‘Remember what I told you, sweetheart! And take care of Dolores.’ She jerked her thumb at the burnt and buckled side of her wagon and added defiantly for the whole town to take note, ‘Whatever villain did this – will get this!’ Eyes wide and her teeth bared in a ferocious grin, she slashed her finger across her throat with such violence that two older boys watching the retreat recoiled in fear.
Clytie’s heart sank. Don’t tell me boys were responsible for setting fire to her home.
She steeled herself against the inevitable sight of Vlad’s wagon driving past her. He stared straight ahead as if she was invisible. She could not allow the moment to pass.
‘I’ve learned a lot from you, Vlad. Best watch your back. I’m the Knife-Thrower’s Daughter, remember? You wouldn’t want to run into me on a dark night.’
The convoy was short of two vehicles – the wagons of Lionello and Dolores and Little Clytie.
I’ll never be Little Clytie again.
Clytie stood alone in the main street, waving to the last wagon in the convoy as it rocked from sight around the bend in the road. She felt a sharp pang of premonition – that final wagon had cut her life into two halves. Her childhood – and the unknown future.
Her heart overflowed with flashes of memories – happy, sad and fearful: learning to walk a tightrope as a toddler; that first time she fell off a pony’s back and Dolores insisted she climb right back on again to overcome her fear; the awe she felt at the sight of the amazing Aboriginal acrobat Billy Jones as he leapt across the backs of twenty horses lined up side to side; all the years filled with thunderous waves of applause that flooded the Big Top; silly, tender moments like being tickled by her mother, both laughing until their eyes were wet with tears.
Clytie had a sudden recall of the smell of calamine lotion, dabbed by her mother on the painful measles spots on her face and body as she lay in fear, blindfolded to prevent strong sunlight damaging her eyesight.
New memories fought for space in her head. That first kiss from Rom – her first kiss from any man.
She was startled by a voice in her head, whispering her name.
But it was Rom’s voice in her ear. ‘Don’t be sad. I’ll take care of you.’
‘What about my mother?’
He hesitated, frowning. ‘Doesn’t she have a man of her own, that knife-thrower?’
Clytie gestured to the cloud of dust that was the only remaining trace of her past life.
‘Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.’ She looked up at Rom and sensed her next words would put him to the test. Win or fail.
‘I need your help. Vlad cleared off with our horses. It took a year to train them for our act. We can’t perform without them. Mother’s wagon is stuck down there on the Cricket Ground. No horse to draw it away. Would you allow Goldie . . .?’
To her relief Rom did not hesitate. He whistled Goldie to his side, sprang up onto her back then gestured to Clytie to ride pillion behind him. Her arms around his waist, she enjoyed the disapproving expressions of the few townsfolk they passed, but smiled openly at the children who pointed at her in awe.
‘That’s her! The girl what got knives thrown at her!’
She was light-hearted enough to smile in response to the open-mouthed stare of the girl who had insulted Rom.
The town princess must have expected me to leave town along with the rest of the circus.
Rom doffed his hat to the pair of women as they rode past them.
‘G’d morning, to you Mrs Mintner, Miss Noni. Indeed what a fine day it is.’
Pretending to ignore him, the princess continued her conversation.
‘No, Mrs Mintner, I very much doubt Rom Delaney will volunteer to fight the Boers. He’s hardly the stuff that heroes are made of.’
‘Indeed no, Noni. Not in the same league as Our Jack.’
Noni’s voice rose after their retreating backs. ‘I wouldn’t trust Delaney to give anyone the time of day. The convict stain is stamped all over him.’
Clytie saw the line of Rom’s mouth harden, but he patted Clytie’s knee reassuringly. ‘Don’t let Noni James get under your skin. She’s set her cap at the mine-owner’s son. Good bloke, Sonny. Doesn’t know what a trap he’s getting himself into. If he’s wise, he’ll ride hell for leather to Melbourne and volunteer.’
Clytie tightened her grip around his waist.
Why do all young men want to race off to war as if it’s some glorious adventure?
She remembered how often she had lain awake, burying her head beneath her pillow to blot out the sounds of her mother’s cries, Vlad’s guttural voice coming from the bed in the next wagon.
I wonder what happens after people get excited kissing . . . it doesn’t sound romantic. But I suppose it must be or babies would never get planted in their mother’s womb. If only I could kiss Rom all night – and stop before whatever comes next. But maybe it would be different with him . . . maybe I wouldn’t want to stop.
• • •
Rom enjoyed the warmth of Clytie’s thighs pressed against him as they rode. He knew he had Buckley’s chance of collecting his wages from Pius James – Noni would see to that. The bank crash would ensure any available casual work for miles around would dry up faster than a dam in the drought.
It crossed his mind he could fossick for gold. He didn’t have the cash to fork out for a precious Miner’s Right to mine for gold for five years. He had found an old licence buried under a brick in the fireplace, which had cost some old miner one pound sterling – but it had expired in 1866.
Anyway, why bother fossicking for gold? In a few weeks I could volunteer to fight the Boers and get paid for it.
On arrival at the Cricket Ground he harnessed Goldie to Dolores’s wagon, mentally preening himself due to Clytie and Dolores’s open admiration.
‘Right, ladies. We’re open for business. Pile in and I’ll take you wherever you choose to go.’
They exchanged a glance of dismay.
‘I hadn’t thought that far ahead,’ Dolores said.
Clytie threw the ball in Rom’s court. ‘Where do you suggest? Is there any common land where we don’t have to pay rent? Or will we have to dump the wagon miles out of town in the bush?’
‘Leave it to me,’ Rom said confidently.
The sound of a lion’s roar jolted them back to reality. They swivelled around to face the only other remaining wagon, lying under the spreading canopy of a pine tree at the far end of the oval.
The ‘sisters’ finished each other’s sentences.
‘We can’t leave him here –’
‘– with a sick lion.’
‘We’re family –’
‘– true to our circus code.’
Rom nodded but was dubious about moral codes. Funny how the circus code didn’t extend to Vlad. He left his women high and dry, even stole their horses.
Without a word the trio crossed the oval to Lionello’s wagon where he sat inside the cage. He was not alone. Kneeling beside him was Doc Hundey, stroking the lion’s hide with one hand, the other clasped around Lionello’s shoulder. Both men looked as if they hadn’t slept all night.
Rom looked at Doc with misgivings. Jesus, he’s braver than I am. Sick lion or not, I wouldn’t trade places with Doc for all the tea in China.
Doc’s soft voice was crystal clear.
‘I’ve done all that can be done for her, Sir. We could have cured her fever but I’m afraid that poison is irreversible. She can’t last much longer. And every minute will be excruciatingly painful for her. You wouldn’t want that, would you?’ It was not a question, but consolation.
Not for the first time Rom noticed how well-shaped Doc’s hands were, reminding him of the long-fingered hands he had seen on portraits of kings and nobles. Doc might often look like he’d slept in his clothes following a night spent in the bush by some patient’s bedside, but his hands were always immaculately clean.
Lionello released a long sigh that almost sounded like a death rattle. �
�You mean she can never be well? We can never work together again?’
Doc shook his head. ‘I can give her something to put her to sleep – it will all be over in a few minutes. Peacefully.’
‘No! You don’t understand her. Missy will know what’s coming. She’ll be afraid. She’ll believe I have betrayed her.’
‘I’ll be beside you,’ Doc said gently.
Lionello was adamant. ‘I must do it myself. Please leave us alone.’
Doc hesitated but moved to the door of the cage.
Lionello bent over the lion and tenderly stroked her mane. ‘We’ve worked well together, Missy. Played all the best circuses in the world, we have. I could never have asked for a more loyal partner. Sleep well, my little girl.’
Rom held his breath as Lionello bent and kissed the crown of the lion’s head. He drew the pistol from his pocket and placed it against the sleeping lion’s temple, then pressed the trigger and was splattered with the lion’s blood.
He stood up, dry-eyed, erect as a soldier. ‘Thank you, Doctor. I shall bury her myself.’
‘I’ll come with you, Sir,’ Doc said quietly.
• • •
The town was clearly still in a state of deep shock at the bank’s closure. Townsfolk ran from store to store. One man staggered down the main street from the Diggers’ Rest, shouting obscenities at all and sundry. No one seemed to be aware of them.
Rom helped Doc drag the trolley up the steep hill to the cemetery. Clytie threw her weight into pushing from the rear. Dolores carried a shovel concealed under her cloak. Lionello was dressed formally in his full lion-tamer’s costume, his eyes unseeing, beyond pain.
At this late hour of the day they knew they were unlikely to encounter any mourners at the cemetery, but Doc had a quiet word aside with Rom. ‘This isn’t strictly legal. You need permission to be buried. But it’s important to Lionello.’
Rom silently followed Doc’s plan. They left the trolley by the entrance gates and half carried, half dragged the heavy box down to the Non-denominational corner. This contained the graves of the four Celestial ‘heathens’, slabs with Chinese characters above their names written over the dates of death in English. The four Chinamen had been Long Sam’s last compatriots, working by his side fossicking for gold and at the end of their lives toiling in their market garden. Now they lay side by side.
Just outside the post and rail fence was a single tombstone marked only by the letters R.I.P. J. Jago. Rom knew it identified the grave of a Cornish miner whose suicide had prevented his burial on hallowed ground.
Rom bent ready to slide through the fence, but was pulled up sharply by Lionello’s command.
‘No. I want her buried inside the cemetery. Missy had a purer soul than many scoundrels who profess to be Christians!’
Doc nodded and Rom swiftly set to work to dig the grave as the sun sank slowly below the horizon. In filling it, they took turns to lay the final shovels of earth on the top.
Doc gave a discreet cough. ‘I don’t know your religious persuasion, Sir. Would you like to say a few words?’
Lionello’s voice choked. ‘Yes! But I can’t!’
Clytie stepped forward and placed on the quartz-scattered red earth the bunch of dandelions she had gathered at the gates of the cemetery.
She cleared her throat. ‘We are very sad to return Missy to The Creator of All Things. But I feel sure that you, who gave her life and the many happy years that she shared with Lionello, giving joy to thousands of children and their families . . . I believe you will find a place for Missy somewhere – wherever you are . . .’
‘Amen,’ said Doc Hundey and the others echoed the word.
Lionello nodded his thanks and gravely shook hands with each in turn.
‘It is the end of an era. I shall never work in a circus again. Will you grant me a few minutes alone with her?’ he asked. ‘I’ll follow you down.’
The four were silent as they walked side by side. At the bottom of the hill, they were stopped dead – by the sound of a pistol shot.
Rom whirled around. There was no one in sight in the cemetery. Lionello’s body lay fallen across the lion’s grave.
Dolores burst into tears. Clytie, dry-eyed but white in the face, comforted her like a child.
Dolores’s shock turned her anger on herself. ‘I should have guessed. He had nothing left to live for.’
Doc was quick to reassure them. ‘You must not blame yourself, Mrs Hart.’
‘Hush, Mama. If we’d stopped him today he would have done it tomorrow.’
Rom felt badly in need of a drink. ‘Hell, what do we do now, Doc? Lionello took his own life. No church will bury a suicide on hallowed ground.’
‘Suicide? What makes you say that?’ Doc asked in the quiet voice of reason. ‘I shall conduct the post mortem myself. And fill out the death certificate. The man was visiting this historical cemetery before rejoining Wildebrand Circus. He simply stumbled on a tombstone. He always carried a pistol as part of his act. As he fell it fired – and killed him instantly. A tragic accident. Who is to say otherwise? We were all witnesses to the fact, were we not?’
‘Absolutely,’ Clytie said quickly.
‘I’d swear to it on a stack of Bibles,’ Rom said.
‘Right then, I’ll contact the undertaker and whichever man of the cloth is available to conduct a quiet funeral. Lionello had no family, I take it?’
‘We are his family,’ Dolores said firmly. ‘No circus trouper ever dies alone.’
‘Fine. Then that’s settled.’
‘Just one more thing, Doc,’ Rom added. ‘I’d better get rid of that lion’s cage parked by the gates or someone might twig to the truth.’
Doc gave a weary smile. ‘I’ll leave that in your capable hands, Rom. May I bid you good night, ladies. I trust we shall meet again under happier circumstances.’
Rom watched him ascend the track towards the residences of the three ‘men of the cloth’. Doc’s shoulders were slumped with weariness, making him appear a lonely figure in the dying light.
‘Come, ladies, let’s get your wagon moved and re-settled for the night. We don’t want to shock the town’s strict churchies by working on the Sabbath.’
Dolores glanced at Clytie as if weighing her decision. ‘Thank you, Rom. Please be my guest. I’ll cook tea for us all on a campfire. You’ve been a true gentleman.’
Rom accepted the compliment with a sheepish smile.
You wouldn’t say that, lady, if you could read my mind.
Chapter 12
‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Clytie. Our first weeks here will be a serious period of adjustment. Every gossip in Hoffnung will be sharpening their tongues ready to lash out at us if we put a foot wrong.’
Dolores’s wry smile softened her warning as she boiled a kettle over the campfire – a practice that was their last remaining link to circus life.
‘It’ll be an adventure, Mama,’ Clytie said firmly.
‘Yes, but remember life here is the total reverse side of the coin to the travelling pattern we’ve known all our lives.’
‘But now we’ve got the best of both worlds. We’re putting down roots – and we’ve still got our old home on wheels.’
The land Rom had found for them had once been a small farm. Only an old barn remained standing. Their wagon was set back from the road that passed through the virtual ghost town of Barnaby’s Ridge to eventually fan out into different routes to Bendigo, Ballarat, Clunes and Castlemaine – its eventual destination the South Australian border.
Seated with her mother around the campfire, Clytie rhythmically swatted the gumleaf switch over each shoulder to prevent blowflies from beating her to the hearty breakfast Dolores was cooking from their fast diminishing stores. She was relieved it had been mutually agreed that they could publicly resume their roles as mother and daughter – happier still that her mother could rest and regain her health.
‘Rom Delaney says all newcomers to Hoffnung are called “to
wnies” for their first twenty years. How long do you think it will take them to accept us, Mama?’
‘Heaven only knows, love. The Harts have been a circus family for five generations. It’s likely to take us a mite longer.’
‘I’m proud to belong to a circus royal family. But our new life will open up new opportunities, Mama. I’ve never lived in a house that didn’t have wheels. Never stopped in any place long enough to make friends outside the circus – or get a proper education.’
Dolores wagged a finger at her. ‘Hey, you’re no dummy. Pedro taught you more than any bush school could. How to balance our account books, music from the musicians. German from Hans, French from that bassoon-player who got sacked in Melbourne.’
Clytie held her tongue. I’d best not admit Louis taught me risqué songs as well as The Marseillaise.
Dolores was determined to defend her role as mother. ‘And from the cradle I made sure you learned from world-class performers every circus skill from tumbling, riding, rope dancing, juggling and –’
‘Yes, but Vlad was the one who juggled our money! All we’ve got left in kitty is nineteen shillings.’
Dolores gave her daughter one of her sweet, knowing smiles and with the theatrical gesture of a conjurer, slipped her hand inside her blouse and withdrew a small wad of notes tied with an elastic band.
‘Abracadabra! Seven pounds ten shillings! Go on, count it!’
Clytie was ecstatic. She rapidly calculated the sums in her head. ‘That’s wonderful. Enough to buy a colt and train it like you trained Lady Godiva – so we don’t lose our timing.’
‘Not a new horse. A new house. We’ll need this money for furniture.’
‘You’re joking! With a grand total of eight pounds and nine shillings? What could that buy? Some ruin in the wilds of the bush?’
‘Trust me. You’ll love it. I’ve already paid cash for it.’
Clytie dropped her tin dish and hurled herself at her mother, pleading, cajoling, shaking and finally tickling her in an attempt to extract the full details.
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