The Clay Dreaming Read Online Free Page A

glared at the younger man. His eyes threatened frostbite. Hayman had dared allude to their previous tours in Australia – before he, Lawrence, had taken up with them. ‘Back home,’ he said, ‘they could go and visit relatives, those that still have them. Indulge in a spot of ceremonial dancing, or otherwise fill what leisure time they have hunting.’
    ‘ Ih …’
    ‘They cannot do that here.’
    ‘Charles, I’d rather not…not now…’
    ‘It is imperative we keep them occupied,’ said Lawrence, ‘as much as we possibly can. We don’t let them out of our sight, if we can help it.’
    Hayman looked away, his lips pressed firmly together.
    Lawrence closed with him as a swordsman would, fighting a duel. ‘Make no mistake,’ he said, ‘I mean to go back to Australia. I want us to return with honours, not wreathed in shame, nor condemned as murderers.’
    His resolve was iron-clad.
    ‘I will not have any more deaths on my team.’

CHAPTER IV
    Saturday the 23rd of May, 1868
BIRDS OF NO FEATHER
    ‘Night and day the irons clang,
    and, like poor galley slaves,
    We toil, and toil, and when we die
    Must fill dishonoured graves.’
    ~ ‘Jim Jones at Botany Bay’, traditional
    ‘The hair is not wiry, like that of a Negro. It hangs in dark locks…something almost refined. A marble bust in the museum. Except black, of course.’
    ‘And is it soft?’
    ‘Heavens!’ exclaimed Mrs South Norton. ‘Am I to know that…? I would not touch them.’ She returned her cup to its saucer with an emphatic clink. ‘Should you?’
    A number of heads shook all at once.
    Mrs Hilary South Norton led the ladies of Town Malling in discussion and afternoon tea. Matronly and magnificent, she fairly basked in the glory of her primacy. The group gathered in close around a mahogany-framed sofa flanked by matching tubs. Each of them held a fan, spread, which they flapped in an attempt to cool their faces; the heat of the day so unusual and oppressive that all they achieved was to cut the air into slices.
    Opposite Mrs South Norton bobbed Lily Perfect, by far the youngest present. ‘The Black Cricketers,’ she trilled, ‘you’ve seen them already?’
    Given the general air of excitement, the redundancy of Lily’s query was excused. Hilary South Norton seemed only too happy to repeat her proud boast. ‘Yes, I’ve seen them.’ Her formidable chest was thrust further out, although it seemed scarcely possible. ‘I have met them,’ she corrected. ‘And so shall you.’
    She patted her elaborate coiffure. As the close friend of their hostess, Mrs Luck, she was the only woman not required to keep her hat on.
    On her left, Lily’s portly, cherubic aunt clapped soundlessly. Minute biscuit crumbs fell from her lips. ‘So shall we all!’ she crowed.
    Sounds of a late arrival created a minor disturbance in the adjacent hallway. The hopeful cluster turned their heads in fluid unison: fed so many titbits already, they craved new sensation.
    One of the servants appeared, and ushered into the drawing-room a slight, soberly dressed woman. ‘A Miss Sarah Larkin, ma’am.’
    The whisking fans ceased in their movements.
    The exalted high priestesses crouched, awaiting their sacrifice. Seeing so much attention fixed on her, Sarah’s insides contracted. She hovered in the doorway sideways on. As one the group cast their beady eye, a critical stare that ranged about her person with unkind freedom. Her face was deemed plain and undecorated, her forehead a touch too broad. The way the hair burst forth from her temples, only to double back under restraint, untidy. Dull hair it was, too – dark, no attempt made to disguise sweeps of premature grey. Long, tense fingers, entirely absent of the requisite languor or even a decent manicure, clutched at a stack of papers she seemed reluctant to surrender: she held them like a comfort, or shield.
    The butler relieved her of these.
    Her body, exposed, was lean but not so very elegant. She wanted for