Free The Clay Dreaming by Ed Hillyer

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…’
    ‘Neddy’s called Jim Crow here,’ said Hayman.
    ‘Oh, yes.’ Lawrence blinked. ‘And the rest,’ he said, ‘the rest is from Victoria. Cuzens was the first one to coach ’em. He was the one taught ’em cricket.’ He was no longer sure of his point.
    A sharp-faced scientist spoke up. ‘You use the past tense when referring to their tribal derivation. Why is that?’
    Lawrence declined to answer.