Golden Hope

by Johanna Nicholls

  When she touched the book of Lola Montez memorabilia, she was shocked to see him avert his eyes, and the involuntary twitch of his hand.

  She crossed to his side. ‘Sam, this beautiful book was found abandoned in that miner’s right cabin Rom stayed in. Whoever this book belonged to truly respected Lola Montez. Sam, do you know who that was?’

  Clytie saw the truth in his eyes and handed him the book. ‘Sam, whoever it was, I would like you to have this book.’

  ‘No, Miss Clytie,’ he said, his voice dry with broken phrases. ‘Boys stole it from me. I thought it lost forever. Please keep it safe here with you.’

  ‘Please Sam, if it isn’t too painful, could you tell me about Lola? I wish with all my heart I had seen her dance – she was so beautiful, so gifted, yes? Sam, no one remembers her now – except you!’

  Sam sank onto the stool and together they turned the pages. His story grew with gentle animation as he allowed his memories to take wing into words. At the end of the book, Clytie thanked him. ‘Now I will never forget her. Promise me you will come here and enjoy your book whenever you want to. It isn’t mine – it is yours. But I’ll keep it safe for you.’

  In the doorway Long Sam turned to smile at her. Just for a moment Clytie saw the seventeen-year-old gold fossicker who was enraptured by Lola the enchantress.

  After his departure Clytie sat for a long time by Shadow’s side, thinking about the nature of love and how it can never truly be lost as long as it was retained in a person’s memory.

  ‘I only had my little Robert for five precious days. But nothing and no one can ever take those five days away from me.’

  As painful as the idea was, she had begun to realise that for her to honour the gift of having given him birth and known him, she must begin to take steps to live again.

  Clytie took down the last dog-eared letter written by Rom before his letters ceased. There was one sentence she knew by heart, but in what had become a beloved ritual, she traced the words with her finger as if to link her hand to his, her heart to his.

  She repeated Rom’s written words out loud. ‘If I only live to keep one promise in my life, Clytie, it’s my promise to come back to you.’

  Gently she returned the letter to the box and turned the key in the lock.

  With a sense of resolution she filled a tub of water to bathe and wash her hair. She finished sewing the blouse from the fine white material that had been sent to her by the Methodist clergyman’s wife who had waited fifteen years and was at last blessed with her first child.

  She held up the blouse for Shadow’s approval. ‘What do you think? No harm in my going to the meeting tonight. I’ll sit unnoticed at the back of the hall so I can leave early if I want to.’

  Shadow pricked up his ears, as if glad to be once again her confidante.

  Chapter 27

  At dawn Finch was released from the Watch House in a town of which he didn’t even know the name. He had mislaid his map, lost his bearings, had no money left for food and Rom had bolted. On top of that, the beer he had drunk last night on an empty stomach had left him with a hangover – and a black eye from the unwanted fight in the pub.

  The bearded police sergeant shook a stern finger at him.

  ‘I’m only letting you off ’cos you were a volunteer,’ he said. ‘Now hit the road and stay out of trouble in whatever place you end up in.’

  Finch wasted no time in humping his bluey and heading out of town. Feeling as desolate as an abandoned dog, he hid his relief at discovering Rom sleeping on a park bench.

  ‘Thanks for bailing me out of the Watch House,’ Finch said with heavy sarcasm.

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Rom. ‘Didn’t have the money. You need to thank some old bloke whose son was in the V.M.R. He wanted to remain anonymous.’

  ‘Damned decent of him,’ Finch said, surprised and touched. ‘I wonder what happened to the Irishman who attacked me because he was a pacifist.’

  ‘Dunno. Can’t save the whole world, mate. The coppers probably let you off the hook on account of you’ve been fighting the Boers. Count yourself lucky.’

  Rom was suddenly alert. ‘Hey, what happened to your rifle?’

  Finch shrugged. ‘Got confiscated at the Police Station. Who cares?’

  Finch noticed that for some reason Rom appeared distinctly morose. He looked hung-over, unshaven and grumpy. He was restless, determined to change the subject.

  ‘I forget which bloody road we take to Hoffnung. No point in asking you.’

  Finch pointed at the signpost well ahead down the road. ‘Barnaby’s Ridge four miles, six to Hoffnung.’

  ‘How about that! You’ve got perfect long sight. You must have been a real hot shot with a rifle. Any Boers within range of you would have been dead unlucky.’

  Finch heaved a sigh. ‘I never intend to fire a weapon again as long as I live.’

  ‘Know the feeling, mate,’ Rom agreed. ‘I’ve seen enough death to last me a lifetime. I can still smell the stench of those horses’ carcasses at Wilmansrust.’

  Finch felt his hands shaking. ‘Horses never declare war but we lead the poor beasts to their death.’

  ‘Sounds to me like you’re beginning to remember stuff.’

  ‘Flashes – like photographs. Nothing concrete I can put a name to.’

  Side by side they shuffled along the rocky road, each engrossed in his own thoughts.

  Mid morning they turned a sharp bend in the road and came across a clearing in the forest. At first sight Finch decided it was barely one step away from being a ghost town. Only one house remained standing in what must once have been a thriving Gold Rush village. This sole house had a shingle roof that looked moth-eaten and stood on a plot of land with a struggling garden. Several other cabins within sight had collapsed in on themselves, their windows and doors evidently commandeered by scavengers, leaving black holes that looked blindly out on the world.

  Close by the last house standing was a barn. Its door banged in the wind, creaking as if in complaint at being abandoned. Growing behind it in an old semi-derelict orchard were a few apple trees with gnarled branches in need of pruning, and fruit that was unlikely to be edible.

  Rom seemed to have passed through his ‘one-wrong-word-and-I’ll-bite-your-head-off’ mood. It was like the sun emerging after a storm.

  ‘Welcome to Barnaby’s Ridge. Be careful where you place your feet, Finch. Long grass can camouflage old mineshafts. This was once a rich goldfield, with half a dozen pubs for the miners, and an obliging, accommodating woman who kept them company whenever they struck gold – for a price.’

  ‘You mean she was – ?’

  ‘Yeah. A woman of pleasure.’ Rom looked at him with narrowed eyes. ‘Were you training to be a priest, or something?’ At Finch’s cold-eyed stare, Rom added, ‘All right, all right. None of my business.’

  Rom wandered around as if he owned the place and helped himself to the half-ripe fruit. ‘Crab apples. They look withered, but they taste sweet.’

  ‘I’m not picky. If I can chew it, I can eat it. Better than an empty gut.’

  ‘We’re in luck,’ Rom called back. ‘There is still sweet water in the well – and a bucket.’

  ‘Hey, won’t the owner rouse on us if she finds us here?’

  ‘Chances are she’ll be out in the street, singing hymns.’

  ‘Around here? You’re kidding. ’

  ‘Not here, in Hoffnung. Holy Maude belts a tambourine for the Salvationists, but she’s nothing if not ecumenical. She also plays her organ on wheels for each of the churches – Catholic, Church of England, Presbyterian and Methodist. Don’t worry, if she was at home right now she’d cook us a meal. So help yourself to the fruit. We’ll raid her kitchen for tea.’

  Finch’s curiosity was aroused. ‘You knew her well?’

  ‘I used to drive a Cobb and Co coach through here. She’d offer me a cuppa and hot scones. I promise you, she won’t mind us helping ourselves.’

  Joining Rom in the ki
tchen, Finch was curious about the woman who lived here alone. He was intrigued by the quality of the two sepia portraits, particularly the one of Holy Maude as a young woman.

  ‘They never smile in those old photographs. I reckon because they’d all lost their teeth,’ Rom said lightly.

  ‘They needed to hold perfectly still for a long time or the image would be blurred. You try freezing a smile for half a minute – you’ll look like a ghoul.’

  Finch moved on to the other portrait of a handsome bearded man with haunted eyes. The frame of this one was shrouded with black crepe.

  ‘Who’s he? Her husband?’

  ‘That’s Ned Kelly, our most famous bushranger. You must have heard of him, Finch. Holy Maude is as ugly as sin but people reckon she was Ned’s last lover.’

  Finch peered closer at her youthful portrait. ‘Not a bad looking young girl – maybe it was true.’

  Rom turned to him. ‘What are you waiting for? A gilt-edged invitation? Check out the larder for sugar.’

  Finch discovered it among a shelf full of jars, all neatly labelled.

  One bright yellow label was printed with the word ‘DANGER’.

  Finch was startled by the strange sensation he felt as he stared at the word. His head was suddenly pounding. Was this some kind of warning? He backed away from the larder and returned with the sugar jar.

  ‘I hope our hostess’s eyesight is good. Her sugar and tea are on the same shelf as the rat poison.’

  Rom shrugged. ‘Don’t worry about Holy Maude. Sharp as a tack, she is. She’s everyone’s friend, but she hates rats – and Boers.’

  ‘I can’t wait to meet her,’ Finch said lightly.

  They built a fire in the blackened campfire in the yard behind the house.

  Rom never missed an opportunity to boast about Australian Volunteers’ ingenuity. ‘That’s how our mob manage to survive better than the Brits on the veldt when we’re short of rations and wood is as scarce as hen’s teeth. Most of us volunteers are country lads, used to lighting fires and living off the land when times are tough. It was second nature for me to commandeer chooks from empty Boer farmhouses. Many of the Tommies are city lads. I reckon Cockneys go hungry if they can’t open a can of Army bully-beef rations.’

  Rom held out his cap filled with hens’ eggs. ‘How do you like your eggs?’

  Finch snapped at him. ‘You stole those! We aren’t living off the veldt now!’

  ‘Don’t look so shocked, Maude never locks her doors. Nothing to steal.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Nobody locks their doors around here – unless they’ve found gold.’

  He threw a handful of tea into Finch’s tin mug. ‘Maude doesn’t hold with hard liquor but she never brews anything but the best China tea.’

  Finch was too thirsty not to drink it but when the mug was empty he was determined to force the showdown that had long been building up between them.

  ‘I’ve come to the conclusion this whole trip has been a set-up. That you planned the whole thing. That Bitternbird was just a detour to throw me off the scent. Am I right?’

  Finch tapped the photograph in his breast pocket.

  Rom’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘What are you talking about? That photograph was in your jacket.’

  Finch’s hands shook as he held the photograph in front of Rom’s face. ‘Are you telling me you’ve never seen this girl before in your life?’

  Rom shrugged. ‘You never asked me. Her name’s Clytie Hart.’

  Finch exploded with rage. ‘You unmitigated scoundrel! How can I trust a damned word you say?’

  ‘I don’t have all the answers, mate. Any more than you do. We’re in this thing together, right?’

  ‘What thing? Why the hell do you want me here?’

  ‘Keep your shirt on! I figured you owed me. I needed someone I could trust.’

  Finch hurtled across the fire and pinned Rom down, his hands locked around his throat. ‘Tell me why or I swear to God I’ll throttle you!’

  Finch saw the scarlet veil cloud his vision and recognised the sickening bloodlust of battle – he had totally lost control. Everything was surreal.

  Locked in combat they rolled over and over, pummelling each other in a desperate bid for survival. Finch saw the blood on his hands and felt flashes of pain. Nothing seemed to matter except to rid himself of the anger, hatred, shame, the overwhelming sense of sheer blind frustration. The only friend he had in the world had just tricked and betrayed him. Finally exhausted, he forced himself to release his grip on Rom’s windpipe.

  Rom was choking. ‘Take – it – easy. I needed a go-between.’

  ‘A go-between? Why!’

  Rom gasped for air. ‘Letter. Pocket.’

  Finch released him, fished in the pocket of Rom’s jacket and unfolded a well-worn letter. He read it in haste. It was signed, ‘Ever your girl, Clytie.’

  He was stammering with rage. The pieces all began to fall into place. ‘She says here, “What do you want to call the babe?” Jesus, that means you’re the father of this girl’s kid.’

  ‘So she said. That was months ago. Must be born by now.’

  ‘Months ago? So why the hell are you avoiding her? Aren’t you sure if you’re the father?’

  Rom sprang quickly to the defence. ‘No way Clytie would lie about that. She’s dead honest. Crazy about me. You can see it in her eyes. Warm, sweet as honey. But she’s the marrying kind. I’m a rolling stone – or at least I was.’

  ‘So why not face her yourself?’

  ‘I let her down. Bolted. Ran off to enlist.’

  ‘Face her like a man – if she loves you she’ll be glad you’re alive.’

  Rom eyed him as if weighing whether to hold the ground gained – or proceed. ‘The thing is. It’s not quite that simple.’

  When Finch reached out, ready to choke the life out of him, Rom was quick to call a truce. ‘Hang on, there’s another letter. Other pocket.’

  Finch opened the envelope to find a country newspaper cutting of the marriage of Miss Noni James to George ‘Sonny’ Jantzen, Esquire. Another cutting was the formal notice of the birth of a son to Mr and Mrs George Jantzen. Finch noticed the date – six months later.

  ‘Look at the back,’ Rom sighed.

  Handwritten in ink was scrawled, ‘Don’t bother to come back.’

  Finch shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Good God, you can’t mean . . .?’

  Rom heaved a sigh. ‘Yeah, just my rotten luck. I can’t be sure but it seems like I might have got two of them up the duff. One I cared about – Clytie. The other was just a bit of sport. Look, it’s not what you think. I had every intention of keeping faith with Clytie after I took up with her. The trouble is, whenever I see girls crying their heart out – well, I comfort them, the only way I know how.’

  Finch was exasperated. ‘And end up making them both pregnant!’

  ‘Hell, no, that was just an accident. I didn’t know I’d done the deed when I bolted. But when I saw two girls with orange blossoms in their eyes, there was nothing for it but volunteer in the V.M.R.’

  ‘I get it. You haven’t got the guts to face them so you want me to do your dirty work for you.’

  Rom looked surprisingly nervous. His hands twitched.

  ‘No! I just want you to check out the lay of the land, see how Clytie is. Noni has married Sonny, the richest bloke in town – like she always wanted. Me, I just want to do right by Clytie. I want a second chance. War – well, it changes us all, right?’

  ‘So why drag me into your unholy mess?’

  ‘I needed a bloke I could trust to find out what happened to them all – discreetly. Be honest, without that photograph would you have come seven thousand miles just to be my go-between?’

  There was only one answer to that. No. Finch thought it through. What other choices do I have right now? No job, no money and if it turns out I’m a deserter I’ll be lynched.

  ‘I presume that’s why you want to rema
in on the Missing list – until I find out which way the land lies with Clytie?’

  Rom heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Thanks, mate. I knew you’d understand.’

  They drank the dregs of the tea in a silence that was strangely companionable.

  Rom tried his best to sound reassuring. ‘Hoffnung’s only a few miles down the road. Best you front up there by yourself, where no one knows you. Don’t worry, I’ll soon meet up with you. There’s a miner’s right cabin where we can doss down. I need to keep out of sight for a bit. Remember, I’ll be keeping an eye on you. If you get into trouble, I’ll be there to save your bacon.’

  Finch gave a dismissive wave of the hand, his voice loaded with sarcasm.

  ‘Thanks, Rom. More than I can say.’

  He watched Rom stagger off until he was lost from sight in the feathery shadows cast by gum trees that were fast sinking into the darkness of night.

  Feeling abandoned and knowing it was largely his own fault, Finch remained squatting by the embers of the fire, examining Rom’s blood on his bruised hands.

  He didn’t fancy spending a night in this virtual ghost town, hospitable as Holy Maude sounded. So he swung his swag over his shoulder and set off down the road. A mile further on he was charmed by the sight of a wombat wobbling across his path. Soon after came the unexpected sight of the dark statue of a dog. It was standing as if waiting patiently forever by the side of the road. He was sure it was carved from stone – until the dog’s ears wiggled.

  ‘Hello, fella? Going my way are you?’ Finch asked, surprised when the black and tan Kelpie took the lead.

  On reaching a fork in the road, Finch was about to veer left when the dog circled his legs as if rounding up a stray sheep to steer it in the opposite direction. As Finch crossed over the flat timber bridge the reason was obvious. The other track led down to the ruined pylon of an old bridge that had clearly been swept away by floodwaters. The faded sign written on yellow tin stopped him short. DANGER. The pain in his head throbbed like a military drum beat each time he looked back at the sign.