Lillipilly Hill (13 page)

‘Oh, Father, what a good idea for all of us to go! And do you know, they're making Aidan twelfth man, because there isn't anyone else. Won't it be wonderful if he plays?'

‘Aidan might not think so,' said Mr Wilmot. ‘He was never in the school team, was he?'

‘No,' admitted Harriet. ‘But Charles has been coaching him. Does Polly know about the tea? We must take plenty to eat, because the match lasts all afternoon, and we shan't be home before dark.'

‘I am sure Polly knows the arrangements,' said Mr Wilmot. ‘And in view of all the excitement, Harriet, shouldn't you go early to bed?'

Harriet went off obediently towards the house, leaving her father in dreamy contemplation of the orchard, seeing in place of the straggling peach and apple trees orderly rows of orange and lemon, which he hoped to plant in the spring.

The day of the great match was gratifyingly warm and sunny, with a brisk wind blowing from the sea, and a few high, snow-white clouds marching across the sky. Harriet spent the morning bowling to Aidan at the top of the cow-paddock.

‘Perhaps it's as well,' she sighed at last, ‘that you won't be playing. I've bowled you at least ten times, and I'm the worst bowler in the world. You've only hit about three balls.'

Aidan was quite unperturbed. He put on his jacket and strolled off to dinner, secure in the knowledge that Barley Creek could field eleven strong men and boys
in the best of health, and that his services were not at all likely to be required.

The Barley Creek supporters turned out in full force, assembling in a noisy and cheerful group outside Mrs Tolly's store. A dray drawn by four stolid cart-horses was to carry the heroes of the hour, the members of the eleven—except for Charles, who preferred his pony. The cricketers had attired themselves in flannels ranging in shade from pale grey to rich cream, shirts to match, and an odd and colourful assortment of caps. Bright blue sashes were to be their distinguishing marks, and these they wore about their waists. Harriet stared in awed admiration at the team as she and Rose-Ann were escorted by Polly up the hill to the Rectory.

‘Which is Joe O'Brien?' Harriet whispered to Polly.

‘Surely you can pick
him
,' said Polly. ‘He's like all the O'Briens—skinny, with a lot of black hair. That's him, just getting on the dray. One of the wildest boys they ever had in Barley Creek, but they do say he's a wonderful bat.'

Indeed, the boy Polly indicated was an older, masculine edition of Dinny, who was now scrambling up behind her brother.

‘The cheek of 'er,' said Polly indignantly. ‘That dray's supposed to be for the team. Trust an O'Brien to push its way in.'

But Harriet was pleased that Dinny was to be at the match, and secretly a little envious, for the dray looked a much more exciting mode of transport than the decorous buggy belonging to the Rectory. However, she was consoled by being allowed to sit on the floor, with her legs dangling over the side, while Rose-Ann was wedged on to the seat between the minister and his wife.

‘I hope you're comfortable, Harriet,' said Mrs Farmer anxiously. ‘Do hold on tight, won't you?'

Harriet promised that she would, and the Rectory horse, a much younger and more skittish animal than Barrel, started off down the hill in fine style, with Charles following.

‘I understand we're to lead the procession,' said Mr Farmer. ‘We seem to have the fastest turn-out. There's a heavy load on that dray.'

Looking back as they approached the O'Briens' cottage, Harriet could see the cart-horses lumbering valiantly up the hill, and behind them some five or six buggies, including the Wilmots', the Tollys', and the Mackenzies'. Mrs O'Brien stood at the door to watch them pass, and the younger O'Brien children lined the roadside in a disconsolate row, not having been as fortunate—or as daring—as Dinny.

‘Mind you hit 'em all for six, Joe!' called
Mrs O'Brien to her son. ‘An' don't forget to bring back that trophy!'

This was greeted by loud cheers from the dray, and confident assurances that the trophy would indeed return to Barley Creek. And then the O'Briens' shack was left behind, as the road curved away into the hills—craggy, sharp-faced hills, clothed in coarse grass and bracken, and well populated by rabbits and hares that scuttled to safety at the noise of the cricketers' approach. Once Harriet spied a wallaby loping over the crest of a hill, and farther on a flock of pink and grey galahs rose in shrill protest from their feeding-ground, their rosy breasts bright in the sunlight.

‘This is where I hunt rabbits, Harriet,' said Charles, coming up beside the buggy. ‘It's the best place for miles around. But I'm not the only one who hunts there now. I saw a fellow over on the edge of the scrub yesterday—he disappeared when he saw me. He had a dog with him—a sort of grey dog, quite big. Do you think it might be the bush-ranger, Father?'

‘You shouldn't listen to all this gossip about the bush-ranger,' said Mr Farmer. ‘No one knows for sure that there is one, and very little theft has been reported. The person you saw was no doubt simply catching a few rabbits for the family dinner. Goodness knows there are enough rabbits for the taking.'

‘When could I come hunting with you, Charles?' asked Harriet hopefully. ‘I promise I wouldn't make a noise.'

‘My dear Harriet, I'm sure your mother would never allow it,' protested Mrs Farmer. ‘Shooting is no sport for girls, and some of the country Charles covers is very rough.'

Harriet sighed resignedly, knowing that this was the answer she might have expected.

‘But if you wish, I shall take you and Rose-Ann out one day to look at some of the birds,' said Mr Farmer kindly, for he secretly felt rather sorry for Harriet in her well-ordered and sheltered existence. ‘Your mother would not object to that.'

And with this Harriet had to be content.

After about four miles of travel, the road widened, and the hills receded on either side of the level valley that gave Deacon's Flat part of its name. A reedy little creek wound down to join the road, and a few peppercorn trees gave a shade that was now very welcome, for the wind did not blow strongly here, and the afternoon sun flooded the valley with a golden heat.

Charles, who had ridden back to see how the others were faring, suddenly shouted: ‘Hurry up, Father, they're getting ready to pass you!'

Harriet, not knowing that it was traditional to race over the last mile into the township, clung in astonishment to her perch as Mr Farmer called a warning and began to urge on the horse.

‘Now do be careful, Harry,' said Mrs Farmer—and the remark was also traditional, as well as futile. For Barley Creek's minister was an expert and enthusiastic horseman, and to him this was the great event of the day. The buggy swayed and bumped along the dusty ruts of the road, the horse pricked up its ears delightedly, and Rose-Ann clutched apprehensively at Mrs Farmer as the sound of trotting hooves and creaking wheels filled the air.

‘Here comes Mr Burnie!' cried Charles. ‘He's passed all the others. Go on, Father!'

The schoolmaster's buggy was indeed approaching at a rapid pace—it was a lighter vehicle than most of the others, and Mr Burnie and his wife were the only occupants. The cricketers, whose own dray was gradually falling right to the rear of the procession, cheered wildly as schoolmaster and minister drew level, with only a quarter of a mile to go.

Harriet, trembling with excitement, and heedless of the fine, white dust settling on her blue gingham dress, uttered a most unladylike sound that could only be described as a yell.

‘Look! Father's coming! He's going to pass you, Mr Farmer!'

To everyone's amazement, the Wilmot buggy appeared almost from nowhere to challenge the leaders. Harriet could see her father, who had occasionally driven a gig along English country lanes during his holidays, now handling the buggy reins as confidently as if he had lived all his life in the New South Wales bush. Barrel, greatly astonished, must have remembered something of his honourable past, for he responded as gallantly as any three-year-old. Mrs Wilmot, holding her dainty straw hat with one hand, and the seat with the other, was flushed and laughing, and Aidan was shouting encouragement to his father.

The first house in Deacon's Flat was now only a hundred yards away. Fortunately the road was flanked by broad, grassy verges, and two vehicles were well able to travel abreast. Mr Farmer was obliged at last to fall behind, as Mr Burnie and Francis Wilmot raced together into the township. A Deacon's Flat resident, leaning on his gate and watching the finish, declared that the Wilmot buggy won by about half a yard, and no one was in a position to dispute his judgement.

‘The best race we've had in years,' said Mr Farmer, when the horses had finally been halted outside the post office. ‘Your father drove splendidly, Harriet.'

Harriet jumped down and ran to pat Barrel, who stood with heaving sides but proudly raised head, in the middle of a group of Deacon's Flat children.

‘He's an old 'un to be winning races, ain't he?' said one boy admiringly.

‘He's a wonderful horse, even if he is old,' declared Harriet. ‘He wanted to show those younger horses how good he still is—didn't you, Barrel?'

‘You're new, ain't you?' asked the boy. ‘Ain't seen any of you before.'

‘We live at Lillipilly Hill,' said Harriet proudly. ‘We shall be here next year, too.'

And just then she could well believe her own prophecy. For the first time the Wilmots seemed really to belong to Barley Creek, as the other buggy-owners and the cricketers clustered round to congratulate Mr Wilmot and to rub Barrel's nose.

‘Come on,' said the Deacon's Flat boy at last. ‘Why don't they start the game? Our team's all ready—and they ain't half keen to keep that there trophy.'

It was then that Harriet realized that Joe O'Brien was not with the rest of the team. She turned to look for him and saw Dinny coming towards her, supporting a limping Joe. Dinny's face was screwed up with anxiety.

‘Joe's hurt hisself,' she said. ‘He slipped, jumping off the dray. It's his ankle that's bad.'

‘Then he won't be able to play?' said Harriet in alarm.

Aidan, who had been watching the horses, now gave the unfortunate Joe his whole attention.

‘He might be quite fit by the time they start playing,' he suggested without conviction—for Joe had obviously damaged his ankle and could hardly put his right foot to the ground.

‘No, he won't,' said Harriet, positively and unkindly. ‘So you'll have to take his place. Perhaps they'll declare before it's your turn to bat.'

‘But I can't bowl either,' groaned Aidan, and for most of the Barley Creek innings he cast numerous glances at Joe, now resting his badly sprained ankle in the shade. Aidan's own face reflected Joe's gloom.

The entire population of Deacon's Flat—numbering perhaps fifty or sixty—had turned out either to participate in the match or to watch it. The field of battle was the wide, grassy paddock behind the post office, where the spectators could gather along the fence under the gums and turpentines. Mr Wilmot was the only one who had had the foresight to bring cushions for his family—the others sat on the grass, or on the fence railings.

‘A perfect setting,' said Mr Wilmot with satisfaction, as he surveyed the pale green paddock, the
graceful, silvery trees, and the darker background of the hills. But all other eyes were on the two captains, now entering the field—Steve Jackson, a farmer from Barley Creek, and John Wilkins, known as ‘Demon' Wilkins, the Deacon's Flat fast bowler, who away from the cricket pitch was the quietest and mildest of men, the owner of the local dairy. To the delight of the visitors, Steve won the toss, and presently he and Charles came out to open the innings for Barley Creek.

‘Do they only play one innings each, then?' Mr Wilmot asked Mr Farmer. ‘It's half past one, and we can't have more than four hours of daylight left.'

‘It's usually a fast and furious match,' said the minister. ‘It's always been a half-day affair, to suit the farmers, who can't afford to be away from their work for long. It has been known, though, for the game to continue by moonlight.'

At first, much to Harriet's delight, it seemed that this might even be another such occasion, for Charles and Steve kept up their partnership for half an hour, making twenty-five runs in defiance of Demon Wilkins and his low, mean ball that some Barley Creek supporters described resentfully as a ‘molly-grubber'. And then Steve, in his anxiety to add one more run, slipped and fell between the wickets. By the time he
had picked himself up again the wicket keeper had whipped off the bails.

After this disaster the innings did not last long. An hour and a half after commencement of play, Barley Creek was all out for the not very brilliant total of sixty-nine; Aidan, going in ninth, had been out second ball. Charles, who carried his bat and had scored twice as many runs as anyone else, approached his parents with an unusual air of despondency.

‘We might as well go home,' he said. ‘We can never win now. Just our luck to lose Joe!'

‘But you've got Aidan instead,' said Rose-Ann loyally, having grasped this much of the complicated proceedings going on in front of her.

Charles gave her a look which in a less good-natured boy would have been contemptuous.

‘Well, yes, we have. Let's have tea.'

Polly had not been frugal in her catering—but then, she never was. And for once Mrs Wilmot did not complain of her servant's extravagance, for the long drive and the fresh air had sharpened all appetites. The postmistress had huge pots of water boiling on her capacious stove—from these the visitors filled their billy-cans to make tea, and the Wilmots drank the strong, black liquid with the rest. Only Harriet ate her
chicken sandwiches and jam tarts with unappreciative haste, being anxious for the game to continue.