Lillipilly Hill (20 page)

‘Eels,' said Aidan. ‘They won't hurt you.'

He was watching the water rising slowly and steadily up over his boots. Fortunately, the mud was quite firm, and gave way only very slightly beneath his tread. He had read enough adventure stories to be aware of the dangers of quicksand.

‘There's a log here,' he said, prodding a submerged object with his foot. ‘I'll pull you up on to it.'

The tree which had fallen there must have been quite a giant in its time, for it led them many yards out towards the centre of the swamp. When at last Aidan felt it narrowing, and offering a more and more precarious foothold, Maloney's Hill loomed very much closer.

‘I don't think we'd better shout any more,' he said. ‘The men would be sure to hear us. We'll try and reach those trees over there—it's not far.'

He lowered himself carefully from the log. The water swirled around his boot-tops, and he looked back anxiously at Harriet.

‘At least,' said Harriet, with satisfaction, ‘I shan't be able to wear this dress again.'

The trees Aidan had indicated were a group of mangroves, slender, twisted shapes with their heads close together, and their tangled roots half in and half out of the water. Beyond them, the swamp seemed shallower, and Aidan was confident that once they were in the mangroves' shelter, the worst part of the crossing would be over.

But Harriet was beginning to tire. She was thoroughly chilled, and with every step her boots seemed heavier and colder. Once the sun peered through the clouds and glinted on the water, but there was no warmth in the pale, slanting light. It soon retreated, leaving the swamp more desolate and cheerless than before. Even the birds seemed to have fled from the backwater, and all around Harriet no living object was in sight, save her brother. Aidan floundered grimly on, still possessed with the idea of rescuing Clay, and determined that nothing should stop him. To Harriet, however, the vision of Clay was fast becoming blurred and indefinite—the reality was the never-ending swamp, the cold, and her own vast weariness.

‘We're nearly there,' said Aidan. ‘All we have to do now is find a way through these trees, and cross a bit of a mud-patch. I think we might still be in time.'

Harriet reached out blindly and grasped a mangrove root. In her normal state of mind, she would have marvelled at the strangeness of these trees, whose gnarled and prolific roots formed tunnels and archways and caves above and below the surface of the water. But now it was a frightening sight, for the branches shut out the light, and the muddy water was black and still and utterly silent. It was difficult to see Aidan, who in his eagerness was keeping well ahead of her, and she could only try to follow the splashing sounds he made as he scrambled from one root to the next.

‘Aidan!' she called at last. ‘Don't go on without me. I'd rather stay with you. Aidan!'

But no one answered her. The noise of Aidan's progress died away among the trees, and she knew she was alone. She could see nothing but trees wherever she looked. She felt one foot slipping in the mud, and drew back just in time from the edge of a deep hole. A cavern opened before her, and her feverish imagination transformed it into the lair of some horrible monster, crouching among the skeleton-like roots. She tried to go back the way she had come, but every tree so closely resembled its neighbour that it was impossible to recognize any landmarks.

She was far too exhausted now to think clearly. The water dragged clammily at her skirts, and her legs were numb. Her one desire was to leave this terrifying spot, and she spent the last of her strength turning desperately from one tree to the next, and calling continuously in a voice that even to herself seemed feeble and futile in all that loneliness. At last she pulled herself up on to a bridge of roots, and lay there a foot or two above the water, shivering and crying. From very far away came the sound of a shot, and the deep barking of a dog, but Harriet had forgotten both Clay and Patchy. Only two things mattered now—the failing strength of her grip upon the tree-trunk, and the depth of the black water beneath her.

12

A future for Lillipilly Hill

Aidan heard the shot just as he reached the foot of the hill. Believing that Clay's pursuers were already attempting to capture him, he threw all caution to the winds, and shouted at the top of his voice, scrambling up the slope as he did so.

‘Clay! Come this way! I'll help you!'

A wildly excited Patchy bounded through the scrub, almost knocking Aidan off his feet when she recognized him. And behind her came a most unexpected little procession, far removed from the angry group of hunters that Aidan had envisaged. For the leader was none other than Mr Farmer, as unruffled and as calm as he might have been in the pulpit of his church. He was followed by a rosy and cheerful Charles, and last of all came Clay, somewhat confused, certainly, but totally unharmed and apparently in no danger whatsoever.

Aidan sat down abruptly on the nearest rock.

‘Is Clay all right?' he asked, quite unnecessarily.

‘It seems that a number of people are bent on rescuing Clay this morning,' said Mr Farmer. ‘Half Barley Creek is out looking for him. The shot you heard was Charles's signal for the search-party to be called off.'

‘I don't understand any of it,' said Aidan, with the crossness produced by anti-climax. Then he glanced back down the hill.

‘Where's Harriet? Has anyone seen her?'

‘Harriet?' said Mr Farmer in alarm. ‘Was she with you?'

‘I thought she was following me. She must be still in the swamp,' and Aidan leapt away down the slope, terror giving him such speed that the others could hardly keep up with him.

Clay and Patchy found Harriet, for the mangrove clump was familiar territory to them, and Clay made his way through the tangled roots with the agility of an eel. Harriet still clung to her perch, blue with cold, and barely conscious.

‘Take her home at once,' said Mr Farmer, as Clay and Aidan carried her to dry land. ‘Charles, you help Clay. Aidan and I will follow you.'

‘She won't get ill, will she?' asked Aidan. ‘It's all my fault—she shouldn't have come.'

‘I'm sure she only needs warmth and a rest,' the minister assured him. ‘Now suppose we get all this straightened out as we go. Then perhaps I can help explain matters to your father.'

So Aidan told his story, not without shame and a gloomy feeling that his deeds were far from heroic when viewed by the cold, clear light of day.

‘I thought the most important thing was to save Clay,' he finished. ‘I didn't know it would be so dangerous.'

‘You should have told your father, of course,' said Mr Farmer briskly. ‘But never mind that now. Fortunately Charles brought the story of the man-hunt home from school, and I decided that the best thing to do would be to get to Clay before any harm was done. I persuaded the men not to approach him until I'd spoken to him. When I'd decided that Clay was certainly no criminal, then we gave the signal for everyone to go home.'

‘So Harriet and I were no help at all,' said Aidan dismally.

‘You at least proved that Clay had two loyal friends,' said Mr Farmer. ‘He has been in need of friends for a long time.'

‘Do you know all about him, then?' asked Aidan eagerly.

‘I think I know most of it. His name is Clayton Stewart, and he must be sixteen or seventeen—he's a little vague about that. His father is an Englishman, of good family, but with not much else to recommend him, as far as I can judge. He married a half-aborigine girl who had much more character than he did. They lived in Blackhill for a time, then Clayton Stewart the elder set off up the country, carrying his swag, and has never come back. Mrs Stewart was left with four children to bring up—Clay is the oldest. She works as a maid in the hotel, and has the younger children with her, but Clay left the place because the hotel owner wouldn't let him keep his dog there. He's been living in his cave for about a year now, visiting his mother occasionally. He's never done anything wrong, I'm sure, but he preferred not to become known in case someone tried to send him back to his home—if you could call it a home. I don't really think anyone would have bothered—his mother has quite enough on her hands without Clay, and he's considered quite old enough to fend for himself. But there you are—he told me all this to prove he wasn't the thief everyone was looking for, and his cave is hardly a secret any more.'

‘What will he do now, then?' demanded Aidan.

‘He doesn't know. He likes the open air, and his freedom. He will probably move to some other district, and live much the same sort of life. But it seems rather a pity—he's a pleasant sort of fellow, with nothing to be ashamed of, and good, steady employment with the right sort of people would make a fine man of him.'

Aidan said little for the rest of the way home—a roundabout way over the hills—but an idea had come to him, and helped to distract his thoughts from the subject of Harriet, a limp bundle being borne on the linked arms of Clay and Charles.

As they reached the eastern slope of Lillipilly Hill, the sun broke through the clouds in a widening patch of pale blue, and the soaked and battered countryside took on a fresh and glistening beauty. The lillipilly trees shook off their raindrops, and their polished, dark green leaves glittered in the sun. Beyond them, the old stone house was solid and square and ready to welcome all comers beneath its spreading roof.

‘Such a fine old house,' said Mr Farmer. ‘And one day it will probably be yours, Aidan. What will you do with it?'

Aidan considered this question with a feeling of pleasure. He had never until now thought of himself as the future master of Lillipilly Hill—a few months ago, the vision would have been merely ridiculous. This morning, for the first time, he began to understand something of his father's pride in his possession.

‘I shall have to think about it,' he said. ‘But I'm sure I would never sell it. Perhaps I shall just live here, with Harriet to keep house, and I shall write books. Someone else would have to do the farming, because I don't think I shall ever be very good at that.'

They crossed the veranda, and for the next few minutes such a medley of explanations, exclamations, and instructions ensued that Aidan felt utterly exhausted, and crept away to his bed. He waited long enough, however, to see Harriet revived, and hear her demanding, ‘Where's Clay? Did someone shoot him?' Once Clay had been brought forward for her inspection, she allowed herself to be taken off to her room and alternately fussed over and scolded by Polly, and for the rest of the morning she slept in the delicious comfort and warmth of her own safe bed.

Late in the afternoon, she sat up and looked out through the open door. The sky had cleared at last, and a gentle primrose-yellow light filled the air. Her father came along the veranda, smoking his pipe, and stood in the doorway.

‘I hope you are quite recovered, Harriet. No coughs or sneezes?'

‘I feel awfully well,' said Harriet gloomily. ‘I wish I didn't.'

Her father advanced into the room to consider this rather unexpected statement.

‘Do you think it would be more suitable to be ill, then?'

‘If I were ill, then everyone would feel sorry for me, and do just as I wanted,' explained Harriet. ‘But I shall have to get up as usual tomorrow, and then people will start saying it was all my own fault, and I should never have gone off with Aidan. And Mother will think we should go back to London after all.'

‘Well, now, let me see,' said Mr Wilmot, sitting down on the edge of her bed. ‘Some of those statements are quite true. You certainly should not have gone with Aidan—nor should Aidan have asked you to go. You should have both come to me with the whole story. However, you went this time with quite a sound reason, and your mother fully understands how much you wanted to help Clay. She thinks it was all very foolish and dangerous, of course, but as you have already suffered for your sins, we shall say no more about it.'

‘Then Mother doesn't want to take us back to England?' asked Harriet incredulously.

‘I don't believe we shall go back for a long time, Harriet. And when we do, it will probably be only a visit. We have decided, in the last few weeks, that when all is said and done, this is not a bad place in which to bring our family up. Your mother is very much stronger than she was, and the three of you have never looked healthier—that is, unless you have made up your mind to go into a decline. I would certainly advise you to keep away from swamps in future.'

Harriet shuddered.

‘I'll never go near that place again. And I really don't feel a bit ill—I think I could jump right over the top of those bluegums. May I get up now?'

‘Tomorrow will do nicely. Polly is bringing your tea in a moment, and Aidan is coming to present a formal apology for involving you in his wild schemes. So I shall leave you to enjoy yourself.'

When he had gone, Harriet continued to stare out at the tranquil garden and the darkening bush, feeling all the deep and humble relief of one who has been awakened from a bad dream.

‘Tea-oh!' called Polly from the sliprail. ‘Come and get it while it's hot. I'm not going to stand here all day!'

As always, someone hastened to do Polly's bidding. This time it was Dinny, scuffling through the furrows in her sturdy boots, for in mid-September it was still too early for her to go barefoot.

‘Hot scones,' she observed with satisfaction, peering into Polly's basket. ‘Two each, ain't there?'

‘You must of learned something at that school, then,' said Polly. ‘Mind you share them out proper, now.'

Dinny walked carefully back down the orchard, with the basket in one hand and the huge steaming billy of tea in the other. A strangely assorted group of tree-planters eagerly awaited her—Mr Wilmot and Boz, Aidan and Clay, Harriet and Rose-Ann. Along the hill-side stretched a row of young trees, some three feet high, glossy-leaved and proudly bearing their clusters of pearly blossom. Near by, at the fence, stood one of Mr Bentley's drays, loaded with more trees ready for their new home. Bees hummed about them, and inquisitive peewits hopped among the graceful little branches.