‘I’ll make some breakfast,’ she says, instead.

Joe nods, distracted by the radio. ‘Not for me, thanks, love. I’ll get something later.’

She steps into the kitchen. A government minister is being interviewed on the radio. It’s the same story she’s been hearing since she arrived: Prime Minister John Howard won’t apologise to Aboriginal people for the forced removal of their children. People back then thought they were doing the right thing, the minister says. It was a different time.

‘Bet this didn’t make the news in England,’ Joe says.

‘No. You wouldn’t know any of this was going on.’

‘Typical.’

‘There’s been an election in the UK, to be fair. A new government.’

‘That’s right.’ He snorts. ‘Cool Britannia. Not so cool from where I’m standing.’

They sip their coffee and listen. It wouldn’t hurt to say sorry, the interviewer says.

‘Tell Tony Blair to come here and apologise.’ Joe glares at the radio. ‘Tell him we’re the bloody great continent with the kangaroos and the boomerangs.’

It would be healing, says the interviewer.

‘It all comes back to the British.’ He points a finger at nothing in particular. ‘Everywhere you look, in this country and in most of the world. If there’s a conflict, you can bet it dates back to a time when the British charged in and put their flag in it.’

Isla knows better than to defend the British from her British father. He’s never come to terms with her moving to England, the country he left. She finds some eggs and cracks them into a bowl.

‘Sooner we become a republic, the better,’ Joe says.

It was a long time ago, the minister says, repeating himself. Most Australians were unaware this was going on.

Joe puts his coffee down and lights a cigarette. ‘Wasn’t that long ago,’ he says. ‘I remember it.’

‘Do you?’

‘That bastard next door was up to his neck in it.’

Isla pours the eggs into a pan. She looks up at her dad, who is staring out at next door’s yard. ‘Dave Taylor? He’s an architect, isn’t he?’

Joe keeps his voice low. ‘Steve Mallory,’ he says.

She lifts the edges of the omelette with a spatula. Her movements feel slow and heavy. ‘Mandy’s husband?’

He nods.

A sweat springs up on her forehead. She flips the omelette, although her appetite is gone.

‘He was a policeman,’ Joe says.

‘Did he drive a truck? A dark green truck. Always dirty.’

‘That’s right. You remember that?’

The sweat spreads across her body. ‘I was scared of him.’

‘Kids can tell when someone’s no good.’ Joe rests his cigarette in the ashtray and drains his coffee. ‘He put on a good show, mind you. People liked him round here.’

‘Did you?’

‘No. Can’t say I did.’

‘How did you stand by and let it happen?’

He frowns. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘If you knew what he was doing. Taking kids away. Couldn’t you have done something?’

Joe stops with his cigarette halfway to his mouth. He takes a while to reply. ‘It wasn’t that easy.’