Behind them, there’d have been a creek running down a little valley. The valley floor had been filled in and flattened now to accommodate the oval and the public toilets. There’d have been rock ledges and overhangs on the steep valley walls on both sides. In summer they’d have used the ones on the south-facing slope. That was posh Louisa Road now. They’d stay cool, they’d get the breeze. In winter they’d have wanted the warmth of the sun, and gone over to the rock shelters that faced north. The backyards still tumble down the slope, every house looking over the head of the one in front.

I’d laughed with the other kids at that fish up on Ball’s Head. All I could see then were the wharves and buildings, the streets, the glitter and bulk of the things that were on the surface of the place that was my home.

Writing The Secret River was the opening of a new set of eyes in my head, a new set of ears. Now I could see what was underneath, what was always underneath and always will be: the shape of the land, the place itself, and the spirit of the people who were here.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Acknowledgments

Many people helped me in the writing of The Secret River. A few of you are mentioned specifically in these pages but most are not. Please, all of you, accept here my gratitude for the talking, thinking, lending of books, supplying of information, reading of drafts, guiding, encouraging and challenging that you did. This book is the record of the journey on which you all accompanied me, and which couldn’t have happened without you.