Golden Hope

by Johanna Nicholls

  Nothing extraordinary had happened here since Captain Moonlite bailed up a gold coach. Maybe it’s about the threatened closure of the mine. Why should I give a damn? They didn’t want a bar of me.

  Rom’s mood soared when he caught sight of the small print. A Reward was being offered by Tribe’s Mortgage Bank to anyone with a plan to revitalise Hoffnung.

  Twenty flaming guineas! That’s a fortune. They must be desperate.

  Rom tossed ideas around in his head as he smoked his last cigarette down to the butt. Feeling unduly hot and sweaty, he tried to control the nervous reflex of his fingers as he eyed both ends of the road, awaiting the arrival of Doc Hundey, the one man Rom hoped he could count on to back his last-ditch stand.

  Doc’s the most widely respected man in town – but he’s no push-over. No chance of using a silver tongue on him.

  Chapter 3

  Dawn was breaking when Doc Hundey shifted in the chair where he had sat up all night beside the bedside of Mrs Q, knowing it was the closing hours in the life of their long, unspoken friendship.

  Doc knew her story. She had come to Hoffnung as a diggeress, one of the earliest gold-seekers. Some forty years ago her husband had disappeared overnight. It was said he’d been caught illicitly working another man’s claim – and met his end at the hands of ‘diggers’ rough justice’.

  Doc held the old woman’s withered hand in his. He felt privileged to be by her side so that she would not die alone. She had refused to see any ‘man of the cloth’. She had chosen him.

  He kept awake, refusing to relinquish her hand while it was warm with life, but in response to the flexing of his fingers, she stirred and opened one eye that fixed on him.

  She carefully paced her breathing to deliver one by one the final ‘words of advice’ for which she was well known.

  ‘Good man like you. Time you took a wife, Doc. You must be pushing forty.’

  He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. ‘Thirty-seven. Thank you for the compliment, Mrs Q, but I’m happily married to my profession.’

  ‘So you say. I reckon that sister of yours is your real problem. Bet she doesn’t want no other woman in the house, eh?’

  ‘Twins have a special bond,’ he offered gently, hoping that would cover the matter.

  ‘You ain’t joined at the hip. Time you both made a life of your own.’

  ‘You’re right, Mrs Q.’ He nodded to please her. If only it was that simple.

  Mrs Q looked across the room towards the shadows in the corner. Doc fancied he saw a glimmer of light in her eyes – like recognition. In all his years as a doctor he had never grown used to hearing the ‘death rattle’ that he dreaded. As if to please him, Mrs Q gave a long gentle sigh to mark her final exit.

  He glanced involuntarily at the point that she had been watching in the shadows, wondering if it might be true what some believers said. That at the moment of death, a loved one comes back to help the person cross over ‘into the light’ or whatever people liked to define as heaven – or some after-life.

  He could see nothing but the shadows. But he sensed a faint current of air passing across the room. He checked Mrs Q’s pulse. There was no longer any heartbeat.

  He felt his throat constrict. She was a woman who accepted people for what she saw in them – no matter what anyone else said.

  ‘Goodnight, Mrs Q,’ he said gently. ‘No doubt God will accept you on the same basis.’

  He closed her eyes, prepared her body for the undertaker, and wrote up the time and details for her death certificate. At the tank outside he refilled the china jug to wash himself in the wash basin. Changing into the spare clean shirt he always carried in the likelihood of long nights such as this, he buttoned his vest over it, checked his fob watch chain was in place and added the old tweed jacket that had become his accepted uniform.

  Long ago he had learned to live through nights without sleep by taking a few deep gulps of cold air to revive himself. He was now prepared for the day ahead.

  He drove his horse and cart at a brisk trot around the potholes, sharp bends and overhanging branches of the bush track and passed the scattered cottages and miner’s right cabins half hidden in the folds of the valleys. Lights blinked like eyes opening to dispel the darkness.

  He knew almost everyone in town was somehow related by blood ties, whether marital, illegitimate or in rare cases he suspected, due to incest. To differentiate townsfolk with similar names, many had earned a moniker based on some physical characteristic or trait. Doc had not been one to escape the custom.

  He exchanged a wave and greeting of ‘G’day’ with Joey ‘Kanga’ Smith, a raw lad who on Doc’s arrival ten years ago had named him Doc Hundey, aping the American Wild West’s gunslinger of the eighties, Wyatt Earp’s offsider Doc Holliday. In Joey’s eyes it was a glamorous epithet. Doc had no choice but to grin and bear it. Hoffnung – my refuge at the ends of the earth. I know you all – good, bad, human or evil. It might surprise Sergeant Mangles to know how many deathbed confessions I’ve heard – where ‘the bodies are buried’.

  He shrugged off the irony of his fate. If only I had some soul I could trust to share mine. That must go to the grave with me.

  Pausing outside the Diggers’ Rest he noted with surprise the fine golden-brown mare tied to the rail. He immediately linked the horse to the figure of Rom Delaney, who had already built up a dubious reputation.

  Ask no questions and I’ll be told no lies.

  Doc drew from his vest pocket the key to the side entrance that publican Tom Yeoman had given him for his Friday mornings’ use of the grace-and-favour room to see his patients.

  In a time-honoured ritual Doc rubbed the sleeve of his tweed jacket across the small brass plate that bore his name, Dr Robert A. Hundey, Physician and Surgeon.

  Any quack can give himself a highfaluting degree that he never earned. I’m happy to stand or fall by the reputation I’ve built here.

  As usual he doffed his hat to the kitchen maid who from dawn was engaged in blacking the kitchen fuel stove. Mary Mac greeted him with her cheery, gap-tooth smile. Built like a steam-roller, she looked capable of flattening anything in her path.

  ‘Morning, Doc. If you need help holding a bloke down to cut off his leg, I’ll sit on top of him for ya.’

  The same teasing offer greeted him every Friday morning, and he always responded in kind. ‘Thank you, Mary Mac. I’ll take up your kind offer if push comes to shove.’

  Her infectious giggle only faded when he closed the door to his surgery.

  In rapid sequence he placed paper, ink stand, pens and pencils as carefully as if laying a place at a dinner table. He dispensed his own medicines from the small range of basic ingredients he carried at all times, not only because the nearest apothecary lay miles away. The main reason was poverty. Many old-timer patients were gold-seekers, old fossickers. After the alluvial gold panned out, they had worked in the mines until their lungs had turned to rotten sponges. They were now reduced to buying spoiled hessian bags of tea, sugar and flour from the General Store.

  From his medical bag he removed the embossed leather diary he unlocked with the gold key he kept on the chain of his fob watch. More than a medical diary, it noted historical events of peculiar interest to him that had occurred in the six Australian Colonies now finally Federated in one nation. Macabre murders, unsolved crimes, statistics of poisoning and curious cases of people who had vanished without trace – they all fascinated him. This diary was, in a sense, his sole trusted confidant.

  He hurriedly checked his appearance in the mirror over the mantelpiece.

  His wavy crop of sandy hair was as thick as ever; his eyes that far-sighted pale grey often found in seamen who spent years scanning the horizon – as had his father, Captain Hundey. His English complexion was virtually unlined, despite years under the hot Colonial sun – the last ten spent happily in Hoffnung. God granted me the right to be a physician. May this town never lose its good opinion of me. If only Adelaide would leave
me in peace . . . a rod I’ve made for my own back.

  First patient of the day was Rom Delaney.

  Doc Hundey eyed him speculatively. His masculine, good looks were just short of handsome. The intelligent eyes today seemed overly bright. The slightly lopsided mouth was quick to grin but it was an expression that changed swiftly between humour and anger. I suspect he was born to talk himself out of trouble.

  Town gossip had chalked up a reputation for Delaney involving widows on remote farms who fed him for ‘services rendered’. I trust he’s not contracted a venereal disease. I’m running low on mercury.

  Rom stood, feet apart like a soldier at ease, his broad-brimmed hat on the back of his head. The words came out in a rush as if time was of the essence.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, Doc. I’m not here as a patient. I’ve decided to volunteer to fight the Boers in South Africa. I reckon this second time around the war won’t last long. But they’re calling for volunteers from all over the Empire – to support the Mother Country.’ His voice broke off, smothering a cough.

  ‘I see. And so you have come to see me, because . . .’

  ‘I don’t want to miss the chance to do my bit, Doc. I want to enlist. I reckon I’ll sail through the V.M.R.’s riding and shooting tests. But I need a medical certificate from someone who knows me. And a character reference from you would carry weight. I’m as fit as a fiddle, as you can see.’

  ‘You’re also very young. Underage, I should think?’

  ‘Fair go, Doc. I’m twenty-two. Lots of blokes are tied down with wives and kiddies at my age.’

  Doc gestured him to take a seat.

  ‘Let’s talk it through. Examine it from all sides. War is not simply a matter of national loyalty and dodging bullets. Just look at Britain’s medical record at the Crimea. More men died of fever and dysentery than were killed by the Russians.’

  ‘Yeah, but that Nursing Sister Florence Nightingale did wonders. It would all be different this time,’ Rom said confidently.

  ‘I suspect you have more faith in military organisation than I do, young man. Men die like flies from insanitary conditions in any war – a terrible waste of life. And as for this second outbreak of conflict with the Boer farmers, it’s been a long time brewing. Despite British optimism and statements by Lord Kitchener and his ilk, I believe it will take some years to resolve.’

  ‘You mean you won’t help me?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. I notice you have a nasty cough. I also suspect you have a high temperature – a touch of fever. I shall give you a thorough medical examination, and if I find anything wrong, I’ll strongly recommend you wait until the problem is cleared up. Agreed?’

  ‘Fair enough. But the thing is, Doc, volunteer soldiers sign up for a year – and they get paid each month with bed and board all told.’

  God, what a child he is. He hasn’t a clue about the reality of war.

  ‘Newspaper accounts of honour and glory are far different to what soldiers experience in battle. Don’t be tempted by the lure of a soldier’s low pay, lad.’

  Rom Delaney bridled. ‘Five shillings a day might appear low to some, but it’s regular. The fact is, Doc, I’m scratching to earn a crust, since Cobb and Co bailed out on me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a man to accept charity. No soup kitchens or hand-outs for me! I’ll pay my way – as soon as I can. I have a plan I’m going to put to Twyman at the meeting this morning.’

  Doc Hundey felt the lad was talking off the top of his head – or perhaps it was just the fever talking.

  ‘Your temperature is indeed high. One hundred and two. I can arrange a bed in the bush hospital –’

  ‘Thanks, Doc. Hospitals aren’t for me. No time to spare.’

  Doc Hundey examined him thoroughly, explained each point of reference and asked questions in the hope of drawing the lad out.

  ‘What is the mainstay of your diet?’

  ‘Tea and damper. The fish are just begging to be caught in the creek behind my hut – that’s a miner’s right cabin. Roof is sound, fireplace intact. Beats sleeping rough, eh?’

  ‘Do you have any family in Victoria?’

  ‘I never knew my Ma. She evidently cleared off with a bloke with money in his pocket. My Da worked at whatever was at hand. We travelled around all over, South Australia, down the Murray. When he was in luck and taken on for a season, I went to some bush school. I ended up in a Boys’ Home. I’m a quick learner.’

  Doc Hundey read the form Rom had filled in. ‘I can see that. Decent grammar and you write a fair hand. Forgive my curiosity, but your plan for Hoffnung – does it involve a large investment?’

  ‘No, Doc, that’s the beauty of it.’ Rom stalled, as if embarrassed. ‘To be honest, right now I’m skint. I’ll have to wait a bit before I can pay you.’

  Doc smothered a smile. You – along with half the town. ‘I’m often paid in kind with boxes of cabbages, fruit and eggs. It’s a system that works. I never send out a bill. And I never go hungry.’

  Rom wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve. ‘Thanks, Doc. I’ll square things with you when I can. Best be off.’

  ‘One moment.’ Doc removed a bottle from his medical bag. ‘I’m told this new cough mixture is excellent. You’d be doing me a favour if you’d test it and tell me if it works. It was a sample,’ he added pointedly. ‘I didn’t have to pay for it.’

  Rom accepted the bottle on that basis – unaware Doc had mixed the medicine himself and knew it was highly effective.

  ‘Tell me,’ he asked casually, ‘what exactly do you need to convince Councillor Twyman of your plan – whatever it is?’

  The youth leaned forward, his eyes shining like a zealot who alone could see the future. There was no stopping him.

  ‘My idea will sell itself. Hoffnung was bypassed by the railway, cut off from the outside world for years. The goldmine is a spent force. The town needs to hold special events to attract people here from far and wide.

  ‘I’ve got the very thing to start the ball rolling. The famous Wildebrand Circus just finished a season at Ballarat. It only played to half-filled houses. Bad planning. Another circus was in town. Wildebrand Circus is forced to head back to Melbourne.’

  ‘So where do you fit into the picture?’

  ‘I’ll convince them to take a detour – come here to Hoffnung. Can you imagine what it would do for this town? To have a circus play here for the first time ever? People would come in droves. Spend up big. There wouldn’t be a spare bed in town and they’d drink the Diggers’ Rest dry.’

  Doc fingered his smooth chin and, against all odds, felt a rising tide of interest in the crazy idea.

  ‘I must say as a child I never missed a circus.’

  Rom’s mouth twitched in a smile of triumph. ‘There you go! Will you back my plan to the Council this morning?’

  Doc Hundey felt cornered. ‘I’ll do my best to attend. But it depends on the line-up of patients.’

  ‘I knew I could count on you, Doc. When I pull this off, I’ll get you ringside seats.’

  It was clear Rom Delaney only heard what he wanted to hear.

  Doc Hundey felt reluctant to deflate the impossible dream as he showed his patient to the door.

  ‘May I wish you the best of British luck, young man? But remember, Twyman is a man notoriously slow to make decisions. By the time they gave you the nod, the circus would be virtually back in Melbourne.’

  Rom Delaney’s eyes widened and his smile was beatific. ‘You’re dead right, Doc. I’ve got the wrong end of the stick. First catch the circus!’

  Rom Delaney gave a ‘thumbs up’ sign and dashed outside.

  Through the window Doc watched the lad swing effortlessly up onto his bareback mount, waving his hat and giving a stockman’s holler as he rode away.

  The waiting room was already half-filled with patients who swivelled their head in his direction, like a nest of chicks waiting with open mouths to be fed by the mother bird.

  ‘Good
morning. Next patient, please,’ he said cheerfully, trying to live up to his reputation as the doctor of whom it was claimed, ‘Doc Hundey can cure anything – including a broken heart.’

  If only they knew . . . Physician Heal Thyself.

  Chapter 4

  The road to Melbourne

  There was no moon at all. All around them was a black cocoon broken only by that low, whispering undercurrent of nameless sound that was peculiar to the Australian bush. The Wildebrand Circus camp lay shrouded in darkness, the ring of wagons close to each other forming a wedge against the darkness.

  Clytie felt nervous, wondering if the barrier was strong enough to keep out the evil spirits that Aborigines believed preyed on those who left the protection of the firelight. All inside the camp was quiet except for the occasional snuffling sound of Missy asleep in the lion cage. Alone in the Hart wagon, Clytie lay coiled in her bedroll, unable to sleep, listening for the signs she dreaded.

  Vlad’s wagon was cheek to jowl with theirs. He was making an effort to keep his voice low but Clytie caught broken phrases. ‘Ballarat, Bendigo, the whole bloody Gold Triangle . . . a washout – thanks to Gourlay . . . face it, woman . . . the circus is in the red . . . a mutiny on our hands . . .!’

  Clytie was stunned by the word ‘mutiny.’ Vivid images sprang to mind of Pedro’s history lessons about the infamous mutiny on Captain Bligh’s ship The Bounty; the Rum Rebellion caused by officers’ monopoly of the rum trade; the rebel miners at the Eureka Stockade fighting under their Southern Cross flag.

  Could a mutiny happen in Wildebrand Circus? A circus is family – Mama says so. We must all pull together.

  The argument escalated. The unmistakable sound of a heavy slap and her mother’s cry of pain sent Clytie springing to her rescue. Barefooted, she hurtled across the gap between their wagons and rapped on Vlad’s door, uncaring if she woke the whole camp.

  Vlad peered through the doorway, his handsome face flushed and slack with drink, red veins in his dark eyes.

  ‘Mama, are you all right? Come with me!’