The Clay Dreaming (2 page)

‘What the bloody fucking hell do you think you’re playing at? Someone could have been hurt…or worse!’

Athletic and powerful in his movements, Charles Lawrence paced the front of a small provincial schoolroom. His honest face was thin and weather-beaten; even so, he appeared younger than his 40-odd years.

From outside, the sharp smack of willow gave rise to cheers. Lawrence raised his voice to match.

‘That’s right!’ he shouted. ‘Hang your woolly heads, you black sheep! Hang ’em in shame, as well you might! All excepting you of course, eh, Your Majesty?’

Scattered amongst the facing school desks sat the objects of his scorn: Dick a-Dick, Mosquito and King Cole were the three Australian Aborigines who had startled the local fox hunt early that same morning. Each was dressed in matching flannels, shirt, and waistcoat. Dick-a-Dick sported a jacket that barely stretched across his muscles, and a vest considerably fancy. They otherwise wore casual clothing of a sort that might as well have been sacking – baggy and cooling, and perfectly anonymous. If not for their midnight-dark skin they might have passed for ordinary workmen.

The infantile and exaggerated postures of the pair seated nearest to Lawrence further distinguished them. Crouched at odd angles in a vain attempt to hide behind child-sized desks, they raised folded arms and peered – yes, sheepishly – through the chinks of their parted fingers.

The classroom was bright, built entirely of bleached pine, and redolent with stale schoolboy sweat. Large windows down one side overlooked a playing field. Closest to these perched King Cole, distracted by the cricket game beyond.

Sensing the approach of his interrogator, Cole snapped to attention and dropped his tousled head. Rapid heartbeats measured the silence.

Lawrence glowered. His clear blue eyes radiated both fire and ice. He took a swift step away.

‘You can’t get painted up and go parading your filthy particulars to all and sundry!’ he said. A dramatic spin of his heel brought him once more face-to-face with the humbled assembly. ‘And whose bright idea was it? Skeeter? Dick-Dick? Was it you, hm, Your Majesty?’

Lawrence waved his hands, imploring.

‘Not that I expect you to tell me. Thick as thieves, you lot, thick as thieves. Wasn’t
my
idea to bring you here.’

Lawrence’s moods were quick, the darkest flush of fury already drained from his rosy complexion. Slackening, his strong tan hands began to fidget. He fingered the book on the teacher’s desk beside him –
Tom Brown’s Schooldays
, a recent edition.

Cricket was Charles Lawrence’s driving passion: he was all but married to the game. Playing for Surrey since he was a schoolboy had led him on to Scotland, Ireland, Australia; and eventually back to his native England, shepherd to a most unusual flock. As coach and team captain Lawrence had in his charge a total of thirteen Australian Aborigines – the first ever professional cricket team to visit and tour from overseas.

They had travelled a long way together, and at close quarters.

Lawrence pictured himself, among the Aborigines, back on board the wool clipper
Parramatta
, the frigate-built ship on which they had endured endless passage from Australia.

He had brought with him a goodly supply of copybooks, and endeavoured to teach the Aborigines to read and write. Their fluency in English varied widely, along with their appreciable intelligence. Lessons had started out every morning, but could not last long, for the men soon tired, preferring to amuse themselves in drawing trees, birds, all kinds of animals and anything else they thought of. Fearing the limit to his own abilities, in the event Lawrence had exhausted their attention far sooner.

The Blacks liked to play draughts and cards, and also with the youngsters on board. They would charm pieces of wood from the carpenter and whittle away at them with admirable skill, making needles and lots of other little things for the ladies. They became great favourites with the womenfolk, who delighted in their spirited company, and whose children always wanted to be with them…

Church bells rang the half-hour. Focused again in the moment, Lawrence stood opposite an expectant trio. The Aboriginals were blessed with beguiling looks. Their dark eyes large and full, with a soft quality, there was, generally speaking, a degree of docility prepossessing, and expressive of great sympathy.
Faced with such generous and trusting pupils, he found it impossible to stay angry.

‘Do you want to get me into hot water…into trouble?’ stammered Lawrence. ‘Well, then, eh? We might as well pack up our kit right away, climb back aboard ship and spend another three months in the bloody belly of the
Parra
bloody
matta
!’

A flash of white teeth from Dick-a-Dick and his bluster fell deflated.

The classroom became quiet. In natural communion, all four men began to watch the game going on outside.

The Aboriginal Australian Eleven had set sail from Sydney on the 8th of February, bound for the Old Land. They had finally arrived, docking at Gravesend, on Old May Day – May the 13th, 1868 – 81 years to the day from when that First Fleet, under Arthur Phillip, had originally departed to establish the new colony.

Leaving behind an antipodean summer’s end, they had made landfall at the start of British summertime. The two seasons were of course hardly comparable. The omnipresent clouds and wearisome vapours of Merrie Olde England were most unlike the bright blue skies of Australia. The Blacks complained of double vision due to the weak light, seeing two balls thrown for every one. Fortunately, by local standards the recent weather had been unseasonably dry, some days freakishly warm – Friday last and especially the Tuesday just gone, with the thermometer hitting 83 Fahrenheit. Still, they’d had only just over a week in which to recover their land legs, and for the Aborigines to acclimatise.

The game in progress beyond the schoolhouse window was a practice session, a part of their brief round of training: after months of inactivity on board ship they had all gained an inch or two around the middle. The high plateau of the North Downs overlooked the pitch from one direction; the tall, tiled spire of St Mary’s church the other. Four oasthouses, so characteristic of the Kentish countryside, directly bordered onto the sports field. Conical roofs bent forward, they too seemed to incline their heads the better to follow the action.

Laurence blinked, his concentration shot.

‘Neddy will insist on leading with the wrong leg,’ he muttered to himself. Making for the door, he turned to point a commanding finger. ‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘We’re not done. I’ll return presently.’

‘“Bladdy facken hell!”’

Laughter breaks out.

‘Sounds proper ’Stralian there, inna?’

‘Too bloody roit.’

Mosquito, the smallest of the three Aborigines, leaps from his desk and makes for the open door.

‘Lawrence…’ says Cole, ‘Lawrence said we wait f’r ’im.’

Mosquito throws back a dirty look and keeps on going.

Dick-a-Dick, who has seniority, addresses Mosquito in their own language. ‘
Grongarrong
, him right,’ he says. ‘We should wait.’

Mosquito halts within the doorway. His homelands are at Naracoorte, also known as Mosquito Plains. A skilled carpenter and an ace with the stockwhip, he is, like Dick-a-Dick, a firm advocate of temperance – which is as well, since he is the devil with a drink inside him.

Sulkily, he returns.

‘White men,’ says Mosquito, ‘have no manners.’

This spite is directed at King Cole: the simpleton has spoken out of line. Mosquito then presents his back. Facing Dick-a-Dick, he adopts a dialect only they share. ‘Did you have to invite him?’ he says. ‘He brings bad luck.’

‘Na? Puru watjala?’
asks Cole. He understands well enough that nothing good is said of him. His lip curls. ‘
Mardidjali
.’

‘
Miriwa
,’ spits back Mosquito. ‘Drop dead.’

Still favouring Dick-a-Dick, Mosquito resumes English for Cole’s edification. ‘
He
is the one whose tongue is difficult.’

Feeling the hurt, King Cole rises instantly from his seat. Now all of them are standing.

‘
Wembawemba
,’ jibes Mosquito. ‘Everybody know. Ancestors him no good.’

Cole squares with his accuser. Dick-a-Dick intercedes. Put in the position of children, it is hardly surprising they should act the same, but no less shameful for all that. Dick glares reproachfully at Mosquito.

Mosquito cannot believe it. ‘You side with him,’ he whines, ‘against a brother? He is not
Jardwa
!’

Dick-a-Dick grimaces.
Jardwadjali, Mardidjali, Wutjubaluk
; the battles they fought over the Murray Lands are over 20 years past, as long dead as their peoples.

‘So few blackfellas…’ he sighs.

Dick calls to mind his birthplace,
Bring Albit
, the sandy spring close to Mount Elgin, and his family crest –
Kiotacha
, the native cat.

A lengthy silence ensues before Dick-a-Dick speaks again.

‘Back in the World,’ he says, ‘we were Lizard…Crow, Eaglehawk. We were Pelican…Fire…and Emu.’

He measures his speech, taking long pauses. One does not speak lightly, nor too quickly, when dealing with weighty subjects. Words are anyway no way to talk. It takes time to summon the right ones.

‘Remember where we come from,’ he says. ‘That is important…’

Taking his fellows each by the arm, Dick-a-Dick directs their attention beyond the window glass. He tells them, ‘We are very far from home.’

Another pause.

‘In this place,’ continues Dick, ‘it does not matter if we are
Gabadj
, or
Guragidj
, Blackheaded Snake, or…’ his eye takes in Cole ‘…Southern Cross.’ Dick-a-Dick lays a placating palm on each man’s shoulder. ‘White Cockatoo?’ he says. ‘Black Cockatoo? Here, whole mob just Cockatoo.’

Sad to speak his mind as if it belonged to somewhere else, Dick-a-Dick allows his words to sink slowly in. They watch Lawrence engaged in parley with their team-mates on the field.

‘You want beat the whitefellas at their own game?’ says Dick. ‘Don’t. Be proud who is your brother.’ His right hand moves to cup the back of Mosquito’s neck. He studies the face of each man in turn. ‘Look after me an’ him,’ says Dick. ‘That about all we got left.’

Mosquito sets his jaw. He drops his head. ‘No good you talk English me.’

‘Soon,’ says Dick, ‘all World become one England.’

King Cole’s mouth hangs open. Belonging to no particular place, condemned to remain a boy, he has so much that he wants to express, yet nothing he dares speak of.

Lawrence returned, breaking the spell.

Dick-a-Dick, leading by example, made his way back to the desks and sat down. Mosquito remained standing, facing down Cole.

‘
Tji-tji
,’ he said. ‘Child. I know my
miyur
… I remember my place.’

‘Skeeter, Cole…please,’ said Lawrence, ‘be seated.’

His few minutes away had given him a chance to reflect on their situation. Lawrence was, if anything, even more contrite than the three Aborigines had contrived to appear. Ninety days confined to a ship – and often cramped and chilly quarters below deck – were akin to a prison sentence even for a civilised gentleman, let alone nomadic tribesmen.

Good morale inspired any team to play better; among players as instinctual as these, it was invaluable. The Blacks, reasoned Lawrence, had only sought to satisfy their characteristic urge to explore new surroundings. They did so in order to cheer themselves. The impromptu hunting party might have been a blessing – in different circumstances.

‘I know you fellows to be responsible men…’ Lawrence began, but faltered. Their actions, although justifiable, could not be condoned. They were in England now.

‘Sorry, Lawrence,’ the Aborigines chimed in singsong chorus. No need for talk. They understood. Charles Lawrence felt moved.

‘I was of a mind not to let you attend Saturday’s party,’ he said, ‘but I suspect letting you go will prove the greater punishment.’

The lesson concluded with a wry smile.

The Aborigines beamed broadly in return.

‘Gave those ruddy toffs a scare did you, boys?’ Lawrence’s bushy moustaches failed to conceal so wide a grin. ‘Wish I’d been there,’ he said, ‘to see the look on their faces.’

A muffled ‘Howzie!’ carried through the window-glass. Four heads turned as one.

The players did not have to be told. ‘Go on, then,’ shouted Lawrence after them, ‘get back to practice with the others!’

Town Malling, a quiet nook just to the west of Maidstone, made for the Aboriginal Eleven’s first base of operations. Tour manager Bill Hayman exploited family ties, employing Kent County Cricket Club secretary William South Norton – his brother-in-law.

Charles Lawrence paced the upstairs lounge of the Bear Inn. Hayman and South Norton, both seated, looked on. Dressed to the absolute nines – white dress shirts, crisp dark suits, black shoes polished to a bright blaze – they sported Sunday-best on a wet Saturday afternoon.

The windows had been thrown wide open. Despite driving rain, the
High-street
market bustled; the drone of trade and industry, carried from below, set the small room thrumming. The day was extraordinarily close. Neckties loose and top buttons unfastened, in concession to the heat as much as the hour, all three gentlemen sweated profusely. Lawrence especially suffered. Humidity aside, he had whipped himself up into a keen state of anxiety.

When their ship hove to, the national press had been obsessed with the General Election, and then, as it docked, with Disraeli’s ascension to the top of his ‘greasy pole’. Very little publicity had greeted the team’s arrival. To ensure the tour turn a profit they needed to attract the Great British Public. Journalists from the influential London papers had been invited to watch the Aborigines at practice, as yet without concrete result.

Their debut at the Oval was only two days away.

‘“Attempt to Assassinate the Duke of Edinburgh”.’ South Norton read aloud from
The Illustrated London News
, the latest edition just arrived by train from London. ‘“The Australian mail”,’ he continued, ‘“brings copious details of atrocious attempt on the life of his Royal Highness on March 12.”’

‘Not guilty,’ Hayman pleaded. Privileged by birth, the freckle-faced fellow was some years younger than Lawrence. He raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘Our alibi, I think you’ll find, is water-tight.’

‘Pshaw!’ said William South Norton. A sleek and handsome creature, dark hair slicked with oil, he somehow achieved casual dash even whilst soaked in perspiration and chewing on a piece of dried meat.

‘“The wound of the Duke”,’ South Norton read on, ‘“has happily not proved severe, but it was extremely perilous. The bullet struck against one of the ribs on the right side, within a short distance of the spine, and passed around the body.” Oh, I say! A close-run thing,’ he commented. ‘Fenian business, to be sure.’

Lawrence yanked at his over-starched collar. ‘Yes, yes! That’s all very well,’ he said, ‘but it is
old
news.’

Word of the attempt on the life of the Duke of Edinburgh – Queen Victoria’s second son, Alfred Ernest Albert – had reached passengers aboard the
Parramatta
as soon as it dropped anchor off the coast of England. The Aborigines were deeply upset. The Duke had come to see them play at Sydney, just prior to their departure. The Blacks, honoured with an introduction, had testified to their loyalty with a true British cheer for the royal representative.

William South Norton snapped the paper in the air. ‘It’s news to me, old boy,’ he said. ‘Fresh detail!’

Bill Hayman’s slender hand stroked his mutton-chop whiskers. ‘You don’t…’ he said ‘…you don’t think that it might have a deleterious effect on
our
fortunes, do you, Charley?’

‘A what?’ Lawrence looked especially annoyed.

Hayman retrieved a pocket handkerchief to mop at his dampened brow. ‘We don’t want folk thinking every Australian a murderer!’ he said.

‘It does not seem so great a stretch,’ reasoned South Norton, ‘since you are all convicts.’

A snarl of exasperation exploded from Lawrence’s lips. Hayman snatched the newspaper from his startled
confrère
, skimming the section headlines. ‘“Nothing in the Papers”,’ he read. ‘Hm, indeed!’

Abruptly let go, the pages separated as they swept to the floor.

Outside the open windows the rain fell without cease, the English climate reasserting itself with a vengeance. A polite knock at the hatch from below, and on the threshold stood the tavern’s proprietor. He held out his prize – the
Sporting Life
, a copy they had so far failed to find.

Lawrence pounced like a starving man on a glazed ham.

‘Much obliged, Mr Longhurst!’ said Bill Hayman, to excuse him.

The landlord creaked away.

Lawrence tore through the paper, finding a passage marked for their attention. ‘“Arrival of the Black Cricketers”,’ he announced. ‘Here we go: “…no arrival has been anticipated with so much curiosity and interest as that of the Black Cricketers from Australia.” How-
ZAT
-uh! “They are thirteen in number, and are captained by Charles Lawrence”…’ he trumpeted his own little fanfare ‘…“late of the All-England Eleven, who has been for some time at the Antipodes.”’

Lawrence fell silent, his frown returning.

‘Read on,’ said Hayman.

‘I am,’ said Lawrence.

‘Read on
aloud
, Charley!’

Charles Lawrence resumed his patrol of the threadbare carpet. ‘“Monday in the Derby week (May 25) is to witness their
début
in London,”’ he read, ‘“arrangements having been made for them to play their first match against Eleven Gentlemen of the Surrey Club, at the Oval, on May 25 and 26; and on the Thursday after the Derby they will go through a series of athletic exercises on the Surrey ground.”’

The pitch of his voice rose, excitedly.

‘“The following gentlemen of the Surrey Club have been selected to play against the Blacks in their first match” … ’

Hayman leapt up, to lean over Lawrence’s shoulder. They went through the list of names, quizzing or else joshing where they had knowledge of an individual’s form. William South Norton merely picked at his teeth. Presently, seeming mollified, Hayman dropped back into his seat.

Lawrence paced the bounds and read on. South Norton watched his progress somewhat glassily, excavating his fingernails.

Lawrence suddenly turned, batting the open spread with the back of his hand.

‘“With respect to their prowess as cricketers,”’ he read, ‘“that will be conclusively determined by their first public match. We hear, however, that Cuzens and Mullagh show considerable talent and precision in bowling, but, to use a homely phrase – the proof of the pudding will be in the eating.”
Hah
!’ He threw the paper down, where it joined others piled at their feet.

‘Johnny Mullagh is our trump card,’ said Hayman. ‘And there’s you, of course.’

Lawrence ignored the compliment. Crossing to the empty fireplace, he took up a dog-eared pocketbook from where it lay on the mantle, beneath a massive mirror.

The compact and well-worn room they occupied formed an antechamber of sorts to the quarters allocated to the remainder of the team. Communal lodgings seemed to suit the Aborigines best. Rather than split them into twos and threes to lodge with various households, Lawrence and Hayman had elected to keep everybody together under the one roof – even if it meant that of the local inn.

The players were either getting themselves ready, or dozing within. Should any of the Blacks quit their quarters, to venture downstairs or outside, they would first be required to pass through this room – and that accorded with Lawrence’s preference. The arrangement afforded greater security, and laid to rest at least some of his crowding fears.

‘Thomas Hughes writes about cricket,’ he said. ‘Here, what do you make of this?’ Lawrence located one of his many scribbles in the margins. ‘A schoolmaster says, “The discipline and reliance on one another which it teaches is so valuable, I think, it ought to be such an unselfish game. It merges the individual in the eleven; he doesn’t play that he may win, but that his side may.”’

Lawrence brandished the book, his cherished copy of
Tom Brown’s Schooldays
. ‘Should I try reading some of it out to the boys?’

Hayman laughed. ‘The Gospel According to Tommy Hughes, is it?’ he said. ‘You square-toes. Old Blow-hard! Now you’re being ridiculous! Our “boys” they may be, but still, they are grown men.’

South Norton picked at a piece of lint marring the pristine black of his jacket. ‘I think
Tom Brown
quite correct in its sentiments,’ he said.

Hayman was undeterred. ‘You know as well as I do, Charles,’ he said, ‘that when it comes to unselfish behaviour, there’s precious little we can teach them.’

Lawrence bowed his head and mumbled something unintelligible. He looked up, searching the face of his colleague.

‘Do you think they will?’ he said. ‘Behave?’

South Norton sprang from his chair as if flea-bitten. ‘When you came to my house that first morning,’ he said, ‘I had no notice of what time I was to expect you… So, when you all walked in, straight after breakfast as I recall, you, or rather your wild gentlemen, caused a good deal of excitement.’ He moved to gather up his topcoat and hat. ‘We served a little light refreshment,’ he said, ‘and my two young daughters were brought into the front parlour to inspect the Blackies. You two were, I think, occupied elsewhere…’

‘I was in London,’ said Lawrence, ‘sweet-talking Burrup and the S.C.C.’

Filling the far doorway, William South Norton chuckled awkwardly. ‘The little ones were not at all frightened, you know.’ He spoke to Charles Lawrence directly, with all the kindness he could muster. ‘Nor had they reason to be… And now I’m afraid I must leave you,’ he said. ‘So much still needs sorting for this evening! Bring your lads over for seven o’clock, prompt.
Adieu
!’

The clatter of South Norton’s exit lapsed into brooding silence.

Hayman huffed, ‘You don’t have to make a song and dance over every little thing, Charley.’

‘No,’ said Lawrence, ‘that’s your pigeon.’

Bill Hayman whined, perplexed. ‘They know how to dance the way the ladies like,’ he said, ‘waltz, polka, you name it. They know their way around a pack of cards…and they’re bloody good at billiards.’ He recalled with a twinge how Johnny Cuzens had fleeced him at the tables in Gravesend. ‘Back home,’ Hayman said, ‘they acted perfect gentlemen.’

He coughed.

‘Most of the time.’

Charles Lawrence glared at the younger man. His eyes threatened frostbite. Hayman had dared allude to their previous tours in Australia – before he, Lawrence, had taken up with them. ‘Back home,’ he said, ‘they could go and visit relatives, those that still have them. Indulge in a spot of ceremonial dancing, or otherwise fill what leisure time they have hunting.’

‘
Ih
…’

‘They cannot do that here.’

‘Charles, I’d rather not…not now…’

‘It is imperative we keep them occupied,’ said Lawrence, ‘as much as we possibly can. We don’t let them out of our sight, if we can help it.’

Hayman looked away, his lips pressed firmly together.

Lawrence closed with him as a swordsman would, fighting a duel. ‘Make no mistake,’ he said, ‘I mean to go back to Australia. I want us to return with honours, not wreathed in shame, nor condemned as murderers.’

His resolve was iron-clad.

‘I will not have any more deaths on my team.’