Golden Hope

by Johanna Nicholls

  ‘No man pays without expecting something in return. Watch your step, girl.’

  Clytie decided to force the issue. ‘Do you see something you’re not telling me? Are you warning me to break off with Rom? I’m not saying I will – but I want to know how strongly you feel about it.’

  Dolores reached out and grasped Clytie’s hand. ‘I want to see you loved by a man with a true heart – whoever that may be.’

  ‘I want the same for you, Mama.’

  Dolores drew her into a hug that needed no words. At last she spoke. ‘Now tell me all about Long Sam. He has the saddest eyes but he’s always smiling.’

  Clytie was glad of the reprieve. She launched into the story of the injustice Long Sam had suffered at the hands of Councillor Twyman, who cheated him out of his market garden.

  ‘No wonder he has such sad eyes.’

  ‘Yes, but he’s not without friends, Mama. Doc finds ways to help him. And Sam’s happy working in our garden – thanks to Rom,’ she added pointedly.

  Dolores gave a knowing smile.

  ‘Perhaps I’ve been wrong about your Rom,’ Dolores conceded. ‘I’ll have a word with him next time he shows his face here.’

  The moment came a few days later, after Dolores’s unexpectedly early return from the Diggers’ Rest to find Clytie and Rom seated by the fire, their heads bent close together.

  ‘Could we have a quiet word out in the garden, Rom?’ It was less a question than a firm invitation.

  Clytie felt excluded, curious about the exchange which even from a distance caused Rom to look uncharacteristically serious. When her mother retired to bed, Clytie tried to gain a hint of what had transpired, suspecting with good reason that she was at the heart of it.

  Rom shook his head. ‘Sorry, that chat was in confidence between your mother and me. But never doubt she has your best interests at heart.’

  Whatever had transpired with Dolores, Rom’s mood had changed. He seemed withdrawn. They went to his cabin as usual but the evening ended abruptly with his vague excuse that he had to leave early next morning and would be away for a day or two in Bitternbird.

  He remained silent on the ride home to the priest’s house, where he swung Clytie down from the horse, gave her a farewell kiss on the cheek and ruffled her hair.

  ‘That’s the chaste kiss a man gives his sister,’ Clytie said, only half teasing.

  ‘Don’t worry, the best is yet to come,’ Rom said with a broad wink and rode away. This time he didn’t look back.

  • • •

  The following day while shopping for tea and headache powders on behalf of her mother whom she had left sleeping at home, Clytie entered Midd’s General Store.

  The postmistress and telephonist, Marj Hornery, was tacking up the latest Australian casualty list received from Johannesburg. It was not clear which names were of the dead or wounded, which were from Victoria, the other five States or New Zealand.

  Clytie saw on the board an old newspaper cutting about Kitchener, praising the State of Queensland for being the first to offer to send troops to aid the British Empire’s cause, a call quickly heeded by all the other Australian States. Marj had drawn a red circle around the Victorian Mounted Rifles.

  People pressed around Clytie to read the latest casualty list. Sonny Jantzen’s tall, heroic figure towered over them all. He drew questions from all sides.

  ‘You gunna do your bit and volunteer, Sonny?’ The question came bluntly from Mrs Mintner, now in mourning for her grandson Jack.

  Clytie saw Sonny’s handsome face flush as he quietly offered her his sympathy then fielded others’ queries.

  At last he broke free. In the act of mounting his horse he caught Clytie’s eye and doffed his hat to her. Although they had never formally been introduced, she knew that Dolores had given him a series of readings and was impressed by his perfect manners.

  Clytie was aware of the irony. Sonny’s a man the town looks up to. He acknowledges me – but other men look at me as if I’m fair game. Maybe Rom was wrong – those peeping toms couldn’t keep their mouths shut.

  • • •

  Early that evening, seated alone in the cool breeze at the front of the house, Clytie was surprised to see Sonny riding past on a splendidly groomed black stallion. Although dressed formally, he had a strikingly military air, a rifle slung across his back, his broad-brimmed hat tilted at the same angle as the slouch hat of a soldier.

  He drew his horse to a halt at sight of her. ‘Wish me luck, Miss Hart. I’m off to catch the train to Melbourne to volunteer for the Victorian Mounted Rifles.’

  ‘You’ll make fine officer material,’ Clytie said firmly. ‘But let’s hope the war will be over by Christmas.’

  ‘Indeed, that’s the slogan being touted by some politicians, but wars seldom run to plan. Every man is needed. I must offer to do my bit. Please say goodbye to Mrs Hart for me.’ He hesitated. ‘Your mother has great tact and sensitivity.’

  ‘Thank you, I’ll tell her.’

  Clytie was surprised by this curious, unexpected praise coming from a virtual stranger. She decided he and Doc Hundey were among the few ‘nature’s gentlemen’ in the town. She was forced to admit that even Rom needed brushing up on a few counts to fit that title.

  • • •

  Rom rode up the following afternoon, unannounced. He was as loving as ever yet suddenly put out to learn that Mrs Yeoman had given Clytie occasional work as a waitress at the Diggers’ Rest.

  ‘I don’t fancy the idea of my girl being leered at by blokes in the bar.’

  ‘I won’t be anywhere near the bar. It’s respectable work. And we need the money. I must pull my weight so Dolores has time to rest.’

  ‘When I make my fortune, you’ll never work again, girl.’ His voice turned husky as he kissed her neck. ‘You’ll be at my beck and call.’ His mouth found hers. ‘You’ll come to me tonight, yes?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I arranged to begin work tonight – after all, I had no idea when to expect your return.’

  Rom rode off, tired and angry. ‘Try and fit me in sometime!’ he called back over his shoulder.

  Next morning she found his note under the door saying he had decided to go to Trentham for a brief spell. Would she feed Shadow for him?

  Shadow was already waiting expectantly by her front gate.

  • • •

  The rumour spread like wildfire. Sonny Jantzen had obtained a special licence to marry. The whole of Hoffnung was caught napping.

  Clytie was surprised to hear the rumour from the hotel’s kitchen maid, Mary Mac, when her unexpected evening shift coincided with Dolores’s decision to rest at home.

  Mary’s eyes shone with reflected romance. ‘Them two is the handsomest couple in Hoffnung. Everyone and his dog will front up at the church. Pius James only switched churches so his Noni could mingle with the Jantzens,’ Mary confided with a wink. ‘Well, she got her man and good luck to them – if it’s true.’

  Clytie mulled over her words and Rom’s opinion of the snobbish bride-to-be.

  In the process of clearing away empty glasses from the side veranda overlooking the German beer garden, Clytie was suddenly aware she was being observed.

  Sonny Jantzen stood alone at the end of the veranda, beer glass in hand. From inside the bar came waves of raucous male laughter.

  Clytie paused in stacking empty glasses on her tray, disturbed by the sight of Sonny’s pale blue eyes awash with unshed tears. He did not fit the category of a crying drunk; in fact he had the reputation of rarely drinking alcohol. Something must be seriously wrong.

  ‘Can I bring you anything, Mr Jantzen? We have a fine Jamaican coffee.’

  He held up his hand to halt her. ‘Thank you, no. But you can do something for me, if you will. Just sit with me for a moment.’

  She took a seat opposite him at a table in the garden.

  ‘May I buy you a drink, Miss Hart?’

  ‘Thank you, but it’s more than my job is worth to drink on
duty. I’m sure Mr Yeoman won’t mind me chatting to you for a moment. And the name is Clytie to my friends,’ she stammered.

  ‘Friends? Then please call me Sonny.’

  He seemed in no hurry to talk, so Clytie took the initiative, reminded that she had last seen him riding off to Melbourne to enlist.

  ‘You’ve just returned from the Big Smoke, I take it?’

  He gave a tentative smile. ‘Big Smoke indeed. The smoke’s so dense it looks like a London fog in winter. Did you and your mother ever perform in England?’

  ‘We travelled this land far and wide – but never overseas. Melbourne was my favourite city of all. As a child I loved St Kilda Beach.’

  ‘St Kilda Beach,’ he said dreamily. ‘A place full of children’s laughter – it drifts up to our townhouse on The Esplanade.’ His eyes were suddenly serious. ‘This time I went to Melbourne in search of glory – and failed.

  ‘The V.M.R. rejected me. I’m medically unfit for service. I can ride as well as any man alive – and handle a rifle with the best of them. My damned lungs betrayed me . . .’

  He looked up, shocked. ‘Forgive my language, Clytie, I am not myself tonight.’

  ‘You have every right to feel disappointed. But when you regain your health, perhaps –’

  His voice held a note of finality. ‘It’s likely a year from now will find me dead. The military doctors were pretty blunt. Tuberculosis. At best I’ll be an invalid.’

  He reached out and touched her hand. She did not draw back, sensing it was an attempt to seek comfort, not a clumsy manoeuvre towards seduction.

  ‘Clytie, forgive me. This is a prime example of “the wine is in, the truth is out”. I didn’t attempt to enlist simply to fight the Empire’s cause. I wanted to prove to my father I’m a son he can be proud of. You see, I don’t fit Father’s idea of manhood. I don’t enjoy getting plastered like other chaps. I fail to see the point in hunting kangaroos that never did me any harm. The only thing left for me is to marry and produce an heir.’ He drained his drink but kept hold of Clytie’s hand. ‘The fact is, I don’t think it’s fair to marry any girl. I just don’t think I’m cut out for it.’

  Clytie struggled to find the right words. What’s going on? Doesn’t he have a special licence to marry? Who else but Noni?

  ‘What’s wrong with being happily single? You have friends, books, you can travel.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly!’

  He lowered his voice although there was no one to overhear. ‘Problem is, one night I had a bit too much to drink. It seems I compromised a girl’s reputation. A fine girl, but I don’t love her. Our parents expect me to do the right thing and marry her.’ He gestured dismissively towards the bar. ‘Tonight is my bachelor’s farewell.’

  He’s like a lamb going to the slaughter. What can I say to stop him?

  ‘Forgive me, but how can it be the right thing to marry a girl you don’t love?

  The expression in his eyes spoke more clearly than words.

  ‘Hey, Sonny, you piker. Come back and join us!’ a young man demanded from the doorway.

  Sonny squeezed her hand. ‘Thank you, Clytie. You have such beautiful listening eyes. Like your mother. You understand more than I’ve said in words, don’t you?’

  Clytie wasn’t sure that was true, but she nodded to give him confidence.

  On reaching the doorway he touched his forehead in a salute to her, a moment before he was dragged inside to drink to his last night of freedom.

  I’ll never do what Noni James has done. Rom will marry me of his own free will – or not at all.

  • • •

  Special marriage licences worked fast – especially if your name was Jantzen.

  It came as no surprise to Clytie that she and Dolores were not invited to the wedding, unlike virtually the whole population of Hoffnung.

  On the afternoon of the wedding, arriving at the Post Office in hope of a letter from Pedro and Tiche, she was frustrated by the notice over the grille: ‘Back in two hours.’

  Shadow looked expectantly as if trying to tune in to her next move.

  ‘No doubt the Post Mistress is attending Noni’s wedding – and like all the unmarried women in town, hoping to catch the bride’s bouquet.’

  Crossing to the kitchen of the Diggers’ Rest to deliver fresh herbs to Mary Mac, Clytie had no sooner congratulated her on being promoted to cook, when they were confronted by a young woman with startling red hair, who sashayed across the dining room with a hip-swinging walk that strained the seams of her long skirt.

  Her hair was piled high in a style somewhere between the complex Gibson Girl vogue and a bower bird’s nest. Her hazel eyes had flecks of yellow like tiger’s eye stones, and her full mouth was painted scarlet to echo her hair. Her buxom chest and low-cut blouse reminded Clytie of the way some men referred to women who ‘advertised goods for sale’.

  She took a drag on her cigarette and eyed Clytie’s basket of herbs. ‘Who are you? We don’t allow hawkers on our premises.’

  Mary Mac sprang to the defence. ‘Clytie Hart ain’t no hawker. She’s employed here by Mrs Yeoman, as my personal assistant. So you’ve no call to throw your weight around, Ginger.’

  ‘My, my. No need to get your dander up. Mr and Mrs Yeoman put me in charge while they attend a wedding.’

  ‘In charge of the bar! My kitchen is off limit to barmaids.’

  Ginger’s eyes travelled slowly over Clytie’s silhouette. ‘From the looks of you, Miss Hart, your place is in the kitchen.’

  Without waiting for Clytie’s reply, she butted her lipstick-stained cigarette in a saucer and swung her hips as she exited to the bar.

  ‘Well, she’s a turn-up for the books!’ Clytie said with gritted teeth. ‘Where did she spring from?’

  ‘Bendigo, so she says.’ Mary Mac added sagely, ‘I reckon Miss Ginger Roy invented herself and wrote her own references.’

  Clytie tried to play fair. ‘Maybe, but I’ll bet she’ll draw in the blokes! Money in the till – that’ll keep Mr Yeoman happy.’

  Mary Mac was stripping off her Mother Hubbard apron. ‘Come on, while the cat’s away the mice will play. Let’s go and take a squiz at the Jantzen wedding.’

  ‘But I wasn’t invited.’

  ‘Neither was I. But what’s to stop us? I’m dying of curiosity to see the bride’s dress – and if she’s showing yet!’ Mary Mac said with a wicked grin.

  Clytie found herself being towed up the hill. They planted themselves a discreet distance from the church just in time to hear Holy Maude thumping out the triumphant strains of Handel’s Wedding March.

  The porch doors flew open. Dressed like a swarm of rainbow lorikeets, a crowd of women poured outside to form an avenue of honour.

  The bride and groom emerged squinting into the sunlight, to be showered with confetti and rose petals and surrounded by a crush of excited squealing females.

  A photographer had his tripod set up in readiness. Clytie could not help but notice that although Noni and Sonny froze obediently for the camera and smiled on cue, no one looked happier than the beaming patriarchs, Boss Jantzen and Pius James.

  Noni’s gown was Medieval in style, its skirt flowing from a high waistline, the sleeves slashed in a series of loops that revealed the silver lining.

  ‘She looks utterly beautiful,’ Clytie said wistfully. ‘And Sonny’s so handsome. What a romantic pair – just like Romeo and Juliet.’ She added quickly, ‘But let’s hope they are fated to have a happier ending.’

  ‘Romeo and Juliet? Who are they?’ Mary Mac asked.

  Before Clytie could work out a reply, the photographer was rearranging the group for his photographs. Noni directed him to include an elderly, elegant woman whose wide-brimmed hat sported a Bird-of-paradise that looked real enough to take flight.

  ‘Who’s she? Not someone I’d be likely to forget,’ Clytie asked.

  ‘Miss Rhoda James, Noni’s aunt. The wealthiest landowner in Bitternbird.’

  ‘So that
’s her. Rom was landscaping her garden.’

  Sonny beckoned another woman to join them in a group photograph.

  This woman was tall and bony. Her pale, angular face resembled an older version of Joan of Arc. Her face shone with admiration when Sonny placed his arm around her shoulders and drew her to his side.

  ‘I’m sure I’ve never seen her before either,’ Clytie said.

  ‘Not surprising. Sister Bracken runs the bush hospital and lives there week in week out. She’s a bit of a battle-axe but indispensable. Doc has to force her to take an occasional day off. See how she looks at Sonny? He was the first ever babe she brought into the world.’

  Clytie took a good hard look at the nursing sister. I wouldn’t want to meet her on a dark night.

  The photographer’s head re-emerged from under the black linen covering the camera. The crowd was growing restless.

  Marj Hornery reminded Noni to toss her bouquet into the crowd. According to tradition whoever caught it was destined to be the next bride. There was a cluster of hopeful expressions among all the single women, particularly Millie, the tiny bridesmaid, but either Noni’s aim was bad or she had other ideas. Her bouquet sailed over the up-stretched arms of Millie then over Sister Bracken’s hands to be caught by a flustered Doc Hundey.

  ‘Hey, Doc, your turn next!’ a jolly voice called out. ‘You wouldn’t have no trouble choosing a wife. They’d be lined up on your doorstep.’

  ‘Count me out! I’m much too busy for all that.’ Doc’s face reddened as he wove through the crowd to Millie’s side. ‘This was meant for you. If you’d been a mite taller you’d have caught it.’

  Clytie and Mary Mac slipped away unnoticed as the congregation split into two factions. The close friends and family drove or rode off to the formal wedding breakfast being catered for at the Jantzen mansion at the far end of town. The families of all those employed at the mine had been invited to a buffet luncheon later that afternoon at the Diggers’ Rest.

  Mary Mac scuttled off to supervise last minute details, leaving Clytie to wait for Mrs Midd to reopen the General Store, and Marj to resume business at the Post Office. She bought a few delicacies to tempt her mother’s appetite and for the supper she’d have in readiness for Rom’s hoped for return.