‘Write a play about the haus boi lynched for looking at missis,’ Eremiah said. ‘That’ll wake you up.’ Milton ignored him. ‘Write a play about Martin Luther King.’

‘Mister Preacher Man,’ Milton said, his eyes still on Tessa. Her long hair, her throat, those legs. ‘Mister Newspaper Man.’

Simbaikan scowled. ‘He looks at her too much. He looks at her and sees all wrong.’ She poked at the fire. Hapkas babies, she said, need strong mothers, not a harlot, a pamuk meri. ‘Empty girl. No ground in her.’

She rolled a sweet potato out of the fire, scraped off the ash, cut it, gave a chunk to Rika. She liked this girl, Laedi’s friend. She didn’t know why she had the white skin of the new people, for she was like her long-dead husband, sanctified in memory, with an inside the same as the old people, the dark-skinned people. Her husband had been a good man with a good smell, and it made no sense to her that his skin was white. It had burned in the sun and peeled like the bark of a tree. Same with this girl, who was too white, she complained to Laedi, her spirit must have gone astray. She patted Rika’s arm and handed her another chunk of sweet potato.

She looked across to Eremiah, who was still arguing with Milton. Aaron’s hands were reaching out, to one, then the other. She liked him, a good man from the coast, but Eremiah gestured over him and a big noise started, with everyone shouting. The card game stopped, and Rifle was standing up. Simbaikan scowled.

Eremiah’s fist was in the air. ‘They shot Martin Luther King,’ he shouted. ‘They shot Robert Kennedy. Wake up!’ This soft talk of plays and love and dancing together, black skin and white, was a diversion. ‘The road to independence will be a hard road,’ he yelled. ‘We must be ready to fight.’

Tessa’s voice came chirruping in. ‘Don’t you worry,’ she said. ‘Things are changing in Australia. Independence will come soon enough.’

Eremiah’s tall, thin head shot up another few inches. ‘We’re not waiting for a gift from you,’ he said. ‘If we want independence we’ll have to demand it. Take it.’

It was too much for Simbaikan.

‘Raus!’ she shouted. She was on her feet. ‘No good, this independence talk, your head is too hot. You sit down and learn the white-man law. You go! You go and study!’ She stomped over to Rifle and told him not to listen, shouted at the Highland labourers with their scruffy beards and gappy teeth to clean out their ears. She’d rather white men as kiaps and teachers and doctors and pilots than a black munka with his tall hair and angry vanity. She poked at the fire and wouldn’t be placated until Eremiah left and the last of the comments shouted over his shoulder had disappeared into the dark. His supporters thumped away with him, and Rifle returned to his card game.