Meanwhile the four girls were still following the winding course of the creek upstream. From its hidden source somewhere in the tangle of bracken and dogwood at the base of the Rock it approached the level plain of the Picnic Grounds as an almost invisible trickle, then suddenly for a hundred yards or so became deeper and clearer, running quite swiftly over the smooth stones and presently opening out into a little pool ringed by grass of a brilliant watery green. Which no doubt had made this particular spot the choice of the party with the wagonette for their picnic. A stout bewhiskered elderly man with a solar topee tipped over a large scarlet face was lying fast asleep on his back with his hands crossed over a stomach swathed in a scarlet cummerbund. Nearby, a little woman in an elaborate silk dress sat with closed eyes propped against a tree and a pile of cushions from the wagonette, fanning herself with a palmleaf fan. A slender fair youth – or very young man – in English riding breeches was absorbed in a magazine, while another of about the same age, or a little older, as tough and sunburned as the other was tender and pink of cheek, was engaged in rinsing the champagne glasses at the edge of the pool. His coachman’s cap and dark blue jacket with silver buttons were thrown carelessly over a clump of reeds, exposing a mop of thick dark hair and a pair of strong copper-coloured arms, heavily tattooed with mermaids.
Although the four girls following the endless loops and turns of the wayward creek were now almost abreast of the picnic party, the Hanging Rock remained tantalizingly hidden behind the screen of tall forest trees. ‘We really must find a suitable place to cross over,’ said Miranda, screwing up her eyes, ‘or we shall see nothing at all before we have to turn back.’ The creek was getting wider as it approached the pool. Marion Quade produced her ruler: ‘At least four feet and no stepping stones.’
‘I vote we take a flying leap and hope for the best.’ said Irma, gathering up her skirts. ‘Can you manage it, Edith?’ Miranda asked.
‘I don’t know. I don’t want to wet my feet.’
‘Why not?’ asked Marion Quade.
‘I might get pneumonia and die and then you’d stop teasing me and be sorry.’
The bright fast-flowing water was crossed without mishap, to the obvious approval of the young coachman who had greeted their approach with a low penetrating whistle. As soon as the girls were out of earshot and walking away towards the southern slopes of the Rock, the youth in riding breeches threw down the Illustrated London News and strolled down towards the pool. ‘Can I lend a hand with those glasses?’
‘No, you can’t. I’m only giving ’em a bit of a lick over so Cook won’t rouse on me when I get home.’
‘Oh . . . I see . . . I’m afraid I don’t know much about washing up. . . . Look here, Albert . . . I hope you won’t mind my saying so, but I wish you hadn’t done that just now.’
‘Done what, Mr Michael?’
‘Whistled at those girls when they were going to jump over the creek.’
‘It’s a free country as far as I know. What’s the harm in a whistle?’
‘Only that you’re such a good chap,’ said the other, ‘and nice girls don’t like being whistled at by fellows they don’t know.’
Albert grinned. ‘Don’t you believe it! The sheilas is all alike when it comes to the fellers. Do you reckon they come from Appleyard College?’
‘Dash it all, Albert, I’ve only been in Australia a few weeks – how should I know who they are? As a matter of fact I only saw them for a moment when I heard you whistle and looked up.’
‘Well you can take my word for it,’ Albert said, ‘and I’ve knocked about a fair bit – it’s all the same if it’s a bloody college they come from or the Ballarat Orphanage where me and my kid sister was dragged up.’
Michael said slowly, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were an orphan.’
‘As good as. After me mum cleared out with a bloke from Sydney and me dad walked out on the two of us. That’s when we was clapped into the bloody orphanage.’
‘An orphanage?’ repeated the other, who felt himself listening to a first hand account of life on Devil’s Island. ‘Tell me – if you don’t mind talking about it – what’s it like to be brought up in one of those places?’
‘Lousy.’ Albert had finished the glasses and was neatly putting away the Colonel’s silver mugs in their leather case.
‘Lord, how revolting!’
‘Oh, it was clean enough in its way. No lice or anything except when some poor little bugger of a kid gets sent there with nits in its head and Matron gets out a bloody great scissors and cuts off its hair.’ Michael appeared fascinated by the subject of the orphanage. ‘Go on, tell me some more about it. . . . Did they let you see much of your sister?’
‘Well, you see, there was bars on all the windows in my day – boys in one classroom, girls in another. Jeez, I haven’t thought about that bloody dump for donkey’s years.’
‘Don’t talk so loud. If my Aunt hears you swearing she’ll try and make Uncle give you the sack.’
‘Not him!’ said the other, grinning. ‘The Colonel knows I look after his horses damn well and don’t drink his whisky. Well, hardly ever. Tell you the truth I can’t stand the stink of the stuff. This ’ere French fizz of your Uncle’s will do me. Nice and light on the stomach.’ Albert’s worldly wisdom was unending. Michael was filled with admiration.
‘I say, Albert – I wish you’d cut out that Mr Michael stuff. It doesn’t sound like Australia and anyway my name’s Mike to you. Unless my Aunt’s listening.’
‘Have it your own way! Mike? Is that short for the Honourable Michael Fitzhubert what’s on your letters? Jeez. What a mouthful! I wouldn’t recognize mine if I was to see it written down in print.’
To the English youth whose own ancient name was a valued personal possession that travelled everywhere with him, like his pigskin valise and well-filled notecase, this somewhat startling observation needed several minutes of silence to digest, while the coachman surprisingly went on, ‘My Dad used to change his name now and then when he got in a tight corner. I forget what they signed us up at the orphanage. Not that I bloody well care. As far as I’m concerned one bloody name’s the same as another.’
‘I like talking to you, Albert. Somehow you always get me thinking.’
‘Thinking’s all right if you have the time for it,’ replied the other, reaching for his jacket. ‘I’d better be harnessing up Old Glory or your Auntie’s fur will be flying. She wants to get off early.’
‘Right-o. I’ll just stretch my legs a bit before we go.’ Albert stood looking after the slim boyish figure gracefully clearing the creek and striding off towards the Rock. ‘Stretch his legs is it? I don’t mind betting he wants another look at them sheilas . . . That little beaut with the black curls.’ He went back to his horses and began stacking the cups and plates into the Indian straw basket.
The four girls were already out of sight when Mike came out of the first belt of trees. He looked up at the vertical face of the Rock and wondered how far they would go before turning back. The Hanging Rock, according to Albert, was a tough proposition even for experienced climbers. If Albert was right and they were only schoolgirls about the same age as his sisters in England, how was it they were allowed to set out alone, at the end of a summer afternoon? He reminded himself that he was in Australia now: Australia, where anything might happen. In England everything had been done before: quite often by one’s own ancestors, over and over again. He sat down on a fallen log, heard Albert calling him through the trees, and knew that this was the country where he, Michael Fitzhubert, was going to live. What was her name, the tall pale girl with straight yellow hair, who had gone skimming over the water like one of the white swans on his Uncle’s lake?