The Clay Dreaming

by Ed Hillyer

  He too paused, to produce a crumpled paper from his pocket.

  ‘He was carrying this,’ said Lawrence. ‘One of the few things he had on… uh, had on him.’

  The envelope bore her address, in Dilkes’s handwriting. Tucked inside, her fingers felt something alive. Sarah jumped. She fished out a fetish, bound with twine and tiny feathers, a glue of some sort, and made with her own hair.

  Lawrence had mercifully averted his gaze to allow a moment’s privacy; still, she again caught him looking at her, sideways on.

  ‘He places great stock in you,’ said Lawrence.

  They gathered quietly by the bedside.

  Sarah gasped to see Brippoki’s cheekbones, the surrounding flesh sunken. No longer coated in ash, his skin had nevertheless taken on its pallor.

  ‘Where did you find him?’ she asked.

  ‘Not I; some young mudlarks,’ said Lawrence, ‘and lucky that they did, else the river would soon have claimed him. Found his body by first light…stretched out, deep in the mud, just about as far in as he might go. The mud had almost closed over him by the time they pulled him out.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Monday, towards low tide,’ said Lawrence, ‘beneath Blackfriars Bridge, so I’m told.’

  Sarah ceased to look the prone body over, and raised her eyes to his, in wonder.

  Lawrence shrugged. ‘Perhaps he fell,’ he offered.

  Sarah no longer cared what anyone thought. She moved in closer, to examine Brippoki’s face. A burning fever consumed him from the inside out.

  ‘They cleaned him up,’ said Lawrence. ‘No bones broken, but sickly. Once the stink of mud was removed, they bled him. He raves a bit, every now and then…moves his legs slightly, as dogs do when dreaming.’ Lawrence watched her brows crease, and her soft lips as they parted. ‘His brain is inflamed, they say.’

  Brippoki’s eyelids flickered open. Sarah moved to a position where he might see her.

  ‘Conscious,’ cautioned Lawrence, ‘…but not lucid.’

  ‘Have they fed him?’ she asked.

  ‘He refuses all food.’

  ‘But they have made the attempt…? Pass me some water.’

  She gestured behind, without looking at either Lawrence or the jug and glass on the bedside table. He obliged. Ever so gently she tipped some of the liquid to Brippoki’s lips.

  Lawrence warily eyed one or two of the passing staff. He said, ‘Do you think you ought to…?’

  ‘Someone ought to,’ insisted Sarah.

  Brippoki knew her; she saw it in his eye.

  ‘Hello,’ she said.

  His jaw worked. She gave him more water, drew in closer: the noise of the ward, the moaning from the beds and the troop of shoes back and forth across the bare boards, was fearsome.

  ‘Pringurru,’ Brippoki gasped.

  He was struggling to remove the covers, exposing his bare flesh; Sarah hesitated to help. He rolled over, arm bent back, pointing to his lower flank. She could not see anything – no wound, nor mark.

  ‘I…I don’t…’

  His hand feels for his min-tum, the cord worn round his waist. Finding it gone, he panics. He falls back, urgently miming – a young woman plaiting a cord of kangaroo hair, passing the line around her head once, taking care to fix the knot in the centre of her forehead. The line then goes around his body, a second knot placed where the spear went in. Flapping wildly, his hands stroke his flesh towards that same point to show how to force out the bad blood.

  Lawrence stepped forward.

  ‘Miss Larkin,’ he said, apologetic, ‘he’s delirious…’

  Sarah ignored his protests. Brippoki’s hand drew a line from his waist towards her mouth. He made loud sucking noises.

  ‘Oh, really. NURSE!’ Lawrence cast around for help. ‘Doctor? NURSE!’

  He took Sarah by the shoulders. She shook him off, even as she took a step backwards, almost into his arms.

  Brippoki’s face distorted horribly, hands flying about his fretted lips. His sheets, kicked about, were in disarray.

  The figure of the matron overtook a junior nurse, hanging back. She took firm hold of the patient, forcing him back down on the bed. At her touch, the air instantly seemed to go out of him. All imprecation ceased, Brippoki went limp as a rag doll, limbs dangling.

  ‘Fetch Dr Wilks,’ ordered the matron.

  ‘He’s just coming,’ came the nervous reply.

  Sarah stared dumbly at the lace doily on top of her cap, atop her bun, at the tassellated brooch at her throat.

  Dead fish eyes turned on Sarah and Lawrence; fell on Sarah’s black dress.

  ‘Miss Loag,’ said the doctor, and smoothly took over.

  Matron marched around to their side of the bed. ‘Come away,’ she said. ‘You have him agitated.’

  Well aware of Lawrence’s discomfiture at her back, Sarah stood defiant. Brippoki had been asking something of her.

  ‘It will do his chances of recovery no good at all,’ Lawrence hissed in her ear. ‘Come away.’

  At that, Sarah meekly obliged.

  ‘He hasn’t his right mind,’ said Lawrence.

  Maybe so.

  He escorted her outside. They walked around the park, an enclosure within the middle of the hospital complex. It was cloudy, but humid, and late in the day.

  Wishing to alleviate Sarah’s distress, Lawrence clutched at straws.

  ‘With the help of the surgeons, he may yet recover,’ he said.

  ‘“And prove an ass”,’ she replied. Her features softened, not wishing to seem unkind. Lawrence marched, virile, she working to keep up. A good man, if not especially handsome; his sad and sorry face seemed a stranger to laughter.

  ‘How is the team?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘In Hastings,’ said Lawrence, a tad curtly.

  In his absence Norton captained the team; the press had been told his hand was injured, ‘a very nasty crack on his finger, which will incapacitate him from playing for some time.’

  He discarded another in a rapid succession of lit cigarettes. A lively creature filled with character, Sarah Larkin seemed now that much calmer than he – intelligent, and without the need to show it off. Even by London standards her complexion was remarkably pale, quite unlike the frazzled damsels of Australia. These otherworldly looks attracted; an echo of home.

  ‘It surprises me that you know Cole,’ he said.

  Her grey eyes were drops of seawater.

  ‘As a friend,’ she said, ‘only recently, Mr Lawrence.’

  ‘Please,’ said Lawrence. ‘Call me Charles.’

  He wore a muffin hat over fine, straw-coloured hair. Pale-suited, his unpressed trousers looked as if they had been slept in, or rained on, or both. His jacket, equally shapeless, was all pocket, straight up and down. Sarah sensed considerable force held in reserve: baggy casual clothing did little to conceal the team captain’s muscular frame.

  His hands, strong and tan, looked empty without a bat to clutch.

  Lawrence caught her looking.

  ‘He is…difficult,’ Sarah confessed, ‘to understand.’

  Some folk might think Brippoki slow, but his thoughts ran silver-quick.

  Lawrence merely nodded. Among a group of men at best difficult to know, King Cole had always been one of the most remote.

  ‘This may seem odd to ask,’ she said, ‘but is anyone with you from New Zealand?’

  ‘No,’ he laughed. ‘That was a misprint.’

  Mystified, she tried again. ‘So the word “rangatira”…that means nothing to you?’

  Lawrence’s weathered cheeks turned a whiter shade of pale.

  Once news of their plan to take the team to England had reached the ears of the Board – the Central Board for the Protection of Aborigines – the Melbourne newspapers had regularly published letters of protest. As a result, the authorities in Victoria had sought to put an end to their touring: the waggon ride to Warrnambool undertaken so that they might smuggle the team into neighbouring New Sout
h Wales.

  On the 22nd of October last they had gone to Queenscliff, ostensibly for a day’s fishing. Near to the mouth of Port Philip Bay, their little rowboats had come alongside the steamship Rangatira, out of Melbourne. The coastal vessel then took them on as steerage passengers up to Sydney, whereby they were spirited out of the colony and, a few months thereafter, the country.

  ‘No,’ said Lawrence, ‘nothing.’

  Her fierce eyes saw through him, bright and clear.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled.

  They were beckoned back into the block designated Hunt’s House, to where Brippoki lingered on the ward.

  ‘Our intent was to relieve the pressure on his brain. Although we have opened the veins of both arms as well as the temporal artery, he has not recovered. I believe it is only a matter of time.’

  The doctor introduced himself as Samuel Wilks. The hospital chaplain, he informed them, had performed the last rites. Aside from nursing staff, a second man of middle age lurked nearby. Crooked and furtive in posture, he wore a white coat liberally splashed with blood – disconcerting enough, yet he also carried about what appeared to be a chunk of flesh, set in a small dish, which he would occasionally raise up and examine under one of the T-stalk gas-lamps dotted throughout the ward. Now that the natural light was fading they had all been lit, lending the scene an oddly festive glow.

  Brippoki lay supine and unresponsive in the bed, as if merely awaiting the end to come.

  He is standing among a crowd of children, looking down at a man laid in the mud. Then he floats a few feet above their heads, the heads of his friends, Nei-Thara and Lawrence. They sit together beside a wirkatti, a bier or burial platform, the body of a blackfellow sleeping between.

  Taking a closer look at the body they attend – enveloped in cloth, rolled round and tight – he sees it is the body he occupied in life. Why, then, do they not wail and bloody themselves? They better have laid his head towards the east…

  Two stranger males dressed in white step across. Facing each other, one stands at the head, the other at the foot. They are talking quietly among themselves. He decides to stay a while, and visit with them.

  ‘Did he move?’ said Sarah.

  Lawrence stopped talking.

  ‘He looked at me.’

  Brippoki looked first to one, then the other of them. They huddled in closer, shoulder to shoulder. With a weak smile, he approved.

  ‘What did you say?’ said Sarah. ‘He said something. What did he say?’

  Lawrence sat back. He told her, ‘I think he said… “Mate”.’

  Brippoki started, ever so quietly, to sing.

  ‘What are those,’ asked the doctor, ‘more nonsense words?’

  His songs all sung he is weary of breath. He feels himself drawn away, a sensation something like flying. His vision closes in, growing dark. Willingly he leaves behind all the kindness and the cruelties he has known.

  Brippoki fell silent. The others looked to Dr Wilks, who leant over to check.

  ‘He has fallen asleep,’ he said.

  Sarah and Lawrence exchanged an uncertain glance.

  ‘By which,’ said Wilks, ‘I mean the long sleep. The stream of life has stopped.’

  Lawrence threw down his cap. ‘I can’t wait to quit this country,’ he snapped. ‘In Australia, a spade is called a spade and death is death!’

  It was true what they said: that you could never go home again.

  ‘My sentiments,’ said Dr Wilks, ‘exactly. But straight talk is unpopular.’ He indicated a quotation, framed above the bed.

  ‘Are you willing to tend to the formalities immediately?’ he asked.

  ‘I am,’ said Lawrence.

  Wilks began to dictate aloud to the registrar. ‘Entry for 24th June, number…?’

  ‘Two One Seven.’

  ‘217…’ Wilks looked at Lawrence. ‘Name of deceased?’

  ‘Charles Rose,’ he replied, ‘alias King Cole.’

  ‘Date of admission,’ continued Wilks, consulting a chart, ‘22nd of June, number 814. Age?’

  Lawrence looked uncertain. ‘Twenty-eight?’

  ‘Ward,’ Wilks looked around, ‘Stephen. Physician… Date of death, June 24th. Disease, acute pneumonia. Recommend post mortem.’

  The other doctor moved a little closer, his face a rictus.

  Sarah had to look away. Her eye went to the quotation overhead. ‘While they beheld, he was taken up; and a cloud received him out of their sight. (Acts i:9)’ Others were hung above each of the beds in the place.

  She was struck full force by the unspeakable nature of tragedy.

  Brippoki was dead.

  ‘Hour of death… 9.30.p.m., near enough. Residence?’

  Lawrence answered, ‘Queen’s Head public house, Borough High-street. Mrs Sarah Willsher, proprietor.’

  Wilks flicked an eyebrow. ‘Temporary residence?’

  ‘Yes, it is. It is where we…’

  Cole was dead.

  ‘…where I am staying.’

  ‘As for the mortal remains…’ Wilks gestured for the registrar to shoulder his form for the moment and turned from the bed. The twisted figure in the bloodied coat stepped further forward. ‘This is Mr Alfred Poland,’ said Wilks, ‘a surgeon doctor whose skill and science are indisputable…his dexterity and rapidity without equal…’

  The fellow could not tear his avidity from the body in the bed.

  ‘Guy’s, you understand, is a teaching hospital…’ continued Dr Wilks. He placed an arm around Lawrence’s shoulder. ‘An important centre for the study of morbid anatomy. The specimen, speaking frankly, is unique, an opportunity…’

  Showing the requisition slip, he unsheathed his pen. ‘Will you give your consent?’

  Sarah stepped in.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘His body will not be opened to exhibition.’ Turning to Lawrence, ‘We absolutely refuse.’

  Aboriginal ideas of future happiness relied on proper rites of burial being performed: Brippoki’s paradise might well be denied him were his body no longer whole.

  ‘An inspection at least must be made,’ insisted Wilks, ‘if only to confirm diagnosis. That is the way we do things here.’

  ‘And it is when you apply theory of one sort to a problem of another that you receive nonsense in reply,’ said Sarah.

  Her horn was of iron, her hooves brass. She stood firm.

  Nonplussed, the doctor looked to Lawrence. ‘Do you claim the body?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lawrence, newly inspired. ‘We do.’

  Wilks sighed and turned to Alfred Poland. ‘Cover him up,’ he said. ‘I think we’re finished.’

  Sarah, declaring a need for air, returned to the hospital grounds. Lawrence accompanied her. Seeking shelter from a short rain shower, they found a stone alcove – according to its plaque, part of the old London Bridge, removed in 1832.

  Above them in the night sky, a pale moon trailed by a little the bright star Rex.

  Sarah fixed her eyes firmly on the ground beneath her feet.

  Lawrence reached into his pockets, only to find his cigarettes all gone. ‘Dammit,’ he said. ‘Excuse me. I keep wondering how it is that he ended up in the river?’ Of course he wanted to know where Cole had been all this time, but took her very presence for his answer, making it a question imprudent to ask. ‘And without his clothes,’ he said. ‘I fear he was the victim of a robbery.’

  Many a poor soul, rolled for a shilling, was ditched in the black depths of the Thames.

  ‘Not a robbery,’ said Sarah, with some confidence.

  ‘I don’t believe he could have been merely drunk,’ said Lawrence.

  She said nothing.

  ‘It’s so hard to maintain order, with alcohol around,’ lamented Lawrence. ‘And it always is. Publicans help arrange the fixtures, provide refreshments and our accommodation! Try as I might, I cannot keep it from them. They are every day in touch with cricket-lovers who think it kind to drink their health and chat, and the poor
fellows are quite helpless to refuse.’

  He started to pace back and forth.

  ‘When I remonstrate with them, they say to me they are not slaves and should have what they like in a free country. It is always the other gentlemen’s fault and they are just being friendly, which is largely true, so whatever else can I do other than forgive them, and keep hoping for improvement.’

  He turned to her, in search of sympathy.

  ‘They behave very obedient,’ he said. ‘Will do anything to please me, and their best, all things considered. But the demon drink affects every one of them differently. Tiger likes a quarrel and wants to fight. Charley tends to sulk. Others play harmless games and tricks on each other, or endlessly profess their love for me.’ Lawrence showed a wan smile. ‘I became their professor before we left Australia, so long as I promised not to develop anything they would tell me, and this had a good effect.’

  He perhaps meant confessor, just as much; Sarah made no comment.

  ‘King Cole was such a regular fellow, and always good in attendance…’til of late,’ he mused. ‘That’s what I don’t understand.’

  Guilty conscience kept his mouth running – and hers shut.

  ‘Dick-a-Dick has often helped us out,’ said Lawrence, frustrated. He resumed his pacing. ‘He’d make any Temperance Society a good secretary. Dick’s horror of drunkenness is such that he visits condign punishment on any of his brothers who indulge too much. And he lays it on strong, believe me. An awkward customer, when his blood is up.’

  Lawrence sighed.

  ‘Hah,’ he said, ‘listen to me. These are just a few of the troubles we managers have to contend with. The schedule we have embarked on is gruelling.’

  ‘For you,’ said Sarah, pointedly, ‘more than them?’

  ‘For us all,’ said Lawrence.

  Moderation might be best recommended, in all things.

  He saw that she looked up at the window whereabouts the body lay.

  ‘He was peaceful at the end,’ he said. ‘Going gently, without a fight.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘A good sport.’