Golden Hope

by Johanna Nicholls

‘Now we know why we ain’t seen her around since her honeymoon. I reckon the princess was in the family way before her wedding. Out to hook Sonny Jantzen by hook or by crook.’

  ‘My mother used to say that babies choose their own time to come into the world.’ Clytie flushed at having drawn attention to herself. ‘I guess that includes me.’

  Mary Mac’s rough red hand gently patted Clytie’s belly. ‘Don’t you worry, love. Yours is gunna be a little beauty. How could it fail with good-lookers like you and Rom Delaney?’

  Clytie impulsively kissed her cheek then hurried away, unable to restrain an unwanted twinge of envy. Sonny, rejected as a Volunteer, would be free to enjoy the birth of his child while Rom was absent, fighting the Boers.

  Shadow was waiting for her. ‘But who am I to judge Noni Jantzen? I only hope she makes Sonny happy.’

  Main Street appeared to be suddenly alive, like a hornet’s nest stirred to action. While still enveloped in their Mother Hubbard aprons, women clutched their hats as they ran from group to group, chattering like magpies. The men who conferred together in their own groups ranged from bushy-bearded miners, farmers in overalls and wide-awake bush hats, to a few travelling salesmen in three-piece suits and beaver hats.

  ‘Something’s up, Shadow. God willing peace has been declared. Or else our lads have won some battle. Let’s hope the news isn’t about some crazy Bolshevik taking a pot shot at King Edward.’

  Three previous failed assassination attempts on the life of His Majesty’s late mother, Queen Victoria, were still fresh in Clytie’s memory.

  Random words that filtered through to her clearly involved the war.

  England’s role had caused some of her former allies to switch sides. What a mess the world is in.

  Every nuance in the changing fortunes of war reawakened her deep-seated fears for Rom’s safety.

  At Mrs Midd’s General Store Clytie bid Shadow to ‘stay’ outside. Using her basket as a shield to protect her belly from sharp elbows, she manoeuvred her way to the sectioned-off corner containing the one-woman Post Office, the pigeonholes for residents’ letters and a silver-metal cash register that ‘sang’ like a bell when operated.

  The hole in the panelled wall was guarded by a metal grille that looked as if it had been designed to deter bushrangers in the Gold Rush era. The grille framed the face of Marj Hornery, a young martinet with a dodgy reputation. Clytie had heard local urchins chanting a rhyme to the rhythm of Little Jack Horner: ‘Marjory Hornery sat in the Cornery, reading the people’s mail.’

  A magnet for local gossip and national news, the Post Office was officially limited to trading stamps, stationery and the weighing of Christmas packages bound for the Mother Country and comfort parcels to local lads at the Front.

  Behind her Clytie heard the words ‘South Africa’, ‘Kitchener’ and ‘It’s a disgrace!’ being bandied about, but she was intent on keeping her place in the queue to post Rom’s letter and hopefully find his letter waiting for her. The woman at the head of the queue was advising Marj that the Bakery had slashed its prices in a sale.

  Marj’s whisper was audible. ‘No point in telling the Knife-Thrower’s Daughter. She’s already got a bun in the oven.’

  The woman gave a nervous giggle and glanced over her shoulder at the target.

  Clytie instinctively laid a protective hand over her belly. So that’s the nickname I’ll have to wear for the next twenty years – if I stay here.

  When it came Clytie’s turn to step up to the grille, Marj Hornery made a swift move to shut the hatch.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m closed for the day. You’ll have to wait your turn till Monday, Miss.’

  The snub was obvious. Clytie’s fist was quick to block the hatch from closing.

  ‘All I want is for this letter to catch the mail cart to Bitternbird in time to meet the train to Melbourne.’

  ‘Too late. I told you, I’m busy.’

  The door of the hatch snapped shut in Clytie’s face.

  Back in the street, Clytie saw Counsellor Twyman was the target of questions. Sergeant Mangles was nailing a document on the noticeboard surrounded by a growing crowd. Her heart pounded at the realisation this was a casualty list from South Africa. Feeling Shadow’s cold nose pressed against her skirt, Clytie touched the elbow of a man in miner’s garb.

  ‘Please, Sir, what’s happened? My man is at the Front.’

  ‘God grant him safe passage home, Miss. We’re all fair riled up. Who could blame us?’

  Clytie held her temper. ‘Yes, but why?’

  ‘We’ll hear the full story at six o’clock at the Mechanics Institute. A mob of V.M.R. lads were ambushed and killed. Some flaming Imperial officer had the gall to call them “white-livered curs”. I’d like to get my hands on that bastard!’

  Muttering obscenities under his breath, he pushed his way past Twyman and headed in the direction of the mine.

  Clytie abandoned all semblance of good manners. She burrowed her way though the crowd and ran her eye down the list. There were dozens of names of the wounded, including those who had died at some place called Wilmansrust.

  Clytie did not draw breath until she was sure the list did not contain the name Delaney. Faint with relief she pushed to the edge of the crowd, feeling a pang of guilt when a woman cried out, ‘Oh no! My cousin Jock from Bitternbird! He’s dead!’

  A man reacted in sympathy. ‘Poor Jock. He was the best left-handed bowler I ever saw. Good enough to have played for Australia one day, I reckon.’

  Clytie searched the faces around her. There was no sign of Doc Hundey. He could be miles away in the bush at the scene of some accident or delivering a baby.

  She hoped he would return in time for the meeting. His calming manner was needed.

  Her curiosity was aroused by the pony cart, rarely seen in town but now drawn up at the edge of the crowd. Miss Adelaide Hundey sat bolt upright, observing the scene, gripping the reins in black lace mittens. Her wide-brimmed hat was covered by a veil but her pale, haughty features were clearly recognisable.

  Clytie made her way to her side. ‘It’s good to see you, Miss Hundey. Have you heard what that officer said about our dead volunteers?’

  ‘No surprise to me. Most Imperial officers are brave and courageous. But my father, Captain Hundey, would be the first to condemn a rotten apple in the ranks. They’re a disgrace to the King’s uniform. Anyway Britain shouldn’t be there!’

  Masking her shock at this criticism of the Mother Country, Clytie instinctively offered her hand to help the woman alight. Noticing the built-up sole of her boot, she hoped her polite gesture would not be misinterpreted by the proud, tetchy woman.

  Miss Adelaide’s eyes glinted. ‘If anyone else offered me their hand I’d send them packing. You’re different.’

  The pony’s reins secured, Miss Hundey made her way to the Post Office, looking neither right nor left to avoid being waylaid in unwanted conversation.

  Clytie tried to warn her. ‘The Post Mistress has closed up for the day.’

  ‘We’ll see about that!’

  Clytie stood at her elbow as Miss Hundey gave a series of hefty thumps on the hutch, which finally drew a response.

  ‘I told you we’re closed for business,’ Marj Hornery said firmly.

  ‘Not to me, you’re not! As you are well aware, Miss, I only come here once every month to collect registered mail from England. You’ll kindly hand it over immediately or I shall call Sergeant Mangles. Do I need to remind you, it is a serious offence to prevent delivery of the Royal Mail!’

  The Post Mistress blinked in alarm, her blush so red it obscured her freckles. She disappeared, almost instantly returning to hand over an official-looking letter with an English postmark.

  Cowered, she pushed a receipt book across the sill. ‘Sign here, please.’

  ‘There, I knew you’d find it,’ Miss Hundey said coolly, ‘and while we’re here you will also check the mail for my friend, Miss Hart.’

  Clytie struc
k while the iron was hot. ‘And send this letter off to South Africa.’

  Marj Hornery’s mouth tightened to a fine line as she accepted the letter. She disappeared with it and returned moments later bearing a letter with a Transvaal stamp. Clytie smiled with relief. Miss Hundey casually asked the Post Mistress, ‘Rom Delaney is safe and well?’

  ‘Yes indeed, he’s been a scout –’ Marj’s voice dried, realising her faux pas in stepping into the woman’s trap.

  ‘Yes, I thought if anyone would know, you would, Marj. Good day!’

  So saying, Adelaide Hundey turned on her heel and with great dignity limped from the store.

  Clytie escorted her to the pony trap. ‘Thank you, Miss Hundey. I would have had to wait until Monday to read Rom’s news if you hadn’t encouraged Marj!’

  Clytie’s giggle was met by a slight twist at the corner of Adelaide Hundey’s mouth. The woman climbed up into the pony trap, then hesitated.

  ‘I have never thanked you for your floral tribute that night at the circus. Perhaps you’d care to take tea with me next week. I have a favour to ask.’

  Clytie hid her surprise. ‘Thank you, I should like that very much.’

  ‘Good. I shall look forward to your company.’

  ‘Will I see you at the meeting tonight?’ Clytie remembered to ask.

  ‘No. My brother does not approve of my appearing in public,’ she said tartly. ‘He’s afraid I’ll air my outspoken views and embarrass him. And I would – given half a chance.’

  With an elegant flourish of the whip that she held purely as a symbol above the pony’s back, the Doc’s sister drove off in the direction of their house, the streamers of her veil fluttering in the breeze.

  ‘Come, Shadow. The moment we’re home we’ll read Rom’s letter. I don’t want to share it with anyone but you.’

  Nothing, not even the knowledge that Marj Hornery’s unofficial censor’s eye had scanned it, could spoil this moment. Holding the precious letter over her heart, Clytie hurried home.

  Curled up on the couch with Shadow crouched on the mat beside her, Clytie opened the cherished letter. It was numbered but undated and evidently written in haste. She scanned it quickly then passed on the news to Shadow.

  ‘As usual your master Rom is full of jokes about the horrible taste of mealies, the Boers’ long bushy beards and hooked pipes, and the comfort parcels he’s received from Victoria with so many pairs of hand-knitted woollen socks and cigarettes he could open a shop. He wants you to know he misses us both. But he’s made no mention of Wilmansrust – so he must have been safe behind the lines. That’s a real blessing, eh?’

  Shadow gave her one of those strange looks that were hard to decipher.

  ‘Tell me, Shadow, do you know something I don’t?’

  She fell asleep by the warmth of the fire, nudged awake by Shadow in time to hurry off to the meeting at the Mechanics Institute.

  • • •

  With Shadow to guide her, Clytie hurried up the hill, the collar of her mother’s multi-coloured cloak turned up against the chill, her tam o’shanter low over her ears to counter the wind. It was said to be already snowing heavily on Mount Macedon months earlier than usual. Clytie’s nose was so cold she was prepared to believe snow was ready to fall on Hoffnung for the first time in living memory.

  Electric light fell in bright shafts through the side windows of the Mechanics Institute, a timber-framed building perched halfway up the track that led to the three churches, and which at first glance gave the appearance of a fourth church. Tonight’s public meeting would be Clytie’s first social appearance in her now obviously pregnant state. Although she felt slightly unnerved by the prospect, nothing could have kept her away from the chance to learn exactly what had happened in the Transvaal and how it might have affected Rom. Where once she had blocked all details of the war from her mind, they were now a needed bridge to the father of her unborn child.

  Outside the porch she squatted down to confide in Shadow. ‘I know how proud you Kelpies are. I didn’t want to insult you by making you a dog’s coat. I can’t take you inside where it’s warm, so I brought you your favourite biscuits and this bone to enjoy while you wait here for me.’

  The double doors of the porch were pointed at the top in ecclesiastic style, having been originally intended for a Lutheran church that German settlers had erected elsewhere. At the far end of the long hall was a stage beside a side door leading to a kitchen in the cavern tunnelled beneath the platform.

  It was Clytie’s first visit to this male domain and she looked around her in admiration. Inside the hall’s entrance a flight of steps led to an upper gallery that housed the lending library. Encouraging her love of books, Doc had explained that Mechanic Institutes, first founded in Edinburgh, offered free lectures and education to poor working men. The institution had spread world-wide. Doc had reminded her, ‘Ours is used by men but there’s no concrete law against women – remember that, Clytie. Everyone should have the chance to further their education.’

  Clytie was reminded of Pedro’s farewell instruction. Go on learning.

  Seated at the back of the crowded hall she surveyed the scene. It seemed this meeting had flushed out every resident within a twenty-mile radius of Hoffnung. There was no sign of Doc Hundey but she recognised Holy Maude, the very expectant Mrs O’Grady knitting khaki socks, the sedate wives of all the clergy, Father Donnelly who stayed overnight in town to celebrate Mass, Pius James and Boss Jantzen – the newly allied heads of their joined families, the haggard schoolteacher Mr Bentley who was said to be ‘leaning on the bottle’ and Tom Yeoman, who had evidently left his wife to man the pub. The owners of every store in Main Street were present including, not surprisingly, the Post Mistress.

  Clytie felt the heat of anger flush her face at the sight of the two perverts who had spied on her and Rom that day at Whipstick Pool. The older one, Dirty Dan, turned as if he could feel her eyes boring into the back of his neck. He sniggered, no doubt confident that Rom Delaney was no longer around to hound him.

  Sergeant Mangles stood guarding the door, available to give assistance if needed. Clytie decided that in her case that would open up a can of worms, an explanation she wanted to avoid.

  The air was electric with expectation. Youngsters were jumping up and down in their seats like jack-in-the-boxes. Everyone was loudly exchanging gossip.

  It’s like Guy Fawke’s Night – minus the bonfire and crackers.

  Councillor Twyman’s entrance on the stage produced instant quiet. He was followed by two men who took their seats each side of him. Doc Hundey wore his familiar tweed jacket and baggy trousers over muddy boots he no doubt had no time to clean. Seated beside him was a stranger, a young man garbed in a three-piece suit with a stiff collar and yellow weskit.

  Twyman began his address in his usual pompous style, congratulating himself and those present on their civic duty. He proudly reiterated the local belief that ‘our locality headed the call to come to the Empire’s aid. We sent more volunteers to the South African war per head of population than any other place in Victoria and probably Australia’.

  There was no argument with that statement but Twyman continued to waffle on until a voice at the back of the hall called out in irritation.

  ‘Get to the meat of the sandwich, Twyman. What’s the truth of this Boer business? We all know someone in the V.M.R. We have a right to know what our lads are up against!’

  There was a ready chorus of ‘Hear, hear’.

  Twyman introduced the young stranger, a keen-eyed, freelance journalist named Joshua Steinham, and asked him to encapsulate the facts.

  Steinham cleared his throat and his voice carried to the back of the hall.

  ‘You’ll doubtless read varying accounts in all the State’s newspapers in coming weeks. But I say without prejudice that you can rely on The Bacchus Marsh Express to give a fair, unbiased account.’

  His endorsement of this newspaper drew a warm response from the audience that h
e acknowledged with a nod then continued in serious vein.

  ‘On June 10th near Wilmansrust, a farmhouse in the Transvaal, there was a tragic encounter involving the V.M.R. in a Boer Commando’s ambush thought to be headed by the legendary General Ben Viljoen. It occurred in the middle of the night while most of the Australians were asleep. Some three hundred and fifty volunteers – including sons, brothers and friends from the Gold Triangle – suffered the highest rate of Australian dead and wounded in a single day since the outset of the war.’

  There was a low moan shared by several women.

  ‘That was indeed a tragedy but in the days that followed the situation escalated in a series of shocking repercussions without precedent in the history of Australian involvement in any armed conflict.’

  Clytie was confused. Is he referring to rebels at the Eureka Stockade? Or Australians involved in the Crimean or Sudan War?

  ‘No two ways about it,’ Steinham continued, ‘Wilmansrust was a bloodbath. The reasons and responsibility for the tragedy are as yet unclear. Some blame an Imperial officer, Major Morris. He was in charge it would seem under orders from Major-General Beatson whose flying column was some miles distant at the time.

  ‘Today we received telegraph messages concerning Beatson’s tirade about the V.M.R.’s performance at Wilmansrust in which he labelled the Australians who died or were wounded or captured that night as “white-livered curs”.’

  Shocked voices rose in bitter protest until Steinham held up his hands to request order. ‘Even worse was to come,’ he warned.

  ‘Hopefully they shot that flaming Beatson!’ a rasping voice yelled out.

  Twyman was pink in the face. ‘Allow the representative of The Bacchus Marsh Express to speak!’

  Instant silence followed.

  ‘Beatson’s comments spread swiftly through the ranks. A conversation between three Australian volunteers was overheard by British officers. One of our troopers said – and I quote: “It will be better for the men to be shot than go out with a man who would call them ‘white-livered curs’. I would think more of them if they would throw down their arms and refuse to go out.”’