billowing smoke from the busy kitchens. Pots clanged within, frenzied master chefs screaming orders in broken English. Servants in black tie scrambled up concealed stairways, bearing enormous silver salvers. At the ornate carved doors each one would pause a moment, regain his composure, and then execute a sweeping entrance into the grand hall; the hubbub and hot air broiling out to greet them.
‘Derry down, then fill up your glass, he’s the best that drinks most!
Here’s the Athenaeum Club! – who refuses the toast?
Let us join in the praise of the bat and the wicket,
And sing in full chorus the patrons of cricket!’
‘CAPITAL! CAPITAL!’
A thousand spoons made rollicking music on a thousand wine-glasses.
‘The Reverend Cotton will, I trust, forgive adaptation of his verse,’ exclaimed the speaker.
The illustrious Athenaeum Club boasted one of the best houses, and certainly the best club library, in the country. For the Aboriginal Australian Eleven to be invited to attend, even for one night, was indeed an honour and a privilege – a mark of respect for their efforts on the sporting field.
Or so Charles Lawrence preferred to think. From being the talk of Town Malling, overnight his little cricket team had become the toast of the largest city in the western world.
The Athenians and their guests sat at long banqueting tables arrayed along either side of the grand hall. Broad vertical stripes ran the ornate wallpaper’s full height, beneath a vaulting curvilinear ceiling. Great glittering chandeliers, ringed with enough gas lamps to rival small suns, shone their brilliance down on an assemblage no less dazzling. Dukes and earls, lords and ladies, the witty, wealthy and highborn, sat alongside academics, scientists, fine artists, and wellconnected authors – permanent residents all of the winner’s enclosure.
Pausing between sumptuous food courses, the ladies fanned themselves and admired their neighbours. Their décolleté dresses were spectacular, decorated and colourful. Cut daringly low, they exposed white female flesh to a degree almost alarming.
‘That generous kindness of the remote settlers has disclosed to the outer world a mine of undeniable talent in the Aborigine.’
Applause surged as the speaker bowed, first in the direction of Charles Lawrence and Bill Hayman, then turning slightly in order to salute the team.
‘These coloured wielders of the willow,’ he intoned. ‘A sable troop, hunting the leather…’
‘Oh, good grief,’ Hayman groaned.
‘They are by renown adroit hunters,’ the speaker continued, ‘skilled trackers, and now, evidently, we can also say born sportsmen. For all reports indicate they ride well, and, for savages, play cricket fairly.’
‘Damned with faint praise if ever I heard it,’ grumbled Lawrence. He leant in close to his confederate. ‘Who is this pompous idiot?’
‘A Mr Andrew Long,’ Hayman whispered back. ‘Or Lang. I’m not sure.’ Each could smell the wine on the other’s breath.
The next speaker rose to address the crowd, thick white hair whorled like whipped cream, a sallow dog’s face above his canary-yellow shirt.
‘Your swarthy brows and raven locks
Must gratify your tonsors.’
His voice a nasal whine, grated on the ear.
‘But, by the name of Dick-a-Dick,
Who are your doughty sponsors?’
Hearing Dick-a-Dick mentioned by name, the Aborigines screeched their ridicule.
‘A poet!’ said Hayman.
‘Of sorts,’ said Lawrence.
The curious canary-hound continued.
‘Arrayed in skin of Kangaroo,
and deck’d with lanky feather,
How well you fling the fragile spear
Along the Surrey heather.’
Neighbouring Surrey must have scanned better than Kent, or so Lawrence supposed.
‘And though you cannot hope to beat
The Britishers at cricket,
You have a batter bold and brave
In Mullagh at the wicket!’
Barracking and booing all but drowned out the final lines.
The bard ended with a gestural flourish, thereby chancing
‘Derry down, then fill up your glass, he’s the best that drinks most!
Here’s the Athenaeum Club! – who refuses the toast?
Let us join in the praise of the bat and the wicket,
And sing in full chorus the patrons of cricket!’
‘CAPITAL! CAPITAL!’
A thousand spoons made rollicking music on a thousand wine-glasses.
‘The Reverend Cotton will, I trust, forgive adaptation of his verse,’ exclaimed the speaker.
The illustrious Athenaeum Club boasted one of the best houses, and certainly the best club library, in the country. For the Aboriginal Australian Eleven to be invited to attend, even for one night, was indeed an honour and a privilege – a mark of respect for their efforts on the sporting field.
Or so Charles Lawrence preferred to think. From being the talk of Town Malling, overnight his little cricket team had become the toast of the largest city in the western world.
The Athenians and their guests sat at long banqueting tables arrayed along either side of the grand hall. Broad vertical stripes ran the ornate wallpaper’s full height, beneath a vaulting curvilinear ceiling. Great glittering chandeliers, ringed with enough gas lamps to rival small suns, shone their brilliance down on an assemblage no less dazzling. Dukes and earls, lords and ladies, the witty, wealthy and highborn, sat alongside academics, scientists, fine artists, and wellconnected authors – permanent residents all of the winner’s enclosure.
Pausing between sumptuous food courses, the ladies fanned themselves and admired their neighbours. Their décolleté dresses were spectacular, decorated and colourful. Cut daringly low, they exposed white female flesh to a degree almost alarming.
‘That generous kindness of the remote settlers has disclosed to the outer world a mine of undeniable talent in the Aborigine.’
Applause surged as the speaker bowed, first in the direction of Charles Lawrence and Bill Hayman, then turning slightly in order to salute the team.
‘These coloured wielders of the willow,’ he intoned. ‘A sable troop, hunting the leather…’
‘Oh, good grief,’ Hayman groaned.
‘They are by renown adroit hunters,’ the speaker continued, ‘skilled trackers, and now, evidently, we can also say born sportsmen. For all reports indicate they ride well, and, for savages, play cricket fairly.’
‘Damned with faint praise if ever I heard it,’ grumbled Lawrence. He leant in close to his confederate. ‘Who is this pompous idiot?’
‘A Mr Andrew Long,’ Hayman whispered back. ‘Or Lang. I’m not sure.’ Each could smell the wine on the other’s breath.
The next speaker rose to address the crowd, thick white hair whorled like whipped cream, a sallow dog’s face above his canary-yellow shirt.
‘Your swarthy brows and raven locks
Must gratify your tonsors.’
His voice a nasal whine, grated on the ear.
‘But, by the name of Dick-a-Dick,
Who are your doughty sponsors?’
Hearing Dick-a-Dick mentioned by name, the Aborigines screeched their ridicule.
‘A poet!’ said Hayman.
‘Of sorts,’ said Lawrence.
The curious canary-hound continued.
‘Arrayed in skin of Kangaroo,
and deck’d with lanky feather,
How well you fling the fragile spear
Along the Surrey heather.’
Neighbouring Surrey must have scanned better than Kent, or so Lawrence supposed.
‘And though you cannot hope to beat
The Britishers at cricket,
You have a batter bold and brave
In Mullagh at the wicket!’
Barracking and booing all but drowned out the final lines.
The bard ended with a gestural flourish, thereby chancing
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