Golden Hope (24 page)

What the hell is a bitternbird doing here? I must be off my rocker.

There wasn't a bird in sight but the infuriating cry continued to reverberate in his head.

The outline of a farmhouse seemed to materialise out of thin air.
Is it a mirage?
He pushed the sluggish Argentinean mule to the limit, but within close range of the farm he dismounted and carefully circled the place for any signs of enemy occupants. Entering the abandoned farmhouse he was disappointed to realise the truth. He was too late. Others had already looted anything of value. There was no food, except for a row of dead cabbages in a garden bed, the soil cracked for lack of water.

Cautiously he made his way towards the barn, rifle in hand. The
door hung from one hinge and creaked as he drew it open. A shaft of light flooded the interior.

In the act of gathering some decent forage for his horse, he caught a slight movement in a pile of hay. There was a groan. His rifle at the ready he moved stealthily towards the sound and saw, protruding from a pyramid of hay, the khaki sleeve torn from a V.M.R. uniform. He tugged at it carefully and it came away – no jacket, just the sleeve. Prodding further, he was startled to see the bloodied face of a young man's naked body buried in the hay.

The wounded soldier's eyes widened in alarm at the sight of Rom's rifle inches from his head. His cracked lips tried to form words but only succeeded in producing indistinct sounds.

Rom recognised the insignia on the sleeve – the printed word Australia recently added to the uniforms of some units.
Was it from New South Wales?

He retrieved his water bottle and held it to the lad's lips.

‘It's all right, mate. You're safe now. I'm one of your mob, the V.M.R.'

The young man spluttered in haste as he drained it thirstily then handed back the empty flask. ‘Thank you, Eternal Father,' he said then passed out cold.

Rom sat eyeing him, weighing the odds for and against his decision. Barely enough water remained for himself and his horse – let alone to share three ways.

What the hell. I can't leave the poor bastard here to die alone.

Rom hoisted up the long-limbed body and slung it over the saddle. The ragged mule looked as exhausted as he was. He brought it some of the remaining water from the well, then urged it onwards.

He eyed the lad's tow-coloured head matted with blood, and the limp arms that swung in time with the mule's plodding rhythm. He slung his jacket over the lad's back to protect him from the burning sun.

This bloke was either like me, on the run after Wilmansrust. Or else he's a deserter. Who cares? He's barely alive. With luck I'll dodge Boer snipers and get him to a field hospital. He'd have been a goner – if I hadn't tried to loot that farmhouse.

‘If you ask me, bloody Beatson should give me a medal.'

Waves of heat dazzled before Rom's eyes like a mirage. He needed to hold on to the bridle to stay upright as he staggered beside his human cargo.

He delivered his verdict to the unconscious soldier.

‘You'd laugh if you could see us, mate – a prime example of the blind leading the blind.'

Rom heard the sounds of sniper's fire and knew what was coming before he saw the red flash of blood staining the khaki.

Clytie closed the door of the priest's house behind her and turned the lock, choosing to ignore the town's proud boast that no locks were needed in Hoffnung because there were no thieves. She knew that to be a lie. Long Sam's shack had been robbed. And although she hated to face the thought, she suspected there had been no sale involved in Rom's acquisition of Goldie or the few good clothes he possessed.

At the thought of Goldie, the first loss to strike home to her the reality of the distant war, she felt an echo of the pain that remained trapped in the lines of Rom's letter.

She filled a basket with flowers and a bundle of the herbs that had flourished in her garden under Long Sam's clever hands. Shadow stood ready to accompany her to the Post Office. Today she must mail that all-important letter to Rom containing the casual postscript that broke the news of their coming babe.

The dog cocked his ears at sight of her and led her down the path.

‘I'm beginning to think Rom was right. You've a real talent for reading people's minds. You'd be a headline act in any circus.'

The dramatic chain of events had almost overwhelmed her during the months since Tribe's Mortgage Bank crashed and the circus had been run out of town. She clung to every postcard Tiche sent her and hungered for news of her circus family, who had sent a flood of sympathy notes following Dolores's death. Strangely she did not feel her mother had completely deserted her, but rather that she was simply out of sight. Several times she had come to her in dreams – foretelling good news or bad.

Last night's ‘visit' had left Clytie confused, unable to sense her mother's message. Dolores was standing alone in a windswept, barren landscape where the rocks were shrouded with yellow as if they had been painted by the wind. Her mother pointed to a distant farmhouse that seemed empty, abandoned. Her lips moved in speech but the words had no sound. Then the dream turned to black like one
of the silent scenes she had seen in the Biograph in Melbourne – but the dream had no written caption of explanation.

As Clytie climbed the hill to the cemetery she almost lost her footing, staggering under the weight of her belly and the sudden movements that were a forcible reminder that she was never alone.

‘I don't know who you are, but you've got the kick of a mule, kid.'

As she did every week, she placed little bouquets of flowers on the graves of Dolores and Lionello, and on Missy's unacknowledged plot beside him. On her way to the far corner she passed the most elaborate monument in the cemetery which dominated the whole scene. On top of a tall column stood a stone-winged angel with eyes mournfully raised to heaven, her hands folded across her breast. The gilt inscription on the raised tomb read, ‘Margaret Twyman, Beloved wife of Councillor Ernest Twyman, now left alone to Shoulder the Loss that is Heaven's Gain'. The date of death was ten years earlier.

Clytie frowned, noting that the husband's name and title were written in markedly larger script than that of his wife. ‘This must have cost him a small fortune, Shadow. It's an awful thing to say but it suggests a man who loved his wife more
after
she was dead.'

Out of respect for Long Sam she paused at the foot of the squat tombstones of the four Celestial friends who had left him the last surviving Chinaman in Hoffnung. He had previously mentioned some religious custom of theirs, the placing of food on the graves of the dead, but Clytie didn't feel she could go that far. Food and money were scarce.

‘I hope this compromise doesn't offend you Celestial Gentlemen.'

She placed a little nosegay of parsley, rosemary and thyme in front of each of the stones that Sam had carved with Chinese letters and the English dates of their death.

‘I reckon I have more friends in the cemetery than I do in Hoffnung. But you did warn me, Mama, it would take us time to be accepted. Let's hope the babe isn't blamed for the “sins” of his parents. They make me feel like a mongrel dog who's suspected of carrying rabies.'

Shadow stopped short with an expression she could not fail to interpret as disapproval.

‘Forgive me, Shadow,' she said contritely, ‘I have no call to wallow in self-pity. You are a most faithful friend. We also have Doc Hundey,
Long Sam and the reclusive Miss Adelaide on our side. And Rom will soon be coming home to us.'

At the sound of his master's name Shadow charged happily ahead.

On the crest of the hill Clytie turned to catch her breath and admire her garden. With Long Sam's ingenuity they had already transformed it into a fertile blaze of colour, a dramatic contrast to the olive green shades of eucalypts. Her first garden was a little oasis. With patience she had tamed a pair of kookaburras to feed off slices of apple on the railing outside the kitchen door. Clytie told herself she would never be so poor she could not spare food for birds and animals.

‘Good morning, Mrs Mintner.'

She gritted her teeth as the old woman was clearly intent on passing her without breaking her stride.

‘I seen you the other day. You circus folk know nothing. You don't feed jackasses – it makes them dependent on hand-outs.'

‘Thank you for the advice, Mrs Mintner. But I need all the friends I can get.'

Clytie instantly regretted her rash words.
That sounded pathetic. Who needs people who snub you?

She continued on to the Post Office, smiling at the thought that the babe's instant kick was a reminder that he was on her side.

It looks like Hoffnung is having a population explosion at all levels.

Although her own pregnancy was hidden under one of Dolores's floral gowns, Clytie noticed the growing number of outsized bellies sported by local women of all ages. She knew Mrs O'Grady was expecting her tenth. The shape of the Methodist minister's wife, Mrs Binstead, had blossomed from thin to rotund. She now wore a permanent smile, having almost given up hope of ever bearing a child.

When Clytie called in to the hotel kitchen to present to Mary Mac the fresh herbs for the hotel's giant soup pot, the girl was eager to share the rumour about Noni Jantzen.

‘Now we know why we ain't seen her around since her honeymoon. I reckon the princess was in the family way before her wedding. Out to hook Sonny Jantzen by hook or by crook.'

‘My mother used to say that babies choose their own time to come into the world.' Clytie flushed at having drawn attention to herself. ‘I guess that includes me.'

Mary Mac's rough red hand gently patted Clytie's belly. ‘Don't you worry, love. Yours is gunna be a little beauty. How could it fail with good-lookers like you and Rom Delaney?'

Clytie impulsively kissed her cheek then hurried away, unable to restrain an unwanted twinge of envy. Sonny, rejected as a Volunteer, would be free to enjoy the birth of
his
child while Rom was absent, fighting the Boers.

Shadow was waiting for her. ‘But who am I to judge Noni Jantzen? I only hope she makes Sonny happy.'

Main Street appeared to be suddenly alive, like a hornet's nest stirred to action. While still enveloped in their Mother Hubbard aprons, women clutched their hats as they ran from group to group, chattering like magpies. The men who conferred together in their own groups ranged from bushy-bearded miners, farmers in overalls and wide-awake bush hats, to a few travelling salesmen in three-piece suits and beaver hats.

‘Something's up, Shadow. God willing peace has been declared. Or else our lads have won some battle. Let's hope the news isn't about some crazy Bolshevik taking a pot shot at King Edward.'

Three previous failed assassination attempts on the life of His Majesty's late mother, Queen Victoria, were still fresh in Clytie's memory.

Random words that filtered through to her clearly involved the war.

England's role had caused some of her former allies to switch sides.
What a mess the world is in.

Every nuance in the changing fortunes of war reawakened her deep-seated fears for Rom's safety.

At Mrs Midd's General Store Clytie bid Shadow to ‘stay' outside. Using her basket as a shield to protect her belly from sharp elbows, she manoeuvred her way to the sectioned-off corner containing the one-woman Post Office, the pigeonholes for residents' letters and a silver-metal cash register that ‘sang' like a bell when operated.

The hole in the panelled wall was guarded by a metal grille that looked as if it had been designed to deter bushrangers in the Gold Rush era. The grille framed the face of Marj Hornery, a young martinet with a dodgy reputation. Clytie had heard local urchins chanting a rhyme to the rhythm of Little Jack Horner: ‘Marjory Hornery sat in the Cornery, reading the people's mail.'

A magnet for local gossip and national news, the Post Office was officially limited to trading stamps, stationery and the weighing of Christmas packages bound for the Mother Country and comfort parcels to local lads at the Front.

Behind her Clytie heard the words ‘South Africa', ‘Kitchener' and ‘It's a disgrace!' being bandied about, but she was intent on keeping her place in the queue to post Rom's letter and hopefully find his letter waiting for her. The woman at the head of the queue was advising Marj that the Bakery had slashed its prices in a sale.

Marj's whisper was audible. ‘No point in telling the Knife-Thrower's Daughter. She's already got a bun in the oven.'

The woman gave a nervous giggle and glanced over her shoulder at the target.

Clytie instinctively laid a protective hand over her belly.
So that's the nickname I'll have to wear for the next twenty years – if I stay here.

When it came Clytie's turn to step up to the grille, Marj Hornery made a swift move to shut the hatch.

‘I'm afraid I'm closed for the day. You'll have to wait your turn till Monday,
Miss.
'

The snub was obvious. Clytie's fist was quick to block the hatch from closing.

‘All I want is for this letter to catch the mail cart to Bitternbird in time to meet the train to Melbourne.'

‘Too late. I told you, I'm busy.'

The door of the hatch snapped shut in Clytie's face.

Back in the street, Clytie saw Counsellor Twyman was the target of questions. Sergeant Mangles was nailing a document on the noticeboard surrounded by a growing crowd. Her heart pounded at the realisation this was a casualty list from South Africa. Feeling Shadow's cold nose pressed against her skirt, Clytie touched the elbow of a man in miner's garb.

‘Please, Sir, what's happened? My man is at the Front.'