The Clay Dreaming (5 page)

The next day dawned cold but clear. Recent rain had penetrated the hard ground, freshened the herbage, and laid the dust. At last perfect weather conditions prevailed – a warm sun and a cooling breeze.

Outside the main gate of Newgate Prison, with the crowd yelling ‘Hats off!’, Michael Barrett was publicly hanged for his part in the ‘Fenian Outrage’: an attempt to blow up the Clerkenwell House of Correction.

Numbers returning to the Oval cricket ground were only slightly diminished. A strong muster came early, anxious to observe the Blacks at practice, their murmurous presence audible from within the clubhouse.

‘“The Aboriginal natives have entered with ardour into cricket,”’ read Bill Hayman. ‘“With ardour”!’ he declared. ‘Oh, I like that!’

‘“They are the first Australian natives who have visited this country on such a novel expedition, but it must not be inferred that they are savages”,’ related Charles Lawrence. ‘“On the contrary, the managers of the speculation”…’ He put down the cup from which he was drinking. ‘Oh, how I’ve come to hate that word!’ he growled.

‘Savages?’ said Hayman.

‘Speculation!’ said Lawrence.

Hayman shrugged. ‘What else would you call it?’

Lawrence pursed his lips a moment. ‘“The managers of the speculation”,’ he read on, “make no pretence to anything other – ”’

Hayman chuckled.

‘No,’ cried Lawrence, ‘listen, Bill: “ – other than purity of race and origin.” What the Devil?’

His grimace gained a few extra creases.

‘What sort of words are they putting in our mouths?’ he said.

The team’s captain and manager drank strong coffee as they examined the match reports from the first day’s play. Early success could guarantee their tour, if translated into further bookings. The plan was to set up two- or three-day fixtures, almost back-to-back, for the next four months.

Out on the field the Aborigines were warming up, with a competition to see who could pitch the ball the farthest. For the moment all were in view, and out of harm’s way.

Inside the clubhouse, William South Norton was keen to engender enthusiasm for the next day’s Derby Sweepstakes. ‘“Here we are working ourselves up into a factitious interest in Lady Elizabeth, Rosicrucian, Blue Gown, and Speculum, and completing our parties for the Wednesday of Wednesdays.”’

Lawrence made a point of preferring his colleague’s choice of quotes. Bill Hayman read aloud from a copy of the
Daily Telegraph
. ‘“Nothing of interest comes from Australia, except gold nuggets and black cricketers”,’ he reported. ‘Charming! I shall try not to take it personally!’

‘Let me see that.’ Lawrence grabbed for the paper.

‘“The prophets”,’ countered South Norton, “tell us that their calculations are in a most complicated state, and they certainly approach the subject with the most catlike
circumbendibus
.”’ He turned in his chair. ‘Ho,
ho
!’

‘What new thing can be said about the Derby?’ deadpanned Lawrence.

‘None, I should say,’ agreed Hayman.

South Norton sulked. No one could be more loyal to the gentlemanly art than he, but there were limits. He stood. This was the Derby, dash it all, the most famous of all horse-races! ‘Then I’ll leave you to your speculation,’ he declared. And stalked out of the clubhouse and into the pale sunshine.

The others exchanged a glance over their respective broadsheets.

‘Hm,’ began Hayman. ‘“It is highly interesting and curious to see, mixed in a friendly game on the most historically Saxon part of our island, representatives of two races so far removed from each other as the modern Englishman and the Aboriginal Australian. Although several of them are native bushmen and all are as black as night, these indian fellows are – to all intents and purposes – clothed and in their right minds.”’

‘I should cocoa!’ said Lawrence. ‘In proper costume.’

‘How about this, then,’ Hayman volunteered. ‘“The Oval has distinguished itself by a day’s financial operations rivalling that of a large theatre on Boxingnight. Seldom has any cricket ground been encircled by such a variety of vehicles as were counted yesterday in the less aristocratic enclosure…” ooh-la-bloody-la “ …near the Stockwell Road.”’

‘Hmph. That’ll be the waggon train,’ grunted Lawrence, ‘seeing off an attack.’

‘Eh?’ Hayman looked lost for a moment. ‘No, Charley!’ he said. ‘They mean “indian” as in ink!’

Roses bloomed in Lawrence’s cheeks. ‘Oh good grief!’ he said, ‘Damn their eyes!’

‘Share it.’

‘“It will be a lamentable thing”,’ read Lawrence, ‘“if the game of cricket is to be degraded to the level of these sensational exhibitions that are so regrettably in fashion.”’ He faked collapse. ‘
Ungh
!’

They wrote of fashion, sanity, and spending – but what of sport? Where, Lawrence wondered, was able commentary about their cricketing skills? Admittedly they had not played their best, but even so.

‘And did you see this one?’ he asked, swapping between
Telegraph
and
Sporting
Times
. ‘“A circus sideshow of racial curiosity…little better than a vaudeville turn.”’ His eyebrows rose. ‘Then it mentions a match once played at Greenwich, the one-legged versus the one-armed! I hardly think comparison to a
freak-show
does us many favours!’

‘I dare say it might,’ said Hayman.

‘Don’t you dare!’ warned Lawrence.

Bill Hayman supped his coffee and held his peace.

‘The most ridiculous part?’ continued Lawrence. ‘This is the one article that goes on to acknowledge good play from our boys.’

‘What paper is it?’ said Hayman.

Lawrence held it aloft.

‘The Pink ’un! Well, there you go. Serious interest in cricket is a new wrinkle for them. They’d much rather we played on horseback.’ Hayman paused to consider the notion. ‘Now that
would
be a sensation!’ he said.

‘Our aim isn’t a sideshow!’ railed Lawrence. ‘It’s about cricket, well played. Why, if a journalist dared show his ticket right now, I’d soon punch it for him!’

‘Whoa, Charley!’ said Hayman. He laid a hand to his partner’s shoulder. ‘You may take the boy out of Hoxton,’ he said, ‘but you can’t – ’

A bell rang somewhere within the enclosure.

‘Ding, ding! Round two… We’re on!’

At close of play on Monday the Aborigines had been four wickets down for 34 runs. Mullagh and Twopenny, the two ‘not outs’, presented themselves at the stumps just after noon.

Messrs Frere and Walker resumed the bowling for Surrey. Twopenny and then Lawrence were swiftly caught, before King Cole, in partnership with Mullagh, brought the score up to 65. For the best part of an hour Mullagh mounted a skilful defence, until defeated off a slow. The remaining wickets fell quickly. Their score being in a minority of 139, the Blacks were obliged to follow on.

Walker completed his revenge, catching Cole out for a duck. With the diligent assistance of Peter, Mullagh, strident, doggedly defended for another two hours. He met unflinching with a couple of nasty smacks from the ball.

At the end of the second day’s play Mullagh’s 73 runs accounted for half his team’s second innings total, but it was not enough. The Aborigines lost by an innings and seven runs.

Due to his sterling performance on both days, Mighty Mullagh was declared ‘man of the match’. Hoisting him aloft in a chair, the players carried him off the pitch to the cheers of an appreciative crowd.

Later, he was awarded a cash prize. He shared it out, equally, among the other members of his team.

Derby Day, a rare national holiday, interrupted the team’s Oval engagement during this action-packed ‘week of sports’.

The weather supplied all that the heart of any racegoer could wish. The Prince of Wales – Queen Victoria’s beloved Bertie, her eldest son Albert Edward – had travelled overnight from Scotland to reach the Epsom Downs in time. Re-christened for the day ‘Derby Sweeps’, the Black Cricketers also attended, Mullagh with his batting honours thick upon him. To their credit, none of the Australian party took a potshot at the M.C.C.’s royal patron.

The Aborigines pooled Mullagh’s prize money and bet on Forest King for the Derby Stakes: the jockey wore a jacket, of red stars on a yellow ground, that rather took their fancy. The eventual winner by half a length was the favourite, Blue Gown. In second place came King Alfred, and third, Speculum. The players lost their bet, and William South Norton his shirt.

The Sweeps, quitting the Downs early, were soon returned to their London base. They had been invited to a high society ball, and needed to make ready.

Come the evening the West End streets were a-glitter, Vanity Fair turned out in all of its
beau monde
flash and finery. With the Season at its height, everybody – everybody who mattered – was in London to see and be seen.

The course of ‘all England’s day’ saw citizens of every stripe commingling on the Downs, a few hours’ classless communion that kept everyone entertained. Then, in the day’s dying minutes, a purple velvet drape drew the length of Pall Mall. Handsome cabriolets parked three or four deep soon clogged the
avenue entirely. Fine ladies and gentlemen swept into the hallowed portals of the awaiting Clubs – the Reform, the Travellers’, the Athenaeum. Rolls of red carpet laid across the paving slabs showed the way. Ragged onlookers loitered, respectfully enraptured: the poor, gathered by the wayside. Each thin scarlet strip re-established the great divide, a gulf more impassable than any known to nature.

Down a dark alleyway a side door stood open, billowing smoke from the busy kitchens. Pots clanged within, frenzied master chefs screaming orders in broken English. Servants in black tie scrambled up concealed stairways, bearing enormous silver salvers. At the ornate carved doors each one would pause a moment, regain his composure, and then execute a sweeping entrance into the grand hall; the hubbub and hot air broiling out to greet them.

‘CAPITAL! CAPITAL!’

A thousand spoons made rollicking music on a thousand wine-glasses.

‘The Reverend Cotton will, I trust, forgive adaptation of his verse,’ exclaimed the speaker.

The illustrious Athenaeum Club boasted one of the best houses, and certainly the best club library, in the country. For the Aboriginal Australian Eleven to be invited to attend, even for one night, was indeed an honour and a privilege – a mark of respect for their efforts on the sporting field.

Or so Charles Lawrence preferred to think. From being the talk of Town Malling, overnight his little cricket team had become the toast of the largest city in the western world.

The Athenians and their guests sat at long banqueting tables arrayed along either side of the grand hall. Broad vertical stripes ran the ornate wallpaper’s full height, beneath a vaulting curvilinear ceiling. Great glittering chandeliers, ringed with enough gas lamps to rival small suns, shone their brilliance down on an assemblage no less dazzling. Dukes and earls, lords and ladies, the witty, wealthy and highborn, sat alongside academics, scientists, fine artists, and wellconnected authors – permanent residents all of the winner’s enclosure.

Pausing between sumptuous food courses, the ladies fanned themselves and admired their neighbours. Their
décolleté
dresses were spectacular, decorated and colourful. Cut daringly low, they exposed white female flesh to a degree almost alarming.

‘That generous kindness of the remote settlers has disclosed to the outer world a mine of undeniable talent in the Aborigine.’

Applause surged as the speaker bowed, first in the direction of Charles Lawrence and Bill Hayman, then turning slightly in order to salute the team.

‘These coloured wielders of the willow,’ he intoned. ‘A sable troop, hunting the leather…’

‘Oh, good grief,’ Hayman groaned.

‘They are by renown adroit hunters,’ the speaker continued, ‘skilled trackers, and now, evidently, we can also say born sportsmen. For all reports indicate they ride well, and, for savages, play cricket fairly.’

‘Damned with faint praise if ever I heard it,’ grumbled Lawrence. He leant in close to his confederate. ‘Who is this pompous idiot?’

‘A Mr Andrew Long,’ Hayman whispered back. ‘Or Lang. I’m not sure.’ Each could smell the wine on the other’s breath.

The next speaker rose to address the crowd, thick white hair whorled like whipped cream, a sallow dog’s face above his canary-yellow shirt. 

His voice a nasal whine, grated on the ear.

Hearing Dick-a-Dick mentioned by name, the Aborigines screeched their ridicule.

‘A poet!’ said Hayman.

‘Of sorts,’ said Lawrence.

The curious canary-hound continued.

Neighbouring Surrey must have scanned better than Kent, or so Lawrence supposed.

Barracking and booing all but drowned out the final lines.

The bard ended with a gestural flourish, thereby chancing to duck a chicken bone aimed expertly at his head. The Aborigines, having assimilated the poor fool’s mannerisms as well as his delivery, performed wickedly accurate imitations.

The evening’s entertainments had begun.

Between courses, couples took to the centre of the banqueting hall, especially cleared for the purpose, to delicately swish about. Corks popped, shoe leather creaked, and the string orchestra twanged their twine: the sounds of a cricket ball in full swing. A few of the Aborigines essayed their dance-floor skills to the obvious delight of all. Quadrilles, polkas, schottisches and waltzes – any style with which they were unfamiliar, and there were not many, they very quickly picked up.

Beyond taking mustard with their roast mutton, and the occasional use of knife instead of fork, the Blacks were noted to dine in full observance of the usual proprieties.

‘This, however, is not to be wondered at,’ reasoned one observer. ‘As we have seen, they are admirable mimics, and readily adopt any pattern set before them.’

‘I had the pleasure of playing a game of cribbage with three of the party,’ assured a gentleman from Kent. ‘They have mastered the intricacies of the game, generally so puzzling to foreigners.’

The Aborigines’ additional reputation as prodigious eaters arose merely as the result of their showing off, a favourite trick rebounding of late on ‘crook’ Johnny Cuzens.

In bodily and mental calibre they were agreed top-drawer, ‘as temperate as anchorites’, ‘as jolly as sandboys’, and – in consideration of those dancers who confirmed their expertise – ‘as supple as deer’: Lawrence found himself congratulated so often that he began to weary of compliments.

‘Bowling is like poetry. A bowler must be created with natural advantages if he is ever to shine. When found, indeed, he is like a
tenore robusto
…a price-less treasure.’

Through the miscellaneous din, Lawrence could make out the stentorian tones of an English gent who clearly fancied himself an expert. Only blandishments being served at his own table, Lawrence sought him out by eye.

‘…although, by unremitting diligence, more for the pleasure of overcoming difficulties than anything else – one or two Englishmen may have taught the Australian native to present a more than creditable appearance, their existence is a mere phenomenon which has no significance.’

A bearded sage, perhaps 50 years of age – the man’s head seemed huge, like that of a horse. Lawrence fancied that he gestured in his own direction, his broad brows sternly knotted. What had he just been saying?

‘To my eyes the deportment of the dignified Aboriginal is that of a sapient monkey, imitating the gait and manners of a do-nothing white dandy. Both in attendance this night…’

‘Some monkeys I have seen,’ said one of his coterie, ‘might feel injured by a comparison. They are the ugliest race of beings conceivable. Ugly to the point of disgust.’

‘Excuse me…’ said Lawrence. Addressing an elderly gentleman to his left, he indicated the other table. ‘Do you know the fellow there?’ he asked.

‘Let me see,’ the old man said. ‘With Lucett? Why, I do believe it’s Trollope, over from the Garrick. And I thought he was in America!’

Taking another gulp of red wine, Lawrence studied his target intently.

‘He writes for the
Saint Pauls Magazine
,’ continued his advisor, ‘now the editor, I believe. And a deal to say on the subject of English sport.’

‘I’m sure,’ said Lawrence. The din of the party growing, he narrowed his eyes and hunched forward.

‘Even Cricket has become such a business,’ the writer-editor was saying, ‘doubt arises in the minds of amateur players whether they can continue the sport, loaded as it is with the extravagance of the professionals. A countless body of cricketers, with nearly every name absurd, daily floods the columns of our newspaper…’

There could be no doubt where his comments were directed. Lawrence’s face turned as crimson as a pillar-box.

‘And this,’ the nag’s head pronounced, ‘brings me to the monster cricket nuisance of the day. It is bad enough to see a parcel of ninnies airing a flaming ribbon and a sonorous name in the newspapers, and duly paying for the insertion. But it is far otherwise with the so-called Elevens that go caravanning about the country, playing against two bowlers and 20 duffers for the benefit of some enterprising publican. It’s just not cricket!’

A swell in the music muted his torturer. Lawrence unsteadily refilled his glass and gulped its contents down.

His colleague, Bill Hayman, fielded enquiries at their own table.

‘How has it come to pass,’ wondered the pretty wife of an Athenian, ‘that Aboriginal natives are playing the game of cricket?’

‘Every big sheep station employs upwards of two, three dozen hands,’ said Hayman, ‘and every one of them plays cricket. Before he sold up, my uncle ran Lake Wallace South. Some of the Abos that lived on the swamps near Edenhope, they came to work on the yards. If a game were going in the evening, they’d come see what the ruckus was about. That’s how they got into the sport. And they were good at it!’

He gulped, nervously. ‘
Are
good at it. As you’ll see.’

‘They became absorbed in the game,’ said the lady’s husband.

‘Er – yes,’ said Hayman.

‘And how did you select these particular players, Mr…Hayman, is it?’

Hayman shrugged. ‘Old Peter over there was a shearer at Lake Wallace,’ he explained. ‘Others came from around Lake Colac, and the Wando. Bullocky, from Balmoral, further down the Hamilton road…like that, I should say.’

‘From Balmoral?’ said a listener. ‘Well, I’m blowed!’

Lawrence butted in. ‘There is no such thing as an Australian Aborigine.’

That certainly got their attention. Surprised more than anyone, Lawrence found himself addressing the entire table.

‘You might as well say, “He’s a European”, when a man could be Scottish, or Russian, or a Spaniard!’

‘And what are you?’

‘I’m serious,’ insisted Lawrence. And he was. ‘Aborigines are not one single people. I mean there used to be lit’rally hundreds of ’em, all over Australia… hundreds of tribes, leading the lives of nomads an’ hunters.’

Bill Hayman looked at him quizzically.

‘Hundreds,’ Lawrence repeated. ‘And each had their own language…’ He went quiet.

‘Please,’ someone said, ‘do go on.’

‘By all means,’ encouraged another.

‘Our boys?’ said the wine, talking. ‘A couple were
Wurdiboluc
, from the desert, and the rest from the swamplands…or is it the other way around? I can never remember. Anyway,
Jadwaj…Jadwadjali, Madimadi…’

Aboriginal speech was a stream’s fluid murmur: softly spoken vowel sounds tumbling one over another. Interpreting the talk of even close neighbours, that lyrical flow would run into rocks. Foreign consonants dammed it altogether. Lawrence trying to formulate the same words sounded like a cat with a hairball.

‘What extraordinary tosh!’ one man complained. The remainder of the table, however, regarded Lawrence in wonder.

‘You speak Aboriginal, Mr Lawrence?’

‘No!’ he said. ‘Don’t you see? That’s what I’m trying to tell you. They come from all over, speaking different tongues. Charley is from Queensland. Skeeter, Cuzens and Tiger, South Australia…’ He counted down using his fingers. ‘Neddy an’ Twopenny’s from New South Wales…’