Lillipilly Hill (17 page)

‘You must tell her yourself. We agreed in the beginning to have six months' trial here—that arrangement will stand. But if at the end of that time we are not satisfied with this as a way of life for you girls, then your mother and you and Rose-Ann will leave immediately.'

Harriet made a rapid calculation. This was the middle of May—so she had until the end of September
to redeem herself. Her usual optimism came to the surface again.

‘I'll be so good, Father, you won't know it's me. And I
have
been doing well at school—Mr Burnie said so.'

‘I'm afraid, Harriet, that you will have no opportunity to be anything other than good in the next few weeks. We have decided that you will remain at home for a month, and that you will not go beyond the boundary fence during that time—except to church.'

‘But what about school?' asked Harriet incredulously.

‘You will not go to school. Mr Burnie will send up your lesson books, and you can study them at home. There will be plenty for you to do, helping your mother and Polly, and keeping up your music, until you begin your lessons again. When we are certain that you are to be trusted, you will return to school.'

Harriet reflected gloomily that she had every reason to be really sorry for herself now. The vision of the long, lonely, empty weeks ahead was almost too dreary to be borne. She turned towards the window, wondering if it would help to imagine herself a captured princess locked in a dungeon.

‘Will I just get bread and water?' she asked, and for the first time that morning her father permitted himself to smile.

‘I think perhaps Polly will feed you on something better than that,' he said. ‘And if it's any consolation, I will help you with your lessons.'

‘Oh, I nearly forgot!' Harriet exclaimed. ‘I met Mr Bentley, the man who owns the timber-mill, and he told me to tell you that he knows all about orchards, if you wanted any help. You are going to plant an orchard, aren't you. Father?'

‘I hope so. Where can I find this Mr Bentley?'

‘I think he lives in Blackhill, when he's not at the mill. Dinny will know. I could go and ask—'

She broke off, remembering the terms of her imprisonment, and sighed.

‘Oh, well, Rose-Ann could ask her. Will Dinny be allowed to come and see me?'

‘I think not, at least for a week or two. Please remember, Harriet, that you are in disgrace.'

And so it happened, one June evening three weeks later, that Polly and Harriet were alone in the house. Mr and Mrs Wilmot had taken Aidan and Rose-Ann to Blackhill to hear a concert presented by members of the grandly-named Blackhill Dramatic and Musical Society. It was the social event of the year in the Blackhill district, and Rose-Ann had departed in a great state of excitement, wearing her new winter dress
and a jaunty sailor hat. Polly had been warned that the family might stay the night at the Blackhill Hotel, rather than attempt the dark and cold ride home.

‘They won't be back till morning, that's certain,' remarked Polly, as she and Harriet ate their tea in the kitchen. ‘Listen to the rain!'

Harriet listened, and felt strangely content. At first her exclusion from the Blackhill visit had reduced her to a state of gloom and resentment, and she had been imagining the pleasures which Aidan and Rose-Ann must be experiencing while she sat miserably at home. But in Polly's company she could not remain low-spirited for long, and it was something of a treat to be allowed to have her tea at the kitchen table, in front of the huge, glowing stove. The heavy rain drummed on the iron roof, and splashed on to the tanks, while inside it was very warm and snug and peaceful. Polly had made pancakes for tea, and Harriet had just finished her fifth.

‘You must be the best cook in the whole world, Polly,' she said blissfully. ‘I can't eat any more now, but could I have some more pancakes for supper?'

‘You're to go to bed at eight, the missus said,' Polly reminded her. ‘Maybe you could have your supper in bed, though. It'd be a shame to waste those pancakes.'

At six o'clock it was quite dark, and Polly set off on a tour of the house, closing shutters, drawing curtains, and locking all the doors. Although Boz was officially in charge, his shack was more than a hundred yards away, and Polly was taking no chances, with rumours of bushrangers still rife. Harriet brought out
At the Back of the North Wind
, which was her favourite reading matter when she was feeling particularly contented and comfortable. The evening stretched ahead of her, cosy and uneventful.

There was a sudden loud banging at the back door, and Boz's voice summoned Polly from her rounds.

‘If it's tea you want, you'll have to wait till the kettle boils again,' grumbled Polly. ‘Don't stand out there in the rain.'

‘I'm not after tea,' said Boz. ‘I'd rather drink me own brew, thank you. I want a hand—one of the cows is out, an' you'll have to help me get her in. Bring a lamp.'

‘Drat the old cow! I'm not s'posed to leave Harriet here by herself.'

‘She can't come to no harm. Lock her in—we won't be long, if you'll just get a move on.'

Complaining volubly, Polly donned a man's old felt hat, took off her apron, and prepared to follow Boz.

‘And mind you just stay where you are,' she told Harriet. ‘Don't let the fire go out, neither.'

It was very quiet when they had gone. The rain had eased to a monotonous drizzle, hardly audible, although there were still a number of little splashing sounds from the verandas, where the gutters had overflowed. These made a pleasant background to Diamond's adventures, and Harriet lifted her head from time to time, reflecting that the splashing noises were very like a whispering voice. Presently she let the book fall to her lap, for the voice was actually speaking.

‘Let me in!' it said. ‘Let me in!'

Harriet sprang up. Undoubtedly it was a real voice, and quite a loud one, for it soon gave up any pretence of whispering. It came from the back door, and it belonged to neither Polly nor Boz.

‘A bushranger!' thought Harriet immediately, and she tried desperately to make some sort of plan, in case the intruder forced the door or a window. It was no use calling for Boz—he would be away beyond the cow-paddock, out of earshot. And as far as Harriet knew, there were no weapons of any kind in the house, even had she been prepared to use them. The only thing to do seemed to be far too simple and irksome for Harriet—namely, just to sit and wait until Boz
and Polly returned, as they must surely do before very long. Instead, she summoned all her courage, and went towards the door.

‘Who's there?' she demanded in her most grown-up voice, which none the less was a trifle wobbly.

‘I ain't saying,' was the definite answer.

‘What do you want?'

The reply was quite unexpected.

‘I want to see Aidan,' said the voice.

By this time Harriet had reached one certain conclusion—the intruder, bushranger or not, was quite young. And he sounded more upset than ferocious. So Harriet opened the door.

At first she thought she had made a terrible mistake. The grimy, bedraggled appearance of Clay did little to reassure her, and in the dark of the yard his suntanned face and black eyes were more than a little alarming. Harriet drew back, intending to slam the door, but Clay was too quick for her.

‘I want to see Aidan,' he repeated, stepping into the kitchen, and closing the door behind him.

‘Aidan's not here,' said Harriet. She retreated towards the table, wondering whether the poker was in its usual place near the stove. She might be able to reach it behind her back—

‘Where is he, then?' demanded Clay, scowling
beneath the brim of his battered old hat. ‘Are you Harriet?'

‘Yes, I am,' said Harriet in surprise. ‘Aidan's gone in to Blackhill, and he won't be back till morning. Whatever do you want?'

Clay sat down dispiritedly in Harriet's chair. He no longer looked intimidating, and Harriet stopped trying to reach the poker. Her curiosity had by now got the better of her, anyway.

‘Aidan didn't tell you about me, did he?' asked Clay.

Harriet shook her head, and Clay looked strangely pleased.

‘Good—I didn't think he would. I'm Clay. Aidan knows me, an' he knows my dog—that's what I've come about. Patchy got her leg caught in a trap, an' I can't look after her right. I reckoned Aidan'd help me.'

‘Patchy is the dog?' asked Harriet, sitting down opposite Clay. ‘By the way, would you like some pancakes? Polly makes wonderful pancakes, and there are plenty left.'

Clay nodded hungrily, and Harriet produced the remains of her tea. Clay did not speak again until every crumb had been eaten.

‘I should of fed Patchy first,' he said guiltily. ‘But I ain't had nothing since breakfast, an' anyway, I left Patchy down by the shed.'

‘Couldn't I help with Patchy?' asked Harriet eagerly. ‘I like dogs, and it's awful to think of her out in the rain. Why don't you bring her in here?'

Clay looked doubtfully round the orderly, well-scrubbed kitchen.

‘What'd your Polly say?'

‘She won't mind,' said Harriet, with more confidence than she really felt. ‘I'll warm up some milk, shall I? Does Patchy drink milk?'

‘She never gets nothing but water when she's at home,' said Clay.

‘Where's home?' asked Harriet. ‘I haven't seen you in Barley Creek before.'

Clay looked at her suspiciously.

‘You're a lot nosier than your brother.
He
never asked too many questions.'

‘Haven't I got a right to ask questions?' demanded Harriet indignantly. ‘You come banging at our door in the dark, and stamping into our kitchen, and eating our pancakes, and then you won't even tell me where you live. For all I know, you could be a bushranger, just as I thought at first.'

‘Me name's Clay, an' I ain't a bushranger, though there's people ready to say I am. That's all I'll tell you. Now can I bring Patchy in, or can't I?'

‘All right,' said Harriet. ‘But “Clay” is the queerest name I ever heard.'

She poured a lavish quantity of milk into one of Polly's best saucepans, and set it on the stove. The rain had become heavy again, and when Clay returned, both he and the animal he was laboriously carrying were thoroughly wet. Harriet tried to pat the dog's head, but Patchy at once bared her teeth and snarled.

‘She won't let anyone but me touch her,' Clay warned her. ‘She ain't used to people. If she wasn't sick, she'd never of come in.'

He put Patchy on the floor near the stove, and sat down beside her. With his hat off, and his head bent over his dog in anxious affection, he seemed much younger and more vulnerable. Harriet knelt on the hearth and peered as closely as she dared at the injured leg. It hung limp and useless, and when Clay touched it, Patchy whimpered in pain. It was thus that the startled Polly found the three of them as she burst into the kitchen.

‘Whatever is this? What mischief are you up to now, Harriet? Strike me pink, but you're a handful.'

‘It's not mischief at all,' protested Harriet. ‘This is Clay—he's a friend of Aidan's, and he's come here because his dog got hurt in a trap.'

Polly stared grimly at Clay, who kept his head down and did not speak.

‘Friend of Aidan's, is he? Does your father know about him? Not likely! Looks more like a tramp, if you ask
me.
I'm going to get Boz.'

‘Please, Polly!' begged Harriet. ‘Don't tell Boz. I'll explain to Father in the morning. Clay hasn't done anything wrong, and I'm sure Patchy's leg is broken. Look—come and see.'

‘I don't like dogs,' said Polly, but none the less she let Harriet drag her across to the stove and point out the extent of Patchy's injury.

‘That needs putting in a splint—I've seen 'em doing it to my young brother when he fell out of a tree an' broke his arm. You get two pieces of board, see, an' fix 'em round the leg with a bit of rag.'

Two eager faces gazed up at her, and Harriet spoke for them both.

‘Won't you do it to Patchy, Polly? I'll find some boards and some rag. You will, won't you? I know Father would do it if he were here. He likes animals.'

With a show of reluctance, Polly gave in.

‘An' what's that milk doing boiling all over my clean stove? Just take it off, Harriet, an' if it's for that mongrel dog, then put it in an old tin plate. It'd be just like you to use the best dinner plates.'

Harriet meekly obeyed, then went off to search for the boards. When she returned, Polly was making
a pot of tea, and setting out three cups, while Patchy lapped feebly at the milk.

‘If you let that there dog bite me, you'll be out of here in the wink of an eye,' Polly said to Clay. ‘Just hold her still.'

There were few things Polly could not set her hand to if she chose, and her manipulation of Patchy's leg was amazingly sure and quick. Patchy seemed to realize that someone trustworthy was in charge, and lay quite still in Clay's grasp. In a very short time Polly was standing back admiring her handiwork.

‘Neat, ain't it? But it'll come off if she moves around. How far do you have to take her?'

‘A good way,' muttered Clay. ‘'Bout four mile.'

‘But you can't walk as far as that in all the rain, not carrying Patchy,' objected Harriet. ‘Can't they stay here, Polly?'

‘Not in the house, they can't,' said Polly firmly. ‘I'd never dare tell the missus I'd let a stranger sleep here, not knowing nothing about him. But he's welcome to that new pile of chaff bags in the cowshed.'

‘That'll do,' said Clay. ‘I wouldn't stay here at all, if it wasn't for Patchy. An' I'll be gone soon as it's light.'

‘If you've got any sense, you'll leave that dog here for a while,' declared Polly. ‘If you go moving her around, that leg mightn't set right. If she stays still for
a few days, it'll be as good as new in next to no time.'