Lillipilly Hill (19 page)

Sure enough, Aidan arrived home by way of the western hill-side, and was at once bombarded with questions from Harriet as to the state of the township and the height of the creek.

‘I don't know, I tell you,' he said crossly. ‘I didn't wait to see what had happened. Do let me get my boots and coat off, Harriet—then I want to tell you something private.'

‘My, we are getting swanky, when we can't talk in front of our elders and betters,' remarked Polly to the stove. ‘An' don't put those muddy boots on my rug, Aidan.'

Eagerly and importantly, Harriet followed Aidan across the hall to his room. He shut the door, and marched over to the window; the grey light of the storm showed his face to be pale and worried, and Harriet's excitement gave way to anxiety.

‘Whatever is it? Did something go wrong at school? Were the boys calling you names again?'

‘Of course not,' said Aidan impatiently. ‘I can look after myself, anyway. This is nothing to do with school, except that it was Bill Mackenzie who told me. It's about the thief—he broke into Tolly's store last night, and took most of the week's money.'

‘Poor Mrs Tolly—what a shame! Did she see the thief?'

‘She thinks she did. It was dark, and she couldn't be sure, but Paddy followed him for quite a long way, and he says it was a boy about his size, with a hat pulled down over his eyes. There was a dog, too—a blue cattle-dog.'

Harriet stared in horror at her brother.

‘That sounds like Clay and Patchy, only it
couldn't
be. Paddy must have made a mistake—you know how stupid he is.'

‘I think it was Clay he saw, certainly, but that doesn't mean Clay was the thief. He often traps rabbits in the evenings, and he would be carrying a bag, and trying not to be seen. He might look rather like a thief.'

‘Only we know he isn't,' said Harriet quickly. ‘We can tell Paddy he followed the wrong person.'

‘D'you think Paddy would believe us?' asked Aidan scornfully. ‘He's told all Barley Creek about it now, and he says he knows where the thief lives, too—out around Maloney's Hill. He must have followed Clay a long way.'

‘What will Paddy do, then? He's not going to try to catch Clay, is he?'

‘Not by himself,' said Aidan grimly. ‘But a dozen men from Barley Creek are going out first thing in the morning—with guns.'

‘You mean they'll be hunting for Clay? Just the same as they would hunt a fox or rabbits?'

Aidan gazed out at the darkening garden, where a miniature lake was being swept into rippling waves by the wind.

‘If they think Clay is the thief, you can't blame them for trying to catch him, can you? The nearest policeman is at Blackhill, and there's no way of reaching him while the creek is up. They don't want to waste time, either. Clay could be warned, and get right away.'

‘Who would warn him? He won't know anything about it.'

‘Yes, he will,' said Aidan. ‘We're going to tell him, Harriet. Clay isn't a thief—you know that, don't you?'

‘Of course,' said Harriet. ‘Thieves don't carry their sick dogs for miles on a wet night. But how are we to warn him?'

‘Bill said the men are meeting at the store just as soon as it's light. That won't be until after six—it's awfully dark in the mornings now. If we left here at half past five, we'd be about an hour ahead of them, and if we ran most of the way, we should be able to give Clay a good start. He knows the country so well he'd soon find a hiding-place.'

‘Are we going to tell Father?' asked Harriet.

She hardly knew her quiet, scholarly brother in the angry and determined youth who now confronted her.

‘No—how can we? Father would
have
to stop us, because as far as he knows, Clay could be a thief or a bushranger or anything. But if you're afraid, you don't have to come. I can find Clay on my own.'

Harriet did some rapid and unhappy thinking. To her mother, this would be just another deplorable escapade, and to her father, the breaking of a promise. Both verdicts could mean nothing but the end of all her hopes, and a certain departure from Lillipilly Hill. But the picture in her mind was too vivid and terrifying—twelve men, with guns, advancing on an innocent and ignorant boy, believing himself secure on his lonely hill-top. Clearly, if she could help him in any way at all, she must do so.

‘I'm not afraid,' she declared stoutly. ‘And I promise I won't tell anyone. How are we going to find our way? We won't be able to see a thing at half past five.'

‘We'll take my lamp,' said Aidan. ‘And don't forget to wear your strongest boots, and a cap. It will be awfully wet. I'll wake you up at a quarter past five.'

‘Tea's ready, you two!' called Polly from the kitchen, and the conspirators emerged into the familiar warmth and light of the dining-room.

‘I wish you'd tell me your secret,' said Rose-Ann wistfully. ‘I'm always being left out.'

‘We'll tell you afterwards,' promised Aidan. ‘It's not the sort of secret you'd like, anyway.'

Harriet gazed round the cosy, shabby little room, with its old, panelled walls, its hated piano, and its one shuttered window. Even the long weary hours of practice, and the endless seams stitched at this very table, seemed quite bearable now that they were viewed in retrospect, as part of a life that might soon be altered. Harriet tried to see herself as a noble heroine sacrificing everything in the course of duty, but it was no good—she only wanted to be plain Harriet Wilmot of Lillipilly Hill, not a languishing exile in a Kensington square. Her bread and butter suddenly tasted like sawdust, and she pushed away her plate.

‘I'm going to bed,' she said. ‘You can have my cake, Rose-Ann.'

She went into the sitting-room to say good night to her mother and father.

‘It's only half past five, Harriet—is anything wrong?' asked Mrs Wilmot in surprise.

‘No—I just want to go to bed,' said Harriet.

Mr Wilmot glanced up from some papers he had been studying.

‘I must tell you, Harriet, as you're so interested in our plans for Lillipilly Hill, that we have just inherited a little extra money which will make it possible for us to plant at least five hundred trees this spring. Your mother says you will be allowed to help with the planting.'

Harriet summoned all her dignity to prevent herself from crying.

‘If I'm not here in the spring, Father, then perhaps Aidan will plant my trees for me. I'd like an orange tree best.'

And, not trusting herself to say more, she left the room, while her parents exchanged glances of bewilderment.

‘What extraordinary things that child says,' observed Mrs Wilmot. ‘I think she reads too many stories. Why on earth shouldn't she be here in the spring?'

‘Harriet,' said Mr Wilmot, ‘has something on her mind. And whatever it is, it's quite weighty. Perhaps we shall find out tomorrow.'

Never had the darkness seemed as thick and impenetrable as on that July morning, when Aidan crept into the girls' room to rouse Harriet from a restless, dream-ridden sleep. He had left the lamp outside the door, so as not to disturb Rose-Ann, and Harriet had to grope for her clothes, shivering all the while. The wind had dropped during the night, and not the faintest sound invaded the silence of the house. It was bitterly cold, and Harriet was very grateful for the woollen muffler that Aidan thrust into her hand as she crept through the door. She wound it around her neck and pulled her cap well down over her ears.

‘Go through the kitchen,' whispered Aidan. ‘We'll take some bread as we go.'

The lamp threw eerie, dancing shadows across the kitchen wall, and Rose-Ann's kitten sprang away in alarm from her bed on the hearth. Harriet had no appetite for the hunk of dry bread which Aidan gave her, but she prudently tucked it into her pocket while Aidan slid back the heavy bolt of the back door. It creaked a little, and Harriet glanced fearfully towards the door of Polly's little room, beside the pantry. However, Polly was making the most of her last hour of sleep, and did not stir.

The back yard was a black, squelching, sticky sea of mud. Harriet clung to the back of Aidan's jacket, and followed the feeble light of his lamp. At the top of the orchard, Aidan paused.

‘This is the way I went before, and it's the only way I know. But if the creek's up as far as Polly says, it might be quite dangerous. Perhaps you ought to go back, after all.'

‘No, I'm coming with you,' said Harriet firmly. ‘I'm not going back across that yard by myself, anyway.'

They slithered and scrambled down the hill, past the ghostly, sodden trees and the glistening furrows left by Boz's plough. As they came closer to the creek, they could hear an ominous sound—the continuous gurgling and rushing of swollen water.

‘I'm afraid Polly was right,' said Aidan. ‘Look at that!'

He held his lamp high, and Harriet gazed in dismay at the creek, no longer the friendly and leisurely stream she knew, but a brown, angry, hasty torrent, which had engulfed its banks and the path beside it. The rocky slopes now fell sheer to the water's edge.

‘What on earth shall we do now?' demanded Aidan. ‘I'm sure I could never find a way round these hills in the dark.'

‘If we can't get through, then those men won't either,' said Harriet hopefully.

‘Of course they will. They've lived here all their lives, and they probably know a dozen different tracks. You'll have to go back, Harriet, and I'll go on by myself. It won't be so bad if just one of us gets lost.'

Suddenly, Harriet remembered a fine May morning, and Dinny's chatter.

‘There
is
another way, Aidan! It's longer, but we could run part of it. We have to go along the Winneroo track, until we get to the swamp.'

‘How do we cross the swamp?' asked Aidan, cautiously, but with the beginnings of a new hope.

‘Oh, I don't know,' said Harriet impatiently. ‘Perhaps Clay will see us, and we can shout. It will be daylight by then. If we stay here any longer, we'll never get to Clay in time.'

‘All right,' agreed Aidan. ‘Where do we go?'

At first, it was a tedious business of retracing their steps through the orchard and across the back yard. They dared not hurry, for fear of making too much noise, and rousing either Boz or Polly. But at last they reached the familiar track beyond the cowshed, and, disdaining the risk of a broken limb or a twisted ankle, they ran all the way to the Deacon's Flat road, with the patch of lamp-light dancing crazily before them.

‘If we could wake Dinny up, she'd help us,' said Harriet, as they passed the O'Briens' cottage.

‘We haven't got time,' panted Aidan. ‘It must be after six already. We'll have to keep running.'

They found the Winneroo turn-off without difficulty, thanks to Harriet's keen observation, and jogged along the curving hill-side track beneath the she-oaks. Occasionally a rising breeze sent a cold shower of raindrops from the branches on to their heads, and they splashed through so many puddles that their boots were soon soaked. But Harriet was indifferent to these discomforts. She had forgotten her sorrow at the thought of leaving Lillipilly Hill, her uneasiness and her troubled conscience. All that mattered now was the rescue of Clay—the race with time, the mad running in the darkness and the loneliness, the feeling that she and Aidan were sharing an experience neither would forget, all combined to make her glow with warmth and exhilaration.

Even when they reached the gully where Dinny had spoken of leeches, Harriet barely paused. Aidan had to restrain her headlong rush.

‘Don't be silly, Harriet—this part looks steep, and we don't know the way. You won't be any help to Clay if you break your neck. Let me go first.'

Forced to walk instead of run, Harriet began to look about her, and to realize that trees, rocks, and scrubby bushes were emerging from the uniform blackness, and taking shape. Glancing up, she saw that the sky was a pale grey, and lined with low, wispy cloud.

‘Aidan, it's getting light. What's the time?'

‘A quarter to seven,' announced Aidan, dragging his watch from inside his damp and muddy jacket. ‘The sun must be up by now. I expect the men will have left.'

In unspoken agreement, they began to run again. As they reached the top of the slope, it was light enough for them to discern the faint path that led seawards. The air was now alive with the pulsing of the waves, and distant white flecks on the misty horizon showed that a heavy sea was running. But they had only a fleeting glance to spare for this view—their gaze was fixed on the broad arm of the swamp that lay between them and Maloney's Hill.

‘It's a long way,' said Harriet, her voice flat with despair. ‘He'd never hear us from here.'

‘We can try,' said Aidan, and they shouted together, startling themselves with the noise in that deserted spot, and raising echoes that mocked their efforts. No other voice answered them.

‘We'll have to stop,' said Aidan at last. ‘The men might be close enough to hear us. It's nearly seven.'

They stared again at the swamp. It was at least a quarter of a mile wide, criss-crossed with reed-beds, and studded with sprawling mangroves. Normally it was little more than a mud-flat, a sleepy backwater easily crossed, but today it too had been fed by the heavy rains, and it was impossible to guess its depth.

‘There's only one thing we
can
do,' said Aidan. ‘I don't think it's very deep. I can see lots of logs and roots sticking out.'

‘You go first,' said Harriet. ‘And if I can't follow, you go on without me. When we get closer, Clay might see us.'

They paused again for a moment at the edge of the swamp. The sky had turned from grey to red, and its stormy, unfriendly light glowered upon the water. Harriet glanced across at the dark hump of Maloney's Hill, and her imagination already peopled it with relentless armed figures. Grasping Aidan's hand—he had abandoned the lamp—she waded into the thick mud. Something moved under her foot, and she shuddered.