by Ed Hillyer
‘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.
J. & W. VINER
The High-street, Town Malling
‘NOT DEAD, BUT GONE BEFORE’
Funerals furnished and a great variety of coffin furniture
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.
‘Old King Cole was a merry old soul
And a merry old soul he was he!
He called for his pipe
And he called for his bowl
And he called for his fiddlers three!’
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!’
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.
CHAPTER VI
Monday the 25th of May, 1868
INTO LONDON
‘Now Nineveh was an exceeding great city of three days’ journey.
And Jonah began to enter into the city a day’s journey, and he cried, and said, Yet forty days, and Nineveh shall be overthrown.’
~ Jonah 3:3–4
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 t
ime 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?’
