Golden Hope (19 page)

Her hair was piled high in a style somewhere between the complex Gibson Girl vogue and a bower bird's nest. Her hazel eyes had flecks of yellow like tiger's eye stones, and her full mouth was painted scarlet to echo her hair. Her buxom chest and low-cut blouse reminded Clytie of the way some men referred to women who ‘advertised goods for sale'.

She took a drag on her cigarette and eyed Clytie's basket of herbs. ‘Who are you? We don't allow hawkers on our premises.'

Mary Mac sprang to the defence. ‘Clytie Hart ain't no hawker. She's employed here by Mrs Yeoman, as my personal assistant. So you've no call to throw your weight around, Ginger.'

‘My, my. No need to get your dander up. Mr and Mrs Yeoman put me in charge while they attend a wedding.'

‘In charge of the bar! My kitchen is off limit to barmaids.'

Ginger's eyes travelled slowly over Clytie's silhouette. ‘From the looks of you, Miss Hart, your place is in the kitchen.'

Without waiting for Clytie's reply, she butted her lipstick-stained cigarette in a saucer and swung her hips as she exited to the bar.

‘Well, she's a turn-up for the books!' Clytie said with gritted teeth. ‘Where did she spring from?'

‘Bendigo, so she says.' Mary Mac added sagely, ‘I reckon Miss Ginger Roy invented herself and wrote her own references.'

Clytie tried to play fair. ‘Maybe, but I'll bet she'll draw in the blokes! Money in the till – that'll keep Mr Yeoman happy.'

Mary Mac was stripping off her Mother Hubbard apron. ‘Come on, while the cat's away the mice will play. Let's go and take a squiz at the Jantzen wedding.'

‘But I wasn't invited.'

‘Neither was I. But what's to stop us? I'm dying of curiosity to see the bride's dress – and if she's showing yet!' Mary Mac said with a wicked grin.

Clytie found herself being towed up the hill. They planted themselves a discreet distance from the church just in time to hear Holy Maude thumping out the triumphant strains of Handel's Wedding March.

The porch doors flew open. Dressed like a swarm of rainbow lorikeets, a crowd of women poured outside to form an avenue of honour.

The bride and groom emerged squinting into the sunlight, to be showered with confetti and rose petals and surrounded by a crush of excited squealing females.

A photographer had his tripod set up in readiness. Clytie could not help but notice that although Noni and Sonny froze obediently for the camera and smiled on cue, no one looked happier than the beaming patriarchs, Boss Jantzen and Pius James.

Noni's gown was Medieval in style, its skirt flowing from a high waistline, the sleeves slashed in a series of loops that revealed the silver lining.

‘She looks utterly beautiful,' Clytie said wistfully. ‘And Sonny's so handsome. What a romantic pair – just like Romeo and Juliet.' She added quickly, ‘But let's hope they are fated to have a happier ending.'

‘Romeo and Juliet? Who are they?' Mary Mac asked.

Before Clytie could work out a reply, the photographer was rearranging the group for his photographs. Noni directed him to include an elderly, elegant woman whose wide-brimmed hat sported a Bird-of-paradise that looked real enough to take flight.

‘Who's she? Not someone I'd be likely to forget,' Clytie asked.

‘Miss Rhoda James, Noni's aunt. The wealthiest landowner in Bitternbird.'

‘So that's her. Rom was landscaping her garden.'

Sonny beckoned another woman to join them in a group photograph.

This woman was tall and bony. Her pale, angular face resembled an older version of Joan of Arc. Her face shone with admiration when Sonny placed his arm around her shoulders and drew her to his side.

‘I'm sure I've never seen her before either,' Clytie said.

‘Not surprising. Sister Bracken runs the bush hospital and lives there week in week out. She's a bit of a battle-axe but indispensable.
Doc has to force her to take an occasional day off. See how she looks at Sonny? He was the first ever babe she brought into the world.'

Clytie took a good hard look at the nursing sister.
I wouldn't want to meet her on a dark night.

The photographer's head re-emerged from under the black linen covering the camera. The crowd was growing restless.

Marj Hornery reminded Noni to toss her bouquet into the crowd. According to tradition whoever caught it was destined to be the next bride. There was a cluster of hopeful expressions among all the single women, particularly Millie, the tiny bridesmaid, but either Noni's aim was bad or she had other ideas. Her bouquet sailed over the up-stretched arms of Millie then over Sister Bracken's hands to be caught by a flustered Doc Hundey.

‘Hey, Doc, your turn next!' a jolly voice called out. ‘You wouldn't have no trouble choosing a wife. They'd be lined up on your doorstep.'

‘Count me out! I'm much too busy for all that.' Doc's face reddened as he wove through the crowd to Millie's side. ‘This was meant for you. If you'd been a mite taller you'd have caught it.'

Clytie and Mary Mac slipped away unnoticed as the congregation split into two factions. The close friends and family drove or rode off to the formal wedding breakfast being catered for at the Jantzen mansion at the far end of town. The families of all those employed at the mine had been invited to a buffet luncheon later that afternoon at the Diggers' Rest.

Mary Mac scuttled off to supervise last minute details, leaving Clytie to wait for Mrs Midd to reopen the General Store, and Marj to resume business at the Post Office. She bought a few delicacies to tempt her mother's appetite and for the supper she'd have in readiness for Rom's hoped for return.

•  •  •

Dolores thanked Clytie her for the delicious food and made a show of sampling it before she went to work.

‘My regular client is driving from Bitternbird to take me to dinner before his Tarot reading. See how successful your mother has become?'

‘That's no surprise to me. Whatever you do, you're the best,' Clytie said sincerely.

She noticed the touch of rouge her mother had added to her pale complexion. The colour heightened the brightness of her eyes and picked up the hues in the multi-coloured shawl she called her Joseph's Coat of Many Colours.

‘You look beautiful, Mama – as always.'

Dolores cast a knowing sidelong glance. ‘Don't let your Rom stay too long. You know how people love to talk. True or not.' She paused at the door. ‘Thank you for not asking the obvious question. But no, I will not be drinking alcohol.'

‘I never doubted you, Mama.'

The passing hours found Clytie growing restless, too distracted to read or sew. There was no music to calm her. Having fallen asleep on the old sofa, she was woken by the clock chiming midnight. She decided Rom had been detained another day and feeling decidedly let down, made up her bed in the corner. Too tired to draw the curtains she dismissed the Romani superstition that it was bad luck for moonlight to fall across a sleeping face
 . . .
and fell asleep.

The sound of her name and the sight of Rom's moonlit figure climbing over the windowsill roused her to that state between waking and sleeping.

‘You thought I wasn't coming, didn't you? Silly girl, I gave you my word and here I am. Is your mother home?'

She shook her head. Rom was already undressed and beside her in the cot bed. The heat from his body set her on fire.

‘I really need you tonight,' he said urgently. ‘Are you ready and willing?'

He didn't wait for her answer but began without ceremony to take what he wanted, urging her on. Clytie sensed that tonight something was different – only half awake she wanted to participate more, but Rom didn't seem to notice.

His final exultant cry came from deep in his throat. He kissed the crown of her damp hair and covered her face with kisses. ‘Good, girl. Now I'll let you sleep.'

Clytie fell asleep in his arms, her nose buried in the warmth of his neck. She managed to murmur the words without thinking. ‘I'll love you forever, Rom.'

‘I'll hold you to that!'

•  •  •

Dawn followed moonlight all too soon. Clytie awoke in an empty bed. Her mother's door was closed.

Having made herself a cup of tea, Clytie went outside to sit on the lawn and welcome the day. Shadow stood stiffly like a sentinel but when she called him, he crossed to her and bent his head. The letter was tucked inside his homemade collar. She opened it with trembling hands.

My dear girl,

I didn't want words to spoil last night. You know me, I can't bear a woman's tears – I cave in like a house of cards. The thing is, I went to Trentham to buy a second-hand bridle, saddle and kit for Goldie. I managed to beat them down to a decent price.

By the time you read this, I'll be on my way to Melbourne to enlist as a volunteer in the V.M.R. I'm an ace shot and as healthy as a horse so they'd be crazy to reject me. But don't worry, we only sign up for a year. The war will be over long before then. I'll be back with you before you know it. Please understand this is my chance to make something of myself. I may not be hero material, but I can ride and shoot with the best of them. The Boers won't know what hit them.

I'll earn a soldier's pay, five bob a day, but it's regular and I'll send you money to pay for Long Sam's work. I'll keep my eye out for a diamond for you in Johannesburg.

Remember, you promised to love me forever.

Don't worry. Only the good die young,

I'm yours, Rom.

P.S. I expect Goldie will travel to South Africa with me. They don't allow dogs to enlist, not even Kelpies. So you'll keep a sharp eye on Shadow for me, won't you? Thanks. R.

Despite the heat of the sun on her face, Clytie shivered as if the sun had also abandoned her.

Rom has bolted and has the hide to make it sound as if he's doing me a favour.

Two months later the first letter with the Johannesburg stamp caused Clytie's heart to beat in a crazy rhythm in tandem with the Salvation Army's band as they marched down Main Street. Every Friday the band took up its stance outside the Diggers' Rest and the sweet-faced girl in the dark uniform and bonnet trimmed with burgundy sang cheerful hymns set to modern melodies. Without asking for donations, her bucket was generously filled with coins by men passing in and out of the hotel's bar.

Clytie hugged Rom's letter to her heart as she hurried to the seat beside the stone plinth that was the first stage of the planned statue for the town's war memorial. Twyman and the ‘men of the cloth' were still locked in debate about the actual design – a near life-sized figure of a digger, or a winged angel.

She opened the letter with trembling fingers, trying not to tear the precious pages, the words tightly crammed on both sides of the paper.

My dear girl,

I'm beginning this on board the
Southern Cross
, sailing direct to Cape Town. It's crammed with 460 officers and volunteers and some 500 horses – 501 because I managed to keep Goldie with me.

Conditions on board are unprintable, rotten food, and we're packed in like sardines in hammocks. The horses fare even worse – a dozen in our sleeping compartment with no partition so there's scarcely enough room for me to ‘muck out'. In rough weather when the ship rolls the poor brutes (that's horses, not us!) are in real danger.

I'd love to get my hands on the xxxxxxx who planned all this – I reckon he's never come face to face with a horse in his life.

Clytie smiled over the word crossed out with seven x's and continued.

Doc would chuck a fit over the ‘hygiene'. Four urinals for the whole mob on board and we have to wash in the same buckets of water as our horses. Most of the blokes are flat on their backs on the deck sea-sick. Not me or Goldie.

There are a dozen stowaways, some mere kids, some on the run from the traps. (No, Clytie, that is not why I volunteered.) The V.M.R. won't have a bar of them but they reckon they'll join some irregular corps in South Africa.

Worst of all are the ‘wasters', professional thieves who'd steal the food out of your mouth. They pinch your boots and socks if you hang them over your hammock. (Please tell the Hoffnung ladies to keep knitting those khaki socks!)

Some days later: we've entered the Indian Ocean – finally left Australia behind. I chucked three poor brutes overboard (dead horses, not blokes).

A school of whales were spouting water in a courting dance. Jesus, I wish I had a camera. Manual and firing drill is good fun. We fire at a target roped to the stern, so both target and shooter are in motion. Good practice for shooting while riding on horseback.

Cape Town: Here at last after 30 days at sea. Some blokes down with typhoid. Goldie and me are in good shape. It's amazing – khaki uniforms everywhere from all parts of the Empire as well as Scots in kilts and Indians in turbans. Passing the ritzy Royal Hotel I spotted so many officers sporting a monocle – you'd think half the British Army had rotten eyesight.

Some wounded blokes from a Highland regiment invited us to their smoke concert – great blokes with a record for bravery to beat none. I had a squiz at the Artillery Howitzers arrived from England – the latest pattern for firing lyddite shells. We're told they leave a yellow stain over everything as well as killing the enemy.

Later: Bad news. Our Australian horses were taken – Goldie was commandeered by some Imperial officer. I copped a bay mare. She'll do. But I'll get Goldie back if it kills me.

I was really pissed off (excuse language), but later we were chuffed by the reception the locals gave us Colonials
marching to the railway station to entrain our horses. The railway line was lined with people waving Union flags.