The Clay Dreaming (18 page)
Authors: Ed Hillyer
The first of the servants to go had been her governess, then the cook, and finally their housemaid. Without even a daily girl to help out, Sarah was more than ever the lady of the house. Despite her own straits, she felt more conscious of having crossed a line in failing to provide employment.
She proceeded to shut the house up for the night, pulling across the thick outer and lace inner curtains, sealing out the world and cosying the interior as best she could.
Nine o’clock came and went, and still no sign of Cole, though she listened out ever so carefully for his knocking at the front door. They had parted the
previous day in such disarray that she had not even thought to enquire where he was staying, or how she might contact him again, should he not reappear. Perhaps she had spent the whole day on a wild-goose chase after all – a Greenwich Goose! She noticed the framed map of London, still laid out on the table in the front room, and resolved to put it back up – just as soon forgetting to do so. Bruce’s story and the question of what it might mean preoccupied her thoughts.
She read a little of nothing to her father until he drifted off into sleep, and then, extinguishing the lights room by room, repaired to her own chambers to read a little more herself. Sarah felt saddened that King Cole had not come, and wondered where he might be. She recalled him on their step, in his distressed state. Knowing London’s reputation, she even worried a little after his safety.
They hadn’t made any explicit arrangement. Not out loud…
Preparing to retire, Sarah attended to a few night-time ablutions. Looking into the mirror and combing out her hair, she suddenly noticed her shoes again: not the old buckle shoes she had settled on for the library, but the pair cleaned that morning and left out to dry. They stared at her most accusingly. She turned to take a closer look. In rough spurts, speckles and chalky white arabesques, the clay chalk splash-marks had returned – or rather, bothersome phantoms, they persisted. Taking the shoes to the water-bowl, she once again began to scrub, much more forcefully than before. Feeling not unlike Lady Macbeth, Sarah worked hard to remove all trace of the stain that, lest she forget, she had picked up sliding around on an anonymous grave.
She was still very wide awake and, truly, not quite herself – as if in a dream state.
A sudden tap at her window made her spin around, spraying water in a wide arc. Her heart fairly leapt into her mouth. On the other side of the glass, pantherish on the slim sill, crouched King Cole.
What on earth?
She slid the catch aside to let him in, as readily as one would admit a dove into the cote, and he knelt, panting, beside her. He was inside the house before it even registered – they were four storeys up from the street!
His clothing, presumably that same outfit as worn the day before, was even more ragged and filthy, his feet again bare. Where her father’s shoes had got to, heaven only knew.
‘H-how…?’ she spluttered.
Questions still forming on her lips, Sarah saw that he was bleeding. His left trouser leg was ripped open, his exposed knee as well as his hands raw with cuts – from scaling the building?
She led him to the water-bowl, ready to soak and treat his wounds, only to realise the clouded water was filled with dirt. They met in her bedchamber,
and she clad only in her nightdress: the peril of her situation for the moment escaped her. Pressing one cautious finger to her lips, she briskly passed him the bowl, took up the candle-lamp, and led her obedient intruder around the narrow twist of the top stairs, along the lower landing past her father’s door, and down another flight to the kitchen.
King Cole is already familiar with the layout of the house, all the rooms looking to him much the same. An Aboriginal habit, or tactic, is to gather intelligence – whether concerning a place, person, or animal – through prolonged observation, remaining oneself hidden. Prior to his appearance tapping at the window, he has spied on the Guardian for some hours from the rooftops opposite. Selecting various different vantage points, he has observed her movements about the crowded house with a keen interest, she tripping up and down the stairs between perches like a bird in a cage.
Cole follows Thara now, as they walk together down the stairs. He wonders, silently, at the tumbling cascade of her loosened hair. How subtly the abundant silver threads reflect the delicate light of night.
They stood pressed close together beside the kitchen sink.
His strong brown hands, once cleaned, showed little more than a criss-cross of minor scratches, but the wound across his knee required that Sarah staunch and dress it. The gash was nasty, and yet he bled only a little – thin blood, more like red water. She expected his skin must be thick, to be so swarthy, yet his prominent veins beat with the strongest pulse. He was all visible life and energy. Although slight in the body, Cole was put together admirably well. He carried no lumber, as the delightful phrase went.
To work by the lamp’s dim light, Sarah was obliged to stoop her head. Dabbing with the cloth at his bare black flesh, she was careful to avoid any direct sort of contact, or to press a second longer than was strictly necessary – taking equal care not to appear overly reticent about it. She could not look him in the face till it was done.
All this they achieved in near total silence. His eyes glittered all the thanks she needed. But no, in fact, she required more.
‘Most of their names are polysyllabic,’ Saturday’s edition of
The Field
had reported, ‘and not very euphonious. In order, therefore, to meet the exigencies of the times, each man has adopted a sobriquet under which he will doubtlessly be recognised in this country.’
Sarah rather doubted the Australian natives themselves had anything to do with their summary Anglicisation, or the choice of simple, slang names. She was finding it almost impossible to address King Cole directly – by that title, at least: to refer to him in nursery rhyme surely trivialised his person, and mocked his truer identity.
He stood back and flexed, showing appreciation for her handiwork.
She folded over the bloodied cloth in her hand, and regarded him directly.
‘If you would be so kind,’ Sarah said, ‘tell me your real name. I am sure that I should try and pronounce it carefully, if not so very correctly.’
She only wished to spare him, as well as herself, further embarrassment.
‘
Bripumyarrimin
,’ he said, without hesitation.
Oh, dear
.
Floundering somewhat, she tried a different tack. ‘Do you mind very much being called King Cole?’ she asked.
‘
Bripumyarrimin
!’
He all but shouted it out. Valiantly, Sarah tried to get her English tongue around the Aboriginal word. The undertaking was tortuous.
His black eyes twinkled a moment or two before he let her off the hook she had so earnestly swallowed.
‘Best you call it Brippoki,’ he said.
‘Brip…Brip-okay.’
‘Brippoki.’
Another attempt and she got it. ‘Brippoki,’ she said.
Brippoki – formerly King Cole – exulted. ‘
Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
!’
The labio-palatal sound, produced by the rapid vibration of his tongue, surprised her. Sarah’s delighted squeal filled the modest kitchenette – more joy than it had contained in over a decade. She clapped a hand across her open mouth and instantly went quiet. Her eyes bulged, a brief snort escaping between her fingers.
Brippoki beamed.
His teeth were very regular, perfect in fact, even if the rest of his features were not so terribly attractive. His dark face shone from within: and it was inner beauty that impressed her the most.
Sarah instructed him to wait in the parlour, where it was more appropriate to receive guests. She lit a paraffin table lamp, and a couple of the gas-lights along the inner wall, in preference to the five glass shades of the central gasolier.
When Sarah returned she had dressed again. She brought with her an old pair of her father’s trousers, indicating that he should change out of his own; stopping short, however, of offering to repair the damage with needle and thread. Stepping out to allow him privacy, she returned shortly after with a knock at the door and full tray of tea. In case he should be hungry, she had brought him the leftovers of their evening meal. Brippoki was required to hold the trousers up at the waist. Sarah went to fetch a belt.
Once sure that he was comfortable, and giving only the briefest outline of her day by way of an introduction, Sarah sat by the light barely illuminating her half of the room, and produced her notebook. She knew very well what he had
come for: a reading of her transcript regarding George Bruce, the Greenwich Pensioner. She prevaricated slightly, more out of politeness than anything.
‘I cannot,’ she said, ‘declare with absolute certainty these are the words of the same man, the fellow as described to us yesterday at Greenwich…’
Brippoki nodded and gave his congratulations, instilling her with his every confidence. ‘You pindim, eh, dat pella,’ he said.
‘I’m rather hoping
you
might be able to confirm that, one way or the other, once you have heard what I’m about to read out. What I can say is that it is a most remarkable story, although many details may, unfortunately, be rendered unremarkable by my narration.’
Brippoki looked faintly exasperated.
‘I should begin?’ she said. ‘Very well…’
Tuesday the 2nd of June, 1868
‘How death-cold is literary genius before this fire of life!’
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson, ‘Character’
Sarah began to read.
I was born in Ratcliff-highway, in 1779, of creditable parents, who bestowed on me a liberal education. My father was at this period clerk to Mr Wood, distiller, Limehouse. In 1789, I entered on board the
Royal Admiral
, East-Indiaman, Captain Bond, as boatswain’s boy. Sailed from England for New South Wales, and arrived at Port Jackson in 1790, where, with the consent of Captain Bond, I quitted the ship, and remained at New South Wales.
At Port Jackson, I entered into the naval colonial service, and was employed for several years under Lieutenants Robbins, Flinders and others, in exploring the coasts, surveying harbours, head lands, rocks, &c. I was lastly turned over to the
Lady Nelson
, Captain Simmonds, a vessel fitted up for the express purpose of conveying Tippahee, king of New Zealand, from a visit which he made to the government at Port Jackson, to his own country.
‘
Rangatira
.’
‘What was that?’ Sarah asked. Brippoki had suddenly spoken. ‘Ranga…?’
‘
Rangatira
,’ he said again, and nodded approvingly.
‘
Ranga-tee-ra
,’ repeated Sarah. ‘What does that mean?’
He made a waving motion with his hand, and then splayed fingers behind his head, as if to show a crown. ‘
Rangatira
,’ he said again.
‘You mean the king?’ she asked. ‘You mean Tippahee?’
What else was a crown, but a hat with a hole in?
Presuming it a word in Cole’s, Brippoki’s, own language, Sarah continued with her reading.
The king embarked, and the
Lady Nelson
sailed on her destination. During the passage, Tippahee was taken dangerously ill, when I was appointed to attend him. I acquitted myself so highly to the king’s satisfaction, that I was honoured
with his special favour, and on our arrival, the king requested that I should be allowed to remain with him at New Zealand, to which Captain Simmonds consented, and I was received into the family of Tippahee, where every effort was used to instruct me in the language, customs, &c. of the inhabitants.
Being very circumspect in my conduct from an early habit, I was fully determined to persevere in acquiring the knowledge prescribed by my patrons. I accordingly communicated to Tippahee my wish to travel to the country, with a view to become completely acquainted with its local situation, languages, and the customs of the Inhabitants. Tippahee, with the greatest cordiality, acquiesced to my proposal, and added that his son Pouver should accompany me; we accordingly proceeded on our journey, which we continued for seven months.
I found the country healthy and pleasant, full of romantic scenery, agreeably diversified by hills, dales, and covered with wood; the people were hospitable, frank and open, though rude and ignorant, yet worshipping neither images nor idols, nor aught that is the work of human hands, acknowledging one Omnipotent Supreme Being.
Sarah paused, ostensibly to make a note in the margin. She looked the Aborigine over. He calmly returned her gaze. She read on.
On my return from making the tour of the country, Tippahee proposed to place me at the head of his army, and invest me with every authority of which he was himself possessed; this proposal was sanctioned in one voice by nineteen of the principal chiefs. It was however necessary that, prior to my taking the command, I should undergo the ceremony of being tatoow’d, without which I could not be regarded as a warrior: the case was urgent, and admitted of no alternative. I therefore submitted resolutely to the painful ceremony, my countenance presenting a masterly specimen of this art.
The Hospital clerk had said of Bruce, ‘His face was horribly disfigured.’
Being now tatoow’d in due form, I was recognised as a warrior of the first rank, naturalised as a New Zealander, received into the bosom of the king’s family, and honoured with the hand of the Princess Aetockoe, the youngest daughter of Tippahee, a maiden of fifteen years of age, whose native beauty had probably been great, but which had been much improved by the fashionable embellishments of art, that all the softer charms of nature, all the sweetness of original expression, are lost in the bolder impressions of tatoowing.
I now became the chief member of the king’s family, and was vested with the government of the island. Six or eight months after my marriage, the English ships
Inspector, Ferret
, a South Sea whaler, and several other English vessels, touched at New Zealand for supplies, all of whom found the beneficial influence of having a countryman and friend at the head of affairs in that island; they were liberally supplied with fish, vegetables, &c. &c.
I and my amiable consort were now contented and happy, in the full enjoyment of domestic comfort, with no wants that were ungratified; blessed
with health and perfect independence, I looked forward with satisfaction to the progress of civilisation which I expected to introduce among the people, with whom, by a singular destiny, I seemed doom’d to remain during life. While enjoying these hopes, the ship
General Wellesley
, Captain Dalrymple, touched at a point of New Zealand where I and my consort then chanced to be. This was some distance from the king’s residence. Captain Dalrymple applied to me, with a view to assist him in procuring a cargo of spars and benjamin, and requested specimens of the principal articles of produce of the island, all which was cheerfully done.
Captain Dalrymple then proposed, that I should accompany him to North Cape, about 25 or 30 leagues, where it was reported that gold dust could be procured, Captain D. conceiving that I might prove useful to him in the search for gold dust.
With great reluctance, and after many entreaties, I consented to accompany Captain D. under the most solemn and repeated assurances of Captain D. that he would, at every hazard, re-land us at the Bay of Islands, the place at which we embarked. Being at length all on board, the
Wellesley
sailed for the North Cape, where we soon arrived and landed. Finding that we entirely had been misinformed as to the gold dust, the
Wellesley
made sail, in order to return to New Zealand, but the wind becoming foul, and continuing so for 48 hours, we were driven from the island.
On the third day the wind became more favourable, but Captain D. did not attempt to regain the island, but stood on for India. I now gently remonstrated, and reminded him of his promises; to which Captain D. replied ‘that he had something else to think of, than to detain the ship, by returning with a valuable cargo to the island; besides, he had another and a better island in view for me’.
On reaching the Feegee, or Sandal Wood Islands, Captain D. asked me if I chose to go on shore, and remain there, which I declined, on account of the barbarous and sanguinary disposition of their inhabitants. Captain D. desired that I would choose for myself, and then took from me several little presents, which he himself and his officers had given to me at New Zealand; these were now given to the natives of the islands in the boats then alongside.
Leaving the Feegee Islands, we sailed for Malacca, where we arrived in December, 1808. At Malacca Captain D. and I went on shore; I was anxious to see the Governor, or commanding officer, to state my grievances; but it was late in the evening when we landed, and I could not see him till the following morning, by which time Captain D. had weighed from Malacca Roads, leaving me on shore, and carrying off my consort on board the
Wellesley
, to Penang.
I then acquainted the commanding officer at Malacca with the case, expressing my wish to regain my consort, and return with her to New Zealand. After waiting for three or four weeks, accounts were received of Captain D.’s arrival at Penang, upon which I obtained the commanding officer’s permission, and left Malacca in the Scourge gun brig, for Penang, where, upon my arrival, I found that my consort had been bartered away to Captain Ross.
Kidnap, and worse! As far as she could tell from his sphinx-like composure, Brippoki was willing and able to follow the drama, even through such a tangle of names, dates and events. She cleared her throat.
On waiting on the Governor of Penang, I was asked what satisfaction I required for the ill treatment I had experienced. I answered that all I wanted was to have my consort restored, and, if possible, get a passage to New Zealand. Through the interference of the Governor, my consort was restored to me. With her I returned to Malacca, in hopes of the promised passage to New South Wales; but as there was no appearance of the expected ships to that port, I was now offered a passage for myself and my consort to England, in one of the homeward-bound Indiamen from China. By getting to England, I hoped from thence to find a passage to New South Wales, but I could not be accommodated with a passage to Europe, without the payment of 400 dollars. Not having that sum, nor the means of raising it, I came on with the
Sir Edward Pellew
to Bengal, where I and my consort, the affectionate companion of my distress, were most hospitably received, and where our hardships and long sufferings were forgot in the kindness we experienced.
Sarah turned the page.
‘
Literary Panorama
for May, 1810.’
‘The following passage is shown within quotation marks,’ she explained, ‘taken, I imagine, from the above-named document.’
‘Aetockoe, the Princess of New Zealand, was presented on Monday, June 19 last, at the Government House, to the Right Honourable the Governor General. She was introduced by Governor Hayes, and was most courteously received. The Princess appeared slightly embarrassed at the first moment of introduction, but she soon recovered her usual ease and affability of manner. She has made such rapid progress in English, that she clearly comprehends whatever she hears in that language, and gives a distinct and intelligible answer in the same tongue. The dress of the Princess had a striking and shewy effect: it was formed of ribbons, and other materials, so as to resemble, as nearly as possible, the dresses of fine flaxen matts, and ornamental feathers of the ladies, of the highest quality in New Zealand. After a short audience, the Princess took leave of Lord Minto, highly gratified with her reception. Aetockoe is an interesting girl, of about 18 years of age, sensible, and far superior to what could have been expected in an unlettered native of New Zealand.
‘The lady is of an interesting appearance, remarkably fair, – but her features rather of the Malay cast. Bruce is not much above 30: – he is completely tattooed, according to the custom of the Southern Islanders.’
The impartial tone did not accord with the remainder, suggesting a
newspaper
report, or similar. Portions only of the
Memoirs
rang heartfelt and true.
‘I suspect,’ declared Sarah, ‘the hand of more than one author.’
Precedent aplenty existed among street literature such as this, often compiled from many sources. In truth, she wasn’t sure what to make of it; for that, Sarah relied on Brippoki. She laid the papers down flat.
‘And that, I’m afraid,’ she said, ‘is as far I was able to get today.
The Memoirs of Mr. George Bruce
…sounds like our man, wouldn’t you say?’
He would not.
Feeling short-changed, Sarah shuffled her various papers. George Bruce – from Shadwell, one of London’s poorest hamlets, a ‘naturalized’ prince of New Zealand – presented indeed a most singular destiny.
New Zealand, however, was not Australia.
‘Why do you want to know about this man?’ asked Sarah. Understanding well enough that Brippoki disliked direct questions, she saw no way around them. ‘What is he to you?’
Apparently unable to look her in the eye, Brippoki just shrugged.
Sarah slapped her notebook shut. Whatever Bruce meant to the Aborigine remained unclear, yet the text or else her line of enquiry had taken effect – an effect too profound for him to entirely conceal. Seeing his hackles bristle, she demanded to know the reason.
Brippoki rolled his eyes by way of special pleading, or else as a warning: their whites flashed through the gloom in a lighthouse rotation.
‘Red Ochre Men!’ he gasped. He clamped a hand over his mouth. This was not simply a matter of mimicking her actions in the kitchen, but something far more serious.
Brippoki got up to leave.
Sarah understood the man to be terrified out of his wits. Mystified, somewhat taken aback, she felt all resentment instantly drain from her. It was gone midnight. Where could he go, at this time of night? She still had no idea of his lodgings. With Mary gone they had a spare room, but…
Instead of the door, he made for the window. He waited alongside, anxiously willing for her to open it. She moved to comply.
‘London is so large,’ she protested, ineffectually. ‘To think of you out there, alone…’
Brippoki had hopped onto the sill, and crouched within the frame of the open window. He turned, the expression on his face unreadable.
‘Not alone,’ he said.
He leapt, disappearing into the dark. Sarah could not bring herself to look after him. She stood for a time, blinking, thinking to pinch herself, and then reached out to close the sash window.
She sealed the window-frame firmly shut. She would have to discourage such dramatic entrances and exits.
The notebook still in her hand, Sarah recovered her seat. She turned over the leaves of later pages. Bruce’s adventure was leagues distant from that ‘polite’ literature suitable for a lady, fit for the drawing room, to be read aloud – and thankfully so.
The Princess Aetockoe.
Sarah yawned. She recovered a crumpled scrap of paper and smoothed it out – her note scribbled in the civic offices of the Royal Naval Hospital, Greenwich.
George Bruce.
Age: 40.
If married: no.
