The Clay Dreaming (4 page)

Amongst Aboriginal farm-hands the Queen’s birthday was known as a time of plenty, when bread, beef, and blankets would be distributed; anticipation of rewards had put them in higher than normal spirits.

An outburst in the hallway created a sudden stir in the main room beyond. Word spread like bushfire: against all expectations, members of the landed gentry were making a late entrance.

Rushing in from the opposite direction, William South Norton hissed at one of the servants. ‘Nevills?’ he demanded. ‘Or Birlings?’

Into the lobby, larger than life, strode Sir Ralph Nevill, the West Kent Hunt’s Master of Foxhounds. Two steps behind followed his sister, the spinster Lady Caroline Nevill. Their host, Edward Luck, quailed in his boots. Hilary South Norton was beside herself.

As confirmation reached his ear of the West Kent’s arrival in force, Lawrence’s heart shrank. Here they came, charging. Desperately he searched for an avenue of escape.

In the drawing-room the Aboriginal gentlemen were being entertained with music. Three blackfellows casually reclined on sofas while the ladies played and sang for them. Elsewhere hands dealt cards for whist. Addressed in broken English, Tiger was being explained gaming rules he knew very well. He let it carry on until he lost all patience. ‘What for you no talk to me good Inglis?’ he growled. ‘I speak as good Inglis as him belonging you!’ Tiger pointed out Peter, smoking the peace pipe beside the fireplace. ‘Big fool that one fellow,’ he said. ‘Him not know Inglis one dam!’

Bill Hayman executed a hand signal, letting Tiger know that he should moderate his language: ladies were present. Turning back to an attentive Adelaide Viner, he continued to explain how Lawrence – actually, he and Lawrence – were teaching the Aborigines to read and write.

Tiger overheard, and snorted derisively. ‘What’s usy Lawrence?’ he jibed. ‘Him too much along of us. Him speak nothing now but blackfella talk!’

Charles Lawrence stood apart from the main gathering, nervous and distracted. Local gossip raged on, as he guessed it would about any strangers in their midst.

‘They sailed away beyond the South China Seas, and came back with a grown daughter…’

‘Who?
Hic
…’

‘The Twyttens.’

Lawrence followed the speakers’ sightline, alighting on a very pale young woman with streaks of grey in her bountiful hair. Although attracting his eye, she remained unaware of it. Watching, listening to events, she herself did not speak, and yet all the while she radiated a fierce intelligence. The crystal sharpness of her gaze was really something quite exceptional.

 Lawrence caught King Cole also looking on, from the opposite side of the room. He stayed for some reason half-hidden, and then, meeting Lawrence’s eye, ducked away.

They were the only persons silent within the general ferment. Lawrence wondered what should condemn this young woman to be so much of an outsider, or Cole – he too, for that matter.

Despite herself, Sarah Larkin had excited interest. The Aborigines could tell she was different. Not from her plain dress – they accepted people as they were, without judgement. They perceived the cold shoulder she endured from the other English.

Rebecca Viner was petitioned to introduce the ‘him quiet one lady’.

‘She lives in London, our capital city, where she works in the library at the British Museum,’ said Mrs Viner. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, Sarah?’

Sarah whispered an assent.

The information only led to further confusion, and more questions. How best to explain, to men who had no written language, the concept of a library? A museum? Following a brief discussion they arrived at a formula to explain away Sarah’s role – imaginatively, and rather poetically – as ‘a guardian of the words of dead men’.

‘The living and the dead,’ said Sarah. She felt secretly pleased with her new identity: it made her life sound interesting.

The curious Aborigines were impressed. Traditionally speaking, male elders were their guardians of law and lore. Sarah was comparatively young, and a female. They looked on her with renewed respect. King Cole felt his observation of her special character had been confirmed.

Mosquito openly expressed his satisfaction. ‘Sarah. Pretty name,’ he said. ‘I’ll ’member ’im.’ He was literate, with a clear hand. To prove the point he wrote out her name a great many times over.

Lawrence oversaw, and approved, the neat intersection of cultures. He would have to learn not to feed his fears, to trust in the temperance and good humour of his
Akwerkepentye
, his ‘far-travelling children’.

In the parlour, sickly Johnny Cuzens slumped in an armchair, long-faced companion standing guard by his side.

Peripatetic, Lawrence strolled over to join them. The team captain placed a comforting hand on Cuzens’ shoulder.

‘Not just one, but three of the buggers, black as sin!’

The voice of Sir Ralph Nevill boomed, carrying from the next room. He related, not for the first time, the occasion of his first meet with the Australian natives, out on the hunting field.

‘…had ’em cornered in a covert! So I said to George, have your
punkawallah
bring his mount to the front for a gin-jabber with these savages. Couldn’t get a word o’ sense out of ’em. Surrendered the fox, though. Smack dab into the hands of Reverend Perfect, the original black beast. Came home from a good run, brush in one pocket, prayer-book in t’other!’

Rumbustious Sir Ralph concluded his tale. ‘Too bad about the Captain, what? Same day. Sorry business.’

A brief period of contemplation, and then Charley Dumas spoke up. ‘
Eni na watjala
?’ he asked. ‘You know dat pella, Lawrence?’

‘Mm?’ said Lawrence. ‘No, Charley. No, I’m glad to say I don’t.’

Lawrence dreaded their sort – the kind who liked to exercise dominion over the earth. The hunt was meant for meat, not merely for sport. The Aborigines had taught him that.

‘I am told the entire continent of Australia is little more than a desert.’

A stranger’s voice in his ear, Lawrence turned. He recognised William Viner. ‘What could they possibly do there?’ the fellow enquired. He addressed him directly – as if the Blacks were deaf and dumb, or else entirely absent.

‘Live off the land,’ said Lawrence, ‘take pleasure in the hunt…as do the wealthy of our own nation.’

He paused.

‘Or they would, if only allowed to. Excuse me.’

Charles Lawrence realised: perhaps it was not the conduct of his players that he should be worried about.

The Aboriginal Australian Eleven made their way into England’s capital by train. Whilst in London, the team would be quartered in the Queen’s Head Inn, on Southwark’s Borough High-street – just a short carriage ride from Kennington Fields and the Oval. Their all-important first match was scant hours and a few miles away.

Lawrence clung to the overhead racks, meaning to address the gathered Aborigines. He jiggered and swayed in the centre of the rolling carriage, and searched his heart to find the right words.

Their protracted journey together had begun nearly ten months earlier.

He, Lawrence, had spent a memorable first night, steeped in the rich collective smell of them – thirteen Aboriginals, a cook, and the coachman, as well as himself and young Bill Hayman – the entire troupe crammed into a waggon-and-four wherever space among the tents, ‘tucker’ and other supplies could be found. In this delightful proximity they left Lake Wallace, and spent the next eight days trekking some 150 miles southeast.

It rained all the way from their base at Edenhope to the coast at Warrnambool – a perpetual, torrential downpour. The accommodating Blacks fashioned Lawrence excellent wigwams, and kept the fire up to his toes. Even so, the rigours of Bush travel knocked him up something awful. On his third night without sleep he discovered the reason: when not using it in place of a pillow, he was spending the majority of his time perched atop a wrapped parcel – which
turned out to be the rotting torso of a kangaroo. His expressions of horror amused the natives no end. In one fell swoop he gained their confidence and won their affection, the neophyte team captain their confirmed New Chum.

On wet spring evenings, the Blacks engaged in shooting ’roo and opossum. Ever sporting, Lawrence had joined them – the sure-fire way to ensure fresh meat. Thunder and lightning writ large across desert skies, they traded jokes and stories around a big campfire; plenty of logs for seats, any amount of mutton chops cooking on the gridiron, and tea piping hot out of a little billy stove. All told, he had enjoyed himself immensely.

In the simple surround of that earthly paradise, Lawrence had introduced them to the life and teachings of Christ, and met with their curious interest. The Sunday following their arrival he took them all to the Church of England, Warrnambool, where they were very attentive, and when the collection plate was presented, each gave a little help. Evening prayers on board ship had continued in their Christian education…

‘You remember, boys,’ Lawrence said, ‘the excellent Captain Williams.’

‘Oh,
yes
, Lawrence!’ the Aborigines unanimously agreed.

The captain of the
Parramatta
had proven very popular with them. During their lengthy voyage both he and Lawrence had taken it upon themselves to instruct their charges in the Scriptures. It helped overcome their fears of the endless sea. Captain Williams’ leading of the prayers inspired confidence in their safety aboard his vessel: if the captain was so good, then they should never sink (
Matthew
8:23–27). When the time came for good Captain Williams to take his leave, a few days prior to their landing at Gravesend, the Aborigines had become greatly distressed.

‘You remember, then, his warning to you,’ said Lawrence, ‘when he came to your bunks to say goodbye?’

For the duration of their sea voyage, rather than be assigned the relative luxury of their own private cabins, all had crammed into intermediate berths situated between first and second class.

‘He said, “Now, boys, I have to thank you for your good behaviour during this passage, and to give you a little advice. In England you will meet with as many thieves and vagabonds as hairs on your head, and they will tell you that you are very clever, and then ask you to have some drink and then rob you. So don’t have anything to do with them, but do just what Mr Lawrence wishes you to do!”… You remember he said that, don’t you?’

Emotions ran high concerning the early departure of Captain Williams, and there had been a good deal of crying. Fresh tears fell in the train carriage, so, clearly, the Aborigines well recalled. Lawrence, not for the first time, doubted the wisdom of what he had started.

Praying for the understanding heart of Solomon, he elaborated on his theme. ‘He was afraid,’ he said; ‘he was afraid you might be led astray in England.’

Dick-a-Dick spoke up.

‘You can trust us, Lawrence,’ he said. ‘We be careful.’

Dick-a-Dick, a natural performer who often played the clown for any sort of audience, was, at the same time, sober and wise, a highly respected member of his clan – and often an inspiration to them all. Amiably, he turned to his team-mates. ‘Captain Williams and Mister Lawrence, they know Jesus Chrise,’ he said. ‘Jesus Chrise and the little pickaninny they tell us about that we saw in the picture.’

‘
Uah! Ne
!
’ The others approved, nodding vigorously.

Lawrence joined in. Upturned faces all around wore expressions of calm and rapt attention. Bless you, Dick.

‘They kill him,’ said Dick-a-Dick.

The train lurched violently, and Lawrence almost fell.

Damn you, Dick. Lawrence shot the blithe trickster a filthy look. Was he being sincere, or sly? His mind raced.

‘Jesus is in heaven now,’ galloped Lawrence, unsure how to recover. ‘And we pray to him to keep you all safe in England.’

Their train slowed to a crawl, beginning the final approach into London Bridge station. The stop-start motion took on the lulling tempo of a rocking cradle. The barest sliver of a low moon, still visible near to the horizon, loomed large.

A sulphurous taint as if from the ashes of a great fire billowed into the carriage. The Aborigines crowded at the windows for their first glimpse of the vast, smoking metropolis. Narrow streets swung by below the viaduct – mud, and stone, and soot. Following the wet, black Sunday just gone, all colour had been drained from the view: everywhere appeared lifeless. No longer green fields, for miles in every direction stretched only grey rooftops. It seemed as if they sailed once more an immense and unending ocean. One would have to be mad to leap into it.

Sound asleep, only King Cole remained in his seat. He grumbled somnolently, farted and shifted slightly, a frown on his screwed-up face. Those nearest to him turned and laughed.

‘
Bripumyarrimin
,’ they cooed.

‘Him dreaming.’

With three lusty cheers to announce themselves, and a warlike whoop in salute of their opponents, the Aborigines swept onto the cricket field at the Oval. Startled birds took flight. Like the rumble and crash of a great wave, the massive crowd roared back from the stands. In the stadium ground’s short history, its enclosures had never been packed so full. The whole of London, or so it seemed, had turned out to see them play.

Carriages without number ringed the pavilion. Grand four-in-hands pressed in against dogcarts; springy and elegant phaetons nestled close to lumbering stagecoaches; barouches, gigs, chaises, trucks and hansom cabs.

More women than usual could be counted among the spectators, from common serving-wenches to fine ladies. The cautious watched from the seclusion of their carriages. The bold sat side-saddle on their horses, perfectly poised, programme in one hand and reins in the other. A great many more mingled freely on the stands.

The newspapers were having a field day. ‘A New Epoch in the History of Cricket!’ screamed one headline. ‘Decidedly the Event of the Century’ pronounced another. Scattered throughout the crowd, vendors cried out their own, often scurrilous variations.

A festive atmosphere prevailed, more sensational than strictly sporting.

The instant the Black Cricketers had appeared, synchronous motion created a blinding broadside – the flash of sunlight reflected in a thousand spyglasses. Everyone was determined to take a closer look, the majority interested more
in the physical confirmation of the Aborigines than they were their cricketing acquirements.

Their skin colour seemed to vary in shade, but they were most assuredly as advertised: ‘Very Black: virtual photographic negatives of White Cricketers’. Lithe and athletic, slight of limb yet standing straight and upright, they appeared tolerably broad in the shoulders, if rather weak in the chest. Hair and beards were worn long, whiskers luxuriant. Particular remark was made of their broadly expanded nostrils. Some patrons found them handsome, others ugly.

As for their dress, the Aborigines wore white flannel trousers held up with blue elastic belts. Their Garibaldi shirts were of a fine military red, adorned with a diagonal flannel sash, and a necktie pinned under a stiff white linen collar. Beneath this finery they sported undershirts of French merino wool. A peaked cap, bearing the silver emblem of a boomerang crossed with a cricket bat, completed the ensemble.

Charles Lawrence had initiated the idea of a uniform, supplying the ‘corps’ with suitable raiment for their long campaign; he saw it as a means of fostering tradition – the team taking pride in itself – but also, of fashioning them into playing-field heroes. His chief inspiration was the system as first introduced, at Rugby school. Individual colour schemes further distinguished each player, caps ostensibly matching their flannel sashes. Pre-printed cards, offered for sale, tabulated names alongside corresponding tints. In this way spectators might tell one Black from another, even at distance; and a very good arrangement it was agreed to be.

The Aborigines of course had their own ideas, and swapped their caps around continually.

In the Reading-room at the British Museum, within the main Salon, Sarah Larkin sat upright in her usual seat. She looked high overhead, to where the light streamed in through the enormous dome. It was perhaps 150 feet in diameter; the lantern itself must have been at least 40 feet across. Her imagination fluttered at the enclosing glass.

Returned from Town Malling, Sarah did not at all like the perspective her recent trip had lent. Domestic life centred around little else than dirty pots and clean linen. The remainder of her days she spent here in the library. She might have been content to live chiefly inside her own head, except for the fact that her firing thoughts could go nowhere, led to nothing, and availed her naught.

Sarah closed up the text she was uselessly holding: this past quarter-hour she had not looked at it once. A trickle of dust leaked from out of the spine, piling a tiny heap on the desktop. With a sweep of her sleeve she reduced it to a mothlike smear. In the end, she had to admit: aside from her familiar routine, she
had no idea what else to do. She was of practical use only – a tool, a mindless machine with no dimension of its own.

She closed her eyes and listened to echoes around the vast chamber: the thumbed rasp and ceaseless swish of turned pages; books, books as they banged, singly on tabletops or thudding in great piles. Each layer of sound, the padding feet, the leathery squeak of shoes, once noted, she filtered out – seeking further still. Snuffles, snorts, a stuttering cough, quiet conversation; these too were catalogued and put aside. Finally, she could make out muted echoes of the distant streets, solid evidence of a world beyond.

Real life happened somewhere else, far, far away.

Freshened by rain and solidified by the action of sun and wind, by noon the Oval turf looked to be in tip-top condition. Julius Caesar, a Gentleman of Surrey, served as umpire. Players from both teams shook hands and briefly huddled about His Imperial Highness. The Eleven Gentlemen of Surrey won the toss, and they elected to bat first.

Mighty Mullagh began the bowling, wearing a sash of dark blue.

An occasional mild shout from the English players inspired an echo among the stands – ‘Well hit!’ or ‘Run it out’ and, when the Aborigine Peter fumbled the ball, ‘Butterfingers!’ But the greatest excitement came when Mullagh pitched up a ripper, bowling out the first of his opponents. The unrestrained jubilation of the Aborigines reverberated right across the ground. They tore up and down, running barefoot between the wickets ‘like deer’, tumbling and rolling in the bare grass, and all the while screaming and shouting their native backchat. Play continued brisk. The audience agreed themselves highly entertained.

Between two and three in the afternoon the time came for a short luncheon break. As he made for the pavilion, the last Surrey Gentleman let opinion be known that the wicket had been insufficiently rollered.

‘It’s got all the qualities of a blasted billiard table,’ he grumbled. ‘Not just the colour, but the pockets! Bah! Let’s drown our sorrows, eh, Jupp?’

Dumas, Twopenny and his brother Mosquito gathered around poorly Cuzens. The team were denied the services of its ‘great gun’: he suffered a bout of enteritis and was too weak to play. The rest mingled with the spectators, who crowded in eagerly. They were passed cakes, sweets, and baskets of homemade biscuits. Hipflasks offered freely, the men were encouraged to take a nip. Fearing precisely this, Lawrence strove to gather up his flock and guide them into the lunch tent, where the choice of beverage was limited to a very dilute sherry, or tea.

Following the interval King Cole, suitably regal in magenta cap and sash, and then Bullocky, wearing maroon, resumed the bowling. Neither enjoyed much success. After his energetic socialising at lunch, Bullocky in particular
appeared somewhat the worse for wear, only redeeming himself later with a superlative catch. Charles Lawrence took over the bowling and made short work of the remaining wickets. The Aborigines bowled in the new over-arm style. By shifting gear to deliver a few slow and under-arm pitches, their captain gained pleasing results, at least until Surrey readjusted.

Next up, it was the Aborigines’ turn to bat.

Their first innings were unspectacular. Only Mullagh achieved an appreciable score. King Cole managed half as many before being bowled out by Mr I. D. Walker of Surrey, caught out earlier by Cole for a single run.

And so ended the first day’s play.

‘We did all right,’ said Bill Hayman.

Lawrence looked disappointed.

‘The Blacks returned the ball quickly,’ he said, ‘but not with their usual precision. We might have fared better if it weren’t for that idiot colonial at the interval, with his loud “coo-ee!” and our boys running over to him.’

Hayman laughed. ‘That was Gerald,’ he said. ‘I know him from Adelaide. The town, that is. What he’s doing over here, I don’t know. Got talking to them in their own lingo, he did, and pretty soon they were jabbering round his wagonette like a barrel of monkeys! The corks flew out of bottles like magic, and the contents disappeared double quick!’

‘I had to put a stop to it,’ said Lawrence. ‘It’s no laughing matter! Thank the Lord I could use Cuzens as leverage, and got them over to the main tent, where we could keep a weather eye on ’em. And somehow Bullocky still got drunk!’

Bill Hayman blushed, but offered no answer.