Golden Hope

by Johanna Nicholls

  He wasn’t the only tightwad in town. Pius James was said to have grown a beard to save the wear and tear on a cut-throat razor. A pillar of his church, he never put a foot wrong in terms of the law.

  But I’ll bet there’s a bunch of convicts in his family tree. It takes one to know one.

  Rom enjoyed the ironic memory of his father’s claim that he had been a rebel at the Eureka Stockade, knowing that Paddy Delaney had been an escaped Vandemonian convict – and had probably fled the battle at the sound of the troopers’ first gunshot.

  He increased the speed of his work at the sight of Noni James crossing the cobblestones towards the flower beds. By all accounts Pius was intent on seeing his daughter ‘marry up’ into ‘old family money’ – a limited choice in Hoffnung.

  Noni was nineteen and ripe for marriage – a virgin in reputation only. He didn’t hold that against her. It was her snobbery that riled him.

  The setting sun outlined Noni’s slender body through the thin layer of a white muslin gown that was modest – until the sun’s rays betrayed her. It left little to Rom’s imagination. Conscious of her covert glances, he mopped his face with his shirt-tail, revealing a flash of bare chest. Determined to ignore her, he continued working.

  She crossed to the water tank and unlocked the padlock chained in times of drought to protect their precious water supply against theft. She filled a tin cup with water and approached him, her head held high.

  ‘Here, Delaney, you better drink this.’

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ he said, draining the water in one long draught. Their hands touched by accident as he returned the mug to her.

  She drew back as if he had burned her. ‘You best toe the line, lad, if you want future work from my father. Don’t be getting any ideas above your station.’

  ‘Oh? What ideas would that be, Miss?’ he asked innocently enough, enjoying her discomfort.

  ‘Father has rejected several potential suitors. He says only one man in town is worthy enough to marry me.’

  ‘Right. I get it you’re saving yourself – for Mr Right.’ The words were said with respect but the glint in his eye must have betrayed him. The girl’s face flushed bright pink.

  ‘You may think it a joke, Delaney, but a respectable girl has to protect her reputation. Father keeps a shotgun beside the family Bible – in case any man takes it into his head to have the wrong idea about me.’

  ‘Your father’s a wise man. You can’t be too careful, Miss James. The world is full of us blokes with wrong ideas.’

  She gasped, clearly unsure whether to return to the house or retain a tenuous hold on her dignity.

  What’s she waiting for? I’m not going to put a foot wrong, sweetheart. Girls like you are trouble.

  He continued to shovel coal, masking his words with seeming politeness. ‘It must be difficult to find Mr Right in a town this small, Miss James.’

  ‘None of your business, Delaney,’ she said with a toss of the head. ‘Best get back to work if you expect Father to pay you.’

  Yet she remained watching him so Rom could not resist adding fuel to the fire.

  ‘Sonny Jantzen’s pretty stiff competition for any of us blokes. Being heir to a goldmine and all that.’

  Noni’s blush confirmed the name was right on target.

  Seething with anger, she stammered. ‘How – how presumptuous. A no-hoper like you! Who do you think you are?’

  ‘Well,’ Rom said casually, ‘you could say I’m the bloke who won the bank’s prize – to save Hoffnung.’

  Her intended retort was broken by the whistle blast from the mine head that marked the miners’ last shift.

  The sound was more than welcome. Six o’clock. Half an hour to get me cleaned up before the circus.

  Rom held Noni’s eyes with slow deliberation as he removed his shirt and slung it casually over his shoulder. Standing head and shoulders above her, she was forced to look up to him. His height was the one advantage he had over her.

  Noni tried to regain the upper hand. ‘I’ll call Father to pay you your wages. You’ll need cash to attend the circus.’

  ‘No hurry. I’m the guest of honour – seeing I’m responsible for bringing the circus to town. I trust you and Mr Right will enjoy it.’ Rom could not resist a parting shot. ‘Don’t worry, Noni, your secret’s safe with me. Sonny won’t get to hear it from me.’

  • • •

  The tank beside the abandoned miner’s right cabin was rusty with age, now a collection of holes held together by bands of tin. Rom wasn’t complaining. The place had become his temporary home, better than sleeping rough in the bush. He hurried down to the creek and plunged into it naked, gasping with the shock of icy water that had flowed down from the mountains. Using his shirt as a sponge, he rubbed the coal soot from his body then hastily washed his clothes in the creek.

  Wearing only his boots, he hurried through the bush to the cabin, allowing the breeze to dry his naked body. Slinging his washing over the line of fencing wire between two gum trees, he dressed in the only other shirt he possessed plus the moleskin trousers he had commandeered from someone’s unguarded clothesline. A red neckerchief knotted at the throat and his outfit was completed by the well-tailored waistcoat a farmer’s widow had given him from her dead husband’s wardrobe.

  He smiled wryly at the pleasant memory. Women, bless ’em, are so generous when a man takes care of their needs.

  In the process of giving his boots a hasty polish, he spun around to face the source of the familiar growl. The black and tan Kelpie was crouched in the doorway, too proud to beg but determined not to budge until his needs were met.

  ‘You again, eh? You’re like a shadow that sticks to a man’s heels even when it’s raining.’

  The Kelpie cocked his head to one side as if weighing his chances.

  ‘Look mate, I’m flat out keeping me and my horse in tucker. Where’s your pride? Kelpies are working dogs. Go find a farmer to give you a job keeping the dingos away from his mob.’

  The dog lay down with paws extended. Panting from the heat, it never took its eyes from him.

  ‘All right, all right, water. But that’s your lot.’

  Against his better judgement Rom emptied a few remaining scraps of food beside the tin bowl.

  ‘Consider that your last supper, mate. Horses can go to fight the Boers. Sheep dogs can’t volunteer.’

  He grimaced as he downed half of the Doc’s cough medicine. He didn’t feel quite comfortable about lying to Doc that he was twenty-two instead of nineteen. So what? Lots of blokes jack up their age to volunteer.

  After checking his appearance in the broken shard of mirror, Rom went outside to give Goldie a rub down. Whether or not recruiting officers would accept a mare like Goldie, who didn’t have a saddle on her back, was an unknown factor.

  Tribe’s prize money plus Pius’s measly wage would cover a quality second-hand saddle, stirrups, bridle and all the necessary kit to enlist. Until then it was a case of needs must.

  He rode bareback along the track to Hoffnung Cricket Ground towards a night of wonder at the circus.

  If I’m in luck, I’ll cop a kiss in the dark with that Clytie girl – I reckon she’s over the age of consent.

  The floodwaters appeared to be holding at their highest level, judging by the debris caught like a ‘high tide mark’ along the river’s banks. This backwater arm of the Lerderderg now looked less threatening as it carried the flood’s refuse of branches, logs and traces of domesticity downstream to abandon them before it flowed beneath the log bridge that now lay barely two feet above the creek.

  As he rode Goldie across the bridge, Rom talked gently to give her confidence. He might not own a saddle, but he prided himself he tended her as lovingly as if she was a prize thoroughbred.

  The young roustabout who was planted in the ticket box recognised him instantly and waved him through the turnstile.

  ‘I know you. You’re the Boss’s guest for as long as we’re in town. You’re we
lcome to bring your sheila along too.’

  Rom kept a straight face. ‘That’d be an invitation to disaster, mate. My girlfriends don’t like each other. I’d have a cat fight on my hands.’

  The boy gave a knowing chuckle at Rom’s bravado.

  Inside the Big Top the German brass band finished playing that haunting new ballad Waltzing Matilda, written by Banjo Paterson, who Rom had read was now a war correspondent in South Africa. The lyrics sounded romantic until he remembered they were inspired by the Queensland Shearers Strike of the 1890s when a rebel shearer on the run from the traps had drowned himself rather than be captured. The memory of the strike remained raw in the national memory.

  The band struck up the Overture, a tempo clearly designed to build expectation and excitement in the audience.

  Shown to his ringside seat and given a program by a pint-sized usher, Rom casually acknowledged the nods of a number of townsfolk who had never previously given him the time of day.

  What do you know? The circus has given me a leg up in status. Everyone and his dog must be here tonight.

  It was a full house. The faces around him included Banker George Tribe and his family, and the publican Tom Yeoman. The corpulent, bearded figure of Boss Jantzen was seated beside his golden boy, Sonny. Rom noted that their Aboriginal servant girl, Alice, was seated at the rear of the cheaper seats – but at least they had paid for her to attend.

  On the opposite side of the ring Noni James was decked out in all her finery, sitting beside her father, her eye focussed on every move made by Sonny Jantzen. Rom recognised outlying farmers who rarely appeared in town. Kids’ mouths were ringed with toffee-apple stains. The whisky-drinking Catholic priest Father Donnelly sat chatting amicably with the teetotal Salvation Army Captain, whose military-style uniform contrasted with the Ringmaster’s scarlet jacket, gold frogging and epaulets.

  Sergeant Mangles stood on duty by the entrance flaps, no doubt keeping an eye out for any larrikin who might try to aim a slingshot to endanger the performers.

  Rom was surprised to see the elderly Chinaman, Long Sam, sitting in the front row, all spruced up and wearing a celluloid collar and tie and spectacles.

  Just as the lights began to dim, a handsomely dressed woman was shown to an empty seat on the aisle of the front row. Her head was held high beneath the veiling of her fashionable hat, but he noticed the way she descended the steps with care as if intent on disguising her limp. On the last step she stumbled and in the act of regaining her balance with Long Sam’s assistance, Rom caught sight of her heavy boot.

  What do you know? A rare public appearance by Doc’s reclusive sister Adelaide. Not bad looking. Pity about her crippled foot.

  Rom felt his heart racing when the lights dimmed. The music swelled, the theatrical spotlights blazed, casting flickering lights across the faces in the audience.

  Rom found himself responding spontaneously to all the thrills and surprises, the clowns’ crowd-pleasing antics, the heart-in-mouth feats of daring, as if he was being given a missing link to the childhood he had never known. He quickly dismissed images of the grey children’s homes where he had been placed when his father was on the grog or drying out in the Watch House. As a child he had never been closer to a circus than a billboard poster.

  He admired the performers’ wide range of skills – one moment a tumbler, the next a high-wire walker. According to the program, next was the equestrienne act billed as Daring Dolores, ‘famous for performing the most difficult feat of all on horseback – the forward somersault!’

  The Ringmaster’s announcement claimed Rom’s full attention.

  ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, for your edification and pleasure we bring you Little Clytie. This fifth generation child equestrienne will perform for the first time anywhere in the Antipodes, the backwards somersault made famous by her sister, The Daring Dolores.’

  So why isn’t Dolores performing with her as billed?

  Warm applause welcomed the entrance into the ring of two dashing white horses with ornate bridles but no saddles. A surprisingly tall ‘little girl’ ran into the centre of the ring, dressed in a glittering pink costume, a circlet of roses crowning her wild black mane.

  Clytie. Her fixed smile appeared confident but Rom prided himself he knew women – it was a mask to cover nervous concentration. Her eyes darted back to Ringmaster Gourlay to take her cue from him, as he judged the correct rhythmic pace of the horses.

  From a standing position Clytie sprang like a jack-in-the-box up onto the back of the leading horse, instantly converting her pose into a graceful balletic movement, kicking up one leg and holding it above her head with one hand, extending her other arm as ballast. The applause was spontaneous. Yet as she rode past Rom’s seat he was convinced her hand was shaking.

  Audience admiration escalated as she performed a series of feats, springing from horse to horse. Tension rose when the Ringmaster held a hoop some ten yards in the direct path of the leading horse on which Clytie stood balanced. As the hoop suddenly burst into flames, she curled herself up into a ball and catapulted through the fiery circle – to regain her stance on the horse’s back.

  Rom felt his muscles tense when the Ringmaster asked the audience for total silence.

  ‘Little Clytie will now perform for you, for the very first time in her life, the most difficult equestrian feat, the backward somersault performed on horseback.’

  Rom checked the program. It says Dolores’s famous feat was a forward somersault – or flip-flap. Sounds like Clytie hasn’t yet reached Dolores’s mark. Rom held his breath, willing the girl to succeed.

  The audience obeyed the call for total silence.

  Clytie executed the first somersault but made a slightly awkward landing on the back of the horse. For a heart-stopping moment she appeared in danger of losing her balance. She quickly resumed a graceful pose to acknowledge the applause.

  On the brink of her second attempt, the entire audience seemed to suck in its breath.

  Rom’s palms were sweating. Come on, Clytie, you can do it!

  The second flip-flap she achieved with grace to even greater applause.

  ‘Bravo!’ Rom leapt to his feet and his voice rose above the others, amid a sea of whistles and stamping feet.

  Clytie stretched her arms in the air in triumph. In response the audience rose as one to their feet and applauded wildly.

  Just look at her. She drinks applause like champagne – and it’s gone straight to her head!

  Clytie charmingly ignored the Ringmaster’s gesture for her to take her final bow and exit. Instead she shook her head and her outstretched hand curved downward and forward as if it was a signal between them. Gourlay shook his head in denial, signalled her to dismount. Clytie pretended she did not see him and urged her horse to continue, standing perched on his back.

  Rom distinctly heard her tell the Ringmaster, ‘I’m going to do it!’

  Forced to capitulate, Gourlay made the announcement, asking for total silence.

  As Clytie rode past, Rom saw that her eye was caught by the elegant woman seated at the other end of his row. As gracefully as if it was a well-rehearsed gesture at every performance, Clytie removed the circlet of roses crowning her hair. She leapt down from the horse, curtsied and presented the floral tribute to Adelaide Hundey. Rom was curious. Why has she singled out Doc’s sister? Why not Twyman or the Banker if she’s trying to impress the bigwigs in the town?

  Beneath her veil Miss Hundey’s pale features were expressionless but her long gloved hands held the floral tribute as if it were of great value.

  Leaping back onto the leading white horse, Clytie circled the ring, building tension in the audience.

  Just look at Gourlay’s face! She’s defying his orders.

  The second time around it happened. With extraordinary speed she catapulted her body into a forward somersault. The attempt was perfectly timed. She landed gracefully. Reaping the wild applause, she leapt down onto the sawdust to take a deep bow, as att
endants led the horses from the ring.

  Rom grinned in open admiration. What a little trouper. Determined to please the audience if it killed her. Tonight if I’m in luck, I intend to be the one to please her.

  His mind filled with delicious fantasies, he was only half aware of the following act. At his entrance the lion-tamer Lionello appeared lithe and youthful until Rom recognised the stark contrast between his unnaturally black hair and the theatrical make-up beginning to melt under the lights. The man was much older than in the program’s photograph – and perhaps past his prime.

  At the climax to Lionello’s act, he commanded Missy the lion to stretch out on the sawdust. Lionello lay down and rested his head on the beast, using her body like a pillow. Wild applause rewarded him.

  Turning his back on Missy to take a series of bows, he was startled when the audience yelled a warning. The lion was moving stealthily towards him, ready to spring. Lionello froze. He had dropped his whip. It lay on the sawdust, closer to the lion than to him. Defenceless, he urgently commanded her, ‘Back, sweetheart!’

  The lion opened her mouth and roared. Attendants little taller than schoolboys rushed forward. The legs of wooden chairs their only shield, they gradually prodded Missy back onto her pedestal.

  Regaining his professional demeanour, Lionello cracked his whip with a show of confidence to calm the audience. He coaxed Missy back into her cage and left the attendants to roll the cage from the ring. Sweating and with a toothy smile of desperation, Lionello milked the crowd’s applause as he backed from the ring.

  According to Rom’s program the final act before the Grand Parade was Vlad the Knife-Thrower, ‘star of the Royal Russian Circus’. Instead there was an unscheduled diversion, a wild choreography of falls, tumbles and tricks played out between the giant clown Pedro and Tiche, the dwarf clown who kept outsmarting him – much to the children’s delight.