‘Smart dog!’
He patted the Kelpie’s head and watched him bound up the hill towards a house that seemed to perch on the outskirts of a town. The setting sun lit up the glass panes of the windows as if the house was on fire. A little girl came out the front door and waved her handkerchief at him. Or was she waving at the dog?
This dog seems to know exactly where I’m headed – even if I don’t. Who knows? Maybe I should show him the girl’s photograph.
The fanciful idea made him smile. He was so exhausted he could have laughed uproariously at a funeral.
The first thing he noticed when he entered Main Street was a low-slung building on a corner in the centre of the town. Even at that distance he could read the sun-cracked sign painted on the veranda: ‘Diggers’ Rest Hotel’.
‘Just what I need. If only I had the price of a meal and a bed.’
The dog was bounding ahead, barking excitedly as if alerting the townsfolk that something extraordinary was about to happen.
‘Don’t get too excited, fella. I’m just a swagman without a penny to my name. Maybe a name I can’t afford to remember.’
It was then he saw the sign outside the Mechanics Institute: ‘Tonight’s meeting. Guest speaker from Melbourne – Mrs Enid Mayfield. All welcome. Free supper.’
Finch needed no second invitation.
• • •
He found himself in a building resembling a church hall except the central aisle ran between benches not pews. Within minutes the hall began filling up with wet, bedraggled townsfolk. Most were women with raincoats and umbrellas but a surprising proportion were men, clean-shaven, be-whiskered or with long shovel-shaped beards, shaking their dripping coats and caps.
Some faces were lined like road maps of their lives, some tight-lipped and embittered, some young and determined, some merely curious. Finch felt sure he could predict the young larrikins and a few men smelling of whisky who had come merely for sport, to mock and heckle.
The stage side curtains were drawn back to reveal an empty stage, its backdrop painted with a surprising scene for a rural Australian community, an English Tudor village of thatched cottages. Above the proscenium arch was a gilt-framed portrait of the newly crowned King Edward VII, flanked by a portrait of Sister Florence Nightingale, looking as if she expected to be canonised any moment.
I guess we have her to thank. Rom and I would be long dead of enteric fever if it hadn’t been for nurses like Heather Macqueen trained in the Nightingale method.
An elderly woman linked her arm through his and steered him towards the trestle table in the corner set up with white china teacups, a metal urn and giant teapot.
‘Come, lad, you look like you could do with a cuppa. And I made the jam tarts myself. You’re new in town, aren’t you? Just back from South Africa?’
The old biddy was twittering like a bird as she loaded up his plate with cupcakes and biscuits and checked on whether he took milk and sugar in his tea. Still firing questions, she shepherded him to a seat where he could rest his back against the wall. Finch smiled his thanks, unable to take his eyes off the giant hatpin in her bonnet, and the grey hair growing out of the mole on her chin.
‘I’m Holy Maude, but don’t let the Holy bit fool you. I was quite a rebel in my youth,’ she said with pride. ‘Stay here.’
Finch mumbled a hasty grace under his breath then ate as fast as he could. So this is Ned Kelly’s last love.
He felt a flash of guilt, unsure if he should thank her for her hospitality in absentia.
She returned to press a plate of jam tarts on him. He noticed she was not wearing a wedding ring, but wore an ebony mourning locket.
‘What’s your name, lad? Where do you hail from?’
He offered her his hand. ‘I’m known as Finch, Miss Maude, but the truth is I have no idea who I am. I woke up in hospital in Johannesburg after a battle, suffering total amnesia.’
‘Oh dear, is it contagious?’
Finch smiled in relief. ‘No, you’re perfectly safe. But there’s no knowing if my memory will ever return. I can only hope some day someone will recognise me.’
That will be all over town before sundown tomorrow – I’d put money on it.
His hunger and thirst now contained if not satisfied and his story swallowed whole by what was clearly a town gossip, Finch sat back, content to be warm and safe – at least for the moment.
At an urgent call Holy Maude scurrried off at great speed to sort out some emergency. Finch noticed he was being quietly observed by a man seated alone near him. Sandy-haired and garbed in a shaggy tweed jacket which Finch realised was likely to have been the long-ago handiwork of a leading London tailor, the man had the same compassionate, seen-it-all eyes that reminded Finch of the over-worked army doctors who had tried to save patients against all odds.
The man gave him a reassuring smile. ‘Don’t you worry, lad. This town is very proud of its soldiers. They’ll see you right.’ He extended his hand. ‘I’m Robert Hundey, known around here as Doc. The only physician in town – for my sins. If I can be of any assistance, don’t hesitate to drop in for a chat.’
‘Thank you, Doctor, most kind of you. But I probably won’t be staying long.’
Finch found himself drawn into the soft grey eyes, almost as if he were being gently hypnotised. ‘I’m only passing through. Looking for a girl – can’t remember her name but I can’t forget her face.’
Finch was about to withdraw the photograph from his breast pocket when the scene around him was suddenly charged with action. The meeting had begun.
Making their entrance on the small stage were a self-important looking man in a three-piece suit adorned with what could pass muster as a mayoral chain and three serious-looking women in high-necked gowns and sturdy boots, their hats firmly anchored with hatpins. One carried an artist’s easel which she set up at the side of the stage and placed on it a placard on which was boldly printed ‘Vote 1 for Women’s Suffrage’.
Given the little Finch had learned about Clytie Hart in Bitternbird, this was a promising sign. She might well be here tonight. More females arrived in clusters, most of them garbed in dark clothing, but try as he might by stretching his neck, Finch could see no one who resembled the equestrienne.
It only took a few minutes for the spectators to grow noticeably restless, their voices rising in volume with spurts of laughter.
A gravelly male voice seemed to bounce off the walls. ‘Hey, Twyman, where are you hiding that suffragette? Bring her on, we won’t bite!’
Fingering his gold chain, Twyman conferred with the women seated on stage.
All heads turned when a man in a dripping caped raincoat entered the rear of the hall and after a nod from the policeman guarding the door, hurried down the aisle to deliver a message to Twyman. The spectators sensed an element of drama.
Twyman came forward to the apron of the stage and cleared his throat.
‘Ladies, gentlemen and others, I have just been informed that the Lerderderg River has risen to a level too dangerous for crossing. Consequently our guest speaker, Mrs Enid Mayfield, will be delayed. However, I am assured that there are words of great import to impart to you on the subject of Victorian Women’s Suffrage –’
His words were drowned out by a moan of disappointment. People rose from their seats and there was a growing push for the exit. The crowd was intent on abandoning ship.
Finch suddenly stiffened, alerted by the figure of a girl who rushed down the aisle, clutching her straw boater on her head. She made straight for Twyman who bent to confer with her. The audience halted out of curiosity.
‘Ladies and gentleman,’ said Twyman, ‘I have a most unusual announcement to make. While we await the arrival of Mrs Mayfield, a local person has offered to present to you a most unusual aspect of female expertise – be that as it may.’ His gesture clearly indicated, ‘Don’t blame me, I wash my hands off it.’
Finch half rose from his seat as the girl strode onto the stage. Sh
e was dressed in a Gibson Girl style white blouse with leg-o-mutton sleeves, the collar fastened with a dark blue tie, the symbol of masculinity – or was it equality? Her shorter than ankle-length skirt revealed lace-up boots and a neat pair of ankles.
Finch was riveted by the girl’s face. Anchored under an unseasonable straw boater was a magnificent pile of wavy black hair. A stray curl escaped to frame a heart-shaped face dominated by wide dark eyes and a full, sensuous mouth. He noticed her hands were trembling but her voice was determined.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, some of you know me as a kitchen hand at the Diggers’ Rest –’
‘You can serve me anytime. How about coming home to bed?’ a slurred male voice yelled out.
His drunken cronies guffawed but the girl’s response was swift and sweet. ‘I doubt if your good wife would appreciate that invitation, Jerry O’Brien.’
There was a ripple of supportive laughter. Finch was now convinced. She’s a dead ringer for the girl in that photograph. And her voice is just like Rom said – warm honey. But where the hell is he when I need him?
‘Some of you came here tonight in favour of the Vote for Women, some against it, some still sitting on the fence. Well, I’m no substitute for Mrs Mayfield. I’m Clytie Hart, a single girl who believes that women deserve the vote because –‘
‘You’ll die an old maid!’ another heckler called out.
‘Better to be a happy spinster than married to a wife-beater!’
The words had evidently hit their intended target, because there were nudges and murmurs of agreement.
The exodus from the hall had ended. Finch admired the way Clytie Hart regained control of her audience.
‘I am here to entertain you. But first I must ask two brave gentlemen to lend me their hats for a few minutes.’
She charmed a young boy into acting as her assistant. He eagerly did her bidding and collected the requested bowler hats from two men in the audience.
Clytie removed her own straw boater, causing her hair to tumble around her shoulders. She began by juggling first one bowler hat then both, moving around the stage as if she owned it. Teasing the audience by near misses, she pretended to lose control of the hats when both were high in the air, then spinning full circle before catching them again.
Her timing was immaculate, her movements confident, her figure graceful. To please the crowd, she rattled Councillor Twyman by a swift change of direction that sent the hats whirling above his head. Wherever she moved the hats were like boomerangs in flight, faultlessly returning to her hands.
Taking her bow, she led the applause for the two gentlemen as the boy returned the bowler hats to them.
‘And now I need a knife. Is there a gentleman in the audience willing to loan me one? What about you, soldier, in the back row?’
Finch was appalled when rows of heads swivelled in his direction. I’m trapped! But she’s doing her damnedest to hold the crowd’s interest – I can’t let her down.
Drawn by the power of her laughing eyes, he withdrew his Bowie knife from his kit bag and handed it the boy to deliver it to her on stage.
When she ran her finger along the blade, Finch couldn’t help himself. He called out in warning, ‘Be careful, it’s sharp.’
‘Don’t worry, soldier. So am I,’ she responded with a cheeky smile, holding up the Bowie knife for the audience’s inspection. ‘If I’m not mistaken, this belongs to one of our brave V.M.R. lads. What’s your name, soldier?’
Finch wanted to sink through the floor. I only came here for a free cup of tea and she’s roping me into her act.
He reluctantly called out his name and she led the audience in a round of applause to thank him. She deftly removed the placard from the easel standing at the left side of the stage. Then, with a knowing smile, she hung her straw boater at the apex of the easel and crossed to the other side to face her target. Twyman and the ladies hurriedly vacated the stage for the protection of the wings.
Clytie asked for total silence and it was instantly granted. Finch saw that her full concentration was focussed on her target as she stood poised, knife in hand. The crowd sucked in its breath as she sent the knife spinning across the stage. It landed dead centre in the crown of the straw hat.
The audience whistled and stamped their feet when she plucked out the knife and held the hat aloft for their inspection, wiggling her fingers through the hole to prove it was no trick.
Taking her bow, her eyes were laughing when she reminded them, ‘You see? Women can do anything. And now if you’ll kindly step forward and sign Mrs Mayfield’s petition, with luck the women of Victoria will have the vote before the year is out!’
Unable to prevent it, Finch saw the catastrophe coming as if in slow motion – the scarlet ball hurled across the room to splatter across Clytie’s face and chest.
Cries of outrage were turned on the man who had thrown the rotten tomato. He was instantly frog-marched outside by Sergeant Mangles.
With a fixed smile, Clytie managed to take a bow before her exit.
Finch manoeuvred his way through the milling crowd, determined to find her. His path was blocked by a ruddy-faced man who prodded a finger in Finch’s chest.
‘Think you’re all bloody heroes, don’t you? Well, you don’t fool me. Why are you fighting for the Empire? The Boers are just like us – farmers!’
Finch tried to brush him aside. ‘I don’t have time to debate the war. Stand aside, Sir. I must go to that lady’s assistance.’
‘What? That whore?’
Right at that moment, Finch spotted Rom standing at the edge of the crowd, his face dark with anger. Finch lost control.
His fist smashed into the aggressor’s face. Women screamed, men swarmed around them. Finch stumbled and fell under a hail of blows as other men joined in, eager for a fight of any kind.
Outside the hall, Finch and his opponent slugged it out as they stumbled and rolled downhill. Finch was panting as he struggled to his feet, determined to fight to the bitter end. For a split second he was reminded of the Boers’ boast, ‘We’ll never surrender. We are the bitter-enders.’
That distraction was his downfall. The final punch to his jaw sent him falling back into darkness. His last thought – Clytie Hart will be gone. At the moment he pitched forward heavily onto the road, he saw a man’s muddy boots.
The hands of the stranger were strong but gentle as they turned his body over . . .
Chapter 28
Shock and anger jockeyed for control of her emotions. Clytie held her head high to hide her humiliation as she left the stage, her face and blouse dripping with rotten tomato juice. As a final defiant gesture, she gave a theatrical wave of her ruined straw boater to the audience. Her eyes fixed on the man who had targeted her. Not a face she would ever forget – he was one of the two perverts who had spied on her and Rom making love at the billabong.
Trembling with rage, she realised she was gripping the Bowie knife like a weapon. She placed it in her reticule, dimly aware she must return it to that soldier.
Nobody waylaid her as she slipped out of the rear exit. The brawl had moved outside the hall and was now at its height. Punches were flying in all directions – but there was no figure in sight dressed in khaki. Had he fled from the scene? That seemed an unlikely act by a soldier.
Shadow’s absence made her uneasy. He had never before abandoned her. She headed straight for the side entrance of the Diggers’ Rest, counting on finding Mary Mac in the kitchen that was almost her second home. Too late, she was spotted by Moggy Mick through the window of the bar. He alerted his mates in a loud, mocking voice, slurred with drink.
‘Hey, fellas! Anyone want to buy cheap tomatoes – and the sheila what’s wearing them?’
Their reactions ranged from ridicule to uneasy laughter. Clytie ignored them.
In the kitchen Mary Mac, caught off guard by the appalling mess Clytie was in, choked back her laughter and instantly went to work. She stripped her of her tomato-sodden clothing a
nd replaced it with a clean Mother Hubbard apron that enveloped her from head to foot except for her arms.
‘Why do some men feel threatened by women wanting the vote? Why do they need to turn our meetings into a free-for-all?’ Clytie demanded.
‘They’re not happy unless they’re full as a boot and itching for a punch up. Pretty girls like you are an easy target.’
‘Pretty girls? I look like a scarecrow!’ Clytie said.
‘I should be so lucky,’ Mary Mac said with resignation. ‘Now you’re here, love, you might as well get paid for a couple of hours’ work.’
‘But what would Mrs Yeoman say?’
‘I’m cook, now. I’ll tell her I needed a bit of help. She’ll be sweet.’
Working alone in the pantry, where Mary Mac had assigned her to reorganise the shelves, Clytie completed the work by climbing up the stepladder to place the publican’s wife’s favourite crystal decanter safely on the highest shelf.
The sharp tug on the hem of her skirt caused her to give a yelp of anger, expecting to find one of Moggy Mick’s cronies had cornered her, intent on taking ‘liberties with her person’ as had so often happened to her in the past.
She whirled around and demanded fiercely, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Only to find it was not a man’s hand up her skirt, but the cold nose and teeth of a dog tugging at the hem.
‘Shadow! It’s you!’
The Kelpie immediately released the material that he had taken care not to tear. His low growl was insistent but his bright eyes had a pleading look. She had learned to interpret that expression.
‘What’s up, boy? Something’s wrong – show me!’
He bounded out the door. Clytie had no choice but to follow. She stuck her head around the kitchen door where Mary Mac was rinsing out the ruined clothing in the sink that ran red like blood.
‘Someone’s in trouble – I have to go. Tell Mrs Yeoman I’m sorry to bolt. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
She fled, unmindful of the fact she was enveloped by an apron.
Golden Hope Page 29
