Golden Hope

by Johanna Nicholls

  ‘Just one thing, Finch, you will report directly to me. No need to involve Father in any way. That means I will require your total discretion. Hoffnung runs on gossip. It is essential that we avoid any rumours concerning the mine’s possible closure.’

  ‘I understand perfectly, Sir,’ Finch said.

  Their firm handshake sealed their bargain.

  It was at that moment that Finch saw Noni Jantzen approaching them, her silken skirts swishing above the grass. Her face was a pale cameo of perfection, yet the eyes watching Finch were far from free of suspicion.

  Sonny politely introduced them, mentioning that Finch was a comrade-in-arms of Rom Delaney. Finch did not fail to miss the instant stiffening of her neck and the quick turn of her head to avoid looking directly into his eyes.

  ‘My husband needs his rest. It is my role to ensure he does not over-extend himself.’

  Sonny’s charming, resigned shrug was like that of an obedient child being sent to bed. ‘We shall begin next week, Finch. I look forward to it.’

  The pair walked back to the house, the wife’s arm linked through that of her husband. To Finch’s surprise she turned to glance at him over her shoulder.

  She’s playing a double game, that one.

  • • •

  Light of heart, Finch strode along the long road that snaked its way through the hills. Mullock heaps from long abandoned mine shafts lined the road like giant anthills.

  His eye was drawn to an overgrown, closed mine tunnel that had been burrowed under a hill. The warning sign was faded but he was shaken by the impact of the word in capital letters – DANGER. His head no longer throbbed at the sight of the word – it gave him a sense of comfort, of belonging.

  The man from Angers, that’s me. No longer the man with no name.

  At that moment the full house of cards of his lost memories hurtled across his mind with such rapidity that he was forced to give in to his shaking legs and sit down on a boulder by the side of the road.

  Time lost all measure as he retrieved the best and worst of his life and tried to digest their meaning. Now there was no escaping the truth of what he had done.

  I can hide it from the rest of the world – but I can no longer hide it from myself. This changes everything.

  • • •

  A mile from any habitation Finch turned a bend in the road and came face to face with a khaki figure seated on a fallen tree trunk, smoking a cigar. He looked as solid and real as any man alive.

  ‘What kept you? I’ve been waiting here for hours!’ Rom’s mock complaint was delivered with a twisted smile.

  Finch decided it was wise to continue their usual banter, winning him time to observe him closely.

  ‘Don’t try and weasel your way out of this mess. What the hell have you been up to?’

  Despite his feigned relief at seeing him, Finch was as usual irritated by Rom’s nonchalance. He elbowed Rom along the fallen tree trunk to make room for himself.

  Rom casually blew a smoke ring into the air, to annoy Finch.

  ‘Don’t know how you can put up with those rotten things. And where do you get the money from?’

  ‘They fell off a wagon.’ Rom eyed him appraisingly. ‘You sure as hell haven’t wasted any time in commandeering my clothes, Finch.’

  ‘Hey! That was your idea. Clytie kindly offered them to me. They just helped to land me a decent job with Sonny Jantzen.’

  ‘Good on you. Didn’t I tell you, if you stuck with me you’d land on your feet?’

  The expression in Rom’s eyes showed his mood had suddenly shifted.

  ‘So tell me, Finch. What have you and Clytie been up to? I wouldn’t trust you around any woman.’

  ‘You should talk! You’re a prime case of the pot calling the kettle black. But as far as Clytie is concerned, you’ve no call to be suspicious. She’s desperate for your return. So when are you going to front her? I’ve taken care of her as we agreed. Now it’s time to cut me loose from our agreement.’

  Rom placed his hand on Finch’s shoulder and spoke patiently as if to a child.

  ‘Haven’t you realised yet? Neither of us is a free agent. We’re tied together. Not physically like those Siamese twins Chung and Eng Bunker, until death do us part. But our lives are shackled together. And I hold the key.’

  Finch held his breath. Is he beginning to suspect the truth about himself?

  He tried to keep his tone light. ‘Tied to you? That’s a fate worse than death. I never agreed to that! Maybe it’s time for both of us to move on!’

  Rom eyed him suspiciously. ‘Not until I see all the pieces fall into place. To show Clytie I kept my promise.’

  ‘How long is that going to take? I’ve got plans of my own.’

  Rom shrugged. ‘How long is a piece of string?’

  Finch’s control snapped. ‘This isn’t a game, Rom. This is Clytie’s life. You don’t deserve her!’

  ‘And you do?’

  Finch floundered. ‘If you don’t want her, why don’t you let her go? Clytie deserves a far better man than either of us. A man who will stick with her.’

  Rom turned on him, his eyes blazing. ‘You think I don’t know that?’

  Finch was shocked by the rage and grief he saw in Rom’s eyes. He broke free from Rom’s hold.

  They walked in silence until they reached the point where the track joined Main Street. Rom’s mercurial temperament had turned full circle.

  ‘Take it easy, Finch. I’ll keep my eye on you. I’ll be around if you need my help.’

  ‘Thanks for nothing,’ Finch snapped. He had wanted to celebrate his new job with Clytie but she had politely rejected his invitation. Now, watching Rom headed in the direction of the miner’s right cabin, he felt deflated.

  Rom paused, his look a warning. ‘And another thing. Stop trying to win over my dog. You’re wasting your time. Shadow’s a one-man dog. I’m his master.’

  Finch nodded. ‘Yeah. And Clytie’s a one-man woman. She’ll always love you.’

  Overwhelmed by frustration and a sense of unreality, Finch decided this was the night he would break his vow to himself. He would risk having a drink at the pub.

  He turned his steps towards the Diggers’ Rest, drawn by the sound of the Irish fiddle and accordion played by Mick and Proddie. The pair of them never spoke a word to each other because their respective Catholic and Protestant Irish ancestors had fought each other at the Battle of the Boyne in 1690. Yet they were of one heart, one soul, when they made music together.

  Chapter 36

  Today should have been a day of celebration. Finch had landed a prestigious job at good money with Sonny Jantzen. Yet he had no one to share his success. The day had turned sour.

  He turned his mind to Clytie, chafing at the memory of this morning’s conversation when he had ever so casually offered to escort her to the dance – and she had rejected him. Now as he approached the Diggers’ Rest, he was as spruced up as Rom’s hand-me-down clothing would allow. Rom’s words came back to haunt him. ‘Our lives are shackled together.’ Is he right?

  The idea that his destiny was entwined with Rom’s made him rail at the thought. Having just digested the final memories in his lost life was enough for one day.

  Clytie’s warning about what to expect from Hoffnung’s social customs soon became self-evident. It was no surprise to see that the hotel bar was packed with young and not-so-young men, miners and farmers as well as other faces from further afield – Bitternbird, Mizpah and Granny’s Ruin – all intent on fuelling up on grog before showing up at the dance.

  Finch felt a wild impulse to flout the rules, having been confined for so long by the instinct to preserve the details of his life from being discovered. What can be worse than knowing who I am? What is left for me to lose?

  Ginger was as usual working behind the bar, padding up and down barefooted after a hard day’s work being friendly to all comers – the drunks, the shy ones, the smart alecks. To Finch she looked particularly perky gi
ven it was edging towards closing time. The low-cut yellow blouse that covered half her bosom featured a ‘modesty’ fill-in of lace that did more to attract a man’s eye to her cleavage than its absence would have done. A stray lock of flaming red hair curved like a question mark down the side of one flushed cheek as she rested her bosom on the bar and gave Finch a provocative smile.

  ‘G’day, stranger, what’s your pleasure?’

  ‘A shandy, thanks, Miss.’

  ‘It’s Ginger,’ she corrected. ‘Half ’n’ half beer and lemonade? No trouble, lovey, but I had you pegged as a man who could hold his drink – and anything else that came his way.’

  Finch cocked an eyebrow. ‘I understood Hoffnung ladies don’t fancy dancing with men who are half tanked.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it, Finch. Local girls will dance with any bloke in trousers. It beats having to dance with other women for lack of partners.’

  She swished off to the far end of the bar to serve four middies to a man wearing a tam o’shanter cap who was chafing at the bit. She returned to Finch in confidential mode.

  ‘I’ll give you the drum, Finch. Take it from me, blokes around here talk big, but most are dead shy. They hate crossing the hall to ask for a dance and risk getting a knock-back. The brave blokes cluster around the door to the women’s lavatory, in the hope of catching a girl as she comes out after powdering her nose.’

  ‘Thanks for the tip,’ Finch said lightly.

  Ginger brought him a second shandy ‘on the house’.

  ‘I’ll bet you’ve never had any trouble getting partners, Finch. You brush up real well and you always act the gent – in public. What you do in private is your business – and some lucky girl’s.’

  The innuendo was none too subtle. Finch was glad of the drink to stall for time.

  ‘I imagine there’s already a queue forming to dance with you, Ginger.’

  Her rich red lips formed a genuine pout. ‘I’m not going. Not welcome. I’m persona non – something or other.’

  ‘Grata,’ he said automatically, then added quickly, ‘What fool told you that?’

  ‘The Post Mistress. Now that Noni Jantzen’s off the marriage market, Marj thinks she’s the queen bee. All us girls at the pub were warned off ’cos no respectable women would front up if “barmaids and other undesirables” go to the dance.’

  So that’s the true reason why Clytie wouldn’t come with me.

  Finch hid his anger. ‘Sounds like a clear cut case of envy that you’re so popular with men.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘coming from you I’ll take that as a compliment. But I’d rather be popular with one bloke.’ Playing the coquette she pretended to straighten his tie. ‘What do you say, Finch? Are you available?’

  ‘You can do far better than a bloke with no memories of his past.’

  Ginger made it quite clear. ‘Sounds like my kind of man.’

  Finch began to feel cornered. ‘Well, I’d best make tracks, Ginger. If you change your mind about the dance, I’ll leave a ticket in your name at the door. No strings attached. But if you’d like to save me for the Progressive Barn Dance . . .?’

  She leant across and gave Finch’s hand a quick squeeze before her voice carried to Moggy Mick at the other end of the bar.

  ‘Keep your shirt on, Mick, I’ve only got one pair of hands – not like an octopus I could name!’

  There was a knowing laugh at Mick’s expense from his drinking mates.

  Finch waved farewell to Ginger before shouldering his way through the throng of drinkers. Some eyed him with respect due to his V.M.R. status, others wore the customary expression of wariness shown to all strangers during their first ten years of residence.

  Mrs Binstead, the Methodist Minister’s wife, was seated at the entrance to the Mechanics Institute knitting a pair of khaki socks in between selling tickets. She gave Finch a welcoming smile.

  ‘Good of you to come to support your mates at the Front. The tickets include an excellent supper made by the combined Women’s Auxiliaries of all our churches.’

  ‘I thought that Methodists –’ Embarrassed, he cut short his intended words.

  ‘That Methodists don’t hold with dancing? You’re right. But we don’t say other folk shouldn’t dance. And we Methodists certainly love music. A member of our choir, Ivor Williams, is performing tonight – and what better cause is there than aiding our lads in the V.M.R. and erecting a war memorial with a roll of honour to all who volunteered?’

  Finch forked out the money for three tickets, a sum that left his pockets empty until his first pay cheque from Jantzen. In response to her surprised expression he felt moved to explain.

  ‘One is on behalf of Miss Clytie Hart, the fiancée of Roman Delaney. And one is for Miss Ginger – I’m afraid I don’t know her surname.’

  ‘There’s only one Ginger,’ Mrs Binstead said with a twinkle in her eye. ‘Thank you, Finch. I’ll see that both girls get your tickets.’

  Let’s just hope both girls don’t walk in the door at the same time!

  Finch divested himself of his hat, relieved that he had passed the first hurdle. He felt stung by the town’s social divide that had left Clytie and Ginger sidelined.

  It’s interesting that they’re both socially acceptable to a preacher’s wife, yet persona non grata to that snob of a postmistress.

  The moment that Proddie and Mick had finished playing the rollicking old sea shanty Bound for South Australia they addressed the crowd by finishing each other’s sentences.

  ‘All right all yous ladies, gentlemen and others –’

  ‘It’s time to choose your partners –’

  ‘For the Progressive Barn Dance.’

  Finch strode down the hall into the kitchen under the stage where a cluster of women wearing Mother Hubbard aprons were busy preparing supper. They all looked up expectantly. Finch politely inclined his head to the woman of his choice. ‘May I have the honour of this dance?’

  Holy Maude did not miss a beat. ‘I don’t mind if I do,’ she said, and whipping off her apron, accepted Finch’s arm and allowed herself to be led to the centre of the floor.

  Finch drew her as close to his chest as he would a beautiful young woman, and with his arm coiled tightly around her waist he spun Holy Maude in a series of whirls that drew the attention of everyone in the hall. He led her into the dance in which men formed the anti-clockwise inner circle and women progressed in the outer circle from partner to partner. He enjoyed the confident smile on Maude’s face as she progressed to each partner in turn. It was clear the townsfolk were seeing her in a new light.

  At the end of the dance, when all the women had returned to their original partners, Finch delayed Maude with a European-style kiss on her hand. Aware they were the focus of all eyes, he clasped her small hand in his.

  ‘Miss Maude, there’s something I’ve wanted to say ever since I was first introduced to you.’

  ‘To Holy Maude, Hoffnung’s town joke?’ she asked amiably.

  ‘On the contrary, your name describes exactly what you are – totally ecumenical. You play music for all congregations. You support all their charities. You refuse to take sides in the age-old Catholic versus Protestant conflict. No, you’re not a joke, Maude, you’re a blessing on this town. I feel privileged to know you.’

  Maude’s eyes widened and a faint blush coloured her cheeks. ‘I should warn you, Finch, tomorrow people will link your name with the woman said to have been Ned Kelly’s lover.’

  ‘Then let’s really give them something to talk about, shall we?’

  Finch leant down and gently kissed Maude’s cheek. When he escorted her back to the door of the kitchen, her parting comment caught him by surprise.

  ‘Don’t sell yourself short, lad. A girl can fall in love with a man without knowing it.’

  Finch was left wondering if her words referred to any particular girl.

  He glanced surreptitiously at the door on the off-chance Clytie would appear but he didn�
��t hold out much hope. The night was young. He needed to fill in the time somehow.

  Aware of the low ratio of men who were prepared to risk rejection, Finch stood up for each dance, choosing married women from the sidelines and kitchen helpers like Mary Mac, who were delighted to take a break from cutting crusts off sandwich bread.

  Slowly, slowly catchee Monkey. I’m being accepted in Hoffnung.

  All heads turned to the entrance to study the two latecomers.

  Ginger had not entirely scrubbed her face clean of make-up. She was dressed in a blue gown that might have looked sedate on any other woman’s body but only served to transform her into a modern-day Salome. The man towering over her was a stranger to Finch. Tall and muscular, with an air of arrogant superiority despite his shabby clothing, his swarthy, granite-like features were adorned by a drooping black moustache and his hair was tied back in a sailor’s queue. The stranger attempted to take hold of Ginger’s arm as if it was his God-given right, but she broke free of him.

  Finch was instantly at her side. ‘My waltz, I believe, Ginger.’

  Without waiting for the man’s response, Finch drew her into his arms. Ignoring Marj Hornery’s look of chagrin as he waltzed Ginger past her and her partner, he executed a series of spiral turns which took them to the far end of the hall before he spoke.

  ‘Who’s that chap you came in with? A friend of yours?’

  ‘Just some stray bloke who turned up at the pub demanding a drink after closing time. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. There’s nothing for the likes of him in Hoffnung. I reckon he’ll be off by sundown tomorrow and good riddance.’

  The stranger was standing on guard at the rear of the hall, his arms folded across his chest as he eyed every woman in the room like a buyer at a cattle auction.

  As soon as the music ended Finch steered Ginger to a seat where she was soon surrounded by a swarm of admirers from the Diggers’ Rest, headed by Moggy Mick, who was known for his many hands.

  The fiddlers returned to the stage to accompany the soloist, Ivor Willliams, in his pure rendition of the Welsh national anthem, Land of My Fathers, in his mother tongue. Finch had an instant flashback . . . he was lying on his back on the veldt in the dark of night, listening to the rousing song carried on the still air by some unseen, far-off Welsh battalion . . . the same song . . .