Lillipilly Hill (5 page)

Harriet looked up through the fruit trees towards the house. At the crest of the hill, just behind the cowshed, grew three huge old bluegums, black now against a pink and gold sky.

‘One day I'm going to climb those trees,' said Harriet. ‘And I'm going to fish in the creek, and explore in the bush, and talk to all those people down there. I never knew there were so many lovely things to do. I'm not going to call London “home” any more.'

Rose-Ann sighed, and scratched a mosquito bite. When Harriet talked like that, it was useless to try and argue with her.

‘Come on,' said Rose-Ann. ‘Polly will be lighting the lamps.'

3

On Trial

Harriet was dreaming that she was on board ship, sailing on and on over an endless, fiery sea, beneath a burning red sky. Aidan was shut up in the cabin, and was tapping on the door, but Harriet, held fast in the awful immobility of dreams, could not go to him.

She woke, and the tapping went on. It was a peewit, knocking his beak against the window-pane, and staring fixedly at Harriet with impudent, beady eyes.

Harriet sat up.

‘No wonder I was hot in my dream,' she thought. ‘It's like an oven in here.'

The rising sun had poked its long fingers through the vines and across the veranda and into the bedroom.
Harriet jumped out of bed and pattered over the bare, wooden floor. She was wearing a pink flannel nightgown—it was much too warm for flannel, but Mrs Wilmot mistrusted the night air, which, she felt, ought to be cool.

Rose-Ann was still asleep, looking as neat and pretty as when she was awake. The sunlight turned her hair into threads of gold, and strayed over her flushed face, but she did not stir.

Harriet went out on to the veranda. The peewit hopped away across the stone flags, and she followed, rejoicing in the coolness beneath her feet. She was about to coax the peewit on to her hand when a voice called: ‘Harriet!'

She had not expected to see her father up and about so early. He stood at the corner of the veranda, fully dressed—but not, she noticed at once, in his town-going clothes.

‘Go and get dressed, Harriet, and then we'll take a short walk. I want to talk to you. Don't forget to brush your hair.'

The tone of his voice told her nothing. She scurried back into the bedroom, and scrambled into her clothes as rapidly as she could. She was still accustomed to having Miss Oliver help her with tapes and ribbons, but she managed everything to her own satisfaction,
except for the fixing of a semi-circular comb in her unruly hair. Eventually she threw down the comb in disgust, tugged on her sun-bonnet, and ran to join her father.

‘Where are we going?' she asked. She was not at all sure of her father's mood—was he angry with her over Mr Burnie's visit? It would not be surprising if he were, she reflected dismally. Fathers did not expect their twelve-year-old daughters to arrange affairs for them. And he must know now that she had gone down to Barley Creek alone, which could be regarded as deceitful, to say the least.

‘Where would you like to go?' said Mr Wilmot. ‘It's such a beautiful morning for walking.'

‘We could go down to the bottom of the orchard,' suggested Harriet. ‘And come back round the front garden.'

‘Very well,' agreed her father, and they set off past the grape-vines to the sliprail.

Harriet walked with unusual decorum, keeping to the path, and not once breaking into a run or a skip. Ahead, her father's tall, straight figure moved between the graceful trees, now and then brushing a spider's web that stretched glistening from branch to branch. A few cicadas were tuning up for the day—Harriet glanced eagerly about her, trying to see them, but the
green and yellow and black shapes were well hidden. It was far easier to see the active little grey-green silver-eyes, busily raiding the fruit trees.

‘You seem to know the property well, Harriet,' said Mr Wilmot, pausing to pick a ripening apple. ‘I gather you like being here?'

‘Yes,' muttered Harriet.

Her father turned to look at her.

‘So much, in fact, that you asked the schoolmaster to take all three of you as his pupils?'

Harriet gazed at a particularly bold silver-eye pecking at an apple a few feet away.

‘I didn't say that exactly—'

‘Mr Burnie was here last night. He told me what you had asked him. I must say, Harriet, you take rather a lot upon yourself. Your mother was horrified.'

This being the type of grown-up remark to which there was obviously no answer, Harriet continued to stare silently at the birds.

‘Let us finish our walk,' suggested her father.

They went on past the track that led to the Ruins, and came at last to the orchard fence.

‘I've never seen a view quite like this,' said Mr Wilmot. ‘So completely untouched.'

They gazed together at the sun-tipped hills, the glistening sea, and the cloudless, bright sky. The clear
chime of a bell-bird came from the gully beneath them, followed by the long-drawn cry of a coachwhip.

‘I don't wonder that you want to stay, Harriet,' said Mr Wilmot. ‘I want to stay, myself. But we must think of the others. I like Mr Burnie, and I believe his plans for Aidan might prove quite sound. As for you and Rose-Ann—'

He broke off to listen to an early-morning chorus of kookaburras, lined up on the topmost branch of a redgum beyond the fence.

‘Wonderful noise, isn't it? We have agreed, Mr Burnie and your mother and I, that you girls will attend the school every morning, and that in the afternoon you will go to Mrs Burnie for sewing, or, we hope, to Mrs Farmer for music lessons. The rest of the afternoons will be spent with your mother.'

This was far better than Harriet had dared to hope. She hopped from foot to foot with excitement.

‘Then we will stay?'

‘For the time being. We have decided to give it six months' trial. Whether we remain after that depends on many things—how well I can work the farm, how your mother's health keeps in this new climate, and, above all, how much help you children can give her. I mean help of all kinds.'

‘Like making our own beds, and doing our own hair, and remembering to come to tea at the right time?'

‘All those things, of course, but I meant something a little different. You see, Harriet, your mother and I wish you to grow up accomplished and ladylike and well-behaved, and your poor mother fears that this won't be possible in a place like this, with no suitable friends, and no governess to look after you. Do you understand?'

‘Yes, I think so,' said Harriet, feeling quite wise and elderly.

‘Then the way to help your mother is to show her that in spite of these disadvantages, you can still be the kind of person she wants you to be. That means no disobedience, and no bad manners, and certainly no running off on your own. If you turn into a creature as wild as these birds, your mother will insist on our returning home instantly.'

‘I promise I won't be unladylike or wild or anything like that,' said Harriet earnestly. ‘I only went to Barley Creek yesterday because it was so very important.'

‘Of course,' agreed her father. ‘And you know, Harriet, I'm rather pleased you did go. I believe I should have gone myself, if you hadn't.'

They smiled at each other, and Harriet could hardly contain her bursting happiness.

‘When shall we start school, Father? What time will the classes begin? Did Mr Burnie tell you all about the school?'

‘I am to see it for myself, this morning. I understand it's hardly a palace. The classes commence at nine o'clock, and you and Rose-Ann are to come home at half past twelve. Polly will bring you to and from school. As Aidan has already spent a considerable amount of time away from school, it would be best for him to begin attending on Monday, and you and Rose-Ann will go with him. We shall call on Mr and Mrs Farmer on the following Saturday, to arrange for your music lessons. They are in Sydney at present.'

‘There's only one thing more I want, Father,' said Harriet, as they followed the path along the fence towards the road and the front garden.

‘And what is that? Some breakfast?'

‘I
am
hungry, but it's not that. Would we be allowed to play in the back yard sometimes, and watch the cows being milked, and Barrel being fed?'

‘I don't see why not, provided you don't annoy Boz or Polly. We shan't be able to afford any more help on the farm or in the house, so they will be our only servants, poor things. We really have enough work here for six or seven.'

He paused at the top of the slope and looked back along the rows of trees.

‘We have fifty acres, part of it mere rock and dust. But the property
could
be made to flourish again. Most of these old trees could be dug out. I'm told that this is an excellent district for oranges—I should very much like to try growing them.'

‘I could help you,' said Harriet eagerly.

‘Perhaps—but remember you will be busy at your lessons. Sometimes, Harriet, I think you should have been the boy in our family.'

And Harriet glowed, recognizing this as one of the finest compliments her father could have paid her.

During breakfast, Mr Wilmot explained the school arrangements to Aidan and Rose-Ann. Aidan was glum and non-committal, while Rose-Ann could not decide whether to be pleased at the prospect of music lessons, or frightened at the thought of school and twenty-one strange children. Mrs Wilmot had the appearance of one who is resigned to her fate, and made no mention of Harriet's visit to Barley Creek. As for Harriet, she ate her porridge and boiled egg and bread and butter with the hearty appetite of an early riser, and minded her manners so scrupulously that even Aidan noticed them.

‘Harriet has said “please” six times already,' he observed. ‘Has she been out without her sun-bonnet again?'

Harriet glared at him, but nobly suppressed the angry retort which he expected to hear. It was unladylike to quarrel with one's brother.

‘I'm pleased to see Harriet is remembering her manners,' said Mrs Wilmot. ‘And don't be unkind, Aidan. Now, if we've all finished, I'll ask Polly to clear the table. It's her afternoon off, and there's a great deal of work to be done this morning.'

After tidying her half of the bedroom, Harriet made her way to the cowshed. The two Jerseys had been turned out to graze in the paddock behind the vegetable garden, but Barrel, a sleepy and ageing horse whose name aptly described his shape, was standing in the sun beside the shed, slowly swishing his tail to keep away the flies, and dreaming of the days when he had been Uncle John's smartest carriage horse, and kept always in the glossiest, trimmest condition. Near by, in the part of the shed grandly called the stable, Boz was cleaning the heavy wooden spokes of the buggy, once used by Agnes Wilmot for gentle afternoon drives, and now the sole vehicle on the property.

‘Poor old Barrel—never mind,' said Harriet, patting the shaggy neck. ‘Some day we'll get a new horse, and you can go and sleep in the paddock all day.'

She wandered into the stable, and leant against the buggy, watching Boz's ever-busy hands. Boz was thin and small, and burnt almost black by the sun. It was impossible to guess his age, but Harriet knew he had been with Uncle John for many years, and that Lillipilly Hill was his only home. He lived in a shack beyond the cow-paddock, and worked from dawn until after dark.

‘Good morning, Boz,' said Harriet. ‘Did Father tell you we have decided to stay here after all?'

‘Told me first thing this mornin',' said Boz, not looking up.

‘Aren't you pleased?' asked Harriet curiously.

‘Yeah,' said Boz, turning his attention to the harness.

Harriet was not easily discouraged.

‘And did Father tell you that we are to go to the Barley Creek school?'

At last Boz glanced up, with a gleam of interest in his dark eyes.

‘You and your sister and brother? It's a queer sort of school for you to be goin' to.'

‘Why?' demanded Harriet.

But Boz had had enough conversation.

‘Time for my cuppa tea,' he muttered, and went out
of the shed towards the stone fireplace near the fence. A blackened billy-can hung from a stick above the fire; Boz peered into it, nodded his head, and produced from his trousers pocket a battered tin of tea. Harriet watched respectfully while he threw a handful of tea into the boiling water, then drew off the billy-can with the aid of a forked stick.

‘Wouldn't Polly make you some tea in the kitchen?' she asked.

‘Wouldn't taste like this,' said Boz contemptuously. He took his tin mug from its hook on the wall of the shed, and filled it with a liquid so black and hot that Harriet shuddered. Then he sat down on the coping of the well, pulled out his ancient pipe, and stared over his mug of tea into the distance.

Harriet realized that Boz's morning break was a hallowed ritual to him, and that he would not welcome any further chatter. So she left him, and strolled away to the side of the cowshed. Here a row of Norfolk Island pines provided welcome shade, and Harriet lingered beneath the graceful tiers of branches, while she surveyed the slope beyond the fence. Somewhere down there was the township, and immediately below must be the church she had seen the day before, but all signs of human life were hidden by the tangle of trees, scrub and vines that covered the hillside.

A sound broke the warm, mid-morning silence, and put to flight a party of blue-wrens and their little brown wives, who had been foraging for insects in a lantana thicket. It was the noise of a branch snapping, and it came from above Harriet's head.

‘Don't call out,' said an unknown voice. ‘I'm coming down.'

‘I wasn't going to call out,' Harriet said. ‘Does your mother let you climb trees?'

For the tree-climber was a girl, about Harriet's own age. She slid to the ground with an agility Harriet envied, and dived towards the fence.