Lillipilly Hill Read Free Page B

clothes-line, and close by, a massive copper on a stone fire-place. The fire had long since gone out, for Polly did the washing before breakfast.
    Harriet went on, past the woodpile, and the vegetable garden, and the sagging tomato plants. On her left, beneath a fig-tree, was the well, which added to the water-supply provided by the three iron tanks at the back of the house.
    The cowshed was deserted. It served as a stable too, but Barrel’s stall was empty, and no hard-worked Boz was busy among the cow-bails and feed-troughs.
    â€˜But of course he wouldn’t be back yet,’ Harriet reminded herself. ‘It’s nearly an hour’s drive to Blackhill. Bother!’
    She wandered over to the fig-tree, and climbed on to the coping of the well to pick some of the fruit. It was very strange, she reflected, as she bit through the purple skin, to think that only four weeks ago she hadnever tasted a fresh fig, and now they were almost her favourite fruit. Almost, but not quite, for the peaches that grew at the top of the orchard were the biggest, the sweetest, and the juiciest she had ever known. It was a great pity that they were finished.
    The back yard was very quiet, and not the faintest breath of wind stirred the dark-green leaves above Harriet’s head. She leant forward and gazed down into the black depths of the well, wishing she could strip off her heavy boots and stockings and go barefoot. She might even paddle in the creek. But such activities were impossible for a young English lady, no matter how oppressive the heat.
    The back door was flung open, and Polly came down the steps, carrying a plate on which rested a round, golden pat of butter. She came over to the well, and bent to place the butter on a shelf in the stone, just above the water.
    â€˜The butter nearly runs away while I look at it,’ she observed cheerfully. ‘And I’ve been half the morning making it, too.’
    â€˜Why do you put it in the well?’ asked Harriet.
    Polly stared at her.
    â€˜Why indeed! You don’t know much, do you? To keep it cool, of course.’ Her voice was rough, but far from unkind. She was a plump, brisk, red-headedgirl, eighteen years old—Harriet had certainly never encountered a servant quite like her. Polly ‘lacked respect’, Mrs Wilmot said, and could rarely bring herself to address the children as ‘Miss’ or ‘Master’. She was a Colonial born and bred, and although she had been in domestic service for six years, she had lost none of her native toughness and independence.
    She looked at Harriet now with a lively curiosity.
    â€˜So your Miss Oliver’s gone and left, has she? What do you think of that?’
    â€˜I don’t know,’ said Harriet truthfully. ‘I think she could have stayed a little longer. She said this place was much too wild and lonely. But you like it, don’t you, Polly?’
    â€˜Nothing lonely about this,’ declared Polly. ‘This is the best place I’ve ever been in. Only five of you to cook and wash and clean for—I had ten in my last sittywation! Had to get up at five, and went to bed at ten, and never off my feet all day.’
    She was only too ready for a chat. Harriet abandoned her idea of waiting for Boz, and turned to Polly instead.
    â€˜Polly, is there a school in the village?’
    â€˜The village?’ repeated Polly. ‘You mean Barley Creek, I suppose.’
    â€˜I mean the place down there,’ said Harriet, impatiently waving her arm towards the creek.
    â€˜That’s Barley Creek—we don’t call it a village. Not that it’s a big town, like Blackhill, but it’s got a post office, and Mrs Tolly’s store, and the church—’
    â€˜But has it got a school ?’ demanded Harriet.
    â€˜Indeed it has,’ said Polly proudly, having already adopted Barley Creek as her native town. ‘ And a school-teacher—a real one, too. Not