream and his is white. Most places in town are a shade of white or pink and all of it peeling. His yard is filled with flowers, and out the back is one of the best vegetable gardens in town. Mum said his last job before he retired was as a gardener.

Like always, he’s stretched out on the verandah, rollies on the table and one burning away in his hand, watching everything. Men are worse gossips than women, Mum always says, and I believe her.

‘Hey Pop.’

‘Hurmph.’ His grizzled voice grumps and he nods his silver head. I can tell straight away I’m in trouble.

‘Bought you up a feed.’

I put it on the table in front of him, drop a quick kiss to his cheek before picking up his gigantic mug and starting into the house.

‘Cuppa tea?’ I sing out as I walk to the kitchen. I don’t even have to ask really. The mug is half full and mostly cold, but it wouldn’t matter if it was only five minutes old, he always has a fresh cuppa with his food.

‘Bring me the milk and sugar.’

Grinning and shaking my head, I hit the kettle’s button and rummage around his kitchen to make us both one. He had to talk to me that time, no choice. We are all under strict orders from Mum to only give him a certain amount of sugar and milk; I can’t ignore her but Pop sure does.

‘And don’t forget the salt and pepper!’

This time I groan.