Golden Hope

by Johanna Nicholls

  ‘Lousy,’ Finch said. ‘Gutted. Empty. Yet relieved – no more lies, no more subterfuge. One thing’s got me beat. How did you find out I was on the Boers’ side?’

  Rom casually threw his cigar butt into the fire. ‘Why do you think I saved you?’

  The simple answer stunned Finch. Finally curiosity overcame him.

  ‘What exactly do you mean?’

  ‘When I found you in that barn, naked and mumbling in English and some other lingo, I figured you were a Boer on the run after the carnage at Wilmansrust. I reckoned you were a prime candidate for the firing squad by Imperial officers. They were quick off the mark to pass the death sentence on Australians for “mutiny”.’

  ‘Why didn’t you expose me?’

  Rom shrugged. ‘I’d seen so many good Boers killed, men who didn’t deserve to die. I decided it was time I saved one of them. You were handed to me on a platter. I let everyone go on believing the photograph was a girl from your past. What better way to save you from a firing squad than getting you on a ship to Australia?’

  ‘So you knew all the time?’

  ‘Yeah, I figured you were just like me, sick of fighting a bunch of country lads just like us . . . who never did us any harm.’

  Finch gave a sharp laugh but there was no mirth in the sound. ‘I had never fired a shot in anger. I just treated the wounded and collected dead bodies under fire.’

  ‘I know the feeling. After Wilmansrust I helped dig a mass grave. Our blokes, a Boer lad and a Kaffir all in the one grave. It struck home to me. They all looked the same in death – innocent somehow.’

  Finch pressed on. ‘Everything changed for me – that night at Wilmansrust . . .’

  Rom eyed him sharply. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Valjoen’s men weren’t trained soldiers – most were farmers. Some wanted time off to bring in their crops, their cattle. Valjoen never forced any man to fight against his will. Their ranks were depleted – a desperate situation. That night I filled the breach . . . I took up arms . . .’

  His voice cracked. ‘I remember running through the smokescreen – shocked to find myself face to face with – Australians . . . I don’t know whether I fired or not – I blacked out. You know the rest . . .’

  They sat immobile, watching the shadow play of the fire on each other’s face.

  Finch broke the silence. ‘So you saved me – and the price I paid was to be your go-between.’

  ‘Why not? Would you have come to Hoffnung just for the mineral springs?’

  Finch knew there was only one answer to that.

  Rom shrugged. ‘All’s well that ends well, as some bloke once said.’

  ‘Shakespeare,’ Finch said automatically. ‘But it hasn’t ended for me. After my public confession tonight, I could still be arrested as a prisoner-of-war.’

  ‘Not if you behave yourself,’ Rom said. ‘Doc Hundey is on your side – so is Mangles. Some blokes may give you a wide berth. But no one will be game to dob you in to the Imperial Army. Doc is the real hero in this town.’

  Finch offered his hand. ‘I guess I owe you – more than my life.’

  Rom was strangely quiet but finally accepted the handshake. ‘Yeah, but maybe that’s more than I want to give you. I want my own life back.’

  Finch knew the time had finally come. ‘Maybe you can’t, mate. Maybe you’ve exhausted the last of your nine lives.’

  Rom turned on him a look that was somewhere between scorn and fear.

  • • •

  When Finch awoke in the dark, the embers of the campfire were still smoking. Rom was gone. He managed to stagger the few steps to the cabin and collapsed on the bedroll, his body drenched with sweat, dimly aware that his mind was in a state of fever and he was talking to himself.

  Moonlight outlined the figure standing in the doorway. He knew she was an illusion, but he didn’t care.

  ‘You’re beautiful,’ he whispered.

  When he felt the cool water on his face, and the gentle hands tending his wounds, he felt confused.

  ‘You’re real?’ he asked.

  ‘I was when I got up this morning, now I’m not so sure,’ Clytie said crisply.

  He tried to take her hand.

  ‘Lie still, Finch. You’ve got a bad cut that needs stitches. I’ll get you to Doc as soon as it’s light. Meanwhile, drink this down.’

  She put the small bottle to his lips and he gulped thirstily then looked up in surprise. ‘Hey, this isn’t water!’

  ‘Have you got something against brandy, all of a sudden? Doc gives it to his patients in shock. I keep some on hand for emergencies.’

  Finch needed no encouragement to drain the bottle. He felt a warm glow spreading through his body that buoyed his confidence.

  ‘You heard me tonight at the pub, Clytie. I can’t remember exactly what I said, it’s all a blur, but I wouldn’t blame you if you hated my guts.’

  ‘Why? You wanted to help the underdog. You did exactly what Rom would have done if he’d been living over there when war broke out. Rom would have been proud to hear your defence of that Viljoen.’

  She didn’t see him. But it’s always Rom. First and last in her mind.

  ‘I should thank you for coming. Seems like I’m forever in your debt, Clytie.’

  ‘No debt. I only do what I want to do.’ She hesitated. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, but you told me once that Sonny Jantzen offered to loan you his carriage should you ever need it.’

  ‘So?’ Finch managed a wary smile. ‘What are you up to now?’

  ‘Well, you know how Emily Hobhouse went to South Africa and reported on the scandalous malnutrition and sufferings of Boer women and children held in British prisoner-of-war camps?’

  ‘Who doesn’t?

  ‘Well, that little Cornish spinster has single-handedly shamed the British Parliament into action and made the South African Women and Children’s Distress Fund a household word. If anyone can cut the appalling death rate and improve conditions in those camps, she can.’

  ‘No argument there. But what on earth has that woman got to do with me borrowing Sonny’s carriage?’

  ‘Well,’ Clytie took a deep breath, ‘there’s a major concert being held at Bitternbird Town Hall this Saturday to aid Emily Hobhouse’s fight on behalf of Boer women and children.’ She added tactfully, ‘Now that I know how sympathetic you are to Ben Viljoen and his cause, I thought perhaps if you were free, you might perhaps . . .?’

  ‘Be your chauffeur to Bitternbird? There’s no doubt about you, Clytie. You send comfort parcels to our volunteers and raise money for Emily Hobhouse’s fund. And ask me for help. You heard my true confession last night. I’m the enemy, remember?’

  ‘It seems to me we’re all somebody’s enemy. Maybe The Creator of All Things has washed his hands of all of us. I’m only sure of one thing. What’s happening in those camps is an outrage. Official bungling and neglect – the children don’t even get proper food and milk.’ Clytie’s voice cracked. ‘Boer babies are dying, Finch – and it’s our fault!’

  Her dead baby. Finch cursed himself for reopening the wound that never healed.

  ‘I’ll drive you to Bitternbird and back – even if I have to steal a horse. You can count on it.’

  Finch held tight to her trembling hand, unable to ward off his desperate desire to sleep – and the bad dreams that came to haunt him. Now he had new ammunition to murder his sleep. The photograph of one of the young Boer mothers lying in her makeshift coffin, flowers framing her blonde hair like a halo, her dead baby lying cradled in her arms . . .

  It was as if Clytie read his mind. ‘I’ll stay with you until you’re asleep, Finch.’

  • • •

  He awoke early next morning, confused to find Doc squatting beside him, a measure of medicine poured out ready for him to swallow without argument.

  ‘How’d you get here, Doc?’

  ‘Shadow and Clytie – an unbeatable combination. I would put them on the payroll if I had one.’

/>   The medication worked fast. Finch felt his muscles beginning to unknot, relieved until he recalled each sharp, ugly detail of last night’s public confession.

  There was a smile in Doc’s eyes. ‘I understand that was quite a performance you gave last night, Finch.’

  ‘My confession or my losing fight?’

  ‘Both. You might be surprised to know not all the town is against you. The initial glamour of the war has worn thin. People don’t enjoy hearing our lads are ordered to burn down Boer farms. There’s a growing rearguard action of sympathy for “the enemy”.’

  Finch ruefully rubbed his jaw. ‘It didn’t show last night.’

  ‘Sergeant Mangles has spread the word he’ll clap any bloke in irons who gives you grief. But that’s not why I’m here. It’s about this whole triangle business.’

  ‘The Gold Triangle?’ Finch shook his head, confused.

  ‘No. The triangle at which young Clytie is the heart.’

  ‘Forget it, that’s past history,’ Finch said tartly.

  ‘Indeed it’s not. I must declare myself, Finch. I am Rom Delaney’s friend, Clytie’s friend, and yours. It doesn’t take a medical degree to know you love her – against your will. I also know Rom loves her – or loved her in his own wild way. I can’t hazard a guess as to how it will all pan out – women are unpredictable creatures. The only thing within my power is to try to right a wrong. I suspect you know what that is.’

  ‘Yes. Rom told me the mess he got into with women before he bolted.’

  ‘The tragedy is even worse than Rom knew. I suspect we have found the real key to his return.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It is difficult to believe, which is why I delayed telling you. But I now have strong reason to think that the child who suffered crib death was not Clytie’s babe but the Jantzens’!’

  ‘I don’t understand. You mean it was a mistake due to the nurse’s negligence?’

  ‘Even worse. I believe Sister Bracken played God – deliberately switched the infants following the crib death. My problem is that I have no way of proving this unless Bracken confesses her act to Sonny Jantzen. This she refuses to do. Sonny was the first child she brought into the world. In a sense he’s the son she never had.’

  ‘And once she leaves Hoffnung in a few days – ?’

  ‘Her crime will become history, unsolvable. There’s no known medical way to prove if Clytie is the boy’s mother.’

  ‘Especially given Rom’s belief that he fathered both babies – half-brothers!’

  ‘Exactly. So I have no other recourse but to keep up the pressure on Sister Bracken and trust that her moral compass will lead her to make the right decision.’

  Finch shook his head in bewilderment. ‘And Bracken calls herself religious!’

  Doc shrugged. ‘I’m counting on your help, Finch. I have reason to believe my own time in Hoffnung is running out. Twyman is out for my blood.’

  Finch was aware of the anonymous poison pen notes circulating. ‘Surely it won’t come to that, Doc. He’s just a hot air balloon.’

  ‘He may well now have the ammunition he needs.’

  ‘And what of your sister?’ Finch said, before he could prevent the question.

  ‘My fate, whatever it is, is Adelaide’s fate.’

  ‘You know I’ll help you both, Doc. Anyway I can. Just name it.’

  ‘Rom – or his spirit – is like a lost child tilting at windmills. I’m counting on you to keep Clytie occupied. She must know nothing of this. She is still grieving the loss of her babe. How could she face the possibility that he may be alive – but that she could never reclaim him?’

  ‘Agreed. That would be unbearable cruelty.’

  ‘I beg you, Finch, keep Clytie’s mind occupied. Until the three of us can bring this terrible business to a head.’

  ‘I give you my word, Doc.’

  ‘Good man.’

  Doc clapped him on the shoulder as he took his leave. Not for the first time Finch noticed the man’s smooth, clean fingernails, no doubt the immaculate, sensitive hands of a surgeon.

  Finch’s parting question was, ‘Does your sister know the truth?’

  ‘Adelaide is so enraged with Bracken, I’m afraid she’ll take matters into her own hands – by fair means or foul.’

  In the hours that followed Doc’s departure, Finch remained deep in thought, exploring every aspect of the shocking revelation of Sister Bracken’s concealment of her crime – and of his own role in protecting Clytie until that crime was proven beyond doubt.

  If it’s true that a ghost returns to right a wrong then I can believe The Eternal in his mercy has given Rom this last chance.

  Unable to sleep, Finch sat by the campfire, toasting stale bread and drinking tea. That night a Full Moon bathed the bush in silver. For some reason his mind kept returning to the iron bars across Adelaide Hundey’s window . . . and Doc’s phrase, ‘by fair means or foul’.

  Chapter 41

  ‘The Lady’ stood gleaming in the sunlight streaming through the open doors of the newly built garage. Finch had polished her chassis, engine and upholstery within an inch of her life. He had enjoyed every hour he had spent on it, as lovingly as a stableboy grooms a champion racehorse entered in the Melbourne Cup. The Lady was kept under lock and key to prevent possible sabotage.

  Mrs Jantzen refused to countenance the existence of automobiles. She dismissed them as ‘fool contraptions that will never replace Victoria’s wonderful railway system – the envy of the whole continent’.

  Finch suspected she saw The Lady as her rival for her husband’s affections – and in a way she was right.

  The Lady had arrived after major birth pains. Finch, now Sonny’s confidant, shared his fascination with the birth of the Automobile Age. Sonny had sworn him to the secret, unknown to his wife, that he had become the silent financial partner of a former boarding-school friend. They were racing neck and neck against the entrepreneur Harley Tarrant to produce the first all-Australian petrol motor vehicle for the local market, a design to suit rough Australian roads.

  The Lady was one of only two models of their first prototype, delivered to Jantzen House in the dead of night on top of a bullock wagon – and had not been driven since her arrival. Petrol barrels were stored in the corner of the garage ready to refill the tank – if it ever had the chance to run at all in Noni’s absence.

  Finch was now determined to launch The Lady, not only for Sonny’s pleasure but because he had promised to chauffeur Clytie to the Hobhouse fund-raising concert at Bitternbird – and he had not yet asked Sonny’s permission to borrow his carriage.

  Finch was counting on Sonny’s agreement. He could never forget that despite Sonny’s presence at his humiliating confession at the Diggers’ Rest, the following day he had wasted no time in having a message delivered to Finch:

  It is an open secret that I failed to be accepted as a volunteer in the V.M.R. If I had had your courage I would have gone to South Africa anyway and volunteered to become an ambulance driver or stretcher-bearer. To my mind these men are the bravest unsung heroes in any war. I am proud to have you working with me, Finch.

  Your friend,

  S. Jantzen.

  Finch’s scheduled meeting was to take place in half an hour and he had steeled himself for the likely outcome.

  When the vehicle had reached her intended level of perfection, Finch looked wryly at his own appearance, the grease on his hands and forearms. No doubt there were streaks of it on his face too. He hurried to the back of the house where he had been designated the use of the servants’ bathroom.

  Scrubbing the grime from his arms, he looked up in surprise to see Mrs Jantzen observing him from the doorway.

  ‘You are a man of many parts, Finch. But in these uncertain times, perhaps it would be wise to seek other employment.’

  Is this a threat or a warning? I understood I’m to take orders from no one but Sonny, not even his father.

  ‘Thank you for
the advice, Ma’am.’

  Still she remained in the doorway. ‘I understand you knew Roman Delaney well in South Africa.’

  ‘He saved my life. Rom claims I saved his. It’s a moot point.’

  ‘Have you seen him since his return?’

  Finch hesitated. That sounds like she’s also seen him. What the hell do I tell her? It’s like walking on broken glass.

  ‘He’s posted as Missing officially. But I think it would take more than a war to kill off Rom Delaney, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t know. We didn’t mix socially, of course. He did labouring work for my father.’

  Still she remained, watching him.

  Finch prolonged the scrubbing of his fingernails, playing for time.

  What game is she playing? I wouldn’t trust her with a church Poor Box. Little Max is a dead ringer for Rom, not surprisingly. But does Sonny know this – or suspect it?

  Finch decided it was time to put Noni Jantzen under pressure.

  ‘I trust you like the photographs I took of your son, Mrs Jantzen. I used to be a photographer’s assistant before the war.’

  ‘Hmm, what a convenient memory you have, Finch. Lost one moment. Found the next.’

  She had aimed at sarcasm but was thrown by Finch’s change of subject.

  ‘Young Maximilian’s certainly a handsome little fellow – a dead ringer for his father,’ said Finch pleasantly despite the blatant stretch from the accepted truth.

  She was quick to counter it. ‘My father had dark hair in his youth – my son takes after my side of the family.’

  Finch adjusted his collar and tie. ‘Sister Bracken’s sudden resignation is quite a mystery. She’ll be sadly missed. But one woman’s loss is another woman’s gain, so the saying goes.’

  He stared at her, daring her to falter.

  ‘Hoffnung is always inventing gossip. I was in Bitternbird yesterday. What exactly is your point, Finch?’

  ‘I overheard it in the Main Street. Sister Bracken was accused of unethical conduct.’

  Noni turned instantly pale. ‘What are you talking about? What accusation?’

  ‘That she overstepped her role as head of the hospital. Played God. Hurt innocent people because she has refused to put things right.’