The Clay Dreaming (3 page)

‘The hair is not wiry, like that of a Negro. It hangs in dark locks…something almost refined. A marble bust in the museum. Except black, of course.’

‘And is it soft?’

‘Heavens!’ exclaimed Mrs South Norton. ‘Am I to know that…? I would not touch them.’ She returned her cup to its saucer with an emphatic clink. ‘Should you?’

A number of heads shook all at once.

Mrs Hilary South Norton led the ladies of Town Malling in discussion and afternoon tea. Matronly and magnificent, she fairly basked in the glory of her primacy. The group gathered in close around a mahogany-framed sofa flanked by matching tubs. Each of them held a fan, spread, which they flapped in an attempt to cool their faces; the heat of the day so unusual and oppressive that all they achieved was to cut the air into slices.

Opposite Mrs South Norton bobbed Lily Perfect, by far the youngest present. ‘The Black Cricketers,’ she trilled, ‘you’ve seen them already?’

Given the general air of excitement, the redundancy of Lily’s query was excused. Hilary South Norton seemed only too happy to repeat her proud boast. ‘Yes, I’ve seen them.’ Her formidable chest was thrust further out, although it seemed scarcely possible. ‘I have
met
them,’ she corrected. ‘And so shall you.’

She patted her elaborate coiffure. As the close friend of their hostess, Mrs Luck, she was the only woman not required to keep her hat on.

On her left, Lily’s portly, cherubic aunt clapped soundlessly. Minute biscuit crumbs fell from her lips. ‘So shall we all!’ she crowed.

Sounds of a late arrival created a minor disturbance in the adjacent hallway. The hopeful cluster turned their heads in fluid unison: fed so many titbits already, they craved new sensation.

One of the servants appeared, and ushered into the drawing-room a slight, soberly dressed woman. ‘A Miss Sarah Larkin, ma’am.’

The whisking fans ceased in their movements.

The exalted high priestesses crouched, awaiting their sacrifice. Seeing so much attention fixed on her, Sarah’s insides contracted. She hovered in the doorway sideways on. As one the group cast their beady eye, a critical stare that ranged about her person with unkind freedom. Her face was deemed plain and undecorated, her forehead a touch too broad. The way the hair burst forth from her temples, only to double back under restraint, untidy. Dull hair it was, too – dark, no attempt made to disguise sweeps of premature grey. Long, tense fingers, entirely absent of the requisite languor or even a decent manicure, clutched at a stack of papers she seemed reluctant to surrender: she held them like a comfort, or shield.

The butler relieved her of these.

Her body, exposed, was lean but not so very elegant. She wanted for poise. The dress advertised total indifference towards the fashions of the day. She wore a mantle, for pity’s sake!
And
she was too tall.

It was all they could do not to audibly tut.

Although a greeting worked about Sarah’s lips, no sensible sound came out. She conceded neither bob nor curtsey, and thought for a moment that she might simply turn and leave.

‘Come, my dear. Sit.’ Too late – Mrs Hilary South Norton had delivered the dread command. ‘Ladies,’ she said, ‘this is Sarah Ann Larkin, a relation to the Twyttens of Royston Hall…not that you would know it…’

Mute resentment broke into a flurry of welcoming smiles. The clutch parted to indicate a perch in their midst, if not room exactly. Even as she settled, Sarah sensed pitying glances exchanged behind her back. She began to shrink, until catching herself in the act.

The company of women was outside of her adult experience. She might as well have been nesting among flamingoes.

‘ANNIE, YOU REMEMBER OLD LAMBERT LARKIN?’ Hilary South Norton shouted across the room at alarming volume. ‘THE VICAR OF RYARSH?’ A palsied old crone, collapsed in a far wing chair, gave no indication of having heard. She gave no indication of being awake or even alive. Hilary South Norton persevered. ‘THIS IS HIS ONLY DAUGHTER, SARAH! SARAH ANN HILDA!’

‘Huldah’, not ‘Hilda’; and there was something unsavoury about having one’s middle names bellowed across a room. Sarah blushed, to the neck.

Mrs South Norton turned to her with a look of grave import. ‘How is your father?’ she said.

‘Too ill to travel,’ replied Sarah, matter-of-fact.

‘So I see. Poor dear. I do hope he is well looked after in London.’ Hilary South Norton performed an abrupt aside. ‘They still have the Cholera, you know.’

The remark was rewarded with a chorus of gasps, and one ‘How awful!’. For all Sarah knew, there might yet be cholera in London, but it suggested their house itself plague-ridden! The battleaxe took her by the hand, to continue raining blows about her poor, undefended head. ‘You must keep us apprised.’

Her commiserating tone made Sarah nauseous.

Mrs South Norton heaved a loud stage sigh. ‘Such sad news from the Manor,’ she said. ‘The Captain was a fine man. Tea?’

Just two days prior Captain John Savage, latterly Justice of the Peace for the county of Kent, and Lord of the Manor, had dropped down dead.

At least he’d the good sense to do it on Ascension Day, thought Sarah. Wisely, she bit her tongue. For much of his early priesthood her father had served the locality. On his behalf, and in the family name, she was there to pay respects to a man she had never met.

‘No,’ said Sarah, recalling the offer of tea. ‘Thank you.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ continued Hilary South Norton, ‘events of recent days have caused us great concern. And how are you coping, my dear?’

Not being able to scream or hit out, the preacher’s daughter couldn’t rightly say. She did not care for the way Mrs South Norton conflated the subjects of her
conversazione,
nor the implication arising. Social convention dictated that she respond graciously. Her audience grew impatient. Sarah considered a moment: aside from a subtle fury, she felt nothing. She had anyway missed her cue.

A knot momentarily disfigured Hilary South Norton’s porcelain brow, and then it became clear: Sarah’s silence had returned the offence twofold. Swift as the drop of a veil, dismissal shadowed her stone façade, and the fearsome basilisk turned away. The other ladies twittered nervously, at no point uttering anything worth the breath.

Escape from their clutches took Sarah the worst of an hour, but escape she did, to walk through the heat haze of the flower garden, alone. The air outside smelled no less sour. All the same, she relished a moment’s peace and solitude. Those two things lately seemed very much to go together. Sarah never felt so lonesome as when in company.

Her great fear, on the train journey there, had been that whatever she might say would seem too trivial, and yet nothing could match what she had lately endured. To be made so suddenly self-conscious was an awful thing.

The birds stayed silent, and the bees too. The humid heat could not suppress vibrant hues of leaf and petal. Doubly blessed, their responsibilities stretched to little more than looking pretty and inspiring calm.

Looking down, Sarah considered her miserable outfit – sufficient for a funeral perhaps, but never the impending party. She suddenly despised her appearance – that very thing she had come, over the years, to think nothing of.

Sarah’s girlhood had effectively ended the night her mother died, half a lifetime ago.

‘You are the woman of the house now.’

She had awoken the next morning to those very words. The words with which her father chose to inform were his only consolation. Overnight, a woman, even while her body and mind struggled to catch up. What that meant, in purely practical terms of course, was that Sarah became the housekeeper, with a helping hand from Mrs Beeton’s invaluable little book. In very short order it had fallen to her to assume control of the household’s tidy function.

Always and forevermore, her mother, Frances, would be the angel of the house. And a hollowed place it was in which to keep on living. There, the good daughter learnt her life’s lesson – to settle for being less.

The first years following their sudden loss were close to unbearable. As the only real survivor of that night, Sarah gained the strength sufficient to stay weak, obliged to take on her new role, as ‘an helpmeet’. It was not good that the man should be alone. She must be willing to crouch, to place the slipper on her father’s foot – it was the least she could do.

And if her own girlish feet were thereby bound, in the Chinese fashion, then she herself had allowed it: for the greater good; for the sake of peace; to please.

Gently she cradled the heads of flowering blooms – camellias and lilies, wilting – listening all the while to the distant gurgle of the cascade, that delightful water feature across the front road.

She should not resent the other ladies so much. In adulthood as in childhood, society required that genteel womenfolk fill their idle hours with harmless amusement – a ‘pass-time’, so-called: music, or drawing – anything so long as it was of no real consequence. She could not begrudge her poor father his demands of her exclusive attention.

Sarah let the crisped bulb fall in a shower of petals.

She was briefly courted when young – younger: a single suitor had made serious approaches, seeking her father’s permission. Lambert had turned him aside, citing lack of prospects. In paraphrase of the tract he shortly after tasked her to transcribe, an imprudent marriage might have taken its ill effect ‘On Posterity’. It was prosperity rather that occupied his mind, so she felt – and said as much when the time came, deliberately misreading the text back to him. He hadn’t commented.

As for the disappointed young man, he had undertaken mission work in the colonies, soon to die from an extreme tropical malady. Or so she told herself. Either way, she had never heard from him again.

This wound was old, however; the ‘pangs of dispriz’d love’ soon dimmed. Her infatuation had been but brief, and, Sarah decided, she had not loved. What, anyway, was love? As the Queen’s own chaplain had only just recently decreed, from the chapel at Windsor Castle: ‘The spirit of romance is dead.’ It was official.

When it came to responsible womanhood, none less than Victoria Regina served as every feminine ideal: devoted wife and indulgent mother, a widow so dedicated in mourning that she had not been seen in public in years.

Sarah could hear voices from within the house, calling her name – the first guests must be arriving. Turning too quickly, she snagged her dress on the thorns of a rose bush. Urgently she pulled herself free, required to readjust folds of material in order to disguise the torn threads.

Making for the opened French windows fostered her greatest fear. Failing fortunes such as theirs presented a great many dangers. Daily she read proof of how the weak were shown no mercy. Domesticated hens sometimes turned on a sickly member of their brood to peck them literally to bits.

Sarah might be better off staying hidden from the world, were her coat any more ragged or in patches.

William South Norton peeped around the door to the drawing-room. His mother held court. Lily Perfect and her aunt were there, doubly worth avoiding; the widow Ireson; the Millgate – begging their pardon, Viner – sisters; and one other blackbird he could not put a name to, somebody from out of town up for the grand funeral.

Ducking away before he might be seen, Norton collided with another man at his back.

‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ the fellow said. ‘Elias Luther.’ He puffed out his cheeks and fanned his headgear. ‘Terrible heat, sir, don’t you find? I do hope we ain’t in for another like ’58.’

‘What were you doing there?’ demanded William South Norton.

‘Examining these splendid portraits what are hung along the wall,’ said Luther. ‘Quite ’squisite they are, sir. Very delicate. I fancy that I’ve never seen the blush upon a lady’s cheek caught quite so well, in my humble opinion. Why, it’s almost ’z-if they were alive.’

‘You are a connoisseur of painting, Mr Luther,’ said William South Norton. ‘These pictures are the work of John Downman R.A., one-time resident here at Went House. Our own Cade House served as his studio.’

‘I am not familiar with the name as perhaps I should be,’ said Elias Luther, patting the back of his neck with his kerchief, ‘but I shall be sure to make a note of it, for future reference, yes indeed.’

Turning the brim of his bowler around in his hands, he checked up and down the hallway, before leaning close in to whisper. ‘Still, not quite the Manor, Mr Norton, is it?’ he said.

The original venue for that evening’s reception, of necessity, had required eleventh-hour substitution.

‘New money hasn’t the same ring as old,’ said South Norton, ‘but neither can a beggar a chooser be.’

Realising he addressed the proprietor of a successful carriage service, William South Norton covered his embarrassment with a short cough.

Each man smiled, and turned to the contemplation of fine art.

An hour later, and the main reception room at Went House was filled with the milk if not the cream of Malling society. For higher echelons to attend, quite so soon following the death of Captain Savage, R.N., was inappropriate. Invitation had of late been extended to the wealthiest local tradesmen, or else to those long established in business.

Mourning dress universally observed, the gentlemen wore black armbands; the ladies, dresses uncharacteristically sombre. Town Malling and its environs being something of a military enclave, many of the men-folk wore Naval or Army uniform, polished medals proudly on display. Even so, the lowering of the beam promoted a more relaxed and convivial atmosphere than might otherwise have prevailed.

The music of a light chamber orchestra masked the stiff swish of crinoline and the tinkle of glassware. Adjoining rooms opened up to accommodate the swelling crowd, until it occupied much of the ground floor. The younger set mulled over gravitation towards the games room, when the sharp rapping of a cane announced the guests of honour.

The Aborigines filed in, to a polite ripple of applause.

They walked with grace and composure, and, in the habit of athletes, precise awareness of the space their bodies each occupied. The men stood up straight and thrust back their shoulders to give the best formal account of themselves, as they had been drilled. A casual line-up formed at the far end of the room.

The crowding citizens admired their absolute darkness. The skin of the Aborigines was not exactly black, more very dense brown: not at all reflective of the light, it had the dry, mellow quality of soot. Their hair was uniformly black and curled, just as Hilary South Norton had described. In stature, they differed as much as the same number of Englishmen might be expected to vary, ranging in height from about five feet four to five feet nine inches, or perhaps a little taller. Each of their faces appeared quite distinct, especially with regard to their sprawling, bridgeless noses; high foreheads, fringed, with whiskers and moustache rigorously groomed in the military style. A proud regiment, then, but not fierce – beneath beetling brows their large eyes appeared calm and kind. Smiles flashed, cheeky and shy. They were less ‘wild gentlemen’ than gentle men that had once lived in the wild.

Bill Hayman cleared his throat.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘it gives me great pleasure to present to you – our team.’ He bowed and stood to one side, to introduce the players in turn. ‘Red Cap…

‘Tiger…

‘Peter…

‘Mosquito…’

The next in line loomed noticeably broader than his fellows – a large, burly man. ‘Bullocky.’ The audience barely smothered their amusement.

Hayman indicated the big man’s muscular, grinning neighbour. ‘Dick-
a-Dick
.’ Temptation too great unleashed loud titters and murmurings.

‘King Cole…

‘Cuzens.’ Johnny Cuzens looked to be smallest of the company.

‘Jim Crow…

‘Twopenny…

‘Dumas…

‘Mullagh…’ Identification of the tallest member set the men-folk rumbling. Conjecture from the
Sporting Life
engendered great expectations. Lawrence allowed himself a proud smile.

‘…and at the end,’ concluded Hayman, ‘Sundown.’

The names that were given are the names that have taken.

Hands clasped behind his back, beard thrust forward, King Cole’s manner is staid and dignified. ‘Charles Rose’ to the whites while working at their sheep station, his status has since been elevated – without having any genuine meaning at all.

He concentrates on the far wall, above the curious, crowding heads, and wishes himself anywhere, away from it all.

On cue, each Aborigine nodded, or bid the crowd a genial ‘
G’di!’
– the contraction of ‘
Gia Gindi
’, a formal greeting in one of their own languages.

Hilary South Norton was tickled pink. ‘They have been trained to say “Good day”!’ she enthused. Her hand, clasped to her ample bosom, rose to her fond, blushing cheek as her favourite son stepped forward.

‘The lovely county of Kent,’ said William South Norton, ‘is England’s celebrated garden, also called “the Gateway to England”! And may I say, I am delighted to see so many of the good people of Town Malling present tonight…’

Noises of approval arose from all sides.

‘Let me ask you all to join me in opening wide that fairest of gateways, that we might welcome to our shores these talented sportsmen, all the way from their – um – their native Australia!’

William South Norton led a brief round of applause.

‘An additional toast is in order,’ he continued. ‘To Her Majesty, on the occasion of her birthday, which is tomorrow. Raise your glasses if you please. To our most gracious Sovereign Lady, QUEEN VICTORIA… Grant her in health and wealth long to live. The Queen!’

‘The Queen!’ echoed all.

‘We wish our esteemed guests, the Aboriginal Australian Eleven, the very best of British during their stay,’ said South Norton, ‘not least this coming Monday at the Oval. And, for ourselves, a jolly evening’s entertainments, overshadowed as they are by such grave and untimely misfortune among the – ah – among the Savages.’

Charles Lawrence’s face turned ashen.

A general collapse ensued. Excited Malling residents rushed forward to shake hands, attempting to engage one or other of the team in conversation. The hubbub of small talk filled the air; the foreign guests slowly filtered throughout the room. Groaning platters of food and drink, carried from group to group, were offered up for their delectation.

The Aborigines had not yet learnt to ignore the serving staff. Every time their glasses were topped or plates refreshed, they showed their teeth in sincere appreciation.

Cuzens, caught up in the sensation of new tastes and smells, sampled freely from every tray.

‘Steady on, Johnny!’ Lawrence banged about like a sheepdog at trials.

William South Norton gathered up his brother-in-law and beckoned Lawrence over to join them. He wished to single out – and, where expedient, introduce – local notables.

‘Elias Luther, by whose graces you will be escorted to Snodland Monday morning,’ he said in passing, ‘and… Ah! But you really must meet this gentleman. William, Charles, may I present…William Charles Viner. Oh, how perfectly absurd! And his wife, Adelaide.’

‘Adelaide,’ said Bill Hayman, taking a step forward, ‘Lovely name. A favourite where I come from.’ The colonist bowed his head charmingly.

A silver-haired man standing alongside made himself known. ‘Excuse me, sirs. John Scotchford Viner. Delighted to meet you. My wife, Rebecca.’

A much younger woman with a passing resemblance to Adelaide took her place at his side.

‘J.S. is cousin to William Viner,’ South Norton explained, ‘while Rebecca is Adelaide’s sister.’

‘We like to keep it in the family,’ said the elder Viner. ‘My card.’

A blazing rectangle was thrust into Lawrence’s open palm. He paled as he read it.

As soon as their backs were turned, Lawrence cast it into the fireplace.

The circulating food trays gradually ebbed away. Customarily shy, the Aborigines proved slow to join in general conversation, often failing to respond even to direct questions; but they were not ignorant as some of the townsfolk supposed.

Masculine talk favoured the subject of sport. As the evening progressed, the women withdrew into the adjoining drawing-room, there to await the menfolk who might join them as they wished. The ladies soon grew impatient, wilting like great dark flowers across the sofa-chairs. Groups including Black Cricketers were inveigled to follow on.

The Aborigines, growing more relaxed, peered in exaggerated wonder at the voluminous skirts worn by the English ladies: layer on layer cascading down, glaciated waterfalls that splashed, crystalline, onto the carpet.

‘Dat not heavy?’ said Twopenny, tugging at the hem of one such striking female garment.

Some professed doubts that these glamorous creatures possessed lower halves, or feet. They knew better of course, but relished the play. The native Australians employed a keenly developed sense of the ridiculous. They pretended to think cups and saucers shellfish, put them to their ears to listen for the sea, or had them ‘walk’ daintily across the teapoys. They pointed at wine bottles and enquired what kind of fish lived in
these
shells, where they might be found, and wondered aloud how there were none similar on their own beaches.

Charmed, the ladies proposed a round of simple parlour games.

‘Hand-shadows!’ someone cried.

One after another the wall lights were extinguished, until only a portable table lamp remained. In the semi-darkness the Aborigines, led by Dick-a-Dick, rolled the whites of their eyes. They hooted like owls, and spread wide their palms. Everyone laughed.

Adelaide Viner explained the concept of a ‘shadowgraph’, a pictorial silhouette made by various positions of the hands and cast upon the wall. Anonymous in the dark, ‘spooky’ voices called for her to show examples.

‘Ooo-oo, we are creatures living in shadow!’ they said. ‘Set us free!’

‘Yes,’ cried another, ‘bring the shadows to life!’

The likeness of a dark horse appeared, gaily tossing of its head and waggling the ears. A crab scuttled to and fro.

‘Do the snail! The snail!’

A large black snail slithered ponderously on its way, until a pair of rabbits came bouncing. Lily Perfect, over-excited, suffered hiccups.

‘Old Mother Hubble…that is, Hubbard!’ shouted a local wag.

‘Old King Cole!’ suggested another.

At the appearance of a long nose and pointy crown, the Aborigines screeched and hollered so much that there was a rush to the darkened doorway and the lamps were ordered re-lit. They continued to cut extraordinary capers, some entirely helpless with mirth. Eventually they pushed forward the one among them called King Cole, and for those in confusion the penny dropped. The English sang the nursery rhyme in a rising chorale, while its namesake stood isolated and embarrassed in the centre of the room.

One fellow mimed the throw of a cricket ball at the appropriate moment, but no one else got the joke.

Young Lily Perfect approached the bashful Aborigine, and curtsied. With painful sincerity she asked, ‘Are you really –
hic
– a king?’

He answered honestly. ‘You say that I am a king.’

Cole shrank immediately back, retreating behind a nearby pillar. In short order he became at one with it, so successfully that he was soon forgotten by almost everyone.

Sarah Larkin, feeling awkward for him – almost as much as for herself – remained standing off to one side. She fingered the ormolu: genuine gilded bronze, not alloy, like that back at home.

‘Dear brother, what is it?’ enquired Bullocky.

‘I don’t know,’ said Red Cap.

For the benefit of an eager audience, the pair of them discussed the merits of a large painted portrait of the lady of the house, Mrs Luck.

‘Is it a ship?’

She did indeed resemble a ship in full sail.

‘No, mate,’ said Red Cap. ‘I think it a kangaroo!’

Dick-a-Dick meanwhile mischievously lamented. He blamed England’s weak sun for the loss of his colour. ‘I spoil my complexion,’ he said. ‘When I go back my mother won’t know me!’