Lillipilly Hill (3 page)

‘I don't think there's much more to be said,' Mr Wilmot concluded, standing up. ‘I shall go to Blackhill tomorrow and begin arrangements for the sale of the property.'

Dismissed, the children returned to the garden. But Harriet discovered suddenly that she did not want to talk to the others about her father's announcement, and set off instead towards the cowshed.

This time she went by a lengthy and indirect route, in order to avoid passing the windows of the sitting-room, where her father and mother were still talking. She followed the veranda around to the eastern side, past the bedrooms. If the front garden could be called untidy, then the eastern part of the grounds was almost a jungle. A brilliantly purple bougainvillea vine had draped itself over the veranda posts and even invaded the guttering, casting deep shade over the stone flags of the veranda. Near by a struggling grape-vine clung to a lopsided wire trellis—Harriet plucked a few small, black grapes, and shuddered at their sourness. Somewhere among the towering lantanas by the fence was an ornamental pond, once stocked with fish, but now half-choked with weeds, and providing a fertile breeding-ground for mosquitoes.

Harriet kept to the narrow path, mindful of her mother's warnings about snakes, and pushed open the
gate that led to the back yard. This was really forbidden territory, but to Harriet it was the most interesting part of the property. It was the domain of Polly, the maid-of-all-work, and Boz, the cowman-labourer-gardener. On Harriet's right, a fence of wooden posts and slackened wire divided the yard from the orchard, which stretched away down the hill-side. Ahead were two tall old mulberry trees, supporting between them an overburdened clothes-line, and close by, a massive copper on a stone fire-place. The fire had long since gone out, for Polly did the washing before breakfast.

Harriet went on, past the woodpile, and the vegetable garden, and the sagging tomato plants. On her left, beneath a fig-tree, was the well, which added to the water-supply provided by the three iron tanks at the back of the house.

The cowshed was deserted. It served as a stable too, but Barrel's stall was empty, and no hard-worked Boz was busy among the cow-bails and feed-troughs.

‘But of course he wouldn't be back yet,' Harriet reminded herself. ‘It's nearly an hour's drive to Blackhill. Bother!'

She wandered over to the fig-tree, and climbed on to the coping of the well to pick some of the fruit. It was very strange, she reflected, as she bit through the purple skin, to think that only four weeks ago she had
never tasted a fresh fig, and now they were almost her favourite fruit. Almost, but not quite, for the peaches that grew at the top of the orchard were the biggest, the sweetest, and the juiciest she had ever known. It was a great pity that they were finished.

The back yard was very quiet, and not the faintest breath of wind stirred the dark-green leaves above Harriet's head. She leant forward and gazed down into the black depths of the well, wishing she could strip off her heavy boots and stockings and go barefoot. She might even paddle in the creek. But such activities were impossible for a young English lady, no matter how oppressive the heat.

The back door was flung open, and Polly came down the steps, carrying a plate on which rested a round, golden pat of butter. She came over to the well, and bent to place the butter on a shelf in the stone, just above the water.

‘The butter nearly runs away while I look at it,' she observed cheerfully. ‘And I've been half the morning making it, too.'

‘Why do you put it in the well?' asked Harriet.

Polly stared at her.

‘Why indeed! You don't know much, do you? To keep it cool, of course.' Her voice was rough, but far from unkind. She was a plump, brisk, red-headed
girl, eighteen years old—Harriet had certainly never encountered a servant quite like her. Polly ‘lacked respect', Mrs Wilmot said, and could rarely bring herself to address the children as ‘Miss' or ‘Master'. She was a Colonial born and bred, and although she had been in domestic service for six years, she had lost none of her native toughness and independence.

She looked at Harriet now with a lively curiosity.

‘So your Miss Oliver's gone and left, has she? What do you think of that?'

‘I don't know,' said Harriet truthfully. ‘I think she could have stayed a little longer. She said this place was much too wild and lonely. But you like it, don't you, Polly?'

‘Nothing lonely about this,' declared Polly. ‘This is the best place I've ever been in. Only five of you to cook and wash and clean for—I had ten in my last sittywation! Had to get up at five, and went to bed at ten, and never off my feet all day.'

She was only too ready for a chat. Harriet abandoned her idea of waiting for Boz, and turned to Polly instead.

‘Polly, is there a school in the village?'

‘The village?' repeated Polly. ‘You mean Barley Creek, I suppose.'

‘I mean the place down there,' said Harriet, impatiently waving her arm towards the creek.

‘That's Barley Creek—we don't call it a village. Not that it's a big town, like Blackhill, but it's got a post office, and Mrs Tolly's store, and the church—'

‘But has it got a
school
?' demanded Harriet.

‘Indeed it has,' said Polly proudly, having already adopted Barley Creek as her native town. ‘
And
a school-teacher—a real one, too. Not like Winneroo—they've only got a teacher three days a week, and over at Deacon's Flat they haven't even got a school. Ours is very good, they say—not that I know much about schools. Never went to one, myself.'

Harriet gazed past the cowshed at the tall scrub which clothed the western hill-side. Somewhere down there lay the tiny township which she had not yet seen, and which she must soon explore.

‘What is the school-teacher's name, and where does she live?'

‘It's not a lady at all—a real gentleman, I've heard, called Mr Burnie, and he lives next to the school. It's just over the road from the post office.'

‘Don't tell Mother or Father, or anyone, what I've asked you, will you? Please, Polly,' begged Harriet earnestly.

‘Of course not. Why should I?' said Polly, though consumed with curiosity. ‘I must go and start the bread. Did you have some of my cake?'

‘Oh, yes!' Harriet searched for just the right word. ‘It was most
delectable
!'

Polly gazed at her admiringly.

‘My, that's a big word! I'll see you get some more cake for your tea tonight.'

She returned to the kitchen, singing lustily, and Harriet made her way back to the front garden. Aidan was still reading, and Rose-Ann was gathering flower petals, to be pressed in her biggest book.

‘Come and help me, Harriet,' she called. ‘I can't reach the tallest ones.'

Harriet found the occupation rather dull, but at least it gave her an opportunity to do some quiet thinking.

‘Today's Friday, isn't it?' she asked, standing on tiptoe to pluck a shining yellow rose.

‘Yes—only all the days are the same here,' said Rose-Ann. ‘Does it matter that it's Friday?'

‘Yes, it does,' answered Harriet, and was silent.

It must be nearly twelve o'clock already, and soon they would be called for the midday meal, which Mrs Wilmot termed ‘luncheon', and Polly obstinately referred to as ‘dinner'. After the meal the girls were expected to rest for an hour or so, and then take a short walk.

‘But Miss Oliver's gone, so perhaps we'll be allowed to go for a walk with just Aidan,' Harriet
said to herself. What she planned to do must be done this afternoon—tomorrow would be too late. And it was all very important. Indeed, as she went into the house to wash her hands for luncheon, she felt quite awed by the responsibility she had given herself.

2

Harriet goes Visiting

The girls' bedroom opened on to the eastern veranda. The vines outside made it a cool, dark room, at least in mid-afternoon. Harriet lay on her low wooden bed and stared at the screen of bougainvillea. There was little enough to look at in the bedroom itself—another bed, just like her own, a washstand made of packing-cases, a straight-backed, uninviting chair, and a gloomy picture of a storm in some unidentified range of mountains.

‘Why don't we unpack our pretty cushions and covers and things?' grumbled Harriet.

‘Mother doesn't think it would be worth while, that's why,' said Rose-Ann. ‘We mightn't be here much longer.'

‘I do think we could make our room look nicer, though,' protested Harriet. ‘And I'd like a shelf for my books. Aidan has one.'

‘Aidan's a boy,' said Rose-Ann logically.

Harriet sighed. That was the answer to everything. Aidan was a boy, so he had bookshelves, and a room to himself, and time to read as much as he wanted. But Harriet was always being summoned from her beloved books to practise the piano, or do her embroidery, or talk to visitors. Not that they had many visitors here—indeed, she could remember none except the minister and his wife. Now they were absent in Sydney, and the church would be without a minister until their return. And going to church, Harriet reflected, would have been one way of meeting the people of Barley Creek.

‘Is it time to get up yet?' she asked Rose-Ann.

‘I don't know. I can't hear Mother moving around. Who's to take us for our walk?'

‘We shouldn't need to be taken by anyone now,' said Harriet crossly. ‘We're old enough not to get lost. Anyway, Aidan's going with us. I'm getting up.'

She tugged on her boots, and reached for her sun-bonnet. Rather sleepily, Rose-Ann did likewise. Obeying Harriet had become a habit, no longer questioned. But by the time Rose-Ann had tied her bootlaces and adjusted her bonnet to her own
satisfaction, Harriet was already on the front veranda, arguing with Aidan.

‘We
are
allowed to go as far as the creek, so don't be lazy. You can take your book with you if you want, but I'm going to have a long walk.'

Aidan stuffed his book into his jacket pocket, and turned towards the gate.

‘All right, Miss Have-It-Your-Own-Way. I'll be pleased if you get a new governess, I can tell you.'

In single file, they walked down the dusty track. It was barely wide enough for the buggy; on either side grew a hedge of blackberry bushes, and beyond that steep piles of grey rock rose among the foreign trees, gum and wattle and turpentine. The children's passing disturbed a flock of rosellas—they flapped away over the treetops in flashes of vivid red and green, with shrill, harsh cries that made Rose-Ann jump in fright.

‘The birds here are so
noisy
,' she complained. ‘There was one outside our bedroom this morning that really shouted.'

‘That was a kookaburra,' said Aidan. ‘You see, Harriet, I do know
some
things about New South Wales.'

‘Anyone would know a kookaburra,' retorted Harriet. ‘And it doesn't shout, Rose-Ann—it laughs.'

They reached the ford, and stood looking at the clear, brown water sweeping across the pebbles. The sunlight slanted down through tall tree-ferns and she-oaks, and turned to molten gold a clump of wild broom on the farther bank.

Harriet drew a deep breath.

‘Now, Aidan, you can sit down and read. And Rose-Ann must stay with you. She can pick wild flowers. I'm going for a walk along the creek, and I won't be back for about half an hour. And if you go home without me I'll take back that new Henty book I gave you for Christmas.'

Before Aidan and Rose-Ann had time to speak, she marched off along the bank.

‘Whatever is she up to?' wondered Aidan. ‘Oh, well, this is a good place to sit, anyway. Go and pick your flowers, Rosie.'

‘But I don't know any of their names,' said his orderly sister. ‘I'll have to ask Harriet afterwards. Do you suppose there are snakes here, Aidan?'

‘I don't know—call out if you see one,' replied Aidan indolently, settling himself comfortably against a shaded rock.

Meanwhile Harriet had come to a sort of cross-roads. On her left, the path along the creek continued, a mere thread of a path between the water and the
scrub. At right angles to it ran a wider track, with deeply scored wheel-marks—this apparently was the route used by the Barley Creek inhabitants to reach the ford.

‘It can't be very far,' thought Harriet. ‘I can see smoke over there.'

She hurried along the track, feeling hot and more than a little anxious. Half an hour was not long, when she considered what she hoped to achieve.

She came upon the settlement quite suddenly, round a curve in the track. It was set in a hollow among low rocky hills—one of them, Harriet realized, led up to the western boundary of her own home. At the foot of this hill was the little church, the only building in the township to be constructed, like the Wilmots' house, of the golden-brown Blackhill stone. Near the church was the timber Rectory, flanked by twin, torch-like poplars, and down beside the track stood two iron-roofed, unpainted shacks which Harriet recognized in surprise as the post office and the store.

She turned to study the opposite side of the track. Once her father had taken them all for a holiday in a Cotswold village, and in their walks they had often passed the village school. Thus Harriet's vision of the Barley Creek school had been of a dignified establishment in weathered stone, presided over by a gentle, middle-aged lady in black, with a white lace collar.

‘But this can't be it,' Harriet told herself, staring at the one-roomed building of wattle slabs and shingle roof, at the meagre pine trees, the rusty tank, and the flat, dusty playground with scarcely a blade of grass in it.

However, it was directly opposite the post office, as Polly had said. And the few children climbing through the sliprails certainly looked as if they were on their way home from school. They stared at Harriet curiously as they passed, eyeing her well-made clothes, her stout boots, and white bonnet. The one girl in the group was barefoot, and wore no bonnet or pinafore—her dress was of faded blue gingham, much too small for her.