Tilly and Vi stifle a longing to squeal and run to their idol with their ca.s.sette covers all ready to be signed; their mothers have warned them to wait their turn. Protocol must be observed. Delaney is to meet the women first, and most particularly the one who is closest to her, the sole remaining member of her direct family. The girls squirm with impatience. They've watched Delaney on Countdown and she's even prettier in the flesh than she is on television.

Vonnie beckons forward the first person who is to be introduced. Bibi is a shy woman in her early forties, plainly in awe of meeting Delaney and uncomfortable at being the focus of attention.

'This is Bibi.' As always, Vonnie gets straight to the point. 'Bibi's your auntie. Etta was her sister.'

Delaney Wynton is moved, everyone can see it. 'You are my mother's sister?' she asks. She speaks softly, but her voice is clear and all can hear her.

Bibi nods self-consciously, twisting the thin cotton fabric of her frock between her fingers as she looks down at her bare feet. She has travelled all the way from Yalata with her cousin and her cousin's family just for this moment. But now that it's come, she doesn't know what to say.

'Say h.e.l.lo to Del,' Vonnie urges heartily. Vonnie can be bossy at times, but usually with the right motives. 'Come on, Bibi, don't be shy, she's your niece.'

'h.e.l.lo, Del,' Bibi whispers obediently.

'h.e.l.lo, Bibi.'

Delaney takes her aunt's hands in both of hers and Bibi looks up. Their eyes meet and as Del smiles, Bibi cannot help but respond. She sees her sister in that smile. She'd been twelve years old when Etta had disappeared. Bibi had loved her big sister.

As the two women embrace, Vonnie leads a round of applause.

The more formal part of the proceedings is quickly over. The senior women amongst the group are introduced one by one, a hug is shared with each, then the younger women gather for more hugs, and then it is the children's turn.

Tilly and Vi lead the troop of children that surrounds Delaney. She personally signs the girls' ca.s.sette covers To Tilly and Vi, as they request.

'Are you sisters?' she asks.

'No, we're cousins,' Tilly says, 'and we're best friends.'

'Tilly's going to be a famous singer, like you,' Vi adds. 'She writes her own songs too, just like you do.'

'Sing us a song, Del,' Tilly says, and the other children take up the chant. 'Sing us a song, Del. Sing us a song.'

But Del is apologetic. 'I don't have my guitar,' she says.

'I got a guitar.' Tilly disappears to return only moments later with the second-hand guitar her father bought her. 'It's tuned up good.' She hands it to Del.

Del strums a few chords. 'Yes, it is,' she agrees.

'Sing "Don't Look Back",' Tilly begs, referring to Del's latest hit. Del had sung it just the other night on Countdown.

'No, I'll sing a song you haven't heard before,' Del says. 'A song I wrote a long time ago, when I was around your age, Tilly.'

She addresses the entire gathering. 'This is a song about family,' she says. 'I knew that one day I would find you. I was twelve when I wrote this, and I was thinking of you.'

She rests her foot on a bench and prepares to play. The children gather about her, squatting on the ground, hugging their knees, their eyes bright with antic.i.p.ation.

'When I was a little girl growing up in Adelaide,' she says, 'I learned about the stars of the Southern Cross - the five that form the cross and the two that point the way. Seven stars in all. This is my song.'

She plays the introduction arpeggio, her fingers expertly picking out each note of a pretty melody. Then she starts to sing: 'Whenever I'm down, when I'm feeling low When the world spins too fast and the time goes too slow I wait for the evening stars to appear And seek out the seven that glitter so clear ...'

She sings without artifice, a natural voice, warm and pure.

'For I know that my family sees those same stars And all of us wonder where each of us are And each of us sends all the others our love As each of us watches those same stars above ...'

The gathering is enraptured. The courtyard is hushed. Even the youngest and most raucous of the little boys is silent.

Delaney reaches the end of the verse. The tempo of the song builds, and as she embarks upon the chorus she encourages the children to clap along. She no longer plays arpeggio, the chords are strong now, and her voice rises to match their strength.

'I clap clap my hands, shake the dust from the land And smile up at the stars as I dance in the sand For I am a child of the great universe Who cannot be humbled and will not be cursed ...'

The power in her voice is compelling. The song has become defiant. It is a celebration as she sings to the stars.

'My star family's with me wherever I go And we dance to the rhythms of long long ago ...'

Everyone present has joined in now. They are stamping their feet and clapping to the rhythm, infected by the strength and joy of the song. When finally it comes to its resounding conclusion, there is huge applause.

Tilly wants to know why Del's never recorded the song. 'I reckon it's one of your best songs ever,' she says.

'No,' Delreplies, 'it's a private song, a family song. It's just for us.'

'What's it called?'

' "The Song of the Seven Stars".'

'It'd come in at number one, I'll bet,' Tilly says.

REGARDING MARALINGA.

The British army packed up and went home in 1962. An attempt was made to decontaminate the area, but it was ineffectual. Maralinga closed in 1967, and the site was left to fester in the eternal silence of the desert.

During the years that followed, growing concerns about the safety standards observed during the conducting of the nuclear trials and the disposal of radioactive substances and toxic materials began to s...o...b..ll. By the 1980s, British and Australian servicemen and traditional Aboriginal owners of the land were suffering blindness, sores and illnesses such as cancer. Groups including the Atomic Veterans a.s.sociation and the Pitjantjatjara Council pressured the government until, in 1984, it agreed to hold a royal commission to investigate the damage that had been caused.

The McClelland Royal Commission into the tests delivered its report in 1985 and found that significant radiation hazards still existed at many of the Maralinga test areas. It recommended another clean-up, which was completed in 2000 at a cost of $108 million.

During the proceedings, local Indigenous people claimed they were poisoned by the tests. The McClelland Commission could find no evidence of this. However, in 1994, the Australian government paid compensation amounting to $13.5 million to the Maralinga Tjarutja people in settlement of all claims relating to nuclear testing.

The Commission did find that some British and Australian servicemen were purposely exposed to fallout from the blasts. With regard to these health and welfare matters, an Australian Department of Veterans' Affairs study concluded that 'overall the doses received by Australian partic.i.p.ants were small ... Only two per cent of partic.i.p.ants received more than the current Australian annual dose limit for occupationally exposed persons (20 mSv).'

However, these findings were contested by the Atomic Ex-Serviceman's a.s.sociation, which claimed that out of 10,700 personnel who worked in the area over a ten-year period in the 1950s and 1960s there were over 9,000 persons who had died by 2005 and approximately 7580 per cent of those deaths were from cancer.

On 6 June 2009 (ironically the anniversary of the D-Day Invasion in 1944) approximately 1,000 ex-servicemen from Australia, New Zealand, Fiji and Britain who were involved in nuclear tests during the 1950s finally won the right to sue the British government over health problems they blame on radiation.

It is to be hoped the British High Court decision will force the Australian Federal government to finally recognise health and welfare claims by Australian veterans.

Despite the governments of Australia and the UK paying for two decontamination programs, concerns have been expressed that some areas of the Maralinga test sites are still contaminated.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS.

My love and thanks as always to my husband, Bruce Venables. My thanks also to those family and friends who continue to offer both encouragement and practical a.s.sistance: big brother Rob Nunn, Sue Greaves, Susan Mackie-Hookway, Michael Roberts, Colin Julin and my agent, James Laurie. A big thanks to all the hard-working team at Random House, most particularly to Brandon VanOver for his creative support.

For a.s.sistance in the research of this book I am indebted to many, but first and foremost my thanks must go to Leon and Dianne Ashton, who, as on-site managers of Maralinga, offered Bruce and me such a warm welcome and gave so generously of their time and knowledge. Thank you also to David Johns, who granted government approval for our visit to the site, and to the Maralinga Tjarutja, who allowed us to travel their lands.

A big thank you to all those wonderfully helpful people I met during my research trip: from Ceduna Library, Julie Sim (and husband Bob, whose hand-drawn map was of inestimable value), Chris Blums and Meralyn Stevens; from Ceduna Aboriginal Arts & Culture Centre, Pam Diment and Sue Andrasic; Allan Lowe from the Ceduna Museum; Tanya and Andrea from the Maralinga Tjarutja Land Council Office; Patricia Gunter; Des Whitmarsh; the friendly staff at the Ceduna Foresh.o.r.e Hotel and many others from the highly hospitable township of Ceduna. Thanks also to June n.o.ble and d.i.c.k Kimber of Alice Springs.

Among my research sources, I would like to recognise the following: Fields of Thunder, Denys Blakeway and Sue Lloyd-Roberts, Allen & Unwin (Publishers) Ltd, 1985.

Field of Thunder: the Maralinga Story, written and researched by Judy Wilks, with Rolf Heimann (Art), Nic Thieberger and Richard Watts (Graphics), Friends of the Earth, 1981.

Maralinga: Australia's Nuclear Waste Cover-up, Alan Parkinson, ABC Books, 2007.

A Political Inconvenience, Tim Sherratt, Historical Records of Australian Science, 1985.

Fallout: Hedley Marston and the British Bomb Tests in Australia, Roger Cross, Wakefield Press, 2001.

Maralinga's Afterlife, John Keane, professor of politics, Centre for the Study of Democracy, University of Westminster, London, The Age Company Ltd, 2003.

A Toxic Legacy: British Nuclear Weapons Testing in Australia, published in Wayward Governance: Illegality and Its Control in the Public Sector, P. N. Grabosky, Canberra, Australian Inst.i.tute of Criminology, 1989.

I'm the One That Know This Country!: the Story of Jessie Lennon and Coober Pedy, Aboriginal Studies Press for the Australian Inst.i.tute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies, 2000.

The View Across the Bay, Sue Trewartha, published by Ceduna Community Hotel, 1999.

Broken Song: T. G. H. Strehlow and Aboriginal Possession, Barry Hill, Random House Australia Pty Ltd, 2002.

The eagerly awaited new novel 'This town is full of tiger men,' Dan said. 'Just look around you. The merchants, the builders, the bankers, the company men, they're all out for what they can get. This is a tiger town, Mick, a place at the bottom of the world where G.o.d turns a blind eye to pillage and plunder.'

Van Diemen's Land was an island of stark contrasts: a harsh penal colony, an English idyll for its landed gentry, and an island so rich in natural resources it was a profiteer's paradise.

Its capital, Hobart Town, had its contrasts too: the wealthy elite in their sandstone mansions, the exploited poor in the notorious slum known as Wapping, and the criminals and villains who haunted the dockside taverns and brothels of Sullivan's Cove. Hobart Town was no place for the meek.

Tiger Men is the story of Silas Stanford, a wealthy Englishman; Mick O'Callaghan, an Irishman on the run; and Jefferson Powell, an idealistic American political prisoner. It is also the story of the strong, proud women who loved them, and of the children they bore who rose to power in the cutthroat world of international trade.

Tiger Men is the sweeping saga of three families who lived through Tasmania's golden era, who witnessed the birth of Federation and who, in 1915, watched with pride as their sons marched off to fight for King and Country in the Great War.

AVAILABLE FROM NOVEMBER 2011.

PROLOGUE.

The animal approaches the river with stealth; not for fear of predators, but in order to avoid alerting possible prey. It is early dusk and others may be slaking their thirst a kangaroo perhaps, or a wallaby, or wombat. She hopes for a large kill, she has three hungry cubs to feed, but if necessary smaller prey will suffice. Her keen ears are alert to the slightest rustle amongst the gra.s.ses and foliage as this might signal a potoroo or a possum.

A nocturnal hunter, she has come down from the woodlands to the valley, leaving her offspring in the safety of their rocky lair on the hillside. The cubs have been out of her pouch for some time, but they are not yet old enough to join her on the hunt, when she will teach them her skills.

The early evening air is crisp and clear with the chill bite of autumn. All is breathlessly still and upon the gla.s.s-like river surface the mirror images of willows and ferns meet to create a magically perfect twin world.

There is no prey in sight, so the animal lowers her head and drinks, oblivious to the destruction she wreaks as ever-widening ripples spread in all directions. Then, her thirst a.s.suaged, she slinks off into the undergrowth, barely visible, the black stripes of her tawny back melding with the shadows of fern fronds. The riverbank has not provided easy prey and she is on the hunt now, her ears and eyes attuned to the slightest sound or movement.

Unlike some hunters, she relies more on sound and sight than she does on her sense of smell; and unlike others she relies on stamina rather than speed. She will run down beasts much faster than she, simply by chasing them into a state of exhaustion. She is strong.

She has travelled barely five minutes, covering considerable ground at an easy trot but keeping low in the gra.s.ses, her sharp, black eyes searching the bushes and thickets for any sign of movement. Then she hears a sound. It is the low snuffle of a horse, and she instantly halts. This is not a sound she a.s.sociates with prey, but rather with predator. She remains motionless, little more than the faintest ripple amongst the broad sea of gra.s.slands.

The horse snorts again, nervously this time it has caught her scent. She can see it now: its form silhouetted in the soft half-light, tethered to a tree in the thicket up ahead. She has no fear of horses, but where there are horses there are men, and she greatly fears men. She is right to do so, for man is her one true predator. She keeps away from his settlements, but more and more he encroaches upon her territory, and more and more she is forced to retreat. Her world is changing.

The horse tosses its head. Aware of her presence, it is restless.

Her muscles tense, and she makes to flee the predator cannot be far off but before she can move, a shot rings out.

The man steps from the thicket where he has been watching the slight telltale movement in the gra.s.ses; he too is an experienced hunter. He approaches the corpse and rolls it over with his foot. A fine specimen, he thinks, in excellent condition. On top of the tiger bounty, there'd be money for the hide. What a stroke of luck. He'd only come out to set his traps.

CHAPTER ONE.

HOBART TOWN, 1853.

Van Diemen's Land was a place of profound contradiction. The sheer beauty of the island could stir a man's soul, yet the savage depravity of life on its sh.o.r.es could rob him of all faith. This alarming paradox continued to disturb Silas Stanford, even after ten long years in the colony. He did not doubt that many a poor creature had lost sight of G.o.d in the midst of this glorious wilderness where His hand was so evident. Fifty years on, the history of Van Diemen's Land remained, to Silas, a shocking condemnation.

The British had decided, in 1803, to extend their occupation of the Australian continent to include Van Diemen's Land, roughly 150 miles off the south-east coast, and they had done so purely in order to prevent the French laying claim to it. A penal colony had quickly been established for the provision of labour, and a thriving new port had been created at Sullivan's Cove, a picturesque bay on the west bank of the River Derwent. Convict settlers had been transported from Norfolk Island and Port Jackson to people the township and develop the land, and a new breed of society had been born in the wilderness.

Over the ensuing decades, the busy port of Hobart Town, nestled at the base of mighty Mount Wellington, became home to rough, tough men: to jailers and convicts, and sealers and whalers, and to those seeking refuge from the law. Van Diemen's Land, it seemed, was designed for the lawless. Whether they arrived in chains, or whether they simply walked off ships in a bid to escape justice, the island appeared a magnet to the wicked. Here was no haven for the weak or the squeamish; here only the toughest survived. Escaped convicts and bandits roamed the countryside, while settlers, men who considered themselves civilised, embarked upon the systematic eradication of those whose lands they'd invaded.