Finch was suspicious. ‘Why the change of plans?’
Rom was casual. ‘Trust me. I reckon you’d really take to the place.’
Finch was feeling hung-over and in no mood to be manipulated.
‘I haven’t come all the way from South Africa on a sight-seeing trip. My mission is to find out if that girl can identify me. You shoot off to wherever you damn well please. I’m sticking to the road to Bitternbird – come what may.’
‘Keep your shirt on, mate. It was just an idea. No need to split up. We’ve come this far together, might as well see the whole thing through to the end.’
‘Good. That’s settled, then!’
Restless to be free of the bustle of ‘Marvellous Melbourne’ and on the open road, Finch began whistling an unknown melody, startled when Rom identified it Sarie Marais.
‘You mean it’s a Boer song?’ Finch asked. ‘It sounds like a love song.’
‘It’s a bit of both. The tune’s an old American folk song. Some Afrikander wrote new words in his lingo in honour of his wife. The English translation is dead popular. You either heard our blokes singing it – or Boer prisoners of war. It’s sort of become their anthem.’
Finch was conscious his heart was beating rapidly. Is this love song the key to my memory?
The sun suddenly turned sour on them. The downpour came out of nowhere, wind and rain plastering Finch’s long hair to his face. They turned up the collars of their great coats and ran for shelter, shouldering their kit bags. They had few changes of clothing. In what had become an automatic response, Finch checked his breast pocket to ensure that the unknown girl’s photograph was protected from the rain.
The sun was arching across the sky as the pair zigzagged north-west, walking for miles in between a series of short lifts given them in farmers’ carts.
Finch now felt hollow with hunger, which did not improve his temper.
‘I don’t know why I let you talk me into this whole stupid exercise, Rom. That girl’s photo means nothing to you. My lost memory is my problem. Not yours.’
The silence between them was rare and so total it seemed unnatural. Finch needled him further for an explanation. ‘Don’t you have a life of your own?’
Rom’s face was expressionless. ‘You owe me, mate.’
‘So you keep saying. What the hell did you do for me? I don’t want to be in any man’s debt?’
‘I’m offering you the keys to a brand new life.’
‘Can’t you get it through your thick skull? I want to find my old life! I don’t want a new life.’
‘You will, mate, trust me.’
‘I’d sooner trust a death adder!’
Rom was having no luck flagging down a lift. ‘I must look disreputable. I’ll take cover in the bushes. You have a go.’
Finch donned his khaki coat, smiled and thumbed for a ride. The next vehicle, a farmer’s cart loaded with cabbages lumbered to a halt.
Finch smiled and pointed to the map. ‘Are you going anywhere near Bitternbird?’
‘You’re in luck, soldier. I can drop you off at the turn-off road. It’s a bit of a detour but I reckon we owe you fellas for fighting the Boers for us, eh?’
The driver was a huge, pot-bellied bloke. It was clear there was space for only one person on the seat beside him.
‘Can I put my kit in the back? And I’m travelling with a mate.’
The driver squinted in surprise. ‘Sure, plenty of room in the cart.’
Rom sprang out of the bushes and leapt up on to the back, settling down between their swags.
‘What did I tell you, Finch? Stick with me and you’ll lead a charmed life.’
Finch chose to ignore him.
By the time they reached the turn-off road, Finch knew what horse to bet on in the Melbourne Cup, which boxer would win the World Heavyweight Title, and the athletes tipped to win the Stawell Gift, which the farmer boasted was ‘the richest prize for a footrace in Victoria – and maybe the world’.
‘The first Stawell Gift was won by a bloke who reckoned he trained for the race by chasing kangaroos!’
The driver’s belly shook with laughter. He offered Finch his hand.
‘Good luck, Digger. Hope you find a heap of gold and a good woman. If you take up with a bad woman, she’ll go through your gold quick smart, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
‘Thanks for the ride, mate. Your blood’s worth bottling.’
Finch stood beside Rom, watching the cart disappear over the rise in a cloud of dust.
The signpost to Bitternbird stood like a silent sentinel on the side of the empty road. A flight of cockatoos screeched overhead and were lost from sight in the bush.
The pair plodded on in silence.
Finch wished that he was anywhere else in the world. Before the war broke out and buggered up my life.
When they reached the outskirts of Bitternbird, Finch broke the stalemate. ‘Truth is, we’re getting on each other’s nerves, Rom. How about we split up for a bit? Two independent minds on the case are better than us being hobbled together,’ he suggested. ‘I’ll look out for that Photographic Studio.’
‘Righto. If you have no luck there, take it from me, females in country towns have long memories. The gold may be thinning out, but women are a mine of information. What say we meet up in the park in a couple of hours?’
Neither of them had a watch. They glanced up as the Town Hall clock struck the hour.
Hitching his kit bag over his shoulder, Rom swaggered off without waiting for Finch’s agreement.
Finch soon found the sign for G. Johnson’s Studio. The photographer in residence was pleasant enough and duly inspected the photograph.
‘Sorry, soldier. I bought out Johnson some months back. He threw in the towel, went to try his luck at a new strike on Kalgoorlie. He burnt his bridges behind him – and all his files.’
Finch felt his heart sink. ‘I’ve got to find this girl.’ So I can find out if I need to do the right thing by her.
The photographer was sympathetic. ‘What’s her name?’
‘I don’t know, mate. I’ve lost my memory.’
‘That is a problem. Look, I can only suggest you show this picture to the coppers and everyone who crosses your path.’
Finch decided it would be wise to give the Police Station a miss. Towards the end of the main street he was beginning to flag from the heat. He stripped off his coat and folded it in his kit bag. He had stopped in front of an old-fashioned window bearing the words ‘Bitternbird Charity Shop. Est. 1873’. In the centre of the window on the plaster head of a mannikin was a striking hat adorned with the feathered plumes of a Bird-of-paradise.
It was blessedly cool inside the store, lit only by sunlight from the street. Finch was so tired and hungry he barely made it to the fragile chair reserved for customers.
The sole assistant was an elderly woman so elegantly dressed she did not appear to be in need of any of the second-hand goods on sale. Finch closed his eyes, surprised when she returned with a tall glass of water.
‘Here, lad, you’re all done in. Drink this down.’
Finch downed it in one draught.
‘You’re very kind. Look, I don’t want to sail under false colours. I didn’t come in here to buy anything.’
‘Neither did I. I came to deliver my unwanted gowns and hats for sale. I’m a volunteer – like you. Just back from the war, I take it.’
‘My name’s Finch.’
‘Miss Rhoda James,’ she said politely. ‘How may I help you?’
He whipped out the photograph. ‘I’m looking for this girl. Problem is, I’ve forgotten her name. But I must find her.’
Miss James eyed the photograph dubiously and handed it back to him.
‘A circus equestrienne! Good heavens, I don’t move in those circles.’
‘Please, take another look at the face. Her features are quite distinctive.’
She examined it through her lorgnette. ‘Yes, I remember now. A young woman I saw some m
onths back at a Women’s Suffrage rally at our Town Hall.’
Finch felt curiously elated. ‘You’re sure it was the same girl?’
‘Quite. She asked me to sign the petition – and I did so.’
‘Did you learn her name?’
‘No. But I saw her being driven away in a mail wagon – so presumably she lives somewhere along the mail route that passes through Barnaby’s Ridge to Hoffnung.’
‘Have you ever seen her since?’
‘No, but I presume by now she’s safely delivered. That was months ago.’
Finch was completely confused. ‘Delivered home? Why wouldn’t she be?’
‘No, no, I meant – well, she was very much in the family way.’ Miss James looked at him sharply. ‘Are you responsible, young man?’
‘No! But I must find her.’
Finch doffed his hat and, mumbling his thanks, turned on his heel and fled.
So this girl was expecting a kid! God, this story’s getting complicated.
He found Rom stretched out on a park bench in front of the new Boer War Memorial, lazily enjoying a cigar.
‘Good morning, ladies,’ Rom called out to a pair of passing nursemaids pushing big wicker baby carriages.
Intent on their chatter, the girls ignored him. Rom swung his legs to the ground, surprisingly cheerful, and gestured to the backs of the nursemaids. ‘Swagmen are invisible, mate.’
‘Maybe people think we’re going to ask for a hand-out,’ Finch suggested.
Rom gestured to the war memorial with the fresh gold lettering. ‘One of my mates is listed here – gone to God. Good bloke.’ He gave a shrug of acceptance. ‘Did you have any joy with the photograph?’
Finch decided to play his cards close to his chest. ‘You might say that. A lady recognised her as a girl she saw at a Women’s Suffrage rally in the Town Hall.’
‘A ruddy suffragette! Shit, mate, we’d best steer clear of that lot!’ It was clear Rom was only half joking.
Finch could never think straight when he was hungry. ‘So what do we do next? I could eat a horse. Don’t you ever get hungry?’
Rom looked sly. ‘Yeah, but even more for a night with a good woman. Surely you can remember what that feels like?’
‘None of your business,’ Finch said icily. He swung his swag over his back and stalked off down the road.
‘Hang on, wait for me. How do you know which road to take?’
‘I bought a map. I may have a blank memory, but I can read signposts as well as the next bloke. There’s a chance this girl lives somewhere along the mail route to Barnaby’s Ridge and Hoffnung.’
‘Righto. Off we go. It’ll take a while to get there on foot, but stick with me, Finch, and I’ll lead you to a great new life.’
Finch gave a derisive hoot. ‘That’ll be the day!’
Chapter 26
Christmas and New Year’s Eve had passed without Clytie’s participation.
Tonight would be the acid test, her first re-appearance in public – if she could summon up the courage to do so. For months past she had been overwhelmed by melancholia, a long dark tunnel of despair from which she had only begun to emerge, thanks to the quiet determination of a small band of friends who refused to allow her to cease her struggle between life and despair.
Doc Hundey had changed his attitude towards her from sympathy to that of a friend prodding her along the road to recovery. After he examined the cut on her wrist, which she hastily explained had been caused by a slip of the carving knife, he had nodded his head in silence but his look said everything.
From then on Doc had insisted she accompany him from time to time when he visited patients in remote areas. He claimed he needed her assistance to hold a lantern steady while he performed impromptu surgery when there was no time to transport the patient to Sister Bracken’s Bush Hospital or the larger hospital in Bitternbird.
He also encouraged her to return to work. Clytie at first shied away from the idea of resuming her position as kitchen hand at the Diggers’ Rest, despite Mrs Yeoman’s kindly note inviting her to do so. Clytie was painfully aware of the gossip circulating about her baby and Rom’s likely status as Missing in Action. She had had no letters from him as proof to the contrary.
A response to the letter she’d sent explaining her position to the Army authorities finally arrived. The wording was blunt and final, no doubt signed by some underling. With regret they were unable to provide information about a missing soldier except to his wife or close blood relative. She was requested to provide documents as proof of any legal relationship to the missing presumed dead soldier.
Clytie tore the letter to shreds and watched it burn in the fuel stove, eyed by Shadow who crouched in the doorway, watching her intently.
‘Another dead end, Shadow. In the eyes of the Law I’m just a fallen woman with an illegitimate dead baby – not even a letter of proof from Rom that he was the father.’
Shadow lowered his head at the mention of Rom’s name, as if sensing the pain in her voice was caused by his master.
Clytie was grateful for Holy Maude, who insisted on accompanying her on her weekly visits to the cemetery to place fresh flowers on the graves of little Robert Hart, Dolores, Lionello and Missy, and herbs on those of Long Sam’s compatriots.
Miss Adelaide Hundey regularly sent, via Doc, flowers and jam made from the blackberry bushes growing rampant behind her garden. She also kept her supplied with the latest Suffragette literature, copies of Louisa Lawson’s newspaper Dawn and news of Miss Vida Goldstein’s latest political coup.
Doc’s sister had written asking Clytie to attend that night’s Women’s Suffrage meeting at the Mechanics Institute. The note (delivered by hand to avoid Marj Hornery’s prying eyes) stated she had been instrumental behind the scenes in organising it. ‘My brother does not want me to attend because the town already considers me a crackpot who belongs in a lunatic asylum.’ There was an oddly wistful postscript: ‘Maybe he’s right.’
To please her friend, Clytie had agreed to think about it. Initially she had had no intention of attending another meeting, but she did read all the copies of Dawn.
Father Donnelly visited her, followed by what Doc Hundey called the ‘entire white-dog-collar brigade’. Clytie received the ‘men of the cloth’ politely and offered them tea, but she could find no consolation in their intended comforting assurances that little Robert’s soul was in the care of the angels.
Damn the angels, I needed my babe here with me.
She hated going to collect her mail at the Post Office in case she crossed paths with Noni. She could not face looking at any baby – least of all little Max Jantzen.
Then this morning, as she was emerging from Midd’s General Store, having received no belated letter from Rom acknowledging his son, she saw Sonny Jantzen approaching, driving his buggy. There was no time for her to disappear.
Clytie had rarely seen him since that night at the Diggers’ Rest on the eve of his marriage when ‘the wine was in’ and the painful truth was blurted out. Clytie had never told anyone what Sonny had said – or what he had implied.
As he drew closer she felt a jolt of pain in her stomach when she recognised the small figure on his knee. At her first sight of little Maximilian Jantzen he was waving to every person and animal he passed.
Sonny drew the buggy to a halt. ‘You’re looking well, Clytie. May I give you a lift home? I’m only stopping long enough to collect my mail.’
‘Thank you, Sonny, but I’m on my way to work.’ It was an involuntary lie and she forced herself to add, ‘It’s good to see how your son is flourishing.’
‘Indeed, Maxie has given me a new lease of life.’ He hesitated, ‘God willing, you will receive good news from South Africa.’
‘Thank you. Rom Delaney is alive and well, I have his letters to prove it,’ she lied cheerfully. ‘He says he’ll be home soon. Take care of yourself, Sonny. I can see you are a devoted father.’
He doffed his hat to her and drove
the last few yards to the General Store where he proudly carried his son in the crook of his arm inside the store to be encircled by admiring customers.
Clytie stumbled along the road, unable to see her path for the film over her eyes. She tried but failed to wipe away the image of the chubby little face that would have been similar in age to little Robert’s.
She said an angry mental prayer as her eyes smarted with tears. Come back to me, Rom. For once in your life keep your promise, you bastard.
• • •
Long Sam was tending her garden diligently when Shadow led the way through the front gate. During the worst of her melancholia Long Sam had gently insisted that she work beside him when the weather was fine. He would accept no payment now that no money was arriving from Rom, but he allowed Clytie to make him tea at lunchtime for the sake of her pride – and his own.
Spring had brought a cornucopia of vegetables and heavily laden passionfruit vines and Clytie made an effort today, inviting Sam to join her inside the house for morning tea.
As always he wished to take his tea in the garden, but she insisted.
‘Sam, this is the first day I have felt peaceful in a long time. I owe much of this to your friendship – as well as to the Chinese herbs you bring me. I have baked you a special dish that I understand is popular in the land of your birth. Please come inside and share it with me.’
Sam’s smile widened when he saw she had decorated the table with red napkins and tablecloth.
‘That’s the traditional Chinese colour representing happiness, isn’t it?’ she asked, rewarded by his smile. She served China tea from a second-hand teapot marked with a Chinese trademark on the bottom that she had bought at the church charity shop. On the wall she had hung a colourful Mandarin robe that had belonged to Dolores.
Sam ate in silence but she felt nervous when his eyes kept straying to the far corner of the room.
‘Is the food all right, Sam? You can be honest. I’ve never made it before.’
Sam nodded and mumbled phrases of thanks, but when he glanced once more at the corner of the room she saw his eyes were misty. Embarrassed, he rose, bowed and turned to depart.
‘Wait please, Sam. What is it that has disturbed you?’ She crossed to the corner that had drawn his eyes and looked about at the few objects on the table, touching each in turn. ‘Is it this? Or this?’
Golden Hope Page 27
