Golden Hope

by Johanna Nicholls

  Although Clytie had not been inside a church since, as a small child Dolores had taught her to pray to The Creator of All Things. Clytie was quite content to accept her mother’s word that The Creator was everywhere – whether you were inside a holy place or travelling nine months of the year on the circus route.

  This golden morning the circus family was only just beginning to stir. Clytie had left Dolores sleeping in their wagon, exhausted after the ugly scene last night with Vlad. It was no surprise to her that he had not shown his face again. He was never a man to apologise for the acts of violence that he blamed on Dolores for ‘pushing him over the edge’.

  Clytie tried to dismiss the memory of the tangled cries and images of brutal love-making that she had imagined in the darkness – a pattern from which her mother seemed unable to break free.

  If only Vlad would go off and join Wirth’s Circus, or the FitzGerald Brothers – if they’d have him. And leave Mother and me in peace.

  Little family campfires were burning brightly and the smell of breakfast was so tantalising Clytie felt her nostrils twitch as she made her way to the small timber grandstand of the Cricket Ground. It was hardly grand, so small that its three rows of benches would hold at best no more than a score of spectators.

  Last night it had been set up with trays of meat pies, sandwiches and alcohol disguised as ‘soft’ drinks. Today it held nothing but empty boxes. A large black and tan Kelpie was busily scavenging.

  Wildebrand’s rehearsal roster was pinned to an inner wall of the grandstand to protect its hand-coloured lettering from the weather. A number of the troupe were unable to read or write, so to save them embarrassment the roster listed cartoon symbols in place of all their names, indicating Boss Gourlay’s orders for them to try out new routines or polish existing acts.The drawings included a lion for Lionello, a rope for Ruby the Aerialist, a dagger for Vlad, a fan for Dolores and in place of Clytie’s name was a fairy wand.

  She ran her eye down the roster. The changes to Vlad’s new act were scheduled for nine o’clock. Their equestrienne act was not listed. Had Gourlay sacked them both? Or must she continue to replace her mother in Vlad’s act?

  Clytie asked The Creator of All Things to free her from Vlad’s act but also to protect Dolores from his anger – and his knives.

  The note she had left by her sleeping mother’s bedside stated her intention to go to church with Rom Delaney, but assured her she would return in plenty of time for the special afternoon performance – free for children, given each one was accompanied by a paying adult. It was hoped every child within a ten-mile radius would flock to see them in buggies, on horseback or by ‘shank’s pony’.

  Clytie felt a quickening sense of panic. What if he doesn’t come for me? What if I never see him again?

  She decided to set out alone for the cluster of churches on the hill they had passed when entering the town. Let that Rom Delaney find me if he has a mind to. I’m not chasing any man.

  Passing the lion’s cage she saw Lionello whispering soft words to Missy who lay prone on the floor of the cage. Lionello turned to her with a stricken expression.

  ‘She’s not herself – far from well. She’s never turned on me like she did last night. But she’d never hurt me. Missy is like my own little daughter.’

  Clytie knew the story. After losing his wife and daughter in a scarlet fever epidemic, Lionello had transferred his love to the cub he had trained from birth.

  ‘Don’t worry, Lionello. I’m told there’s a doctor in town who has a magic way with sick animals. Would you like me to fetch him?’

  ‘No quack is brave enough to examine a lion. They won’t believe Missy is as gentle as a kitten.’

  Clytie bit back a smile. ‘Maybe this Doctor Hundey is different.’

  Lionello shrugged in disbelief. ‘No, she will let no one but me touch her.’ He turned away to offer endearments to the prone lion.

  On reaching the log bridge crossing the fast-flowing creek, Clytie paused at the sight of the figure on the other side, standing stock still beside his horse.

  Rom Delaney wore yesterday’s waistcoat over a workman’s striped shirt. His hair appeared darkened with water as if he had bathed only moments earlier. He flashed that cheeky, crooked smile that made her heart skip a beat. The bunch of flowers he held looked suspiciously as if it had been plucked from someone’s garden.

  ‘Hey, weren’t you going to wait for me?’ he asked in mock indignation.

  ‘I never wait for any man,’ Clytie said carelessly.

  ‘Maybe I’m the exception to the rule. A man worth waiting for,’ he said, transferring the flowers to her arms.

  Her laugh dismissed his bravado. ‘Ho ho! You have got tickets on yourself.’

  Disconcerted by the power of his gaze, she buried her face in the flowers.

  ‘From your garden, are they?’ she teased.

  He met her little trap head on. ‘I don’t own a house – or garden. I commandeered these from the local park. The truth is, Clytie, I haven’t a penny to my name until Mr Tribe opens his bank on Monday and I collect my prize money.’

  ‘Prize? What for?’

  ‘The best idea to attract people to Hoffnung. Your circus!’

  Clytie gasped with admiration at the gamble he had taken. A trickster indeed.

  Rom was quick to reassure her. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll feed you bush apples and wild blackberries and the purest creek water in the State of Victoria. Stick with me, Clytie, and you’ll never go hungry.’

  She laughed at his cheek, admired his honesty and right at that moment fell headlong for his charm – no turning back now.

  ‘I brought Goldie for you. If you can’t ride bareback, no girl can.’

  She shook her head. ‘That’s too much like work for an equestrienne. I’m happy to take shank’s pony.’

  Walking by Rom’s side, Clytie was excited by the warmth of his hand under her elbow as he steered her around the potholes and rocks on the steep hill towards Main Street.

  They talked at ease. Questions and answers ricocheted between them about each other’s lives. Hers were truthful, but on guard against an outsider’s misconceptions about the circus and its moral code. Rom’s stories were so colourful and extraordinary that she was tempted to believe some were second-hand adventures in which he had cast himself as hero.

  ‘Were you born here in one of the Colonies or in the Old Country?’

  ‘Whose Old Country is that? Not just Mother England. People came here from all over the globe during the Gold Rush. Californians, Germans, Italians, Chinamen, Frogs – you name it.’

  ‘I know that. Circus performers also hail from different countries. I meant you. Delaney is Irish, isn’t it?’

  Rom darted a look to gauge her response. ‘My name was drawn out of a hat. I was found in a clothes basket on the doorstep of a Roman Catholic seminary. I reckon some poor girl trusted the priests to find a home for me to hide her shame. Or else she dumped me back on some priest who fathered me.’

  If he intended to shock her, he failed. But he had gained her full attention. ‘I was about a week old. Stark naked except for a pair of men’s bootlaces tied to my leg.’

  Clytie stopped in her tracks, delighted by the discovery. ‘Madam Zaza told me bootlaces are a symbol of good luck to gypsies. Maybe Rom is short for Romani – there’s a bit of gypsy in every one of us, they say.’

  ‘Who knows? I was christened “Roman”. I had to work like the devil for my keep. But the priests did teach me to read and write. When I was twelve I got fed up with all the prayers – and beatings. I hit the road, travelling with an Irish swagman who knew my dead mother. He suspected he was my father. We split up every time he got fighting drunk and ended up in the nick.’

  Clytie held her breath when he brushed a loose curl back from her face.

  ‘Enough about me. I want to know everything about the girl I plan to marry.’

  ‘You’ve said that line so often before, it’s got holes in it
!’

  Her laugh was so infectious that Rom laughed at himself.

  ‘All right, you win. Church first. Bush tucker second. I promise I’ll get you back in plenty of time for the matinee. On condition that after tonight’s performance we can talk about the future.’

  Clytie allowed him to drape his arm around her shoulders, but at the sight of a matron hobbling towards them with a hessian sack slung over her back, she pulled away from him, instinctively recognising the breed of town gossip.

  Rom doffed his hat to the woman. ‘Morning, Mrs Mintner. I hear your lad’s gone off to volunteer. Those Boers better watch out. Your Jack’s a great shot.’

  The woman scowled. ‘Enough of your blarney, Delaney. Our Jack’s a good lad, knows his duty, he does.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’ll all be over in a few months,’ Rom said with confidence the words that people wanted to believe.

  ‘Humph! That’s what they said about that war in the Crimea. Dead wrong, they were. Killed me brother, it did,’ she said morosely and continued without breaking her stride.

  Rom called after her. ‘That sack’s heavy. Let me carry it home for you.’

  ‘What for? I’m as strong as a horse. Have to be with an invalid hubby.’

  Clytie watched her. ‘She must be eighty if she’s a day.’

  ‘Not by a long shot. But she’s had a rough life. She was a diggeress back in the old gold days. They don’t breed them like her anymore.’

  Clytie noticed they had veered from the direct track to the churches on the hill.

  ‘Hey, where exactly are you taking me?’

  ‘Anywhere in the world you want to go. The moon?’ he asked, pointing to the faded disc that hung suspended, lingering by day in the bluest of skies.

  That old woman was right. Rom sure has a touch of the blarney.

  ‘The moon will do just fine – as long as I have a return ticket. I must be back in plenty of time for the children’s matinee. I’ll choose a child from the audience to ride bareback with me around the ring – held tight in my arms of course.’

  ‘Lucky kid,’ he said softly. He halted and played with the errant curl that covered her eyes. ‘Seriously, Clytie, if I behave myself, would I stand a chance with you?’

  ‘That depends on precisely what you have in mind.’ She tried and failed to make the words sound severe.

  ‘Well, I’ll have to move fast. Only another few days to convince you of the truth.’

  She fell into his trap. ‘What truth?’

  ‘That I’m your man – and always will be.’

  This time he didn’t sound as if he was teasing. The breath caught in her throat. She didn’t want the moment to end. Until now the circus had protected her like a child. No man had got close enough to say sweet words to her. Dolores had seen to that.

  Rom took a step closer. ‘Just say the word,’ he said softly. ‘I’ll never look twice at another girl as long as I live.’

  Clytie fought to prevent herself drowning in the depth of those crystal clear blue eyes. ‘You know nothing of circus life. You don’t know me, Rom Delaney. We are so very different.’

  ‘I know all I need to know.’

  The bells were now ringing in competition from two rival churches. He offered her his arm.

  ‘Come, I’ll show you the town before we pay our respects to God.’

  Clytie looked over her shoulder. ‘We’re being followed. Is he yours?’

  It was the same black dog she had seen in the grandstand.

  ‘Not mine. He belonged to some fossicker living in a miner’s right cabin. One night when the old bloke was raving with fever, Shadow went to fetch help. Doc Hundey stayed all night with him – no point in moving him. He passed away at dawn. Ever since, Shadow has slept outside his master’s cabin. I doss down there myself – until something better turns up. Goldie is mine – the dog is not.’

  Clytie bent to pat the dog’s cold nose. ‘I think Shadow has other ideas.’

  Sure enough, the Kelpie kept his distance but followed in their wake.

  Rom pointed out the buildings of interest. To Clytie the main street looked like a mouth with missing teeth, occasional vacant lots lying between old timber shops, their facades bleached by the sun, most windows filled with old-fashioned, dusty goods. The two facing lines of buildings might well have been transplanted from any other backwater town, but they came alive with colour when Rom painted them with stories of the characters who lived here during the legendary Gold Rush.

  ‘The famous bushranger Ned Kelly passed through here one night. He never fired a shot in anger in Hoffnung, but it’s said he won a local girl’s heart. A few years later he was hanged in Melbourne Gaol. Old-timers say that local girl attended his trial. She wore black for the rest of her days – and never married.’

  ‘How very romantic. And sad.’

  Encouraged, Rom continued. ‘See that storehouse over there? That used to be the Shamrock Hotel, one of twelve hotels and shanties in this street, packed to the rafters with gold-diggers. No bank in those days so there was a shortage of ready money. The diggers chalked up their grog on a tally and paid for everything with nuggets.’

  Clytie said drily, ‘I wish that was still the custom.’

  ‘The track over there leads to the creek where the old Chinese camp was. At one time there were thousands of “chinks” fossicking there for gold the diggers had passed over. Now there’s only one Chinaman left in town, an old bloke called Long Sam. They reckon he hid his gold in his teeth. Maybe it’s true. The poor devil’s dirt poor – and he’s hardly got a tooth left in his head.’

  Rom shrugged more in sympathy than derision. ‘Last night he was at the circus. Funny to think the whole Cricket Ground used to be his market garden.’

  ‘How sad. I saw him last night sitting next to that elegant lady with the crippled foot. She had such sad eyes. Who is she?’

  ‘That’s Doc Hundey’s sister. A bit of a mystery.’

  The pealing bells had ceased their competitive chorus. Rom gestured to the three churches at the top of the hill.

  ‘Come, which is your pleasure, Miss Hart?’

  ‘That’s easy. The nearest one.’

  Shadow knew his place. On reaching the entrance porch of the timber church, he needed no command to crouch and wait for them.

  They took the seat in the back row. Light fell in shafts through the mullioned windows, their clear central panes edged in bright blue. Clytie held her hymnal and rose to her feet as the tiny old lady organist began to belt out the music. Dressed from head to toe in black, her squashed pork pie hat was anchored with a giant hatpin. Her face was wizened like a walnut and a few grey hairs sprouted from her chin.

  ‘That’s Holy Maude,’ Rom whispered. ‘Would you believe it? The beautiful girl who was Ned Kelly’s lover.’

  Clytie smothered a giggle. The hymn had barely finished and the ‘man of the cloth’ begun his sermon when the doors to the porch were flung open. A man burst into the church, his face blank with fear.

  ‘It’s crashed! It’s all over. B’Jesus, we’re all done for!’

  The whole congregation rose in consternation but the messenger had disappeared before there was time to question him.

  The sermon was forgotten. Questions flew around the hall. What has crashed? The bridge? The giant crusher at the mine head? A tunnel in the Golden Hope mine?

  Mothers of volunteers were anxious the crash referred to some catastrophic battle in South Africa.

  Rom firmly steered Clytie to the door. ‘Come on, let’s find out.’

  The entire congregation vacated the church within minutes, including the reverend gentleman. But like the captain on a sinking ship, Holy Maude remained in her place, playing the organ to an empty church.

  Rom gripped Clytie’s hand as they ran but she had to double her steps to keep pace with him.

  Rom headed for the group clustered around the noticeboard outside Midd’s General Store.

  ‘It’s unlikely t
he mine has crashed. It’s closed today but Jantzen always leaves a bloke with a shotgun to guard it.’

  ‘Maybe the bridge has been washed away by floodwaters! Will our wagons be safe?’

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ve survived many floods. The timber mill would have a new bridge erected before you could say Jack Robinson.’

  Men and women were shouting and gesticulating in front of the noticeboard. Rom instinctively shielded Clytie as they pushed close enough to hear. In fine working dog style, the Kelpie moved into position to protect them, alert for the first sign of trouble. It was not slow in coming.

  A gang of men had pinioned the arms of a respectably dressed man whom Clytie recognised. They dragged him onto the veranda of the General Store to confront the crowd. Pinned to the noticeboard was a newspaper banner, the words too distant to decipher except for one word – CRASH.

  Councillor Twyman’s voice of authority rang out. ‘Here, Tribe. I demand you give an account of yourself. What’s the meaning of this outrage?’

  The bank manager was pale and shaken, his celluloid collar askew, his hair and jacket rumpled, his dignified demeanour in tatters.

  ‘It’s not my fault, I tell you. I didn’t know how bad things were. We all know how many banks have crashed in recent years. I believed ours would ride out the storm.’

  Clytie turned to Rom in horror. ‘Your bank has crashed!’

  ‘Looks like,’ Rom said quietly. ‘If it has, it’ll cripple this town.’

  A woman’s shrill voice called out, ‘Unlock the doors, you scoundrel. I want my money back now!’

  Tribe’s voice cracked. ‘I regret that is beyond my power, Madam. All accounts are frozen – orders from Headquarters in Melbourne.’

  ‘Why didn’t you ruddy well warn us?’ a rasping male voice demanded. ‘You’ve got me whole life’s savings – and you didn’t waste any flaming time taking me pay packet on Friday! You must have known the bank was about to crash!’

  Driven by anger, no one waited for Tribe’s response.

  ‘It’s highway robbery!’

  ‘Open the damned bank. Let Melbourne Head Office run dry, not poor bloody miners’ families!’