by Ed Hillyer
How had he come to be there? Was he lost?
‘Ngayulu…’
King Cole spoke. Head inclined, his manic stare searched the ground at his feet.
‘…ngayulu nyanga teiwa pitjangu.’
Sarah’s own lips had formed no question, yet his appeared to make answer. She marvelled at the beauty of his language, words ‘more soft than rain’.
He looked away down the street. From somewhere deep and rich inside heaved the most affecting sigh.
‘Teiwa,’ he said, ‘…teiwa.’
A carriage sped past, wheels rattling. The length and breadth of Great Russell-street rang with vendors’ cries. King Cole’s gentle phrases all but drowned in the surrounding din. He seemed so sad.
Their eyes locked for a split second, with the force of a thump to the chest.
His face brightened.
‘Jangan-djina-njug!’
Dodging a sudden missile, quite invisible to the eye, Cole staged a brief pantomime – the exaggerated placement of one foot before the other.
‘Jangan-djina-njug,’ he shouted. ‘Jungunjinanuke!’
‘I can’t…I can’t understand you!’ said Sarah.
Less than two feet away from her danced a near total stranger – not perfect, and none so strange. She had no guarantee the man was even in his right mind. With a reach of his arm he might…
No, she would not give in to fear. The black orb of his eye was that of a dove, not a hawk.
Passers-by concentrated largely on their own affairs; his loud actions, however, his dishevelment, had begun to attract notice.
‘Comealong comealong comealong comealong comealong…’
Hypnotic rhythm rolling, thick and throaty, King Cole burbled pleasantly by her side. ‘…comealong comealong makim makim Serpent.’
Thirpent? Lulled by his banal narrative, Sarah barely noticed as the flash flood of native language eased into a guttural approximation of her own: an Aboriginal sort of English.
‘Goalong goalong goalong goalong PINIS!’
His sudden spit brought forth a flush of hot blood to her face and cheeks. He was staring again. People were staring. Some had stopped in their tracks just to stare. Sarah grasped King Cole by his sleeve and pulled him inside the quiet house, closing the door to the street behind them.
Having bidden the fellow enter, she could not very well refuse him welcome. Nothing to be done about the mud all over, but it was mostly dried. As directed by her good conscience, Sarah mounted the stair. She signalled, shyly, that he might follow.
She moved carefully, her tread deliberately light. The Aborigine followed on without making a sound.
They gained the upper floors and the relative privacy of Sarah’s own family apartments, where she led him into the front parlour. A four-square chamber of medium size, their ‘morning’ room, so-called, was an embarrassment, but no more so than any other. Neither fixtures nor fittings had been improved in the fourteen years since her mother’s death. Even in the old days, they had only received guests on rare occasion.
‘Welcome,’ said Sarah.
Politely but promptly she excused herself. A dubious reflex action demanded that she wash her hands. She then lit the stove and put a pan of water on to boil.
Sarah rushed further upstairs to check on her father. Although it was gone eleven, almost twelve noon, he remained sound asleep – a small mercy.
Repairing downstairs, once again to the kitchen, she rapidly gathered all the makings of a tea tray – the Staffordshire Porcelain – teapot, sugar-pot, milk jug, two cups, and a delicate slop bowl. She fretted all the while. Lambert overslept, meaning that he must have suffered another restless night. And what would he have to say, if he only knew that she entertained a man; especially such a man as King Cole. Better to think of herself as entertaining royalty!
Sarah returned to find Cole engaged in particular close study of a picture frame. The antique map was of London. Surely aware of her presence, he nevertheless paid her no heed. Instead, with his fingertip, he traced the course of the River Thames, marked as a long, looping ribbon of blue. Seeing a matching trail inscribed in the thick layer of dust on the picture-glass, Sarah felt deeply shamed.
She went to arrange the tea service on a tabletop caddy, only to find it missing. Hesitant to put the tray directly down, Sarah scanned the room before approaching her guest.
‘Tea?’
Her strangulated voice sounded ridiculous, the hoarse squeak of a house mouse. She cleared her throat as delicately as she could. ‘Tea?’ she repeated.
The dark face turned, the lost, wild cast from before replaced by a beatific calm. Cringing no longer, King Cole stood erect, if in relatively relaxed fashion. Were it not for the raggedness of his clothing, the darkest copper of his complexion, he might suit formal surroundings as well as any gentleman. Lest she be completely beguiled, he wore no shoes. She might have noticed sooner were the colour of his feet not so intrinsic.
‘Will you take a cup of tea?’ said Sarah.
He moved to take the obviously heavy tray from her arms, froze, and then bowed slightly. When it came to social graces they appeared equally rusty; in more relaxed circumstances she might have granted it amusing.
‘Please,’ she said. ‘Have a seat.’
He hesitated. She nodded towards the balloon-back velour, its cabriole legs carved from mahogany. This he spurned in favour of a much-worn easy chair. Deep-buttoned chenille stuffed with horsehair, the spongy upholstery swallowed his narrow flanks. Struggling to rearrange himself, he perched on its edge.
‘How do you like it?’ persisted Sarah. ‘Your tea?’
She set down the tray, picked up the pot, and with a faint tremor poured from it. King Cole had again failed to respond, but when she proffered the tiny silver-plate jug he nodded eagerly. She poured the milk, understanding from his bashful smile to add a more generous measure. The most curious expression on his face, he watched as the white swirl circled in the dark liquid, finally taking up his teaspoon and blending it in.
He sipped his tea, thoughtfully.
Sarah occupied herself with the makings of her own cup. The brittle clink of crockery seemed to fill every corner of the room, until they eventually sat in mounting silence. That blasted grandfather clock in the hallway – she could have died between its every tick, and tock.
Cole scarcely looked at her, and spoke not a word. She wondered what he could possibly want – for her to begin with the introductions, perhaps.
‘Sarah,’ she said.
However much she felt she should, she did not extend a hand.
He did not react.
Sarah smiled, feeling slightly foolish. More of a context might be required. ‘Sarah,’ she said again. ‘My name…is Sarah.’ Wincing, she gave herself a light tap on the shoulder.
The reticent Aborigine nodded curtly, but would not meet her eye. After a little delay, he mumbled a single word.
‘Thara.’
‘S-Sarah.’
‘Thara,’ he said.
With the gentlest lisp on the sibilant ‘s’, he repeated her name, she was sure of it. She must allow it.
‘And – uh…you?’ Sarah made what she hoped was a reciprocal hand gesture. ‘Your name?’
He was examining the carpet, testing it with his bare black foot. His feet and hands too were surprisingly slender.
‘Your name is…Cole?’ she asked. ‘King Cole?’
She knew full well what he was called, but suspected it a given name. Still, he nodded.
How was she meant to address him? ‘King’? ‘Mr Cole’?
‘I hear the team will play at Lord’s,’ Sarah said, meaning nothing by it. She knew very little of cricket, other than that her father very much liked it.
A further pause before Cole grunted agreement. ‘Uah.’
‘How is the tour going?’ she asked.
His hand waved: it goes.
‘You are in London playing another engagement?’
Accord
ing to the latest report she had read, the team had returned to their base in Kent. Why had he come?
‘Is everything all right?’ she asked.
No answer was forthcoming. Evidently, his life was his own.
Enough of this! She spoke bluntly. ‘How may I be of assistance?’
The whites of his eyes flared slightly, black pupils arcing in her direction.
Sarah had not meant to sound so unfriendly. At least his looks, she noted, were no longer quite so bloodshot. He remained relatively calm – content, so long as left in peace. She lapsed into a similar quietude, simply waiting for him to speak. ‘King Cole‘ could explain himself, and in his own good time.
Once again, Sarah became aware of the noise of the city: filtering through glass, through bricks and mortar, bluntly it forced its way into her home. Even held at such a remove the sweep of traffic was a constant. Closing her eyes, she chose instead to picture it as waves, breaking on a distant shore.
She made one or two moves of the tea things, tacitly making sure to meet her guest’s every want and comfort. She availed herself of these opportunities to study him at close quarters – aware, and not unpleasantly so, of his subtle reciprocal investigations.
Cole had a flattish sort of nose, and a wide mouth. Both lip and nostril were thick and fleshy. She did not find it an especially attractive face; it was too alien for that. Hair lustrous and crow-black made it difficult to guess at his age, his unruly mop a mess of curls. He looked years younger than previously, while upset: he was perhaps around the same age as she was – not yet 30. All the same, life had left its mark. The deep knots in his brow aged him prematurely.
Here was a man who harboured a secret, whose dreams were troubled.
He suddenly spoke.
‘You,’ he said, ‘help me.’
‘Help you, how?’
Cole stood, pointed to the far corner, and led her to the map hanging there. Talking nineteen to the dozen, with his finger he retraced the line of the river two, three times over in quick succession. He stabbed at the map so forcefully that it jerked and rapped against the wall. Sarah reached and in one smooth motion lifted the frame off the nail. She brought it to the nearby table, into the light.
He made a plaintive animal sort of noise.
Short of any available rag to wipe it clean, Sarah dragged her sleeve across the glass. As the fold of dark material cleared the frame, King Cole yelped. He began to clap loudly, shouting out more of his nonsense.
‘Please! Please be calm,’ entreated Sarah, and then, more sternly, ‘Be quiet!’ She looked up, mindful of her father: as if she might see through the ceiling! She looked down again.
Outside, the sun had finally emerged from hiding. The room was momentarily illumined: loosened threads of dust swirling around the interior caught the light, surrounding them with a bright halo.
He was pointing at a smaller image, revealed in the far corner of the chart. The illustration was of the Royal Observatory at Greenwich: not the Great Equatorial Building – the sallow old map pre-dated its construction – but the quasi-Jacobean frontage of Wren’s Flamsteed House, topped with its characteristic time-ball.
‘The Royal Observatory?’ she said.
He didn’t understand her.
‘The Royal Observatory,’ Sarah repeated. She pointed to the picture. ‘You want to go there?’
‘YES!’
Cole straightened up, apparently expectant of their immediate departure. It was plain if not so simple: he wished them to go to Greenwich – the pair of them.
Sarah Larkin was not sure quite what else to say.
‘Yes.’
CHAPTER XVII
Whit Monday, the 1st of June, 1868
GUARDIAN OF THE DEAD
‘The entrance of a friend adds grace, boldness, and eloquence to him; and there are persons, he cannot choose but remember, who gave a transcendent expansion to his thought, and kindled another life in his bosom.’
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, ‘Character’
The Guardian stands in the open doorway. It is her: a caterpillar, wrapped in so much cloth. King Cole crosses over, out of the shadow and into the light. He can’t help staring. It is the worst rudeness.
The situation demands a proper introduction. Cole clears his throat.
‘I am…’ he says.
He is careful to keep his eyes turned towards the ground. To show respect, to not presume, he feigns a casual uninterest.
‘I am a man,’ he says, ‘who comes from a land far away.’
He looks away, down the street, sees that place so much further distant.
‘Long way…long way.’
Kantillytja warara – beside the mountain range. He has travelled further than the sunlight is from the star. His liver aches, sick at the thought.
It does no good, to retreat inside of himself. She is about to speak. The questions form on her lips. He must stay in the moment.
‘Walking feet,’ he says.
The words are amusing. They remind him of Dick-a-Dick; sounding a little like his true name. ‘Walking feet,’ he says. ‘Jungunjinanuke!’
The Guardian cannot understand him. His talk is all wrong for her ears. Stupid, he must select a new notch along the talking stick. While tongue and brain engage, he re-enacts Dick-a-Dick’s challenge at the Oval, how impossible he was to hit with a cricket ball. Caused a big smash-up all round, by Christ. She will know it. She was there.
He should impress on her the great lengths he has gone to, simply to find her.
In the same casual talk as the croppies use, Cole tells her of his latest journey, through night into day, start to finish.
In conclusion his tale seems shocking to her, surprising him in turn. He openly admires her blush, a whitefellow phenomenon that always fascinates.
And then, before he knows it, he is inside her house.
Curtains part-way drawn lace the dark parlour in shadow. The room has a high ceiling, and two tall windows overlooking the street, but is so busy with objects that it feels small and dim. Piano, writing desk, dining table, bench and chairs, stools – so much dead wood. While he understands the purpose of at least some of the scattered objects, many others remain a dull sort of mystery. There is a musty smell, as if something crawled into one of the corners and died there.
The Guardian leaves him alone for a time.
King Cole makes closer study of his new surroundings. He trails fingertips along the rim of the shelf above the fireplace, eyeing, but careful not to touch, the crowding ornaments. More line the piano top. They cover every available surface – china figures, jugs, little baskets, and books; books, books, books. This place is much like other whitefellow houses he has seen, filled, too filled, with trappings; all of it dust, gathering dust.
The walls are a pale yellow, marked with a delicate scrawl, a repeating pattern whose meaning he cannot decipher. His attention turns instead to the many mirrors, large and small, hanging there. Most of them turn out to have paintings under their glass.
One in particular catches Cole’s eye. Part-hidden by the open door, it hangs in the corner furthest from the light.
The Guardian returns.
Walypela art is hard to decipher. Is that the Great Serpent? He thinks so.
‘Please,’ she says. ‘Have a seat.’
Too many choices present themselves. He follows the direction of her nod, selects something sturdy; squat low on bended knee, its clawed feet should hold firm. A bad choice – it tries to eat him! He plucks his behind from its eager mouth, and sits further forward. His thirst very great, he is ready and indeed most willing to accept the ceremonial tea.
Contented, Cole prefers not to rush into speech; the favour he must ask concerns matters most delicate. Even to speak to her is very trying. She is the Guardian. And she is also a woman. How should he address her, in a way that will not offend? He cannot call her mother. He cannot call her sister.
Her nose is long and straight. Her large eyes, filled with s
hy looks, are clear and honest. The skin, though, is very pale, milky, even whiter than he is used to seeing; unlike most of her kind, she keeps it clean. Not even any blood is visible there, unless she is angered or shocked, when she turns positively pink.
Already she has many grey hairs. It is because of her great wisdom.
She speaks. She says to call her ‘Sarah’.
The word is difficult, as her tongue is difficult.
She is pointing at him. That will never do. To save them both the embarrassment he looks down at the floor.
Undergrowth flowers there. It has been pressed flat by the passage of many feet; or possibly the same feet, many times. Bright green leaves on dark green ground look something like the hedgerows seen around Malling town. Hot red flowers sprout from stems yellow and thorny, thorns he can see but not feel, though he palpates them with his foot. Blunted, they do not pierce his flesh.
‘Your name is Cole?’ she asks. ‘King Cole?’
He nods, not wishing to contradict. This she appears to find acceptable. That is good. Better than to pursue the subject.
King Cole is not a name that suits. Among the elders on the team, he is yet accorded no respect. He has the advantage of years, but no distinction.
A unique, inexplicable Dreaming has been his lifelong burden; until this last week of days, its essential topography was always not just different, but totally irrecognisable – not remotely resembling the land of his birth, nor any single feature of his mundane life. And then, suddenly, it exists, bodied forth, and he within it. In his excitement, the desire to share this revelation overrode all due caution. And who could blame him?
The Red Ochre Men, that’s who.
He cannot afford to make that mistake again.
The Guardian’s thick brows arch, insistent, asking of their questions. Her pretty lips, berry-red, naturally red, spoil on a mouth pulled small and tight.
He sees more than hears how his reluctance to speak makes her angry.
Her eyes are winter; the pupils icy grey, almost colourless, and ever so slightly glazed. As transparent as they seem, they are silica crystals in a desert. When their looks clash, the collision is so direct he experiences pain – so much so, he can’t even be sure whose it is.
