The Clay Dreaming (36 page)

The record of evangelism to the natives only added to the list of their failures. There was little that was noble about it. Every attempt made to civilise them – as students, as servants – had failed. Sooner or later they would return to their nomadic lifestyle, or worse.

‘We saw them die in our houses.’

The statement’s awful simplicity chilled Sarah deeper than bone. The deaths of even their most promising protégés confounded well-meaning reformers. The European lifestyle itself seemed inimical to the Aborigines.

The Bishop of Adelaide, no less, had gone on record saying that he would rather they die as Christians than drag out a miserable existence as heathens: either way, he believed their race would disappear. Civilising influence threw up its hands, giving up the ghost – something Sarah was convinced she would not do. Was he not a man, and a brother?

If the Aborigines were so impervious to the teachings of Christ, she felt they must hold to a sacred ideal of their own, and, what was more, put greater stock in it. Brippoki was conversant with Christian theology, but this appeared merely politic, or polite. She suspected that he retained the unhealthy conviction of his own gods or demons – but what? Was there any way that she might know?

Sarah chewed on the end of her pencil for a while. She wanted to know at least something of Brippoki’s own life back in Australia, that ancient, sun-baked country that was his home; and from his own lips. How could she be expected to help, if she could not understand him – if he would not allow it? Study of the Aborigine was no less puzzling for having met one. She might as well have pulled figments out of thin air and made him up herself.

Much later still, Sarah lay in bed, again unable to sleep.

On many an occasion Lambert had enthused about what was known in the Highlands of Scotland as ‘leistering’. Leistering involved night-fishing, with a spear in one hand and a torch in the other. With the torch, one would illumine the shallows, and thereby dazzle the fish. The risk was of blinding oneself, from the glare on the rippling waters.

Reading contemporary wisdom regarding the Aborigine seemed to involve very much the same hazard: she gained knowledge, but very little insight. Without the flesh of direct experience, words on paper lacked for true substance.

Brippoki’s behaviour was neither simple, nor pathological, but rooted in profound difference, an opposite extreme. Try as she might, Sarah could not grasp his inner workings, any more than she might take hold of him in person.

Zebra was to ass as Aborigine was to white – some distances too great for any sort of bridge.

And where, oh, where could he be?

Tomorrow. Perhaps she would see him tomorrow.

‘Victory!’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Sarah. ‘Who has won?’

‘Two days ago,’ said Lambert. ‘The eleventh of June, at Ladywell.’

Lambert Larkin wiped toast crumbs from his buttery whiskers. He blinked, hard, and snapped the paper to readjust it, a copy of that morning’s
Illustrated London News
.

‘“The Australian Eleven celebrate victory”,’ he read, and then performed a curt aside. ‘Lewisham never were very good.’

‘Oh, father,’ said Sarah, unable to hide her smile. ‘Perhaps the Aboriginals are better men than you allow.’

Lambert regarded his daughter over the top of the paper a moment, and then there was only the back page for her to look at.

‘Isn’t that who you are going to see today?’ he said. He sounded impish. ‘“The team – ”
huk…hurm, churrm
… Oh, dear.
Hf
… Would you mind reading it for me?’

‘“The team”,’ she read, ‘“has adapted itself to the individualism and science of the modern world. Watching the ‘native’ eleven thus enjoying themselves, one remarks the perfect good humour which prevails throughout the games: no ill-temper shown, or angry appeals to the umpire, as is generally the case in a match of
Whites
.”’

‘Of course not,’ retorted Lambert. ‘They were winning!’

‘“We – ”’

Noisily he blew his nose.

‘When you’ve quite finished…’ she said. ‘“We are reminded of one of our own former
Sketches in Australia
, as graciously supplied by Dr Doyle (October third, 1863), freely adapting the end of a successful hunt to the quitting of the cricket field in the afterglow of victory, the sportsmen, ‘laden with the spoils of the chase, wend their way campwards across the rugged hills, forming a single file as they go, adding greatly to the picturesque effect of an Australian sunset’.”’

‘
Bravo
,’ mocked Lambert. ‘No, you keep it. I think I shall close my eyes for a few minutes. They are rather tired.

‘You can stay.’

Sarah was keen to make ready, but there was an hour or two yet before she would have to leave. The second day’s play at Lord’s would begin around eleven; allowing for travel time, she should easily make it by at the latest three o’clock, when play resumed after lunch.

Too preoccupied during the previous week to have much enjoyed the news, she took the opportunity to catch up. One article in particular caught her eye.

‘ROYAL INSTITUTION LECTURES: Sir John Lubbock, Bart., F.R.S., gave the first of a course of six lectures
On
Savages on Thursday week, the 4th inst.’

On Savages
! She had missed this!

‘In his opening remarks he stated that, in the gradual progress of civilisation, we find several principal stages – 1, the omniverous, in which man lives on fish, roots, fruit and insects; 2, the hunting stage, in which he feeds on the produce of the chase; 3, the pastoral, in which he consumes the milk and flesh of his flocks and herds; 4, the agricultural, in which he adds grain to his diet; and, 5, the stage when letters and coin come into use.’

How could she have missed this?

‘Ignorance, said Sir John, is the characteristic of barbarism; the application of knowledge that of civilisation. In his apology for savages, he noticed their want of any means of cleanliness and comfort; their great resemblance in language and habits to the children of superior races of men; and, in regard to their moral character, he expressed his opinion that considering their whole mental condition, they ought not to be judged by our standard, if judged by us at all.

‘The idea that savages are free is erroneous.’

Lubbock then, according to the report, described a variety of excessively minute regulations fettering their daily social intercourse, such as a woman’s being prohibited from looking at or speaking to her son-in-law, these many restrictions being based on their universal dread of witchcraft.

One of Lambert’s eyes was open, like that of a lizard, watching her. Sarah pretended to ignore him.

‘As an initiatory rite to admit them into the tribe, young men are tortured. Their dances take on a religious and theatrical character. Commenting on cannibalism, Sir John adverted to various reasons assigned for the practice, it being adopted by some for the sake of food; by others from motives of revenge, annihilating the enemy so that he might not be met with in the world of spirits; or with the expectation of acquiring the wisdom, courage, and other qualities of the deceased. Sir John concluded with a discussion of the language of savages. He noticed the occasionally complicated grammar, a deficiency in abstract terms, and finally, the use of the fingers in counting, which he considered to be the true basis of the decimal system.’

‘What are you reading?’ asked Lambert, finally. ‘Obviously it appeals to your imagination.’

‘A lecture, given at the Royal Institution,’ Sarah informed him. ‘Sir John Lubbock,
On Savages
.’

‘
Humph
,’ he said. ‘Cannibalism and such, I don’t doubt.’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact.’

‘I saw that,’ he said. ‘Read some to me.’

‘“Second lecture, Saturday the sixth.”’ She paused. ‘Should I…?’

‘No, no,’ he said, ‘from wherever you were is fine.’ His eyes closed again, as if in meditation.

‘“In his second lecture,”’ she read out loud, ‘“delivered on Saturday last, Sir John Lubbock contrasted the paucity of the language of savages with the great variety and excellence of their weapons and their skill in using them, since on them they depend for their food from day to day – their very means of existence itself.”’

The comparison came across as a little fatuous, but perhaps one had to have been there.

‘“Comments on the implements of savage life he illustrated by a numerous collection from all parts of the world. The singular curved Australian weapon, the boomerang, was shown. It has the special characteristic of returning to the point from which it is thrown, if so desired. Mr Eyre describes the weapon as ‘particularly dangerous, as it is almost impossible, even when seen in the air, to tell which way it will go or where descend’. He once nearly had his arm broken by one whilst standing within a yard of the native who threw it and looking out purposefully for it.”’

‘Mr Eyre?’ queried Lambert, sleepily.

‘Governor Eyre,’ said Sarah, ‘I presume.’ She recalled the book overlooked at the library.

‘Oh, well,’ mumbled Lambert, ‘perhaps he had the fellow hanged for it.’

Sarah flicked back through the pages until she found the corresponding news item. The next lecture in the series was advertised for Thursday the 18th, at three p.m.

Lambert’s breathing had become loud and steady.

‘Father?’

He was asleep.

She searched around the bed to find the ‘CALENDAR’ feature from the previous week’s edition. Her lax housekeeping could, at times, be of benefit.

She had narrowly missed the third lecture. The fourth would take place that same afternoon. If only she had seen the announcement earlier. Could she make that? No, of course not. Lord’s it was.

Next Thursday, then – stealthily she tore out the timetable of future dates.

‘Pay no mind t’ what the newspapers say. Your lads acquit themselves very well, aye, an’ shown conspicuous skill at the game.’

The accent was Bristolian, the speaker powerfully built for such a young man. His jaw was almost blue with the beginnings of a ferocious beard.

Charles Lawrence managed to look a little less pained.
The Times
, England’s sniffiest newspaper, would insist on referring to his team as ‘conquered natives’, and the day was infernally hot.

Bill Hayman nudged him in the ribs. The burly giant was still vigorously shaking his hand.

‘Theys’ll change their tune soon enough,’ the fellow persisted. ‘Always do. Saw you at the Oval too. Athletic fellows! Like to challenge some of ’em to a long throw after the match, if you’re game.’

Lawrence smiled weakly. He released himself from the upstart’s grip. ‘If
they
are game,’ he said.

Hayman stepped forward. ‘Certainly, certainly,’ he said.

‘Jolly good. Ta-ra, then.’

‘Bye!’

The door closed behind him. They were alone again. Hayman wheeled about. ‘You know who that was, don’t you?’ he said.

‘He was only a boy,’ deadpanned Lawrence.

‘Grace!’ said Hayman.

‘Which one?’ said Lawrence. ‘There are three of them.’

Hayman frowned, tutted, and then shrugged.

Lawrence looked out of the window at the sun shining on the Lord’s ground, the green of the pitch, and the heaving stands. ‘I think we should set the trap on our bolter.’ He spoke in monotone. They found it easier somehow, not mentioning Cole by name.

‘Involve the police?’ said Hayman. ‘You’re cracked!’

‘It’s been nearly a fortnight.’

Bill Hayman chewed his lip.

‘God only knows what’s become of him,’ Lawrence said. ‘Or what might. Their morale suffers. They need a boost… You’ve seen the match reports. Even
the newspapers have noticed! That bloody commentary in the
Brighton Gazette
… seems like it was picked up and repeated by half the papers in the country!’

‘Which is a good thing,’ Hayman observed. ‘Or would you rather have all that free publicity discourse on how we’re so inept that we lost one of our own?’

‘Why should the press have to know?’ said Lawrence. ‘We’ll just go to the police.’

‘Oh, yes, that’ll stay a secret,’ said Hayman. ‘Don’t you know how anything works?’

Lawrence looked abashed.

‘I worry about it all as much as you do, Charles, but must we risk everything? You know how they do. He’ll probably walk through that door at any moment, as if nothing’s amiss.’

They found themselves both looking at the door in expectation.

‘Besides,’ breezed Hayman, ‘we’re not doing so badly! Mullagh’s taken what, five for 82 off 45 overs. He’s bowled the Earl of Coventry, and Fitzgerald too. That’s their top scorers gone! 185 plays 164, in our favour. We may beat them yet. The M.C.C.! Our second victory in a row!’

‘Don’t get ahead of yourself,’ said Lawrence.

‘I’d say His Lordship’s playing very well, considering. Eleven runs at Ladywell.’ Hayman’s jest met with no response. ‘Even better than Dick-Dick, the “merry young soul”, why not sub Johnny Mullagh instead?’ he suggested.

‘They would spot Mullagh,’ said Lawrence. ‘I can’t believe they haven’t spotted Dick. Why are you laughing?’

‘Sorry.’

Lawrence looked worse than ever.

‘How’s the leg?’ asked Hayman.

‘Badly strained,’ admitted Lawrence. ‘I’ll need Cuzens as a runner.’

‘Charley, we
won
. Have you forgotten that already, or the good word it generated? No, let’s everybody concentrate solely on the things that go wrong!’ Hayman momentarily lost his veneer of good humour. ‘Look ahead, man,’ he chided, ‘look ahead.’

‘I do.’

They had won. The team was adapting itself, as the newspapers said. But Lawrence could not help thinking – the mutual support of the group was what maintained their integrity, and, explicitly, Cole was denied it.

‘Sub Twopenny,’ he said.

The umpires, Grundy and Farrands, would never know the difference.

The interval for lunch is little more than a half-hour long. The Aboriginal team’s guardians take up the time in arguing, or else they would surely be alarmed to find the majority of their men disappeared.

Throughout the latter part of the morning they have been engaged in frantic finger-talk with some distant object behind the outfield blinds. Now, and as directed, they crowd into a tiny broken-down shed on the far side of the ground.

Inside an arena surrounded by six thousand or more pairs of eyes, eight grown men accomplish this unobserved.

‘By Chrise, whitepellas habin’ a proper bust-up ober it you,’ says Neddy.

‘Smash it up all fall down!’ adds Tiger.

They exaggerate, of course, for effect. All look into the shadows, in wonder, a little in fear. They speak to make themselves brave.

‘Orrince bant ta set the plukmans on ya,’ intones Peter, and sets himself to nodding.

‘Lawrence, him gonna to give you the bullit,’ chips in Twopenny, advancing to point. ‘Take up a holemaker an’ tchoot you deadpella!
Ptchoo
!’

‘If ain’t already.’ Tiger’s words have the ominous ring of truth. Everyone takes a step back.

Dick-a-Dick spanks the empty air in front of their faces and frowns. Turning to the corner of the hut, he attempts to reassure. ‘Yeah, so Lawrence said!’

‘Wha’chall doin’ in this ’ere
gunya
?’ Cuzens, a latecomer, appears in the doorway. The shadow in the corner flinches. ‘
HOLO
!’ Cuzens cries out, alarmed. Startled at first, his eyes swiftly adjust to the gloom of the interior. All delighted smiles, he strides forward. ‘Mate!’

The others gather round to block his path.

‘
Ma pitja! Ma pitja!
’ wails the apparition.

For some reason he does not want any of them to come near. Gladly they respect his wishes. He keeps to the shadows, almost out of sight behind a broken upturned table, in amongst the muddle of a ground-roller, stacked wooden planks, and a thicket of handles to rusted tools.

He has made his way to Lord’s, as ever, by his own brand of magic.

‘What up,
Bripumyarrimin
,’ says Cuzens. The others look to their irrepressible team-mate and shrug. ‘Bet you banting some tucker, eh,’ he adds.