Lillipilly Hill (14 page)

‘Why don't they start?' she lamented. ‘It's getting late.'

‘I wish it was dark,' said Aidan fervently.

But at last the Barley Creek players began to straggle on to the field, and Aidan was summoned to join them. Steve put him right out on the boundary, where, he hoped, he would not be needed. This cheered Aidan a little, for he had dreaded being placed close to the wicket, in a highly dangerous and conspicuous position.

The Deacon's Flat batsmen were full of confidence, and ready to take risks with the bowling of Charles and Steve. Unluckily, their risks seemed to be justified. The score rose steadily, while the bowlers grew redder and wearier, and the spirits of the Barley Creek supporters sank with the declining sun.

‘They'll have to change the bowling soon,' said Mr Farmer. ‘It's nearly half past four, and those two openers are still there.'

Charles went up to speak to Steve, who answered him in evident astonishment. Finally he shrugged resignedly, and walked towards Aidan.

‘They're going to let him bowl!' cried Harriet.

‘I'm afraid,' said Mr Farmer, ‘that it's a case of try anything now.'

No player could have been more reluctant than Aidan to take his chance. He approached the wicket with his head down and his hands clasped behind him; he took the ball from Steve as gingerly as if it were a hot coal. Fortunately Charles had coached him sufficiently for him to know where to make his run, and how to move his arm, but any bowling he had done up till now had been of the gentle, schoolgirlish variety. And somehow he felt that the batsman, a huge red-headed fellow who was the Deacon's Flat blacksmith, would not treat such balls with anything but the contempt they deserved.

He was quite right. The blacksmith hit a six off the first ball, and a four off the second. The third went too wide to be even considered. Charles groaned, Harriet shut her eyes, and someone gave a loud laugh. Aidan knew that laugh—it was Paddy Tolly's. The sound of it roused Aidan's anger. He hadn't asked to play in this wretched match, he had never claimed to be a cricketer, and here he was forced into the position he hated most—that of a laughing-stock.

‘If I just throw the ball as hard as I can, I can't do any worse,' he told himself. ‘And then they're sure to take me off.'

The next minute a great shout went up from the onlookers, as the bails flew, the umpire raised his
hand, and the bewildered blacksmith retired to the fence, shaking his head. It would have been hard to say who was the more astonished—batsman or bowler. Aidan stared at the ball now once more reposing in his hand, as if wondering whether it possessed magic powers.

‘Go on, Aidan, do it again!' shrieked Harriet, and for once she was not reminded that it was unladylike to shout.

Aidan did his best. The next ball was very short, and the new batsman, thoroughly puzzled, made the mistake of poking forward at it, thus presenting Charles with the easiest of catches.

Amidst cheers, Aidan bowled his fifth ball, which went about a yard wide of the wicket. This time nobody laughed, and Aidan regained his confidence sufficiently to send down a quite respectable straight ball which the batsman played cautiously back to him, without scoring.

Steve very sensibly took Aidan off again, knowing that the boy was perfectly capable of returning to his earlier disastrous form in the next over. But the dismissal of two of Deacon's Flat's best batsmen had inspired the Barley Creek team, and in the next ten minutes three more wickets fell. With the score at five for forty-nine, the Barley Creek supporters began
to look quite cheerful, and the Deacon's Flat inhabitants grew steadily quieter and grimmer.

‘We might even have them all out by five,' exulted Mr Farmer, consulting his watch. ‘There's only one good bat left—that fellow Charles is bowling to now. They call him “Slogger”, and it suits him.'

Slogger, a stout, solid young man, chewed thoughtfully on a grass stem as he dispatched a succession of balls to the boundary, or near it. Up and up went the score, and Slogger remained at the wicket, unruffled by the brisk removal of his partner. He seemed as immovable as the rocky hill-side behind him.

‘Six for sixty,' groaned Mr Wilmot, who was as thoroughly absorbed in the game as the minister. ‘We'll never do it.'

‘Aidan's going to bowl again,' said Harriet excitedly. ‘Don't you think he's a good bowler, Father? We could still win.'

‘With coaching and practice, he might make a bowler,' said Mr Wilmot. ‘But at present, he's merely lucky. Let's hope his luck holds.'

Aidan began badly, and Slogger scored an easy two. Aidan walked back very slowly to start his next run, giving himself time to think. He knew little enough about cricket, but he had been watching Slogger for some time, and his critical mind had registered the fact
that the Deacon's Flat batsman treated every ball in the same manner—he stepped out boldly, and slashed. So far it had worked beautifully.

‘But,' reflected Aidan, ‘if he couldn't step out, and went back instead, something different might happen.'

It was a sound theory, and all that remained was to put it into practice. Aidan had very little idea of how to go about it, but in a happy inspiration he aimed directly at Slogger's large boots. Surprised, Slogger stepped back, swung at the ball in his usual enthusiastic fashion, and knocked the bails right off the wicket.

‘I am beginning to change my opinion,' remarked Mr Wilmot, when the cheering had subsided. ‘Aidan
is
a bowler. He bowls with his head.'

‘But Father, how can he?' demanded Rose-Ann, in genuine bewilderment, only to be squashed by Harriet.

‘Don't be so stupid, Rose-Ann—Father means Aidan thinks all the time. He's just as clever at cricket as he is at lessons. Oh, I
am
glad Paddy Tolly's here!'

The match was soon finished, once Slogger had been dismissed. At ten past five, Deacon's Flat were all out for sixty-six, and Aidan was chaired to the fence.

‘They want you to go out with Steve to take the trophy,' said Charles, beaming with delight at his schoolfellow's success. ‘John Wilkins is just bringing
it out. Go on, Aidan—you won't have to make a speech.'

Reluctantly, Aidan allowed himself to be pushed to the centre of the field, where he stood self-consciously while the trophy, a huge brass tray engraved with the records of past matches, was ceremoniously handed over to Steve. During John's brief but halting speech, Aidan stared over his head at the hillside, now glowing in the full light of the sinking sun. For an instant, the light glinted on the silver-grey head of a large dog, and the black hair of a boy, crouching behind a rock. Aidan raised his hand in a faint salute, and he was certain that Clay gave an answering wave before both figures melted away into the gilded scrub. It made Aidan's satisfaction complete, and meant more than all the acclamation of the Barley Creek folk, more even than the envious glances of Paddy, and the knowledge that hereafter he would never lack for friends.

The drive home was quiet and sedate, at least in the buggies. From the dray came sounds of singing, but that was far behind, and along the road all the bush creatures were silent, save for an occasional mopoke or frog. The wind had died away at sunset, and on the hill-tops the trees leant motionless against the painted sky. Rose-Ann slept, but Harriet was wide-awake, still excited over the cricket match and reliving every
moment of Aidan's triumph. It had been a wonderful day. Surely, after this, there would be much less talk at Lillipilly Hill of returning to London? Aidan would be a hero at school now, instead of an outcast, and if he were happy, then his father and mother would be happier, too. To Harriet, that evening, the whole world was as rosy as the western sky.

‘Singin' toorali, toorali, addidee,

For we're bound fer Botany Bay.'

The words echoed down the track, and Harriet whispered them to herself, for Polly had taught her the chorus. It was indeed a time for singing.

9

Journey to the Sea

Harriet was playing scales. At least, she should have been. Actually, one hand strayed over the keyboard while the other groped in her pinafore pocket for the last crumbs of her mid-morning bun. It had been an excellent bun, round and shiny and well endowed with currants, and Harriet was wondering whether it would be advisable to go to the kitchen to ask Polly for another one.

‘Is Mother in the kitchen?' she demanded of Rose-Ann, who sat at the window, sewing.

‘Yes—it's baking day. You know that.'

‘I thought perhaps they'd finished,' said Harriet sadly. If her mother was in the kitchen, then it was
no good looking for another bun. An hour's practice every day was the rule for both girls, and it must not be interrupted.

‘Is it still raining?' asked Harriet, bringing her empty hand out of her pocket and placing it reluctantly on the keys.

‘Not quite so hard,' said Rose-Ann, peering out across the veranda. ‘I can see a tiny bit of blue sky.'

‘Don't you ever wish very hard that something would happen?' said Harriet, playing a violent discord. ‘I do. Nothing has happened for weeks.'

It was the middle of May. The school had closed for the autumn holidays, and Lillipilly Hill was wrapped in what was to Harriet an intolerable quiet. Aidan had gone with his father to Sydney, where Mr Wilmot had some business to transact, and they were to be away for several days. Charles was staying with some relatives in Blackhill, and since the school closed Harriet had seen nothing of Dinny. So Harriet was feeling extremely lonely and bored, and the great day of the cricket match seemed incredibly distant.

‘But lots of things have happened,' said the practical Rose-Ann. ‘Boz is digging out the apple trees, and the brown cow has had a calf, and Mother sent for the muslin for our new bedroom curtains. And we are to be measured for our winter dresses next week. I'm
to have dark blue, with white braid, and yours is to be brown, I think—'

‘I hate brown,' said Harriet crossly. ‘And that's not what I meant about things happening. Those are just little things. I want something to happen to
me
, like being allowed to go hunting with Charles—only he's not here—or exploring that swamp Aidan saw. We've not been farther than the front gate since school finished.'

‘It's too wet, anyway,' said Rose-Ann, who was perfectly content to be snug and safe indoors, with her sewing—she was making the ruffles for the new curtains—and the knowledge that there was no more school for ten days.

Harriet sighed at her sister's lack of perception, and attempted a few more scales. She had just decided to give up the scales and play one of her pieces instead, when the sitting-room door opened, and her mother came in.

‘Harriet, dear, I'm afraid I must ask you to run down to the village for me. Polly is very busy, and I want this letter to go by this afternoon's post. I hope you will be all right on your own. Just go straight down and come back as soon as you have given Mr Mackenzie the letter. It's stopped raining, but you had better put on your coat.'

Harriet was in the hall almost before her mother had finished speaking. Never before had she been allowed to go on an errand quite by herself. She dragged on her coat, took the letter, and dived for the front door.

‘You can finish your practising when you come back,' Mrs Wilmot called after her, but even that could not make Harriet's excursion any the less welcome. She slithered down the track, over the wet leaves and shining stones, and splashed gaily through the puddles at the bottom.

Harriet loved going to the post office, whither she had often gone with Polly after morning school. It was a dark, cramped little place, stifling in summer and cheerless in winter, but to Harriet it was positively exciting. Mr Mackenzie presided behind a rough wooden counter, in front of a row of pigeon-holes marked in chalk with all the letters of the alphabet. Harriet always looked with particular interest at Q, X, and Z, but today, as usual, they were empty. She had spent some time, generally during music or sewing lessons, inventing names beginning with these letters.

‘Good morning, Harriet,' said the postmaster cheerfully. ‘Out on your own, are you? Here, you can stamp the letter if you like.'

He pushed over the rusty tin containing the post office stamp, and Harriet carefully imprinted the date and the name, ‘Barley Creek'.

‘Any mail for us?' she asked, glancing hopefully at W.

‘Not yet,' said Mr Mackenzie, without looking, for he knew just which families had received mail by the previous post. ‘There might be some when Jock comes this afternoon.'

Harriet could find no further excuse for lingering. She went outside and stared along the road. As if in answer to her wish, Dinny appeared at the doorway of Mrs Tolly's store, carring a bulging sack. Harriet waved joyfully, and they met half-way between the store and the post office.

‘I can't stay long,' said Harriet regretfully. ‘I came down to post a letter, and I have to go back and finish my practice.'

‘You still playing that old piano?' demanded Dinny. ‘Not, mind you, that I wouldn't have a try at it instead of digging potatoes—that's real hard work. An' termorrer I've got to go all the way to Winneroo with baccy an' stuff for Pa.'

‘How are you to get there?' asked Harriet.

‘On my two feet, of course. It's only five mile. Want to come?'

Harriet stared at her friend in astonishment.

‘I'd never be allowed.'

‘Why not? There's a good track, an' no snakes or nothing. We'd be back before dark, easily. Winneroo's a good place—there's hundreds of shells, an' little pools in the rocks, an' all that sand—'

‘I should love to go,' said Harriet wistfully. ‘I've not seen the sea since we came here.'

‘Oh, well,' said Dinny, ‘if you want to come, meet me at our fence at seven o'clock. An' bring some dinner with you. I've got to get back now—Ma's waiting on this bag of stores. She's going to make a treacle pudding—Pa sent us some money last week.'