He attempted to shut the door in her face but Clytie wedged her shoulder into the gap.
‘Piss off, kid. Mind your own damned business.’
‘Mama is my business!’ Clytie hissed at him, refusing to budge until she heard her mother’s voice.
‘I’m all right, sweetheart. It was just a misunderstanding. Go back to sleep.’
The door was slammed shut.
Shivering with cold in the darkness but reluctant to leave her mother behind, Clytie was relieved to see she was not alone. Standing outside his wagon in his pyjamas was her classmate, Tiche the Clown, whose name was borrowed from the English music hall star. A dwarf in height, the twelve-year-old had the courage of a lion and sprang to the defence of anyone in trouble. Tiche had the punch of a heavyweight and could use his short height to advantage by delivering a savage bite to an opponent’s kneecap.
He charged up to her, ready for a fight. ‘Is Dolores all right? I’ll give it to that mongrel Vlad, just say the word. I’ll kneecap him!’
Clytie hesitated then reluctantly signalled in the negative to prevent the attack that Vlad deserved. ‘Thanks, Tiche. I know you would. But Mama says she’s fine.’
He looked disappointed. She was comforted by the knowledge he disliked Vlad as intensely as she did.
‘Righto. But you can always call on me, Clytie.’
‘I know we can, Tiche. You’re true blue.’
She gave him a quick hug then reluctantly returned to her bedroll.
Sleep was evasive. She lay awake, on the alert for further trouble, her thoughts gnawing around the strange love-hate relationships between some adults.
Do all men beat women behind closed doors? Was my true father like Vlad? How can I tell if a loving man will turn out to be a rotter? I reckon it’s safer never to marry. But Mama says when love hits you – common sense flies out the window . . .
The sun had already broken free from the straggling streamers of dawn’s light when Clytie awoke alone in the Hart wagon. Her head ached from the heat that promised another scorching day – her headache reinforced by her night of broken sleep.
The cheery sounds of the crew of boy roustabouts at work and the chatter of women cooking breakfast over their own small campfires urged Clytie out of bed. She rummaged for the comfortable articles of boys’ clothing she wore on the road to save wear and tear on the sole town dress she was fast outgrowing.
She poured water from the jug into the basin and stripped naked to wash herself from head to toe. No matter how grubby she became at her assigned tasks, polishing the wagon and oiling the wheels with axle grease, it was Mama’s unwritten law that Clytie began and ended the day scrupulously clean – the first rule of good health.
Standing naked in front of the mirror, she brushed and plaited her wavy dark hair into a single braid as thick as a man’s arm. She suddenly felt acutely conscious of how her body had begun to blossom. The buds of her breasts had seemed to sprout overnight, the nipples rosy in colour – more like the breasts of a woman, than the child’s body she was familiar with. She tentatively touched her breasts. The sight both pleased and discomforted her. I’m growing out of my own body. Better get used to the idea.
It was then she glimpsed the reflection at the edge of the mirror. She instantly grabbed a towel to shield herself, her mouth dry, her heart beating fast.
Vlad stood leaning against the doorway, his arms folded across his chest.
‘Not Little Clytie anymore. Not by a long shot.’
‘Piss off, Vlad!’ Her voice pitched high with anxiety. ‘I locked that door!’
‘Broken. Anyway, there’s no lock can keep me out if I have a mind to enter.’
She stammered out the words. ‘Knock before you enter our place.’
‘Your place?’ he mocked. ‘You don’t own the shoes you stand in, girlie. Wagons, horses, your show ponies – everything is in my name. Dolores signed them all over to me.’
The shock of his words silenced her.
Vlad played his winning hand, taunting her. ‘No need to flash yourself for my benefit. Dolores is safe, just as long as she keeps sober and does what I tell her.’
He turned and sauntered off in the direction of Boss Gourlay’s wagon.
Clytie found herself trembling, her nails biting into the shield of her towel, overcome by the sheer injustice of the whole scene.
Dolores must have been out of her right mind to sign everything over to him.
The answer came to her in an instant. No doubt that blackguard’s fists did the talking.
Seething with rage, she flung on her shirt and overalls, and thrust her plait inside the Scottish tartan cap that concealed her hair. She downed a tumbler of water, thrust a stale bread roll and an apple into her pocket then strode off towards the communal wagons that held the forage and toolboxes.
She halted when her name was called by Madame Zaza. Her mother’s friend since childhood, Zaza had once been a star performer. Now her crystal ball enticed the gullible to her booth before every show to have their future foretold. The old Romani woman was busily engaged in sewing costumes, her secondary role as self-styled Wardrobe Mistress.
Clytie grabbed the chance to get to the bottom of the threat of mutiny.
‘Good morning, Zaza. I hear trouble’s brewing about the future of the circus – and Gourlay’s plans for us.’
‘Who could blame them? We didn’t even break even in Ballarat and Bendigo. And other places cancelled out on us – rotten welshers.’
‘So what happens next?’
‘You asking me? Or my crystal ball?’ Zaza gave a grim laugh. ‘No point in asking Boss Gourlay. He changes his mind like a weathervane.’
Zaza looked up from the sequins she was sewing in clusters onto a fancy pink costume and gave Clytie a knowing look.
‘Stand warned. It’s bad luck scrying in a crystal ball or asking the cards about your own fate. But I’ve taught Dolores all I know about the Tarot – so ask her about your future.’ She bit off the final length of cotton and gave Clytie a knowing wink. ‘But I can tell you this for nothing. Be on guard against a man with no name. I see you with two men and a dog – only one of them is faithful.’
‘I’ll bet that’s the dog,’ Clytie said wryly.
‘You’re too young to be cynical,’ Zaza said and rapped her over the knuckles. Her eye was caught by the crystal ball. She peered into it.
‘Be quiet, girl. What’s this? Ah yes, I see you living in a priest’s house.’
Zaza’s words were the last thing Clytie expected to hear. She dismissed the nameless man as of little consequence. From early childhood she had wondered what it would be like to live in a house without wheels – but a priest’s house?
‘Don’t tell me Vlad intends to pack me off to a convent! I’m not cut out to be a nun.’
‘Don’t ask me how or when – but these things will happen. Now, what do you think of this costume? Glamorous or what?’
Clytie duly admired Zaza’s completed handiwork then made for the stores wagon, keeping her ears open for clues. In passing she caught odd phrases: ‘I say we put it to the vote . . . Melbourne’s miles away – then what? . . . Boss Gourlay attracts bad luck – like killing an albatross brings disaster to a ship . . .’
At the heart of the circle performers were busy rehearsing, juggling, tumbling, limbering up on practice mats.
She spotted Dolores at the farthest end. Vlad was standing over her, his head bent to her ear, clearly talking hard and fast. Clytie was discomforted to find herself the subject of their scrutiny.
I’ll bet that liar is feeding her poisonous lies about me – this morning.
Clytie coloured at the thought that her ‘stepfather’ was the only man to have seen her naked. The thought made her feel unclean, but how much more would it upset her mother?
Hurriedly collecting her cleaning rags, polish and axle grease, she returned to their wagon and busied herself working so that Vlad could not fault her for not pulling her
weight.
The Hart wagon was stationed closest to the main highway to Melbourne. Clytie was the first to see the stranger riding towards the camp.
It was the horse she noticed first, a glorious golden-brown mare.
The young rider was casually dressed in a striped shirt with a jaunty red neckerchief knotted at his neck, his moleskin trousers belted with a flash buckle. The broad-brimmed black hat anchored long dark hair that the wind blew back from features that were arresting rather than handsome. His complexion, long exposed to the sun, was shining as if he had been galloping for miles. His wide mouth parted in a cocksure grin that seemed to anticipate good news.
At the sight of Clytie he veered in her direction. He halted his horse and casually leaned forward in the saddle to smile down at her. Clytie felt a jolt of surprise. His clear blue eyes held a message that was hard to fathom.
She was used to summing up punters at first glance, sorting out the gullible from those who needed work to win them over. She pegged this rider as a young man with the gift of the gab – yet who played his true hand of cards close to his chest.
The stranger’s smile was confident. ‘G’day, lad. Could you point me in the direction of the circus manager? I take it his name is Gourlay, right?’
Conscious that her face was streaked with sweat and axle grease, her hair covered by her cap, Clytie nonetheless felt jarred by his mistake.
Lad? That hick can’t even recognise a girl when he sees one.
She decided to play along with it. Stretching up to her full height, she thrust her thumbs in her belt and swaggered forward a few paces, aping a boy’s stance. Pitching her voice to a lower, gruff note, she gestured casually in the direction of the red wagon that was markedly more impressive than all others in the convoy.
‘You’ve got the name right. But we’re en route to Melbourne. So I wouldn’t count on seeking work with us, stranger. We aren’t taking on any more warbs.’
His smile faltered. ‘Warbs?’
‘Roustabouts who erect tents, groom the horses and all that.’
The rider’s smile was now double-edged. ‘I’m not seeking work, kid. I’m offering it.’
He rode off without another word, leaving Clytie even more irritated.
Her work now completed to a level that gave Vlad no cause for complaint, she was free to follow the figures drifting closer to Gourlay’s wagon in curiosity. The stranger was engaged in animated conversation with Boss Gourlay on the platform erected like a miniature stage in front of the manager’s red wagon. Gourlay stood in the stance of John Bull, the buttons of his checked waistcoat straining to contain his paunch. As always, his trousers were neatly pressed and he was the only man in the troupe who never rolled up his sleeves. Summer or winter, his silk top hat was his badge of identity.
Along with the others Clytie drew as close as possible to pick up on their conversation without appearing to be obviously eavesdropping. The young man’s voice rang out clear and true, driven by enthusiasm and confidence, yet he listened politely to Gourlay’s questions.
‘I saw you perform in Bendigo. You were splendid – far beyond your reputation. But the weather was dead against you – gale force winds would keep any audience home in their beds.’
Gourlay grunted in agreement. ‘Ain’t that the truth!’
‘You deserve to perform for audiences who value your true worth. As I do,’ he bowed, repeating his name for the benefit of the impromptu gathering. ‘Rom Delaney at your service. I have been sent by the Mayor of Hoffnung to offer you a special invitation – which will make history!’ He gestured to the clustered groups, now alert to his every word. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen of the circus, I ask you, are you going to deny my town the experience of a lifetime – the magic of Wildebrand Circus?’
Standing at the rear of the gathering but close enough to catch his every expression, Clytie eyed him speculatively. No backwoods hick, this one. He’s a born spruiker. There’s a fair chance Gourlay will fall for his blarney.
Rom Delaney’s face was shining, his eyes gleaming. His voice was dark, strong and rich with excitement. Startled, she realised that for once their positions were reversed. It was the circus troupe that was the audience – ready to soak up a performance they wanted to believe.
Gourlay, half cautious, half attracted to the bait, asked the question with narrowed eyes. ‘Where exactly would we perform? We need plenty of space for our Big Top, wagons and animals – and a ready supply of water.’
‘Aah!’ Rom paused for dramatic effect but Clytie suspected he was mentally grasping for a solution.
‘We can offer you the perfect venue to erect your Big Top situated by the river. I ask you, Sir, why press on to Melbourne, when you can make a killing right there among the gold miners and property owners of Hoffnung?’
Rom Delaney gestured dramatically as if the town was simply to be found on the other side of the adjacent hill.
‘Hoffnung is hungry for entertainment. No circus has ever played there since the Gold Rush. They’ve got money in their pockets ready to burn. Imagine what a sensation Wildebrand Circus will be! Just look at this map, Sir.’
He presented a document to Gourlay and spoke directly to the circus troupe. ‘Hoffnung is only seven and a half miles along the next turn-off road from the highway. You’ll have your whole troupe set up before nightfall!’
Boss Gourlay examined the map. ‘Where’s Hoffnung? I can’t see it marked.’
‘It’s a very old map, Sir,’ Rom said quickly. ‘Look, I’ve marked it with a cross. It’s a stone’s throw from the famous Hoffnung Mineral Springs – our mineral content is superior to any spa in Europe. And right here is the Golden Hope – the gold in that mine is like a bottomless pit!’
Rom Delaney, his face aglow with confidence, extended his hand for Gourlay to shake. ‘Well, Sir, I’m sure I can count on you to accept our invitation.’
Clytie held her breath. In his short stint as manager The Boss had proven himself a man of impulse – right or wrong.
Gourlay shook the proffered hand, then turned and addressed his troupe. There was no need to use his megaphone, but he did so anyway for dramatic effect.
‘Hear this! Change of plans. Wildebrand Circus accepts the invitation to perform at Huf – Huf –’ He looked to Rom for confirmation.
‘Hoffnung,’ Rom supplied quickly.
‘Hoffnung. Let’s get the show on the road. Tomorrow we will give them a performance they will never forget.’
Gourlay snapped his fingers. Right on cue his ten-year-old son ran inside their wagon and returned with a bundle of posters and handbills. The manager unfurled one for Delaney’s benefit, a dramatic red, blue and yellow poster depicting a glamorous equestrienne and a lion-tamer in a frogged military jacket cracking his whip over the head of a roaring lion.
Rom Delaney accepted the posters with a bow. His horse had no saddle but he sprang up so effortlessly to mount it that Clytie had to admit she was impressed. With a deep-throated stockman’s holler, he rode off in the direction of Hoffnung – the town of destiny.
The troupe splintered, laughing and talking on the run as they took their accustomed roles to break camp. Clytie raced off in search of her mother with the words of the lad’s spiel ringing in her ears. Flushed with excitement, she found Dolores resting in their wagon, a cold compress across her eyes.
‘Are you all right? You must be the only one who didn’t hear the news.’
‘I heard the noise. What’s Gourlay up to now? Has he gone soft in the head? One minute we’re headed for Marvellous Melbourne. Next minute –’
‘We’re on our way to Hoffnung! Melbourne will have to wait its turn. Just think. We’re going to play for gold miners who’ve never seen a circus in their whole lives. Maybe they’ll shower us with gold nuggets. Like the diggers did when Lola Montez danced in Ballarat!’
Every performer knew the legends about the ‘Spanish’ courtesan and mistress of Austria’s King Leopold. Touring the Gold Triangle dur
ing the Gold Rush, her erotic ‘Spider Dance’ had caused shockwaves. Diggers sent a rain of nuggets onto the stage.
Dolores peered from under her eye mask. ‘Hold your horses. That was in the rush of fifty-four. A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since then, girlie.’
Clytie could not be dampened. ‘Maybe so. But Rom Delaney says there’s plenty of gold left in Hoffnung. When they see your equestrienne act I reckon they’ll shower the ring with nuggets, Mama!’
Clytie was laughing and Dolores shook her head tolerantly. In a matter of minutes despair had turned to hope. Tomorrow they would play for a new audience who wanted them – a backwoods bush community, it was true, but one hungry for all the glamour, skill and enchantment that they had been training all their lives to deliver.
Meanwhile tonight, buoyed up by the rich promise of tomorrow’s rise in their fortunes, they would set up a new camp, laugh, drink and swap stories about the circus legends and headline acts they had played with in the past. Tonight they would not go hungry. Tomorrow lay waiting over the next sunrise, golden with hope.
Clytie hugged her mother. ‘Take it easy, Mama. Leave everything to me. Think of Hoffnung as a bit of a holiday – a chance for you to rest up.’
She could not admit even to herself the shadow of fear she had felt this morning while rummaging in the linen laundry bag. Her hand had touched a handkerchief embroidered with the initial D. One corner showed tell-tale specks of blood. Was this the result of some injury inflicted by Vlad? Or was it the first trace of the spectre that haunted the world, the disease suffered by The Lady of the Camellias – consumption.
Clytie turned in the doorway when her mother called her name. Dolores was studying her. Those lovely violet eyes that had seen too much sadness were suddenly serious.
‘Clytie, about this morning. Vlad told me that – he – you . . .’
‘Oh Mama, please believe me. I never did – I never would –’
Dolores cut her off. ‘Hush! Do you think I don’t know my own daughter?’
Clytie wanted to rush back and hug her mother in relief. She was forced to turn away from the truth she read in Dolores’s eyes – Vlad’s lie had caused her more pain than all his beatings.
Golden Hope Page 3
