Golden Hope

by Johanna Nicholls

  Mine. No two ways about it. He’s a dead ringer for me. The kid I planted in Clytie’s body – but never knew I had done the trick.

  A faint echo of shame washed over him as he remembered how he had stalled in answering her letter, yet later determined to come back here and do right by her.

  What the hell. That’s past history. Like I always do, I made it all turn out right in the end – for her. But what about me? Don’t I count for something?

  The little boy wasn’t dressed in the standard white dress and leggings worn by both girls and boys of his age. He wore scarlet leggings and a little jacket made from scraps of patterned materials in bright, circus colours. Rom watched Clytie lower Maxie on to the sun-bleached grass, holding his hands to steady him. Like a miniature drunken seaman he took several rolling steps towards her. Rom beamed in pride as his lad quickened his unsteady barefooted steps.

  ‘Do you want to have a go on your own, sweetheart?’ Clytie asked in that same soft honeyed tone that Rom remembered excited him whenever he lay with her.

  Unobserved, he drew closer to them, irresistibly drawn by the sound of their laughter, enchanted by the sunlight playing on their faces, wrinkling their eyes, burnishing their hair.

  As if aware of a wider audience than his mother, Maxie pulled free from her hands and took his first steps unaided. Increasing the pace, then halting to wave his open fists about his head like a newly crowned champion in the ring.

  ‘Good boy!’ Clytie cried, clapping her hands together.

  ‘Bravo, my son!’ Rom whispered close enough to be heard.

  As if in response Maxie waved to him. And cried out soft sounds in his own private baby language.

  He can see me! He knows who I am!

  Clytie turned her head, frowning into the face of the sun, as if expecting to see someone. She smiled vaguely in Rom’s direction. Rom took two steps towards her and raised his voice as if speaking to the deaf.

  ‘I kept my promise, Clytie. I came back to you. I know I left you in the lurch. But I did put things right, didn’t I! The trouble is I never got to say what was in my heart – I didn’t want to face it. Listen to me, girl! I love you!’

  He caught his breath as Clytie’s eyes widened as she pointed directly at him.

  ‘Look, Max, a big bird!’

  Rom turned to see the large black and white Magpie pecking at the grass behind him.

  She’s looking straight through me at that damned bird.

  His anger drained as Clytie held Max’s hand to wave at the bird as it took flight.

  ‘Say bye-bye to the birdie.’

  Max echoed her. ‘Bye-bye.’

  Clytie smiled and pointed to the giant pine trees at the edge of the oval.

  ‘This is a very magic place for me, sweetheart. Under that tree over there, your Dadda gave me my very first kiss.’

  She bent and kissed the crown of Max’s head. Then hoisted him back up onto her hip and left the oval and Rom behind them.

  Rom stood watching them, feeling suddenly cold despite the sun.

  He heard Clytie’s voice as she crossed the bridge, chanting the Humpty Dumpty nursery rhyme.

  ‘. . . all the King’s horses and all the King’s men,

  Couldn’t put Humpty together again.’

  Chapter 49

  That first Sunday after the war ended all the churches in Hoffnung were filled, but by mutual consent all had also agreed to join together in prayer – in public. The magnet was the newly completed war memorial that had been erected on the highest point of the hill that overlooked the cemetery.

  Finch had not attended any service. As a known Boer stretcher-bearer, he felt his presence would be a painful reminder to those families who had lost a son, husband or lover on ‘the other side’. He stood alone on the outskirts of the green sward that had been carefully made around the memorial. At the centre of the wide green circle stood the forever-youthful stone soldier. Outlined against the aqua blue sky, he stood with bowed head on top of the memorial plinth, one hand resting on the rifle that stood upturned at his feet – the symbol that it must never be fired again. The upturned brim of his slouch hat, his youthful, unlined face, suggested to Finch he might well have been on either side.

  Finch moved a pace forward, his keen eyesight able to read the names on the Roll of Honour, small gold crosses denoting those who had fallen. Except for one name – Dr Alexander Levi’s name had a small gold star beside it.

  ‘So, Solomon Levi won at last. Good on him!’

  He felt an elbow nudge his ribs. ‘Yeah, but only because that decent copper Mangles ran Bruiser Twyman out of town. He’s fled to Melbourne – Melbourne’s bad luck.’

  Finch glanced at Rom, trying not to make the reason too obvious. Is it my imagination or is he seeming to fade somehow?

  ‘What are you staring at?’ Rom demanded.

  ‘I’m surprised to see you without a cigar,’ Finch said quickly to cover himself.

  ‘Got to show a bit of respect for our mates, don’t we?’

  ‘Indeed – on both sides,’ Finch said firmly.

  ‘Does it bother you your name’s not up there?’ Rom asked.

  ‘I told you, it doesn’t deserve to be. This is an honour roll – for genuine heroes.’

  ‘In that case, how come my name’s up there?’

  ‘You’re the real McCoy, Rom. A Victorian Mounted Rifles volunteer. You saved my life. And you never deserted.’

  ‘I would have if I’d been given half the chance,’ Rom said quickly, to cover the fact his voice was tight in his throat. ‘I’m thinking of moving on,’ he said. ‘I’ve said my goodbyes to Clytie and Max.’

  Finch looked startled.

  Rom snapped back. ‘You’re not the only one who can do the right thing, Finch. But it’s only fair to remind you. I might be out of sight, but Clytie will always love me.’

  ‘I know. She’s a one-man woman. Yours.’

  ‘Good. You’ve got that straight. See you around, mate.’

  Rom gave him a mock salute and moved away.

  At that moment Finch caught sight of what seemed like the entire population of Hoffnung spread out like a fan as they climbed the hill towards them, led by their spiritual leaders in their robes and regalia, and the Salvation Army Brigadeer and his officers in their military-style uniforms. There were no soldiers among them. Only a single boy was wearing a Digger’s hat.

  Heading straight towards Finch was Clytie. She was pale and expressionless, until she engaged with the child on her hip. Max looked as if he was ready to have a party.

  She was dressed as he had never seen her before, entirely in black. Perhaps out of respect for the families of those sons and brothers who would never come home – and perhaps for the Missing – like Rom.

  Finch tried not to think about that. As a soldier, albeit of dubious attachment, he had been asked by more than one man of the cloth if he would care to recite a psalm. He had declined, suggesting that it was more appropriate for the son of a lost soldier. But now he uttered a remembered fragment of a psalm in his mind. He maketh war to cease unto the end of the earth. He breaketh the bow and cutteth the spear asunder. He burneth the chariot in the fire. Be still and know that I am God . . .

  Each of the priests and clergymen briefly addressed the gathered men, women and children in their own spiritual terms. Then the schoolchildren, their faces and their shoes shining, came forward to read in turn each of the names on three sides of the plinth.

  Finch was pleased to see that his advice had been taken. Harry Levi, the watchmaker’s nine-year-old grandson, came forward to stand in the shadow of the stone soldier. No doubt young Levi was wearing his father’s military hat, its brim turned up at the side and worn with pride. He read the words of the 23rd Psalm that Finch was equally familiar with in Old French, German and English.

  It was then Finch noticed the young woman standing at the rear of the crowd dressed in an olive grey-green cape and veil, the colour of gum leaves. Instinc
tively he drew back, offering to relieve Clytie by holding Maxie who was restless to get down and play with the small children in the crowd.

  The Salvation Army bandsman placed the bugle to his lips and played the haunting notes of the anthem that Finch had told Clytie never failed to silence all who stood in its presence. The final notes of The Last Post seemed to hover in the air. No one seemed to want to be the first to shatter the silence.

  • • •

  At last an old man’s gruff voice took it on himself to break it.

  ‘The war’s over. What are ye all waiting for? You can all go home. And pray to your God it will never break out again.’

  Clytie knew the old man by sight, knew his son’s name was listed on the memorial, one of the lads who would never come home.

  Like obedient children the crowd began to disperse in trails down the hill. Clytie remained, aware that Finch had retreated a few yards away, talking and holding Maxie’s attention as if to allow her private time and space. He stood half concealed beneath a tree, the brim of his bush hat pulled low over his forehead, allowing Maxie to remove it and hide behind his hat, laughing each time he chose to re-emerge.

  The thinning crowd revealed a figure standing alone, a pale young woman so slightly built and fragile of frame that she seemed in danger of being blown over by the next strong gust of wind. Clytie had noticed the way the stranger had listened respectfully with bowed head, no matter which of the religious leaders had offered up their prayers and the words of consolation that sounded empty to her ears.

  Now that the clusters of families and friends had splintered off, the young woman remained fixed to the spot. As if aroused from a troubled dream, she drew close to the memorial. Her gazed fixed on the names of those who had served. She tentatively stretched out her hand towards the plinth – but did not touch the engraved letters. From beneath the flowing folds of her cloak, she withdrew a small wreath of laurel leaves and placed it at the foot of the memorial.

  Drawn instinctively to her side, Clytie was moved by her air of controlled grief.

  ‘Forgive me for disturbing you, but you’re new here, aren’t you? I was a newcomer myself not long ago. I know what it is like. You think you’ll never feel at home – but people here are kind at heart.’

  ‘Thank you, most kind.’ The accent wasn’t quite Australian, but a close cousin to it.

  Clytie offered her hand. ‘The name’s Clytie.’

  ‘What a lovely name – from the Greek myth I seem to remember from school. About the mortal girl who loved Apollo the sun god.’

  ‘Yes, and was rejected by him. But the gods took pity on her and transformed her into the sunflower which forever turns its head to follow Apollo’s sun chariot across the sky.’

  ‘A beautiful symbol of love.’ The woman eyed her carefully.

  Clytie gave a wry smile. ‘Of unrequited love. A prophetic name for me, as things turned out. But instead of a sunflower, the gods rewarded me with something better – a child.’

  The woman extended her hand and Clytie noticed the fine pinprick-sized freckles that were an echo of those that dusted her face.

  ‘How impolite of me. May I introduce myself, Sister Heather Macqueen from Dunedin. That’s the namesake town in New Zealand, not Scotland.’

  ‘Either way you’re a long, long way from home.’

  ‘I’m no longer sure exactly where home is. I’ve been in Johannesburg since the outbreak of war, nursing the wounded from all parts of the Empire – including many Australian and Kiwi lads. That’s why I broke my journey here, to pay my respects.’

  She gestured to the wreath she had placed. At its crown was a sprig of Scottish heather. Attached to it was a small black-edged card with handwriting too small for Clytie to decipher.

  There’s a chance she met Rom – perhaps she nursed him in hospital.

  Clytie’s mouth dried as she forced herself to ask the question. ‘Forgive me, you knew someone from here?’

  ‘Yes, his name is listed but there is no gold cross beside it. Trooper Roman Delaney.’

  Clytie gripped a spearhead of the iron railing to prevent herself swaying.

  ‘Dead? He was only listed as Missing. Are you sure it was Rom Delaney?’

  ‘Quite sure. I nursed him through two bouts of enteric fever. I was at his bedside that last night.’ Sister Macqueen’s pale eyes were suddenly curious. ‘You knew him well?’

  Clytie hesitated. Perhaps I never knew him at all. He was a chameleon – that was his attraction.

  ‘Not for long,’ she said. ‘But he was not a lad easily forgotten. Wild, full of fun.’

  In her own ears her voice sounded light, as if it belonged to someone else. She hurried on to prevent painful images from escaping. ‘My mother befriended him. Forgive me, but did he say anything, that last night you saw him?’

  ‘He had a raging temperature, so some of it was not clear. He kept saying, “Get me on that ship, Sister. I have to get home – to put things right.”’

  ‘To put things right?’ Clytie repeated faintly.

  ‘Rom often sang that marching song, The Girl I Left Behind Me. I’ve often wondered if there was a special girl before me.’

  ‘Before you?’

  ‘That last night Rom asked me to marry him. It was such a strange proposal. He said, “I promised Dolores that I’d never say I love you unless I really meant it. I do. Marry me, before it’s too late!”’

  Clytie sucked in her breath and forced herself to say the words, a statement not a question. ‘And of course you agreed.’

  ‘Of course. I stayed by his side all night. Until I was called away to assist the surgeon to operate on lads brought in from the ambulance train. Next morning I found Rom’s bed empty. His uniform was gone. We searched for him everywhere. He must have died overnight and been buried in the hospital cemetery. So many died it was difficult to keep track. We badly needed the beds, you understand.’

  Clytie nodded as if that was the most natural thing in the world.

  ‘The odd thing was that it was later reported that he had been seen on the wharf beside a ship bound for Australia. But he was officially listed as Missing Presumed Dead.’

  The smile she turned on Clytie was almost apologetic. ‘I think I loved Rom Delaney the minute I saw him. Couldn’t help myself.’

  Clytie heard herself say, ‘It happens that way sometimes – so I’ve been told.’

  ‘Perhaps you could tell me. Was Dolores the girl he left behind him? Or was there some other girl?’

  ‘No. None that mattered,’ Clytie said. ‘I feel sure you were the one.’

  ‘Thank you. You’ve put my mind at rest. Tonight I must catch the train from Bitternbird to Melbourne and begin the journey home to Dunedin. I intend to open my father’s house to nurse convalescing soldiers. I know in my heart I shall never marry. Love like that only comes once in a lifetime.’

  She gently touched Clytie’s sleeve in a silent gesture of thanks, then walked away alone, the wind wrapping and flapping her cloak around her fragile frame.

  Clytie watched until the diminishing figure disappeared from sight. She was surprised to discover that her eyes were dry.

  There aren’t enough tears for this pain.

  • • •

  She became aware Finch was standing by her side, his arm around her shoulders.

  ‘That Kiwi nurse – that was a brave thing you did, Clytie.’

  ‘Do you think she guessed who I was?’

  ‘I think Heather only heard what she wanted to hear.’

  Clytie vaguely remembered Finch’s story about Rom’s fake ‘officer’s photograph’ that had been sent to him by a nurse. She was too tired to wonder or care why Finch had not made himself known to the nurse again.

  They stood together beside the memorial like a pair of windblown sentinels until the setting sun sank in a blaze of glory behind the Lerderderg Hills.

  Clytie stared unseeingly at the letters that formed the name Trooper R. Delaney, a name t
hat she wanted to remain without a cross – forever Missing.

  Clytie read out the names one by one. ‘Does it bother you that the name D’Angers isn’t on the list?’

  ‘It doesn’t deserve to be,’ he said wearily for the second time.

  ‘But Rom Delaney does? A man who may have staged his own death to avoid facing the mess he left behind him?’

  Finch looked at her coolly. ‘Isn’t it time you stopped wearing a hair shirt? Maxie is the future. In a few days you’ll have him home with you. He needs to be proud of his father – one way or another. Tell him all the good things you remember about him. Rom deserves that, at least.’

  Clytie felt angry at being chastised but she was honest enough to recognise the element of truth in his words.

  Finch motioned her it was time to leave.

  ‘Rom was right about one thing. He said you were a one-man woman – his. And no other man would ever replace him in your heart. Just like Heather Macqueen, who’ll enshrine him in her memory and never let a man in her bed. A damned waste of a good woman, if you ask me.’

  Clytie felt an unexpected pang of envy. She recognised the fact in a flash. That odd, freckled little woman had inspired the admiration of both men.

  ‘And what of your future, Finch? Now that Sonny has sold the mine to those American brothers? I hear they’re even going to re-name the Golden Hope with some Yankee title and re-launch it on the gold stock market to attract new shareholders.’

  ‘Fat chance of that. The town has already given the brothers nicknames – “Californy” and “Little Bear”. They’re both over six feet in their socks. And I reckon the mine will remain the Golden Hope until the last trace of colour is brought to the surface.’

  ‘You’re dodging my question.’

  ‘My future? No concern of yours, Clytie Hart. Tomorrow is an open book. My book.’

  Finch accompanied her only as far as the rise of the hill.

  ‘This is where we part company. I suggest you get a good night’s sleep. It may be your last unbroken chance before Maxie takes up residence.’

  She didn’t want it to end like this. ‘Thank you, Finch, for helping make all this happen.’