Golden Hope (14 page)

‘Rom Delaney says all newcomers to Hoffnung are called “townies” for their first twenty years. How long do you think it will take them to accept us, Mama?'

‘Heaven only knows, love. The Harts have been a circus family for five generations. It's likely to take us a mite longer.'

‘I'm proud to belong to a circus royal family. But our new life will open up new opportunities, Mama. I've never lived in a house that didn't have wheels. Never stopped in any place long enough to make friends outside the circus – or get a proper education.'

Dolores wagged a finger at her. ‘Hey, you're no dummy. Pedro taught you more than any bush school could. How to balance our account books, music from the musicians. German from Hans, French from that bassoon-player who got sacked in Melbourne.'

Clytie held her tongue.
I'd best not admit Louis taught me risqué songs as well as
The Marseillaise
.

Dolores was determined to defend her role as mother. ‘And from the cradle I made sure you learned from world-class performers every circus skill from tumbling, riding, rope dancing, juggling and –'

‘Yes, but Vlad was the one who juggled our
money
! All we've got left in kitty is nineteen shillings.'

Dolores gave her daughter one of her sweet, knowing smiles and with the theatrical gesture of a conjurer, slipped her hand inside her blouse and withdrew a small wad of notes tied with an elastic band.

‘
Abracadabra!
Seven pounds ten shillings! Go on, count it!'

Clytie was ecstatic. She rapidly calculated the sums in her head. ‘That's wonderful. Enough to buy a colt and train it like you trained Lady Godiva – so we don't lose our timing.'

‘Not a new
horse.
A new
house
. We'll need this money for furniture.'

‘You're joking! With a grand total of eight pounds and nine shillings? What could that buy? Some ruin in the wilds of the bush?'

‘Trust me. You'll love it. I've already paid cash for it.'

Clytie dropped her tin dish and hurled herself at her mother, pleading, cajoling, shaking and finally tickling her in an attempt to extract the full details.

At the sound of the approaching wheels of a heavy vehicle, Dolores pointed to the bush track in triumph.

‘I told you. Here it is –
abracadabra!
'

Magic indeed. Clytie gasped in admiration. There, mounted on top of an old bullock dray with Rom at the reins, was a house! A timber shell with four windows, front and back doors, and a chimney forged from kerosene cans welded together in the tradition of old pioneer cottages.

‘Oh Mama! It's just wonderful. Where did you find it?'

‘Father Donnelly sold it to me – for a very modest donation to his R.C. Church. He's been relocated to Bitternbird or some such place, but he'll be travelling back regularly to preach to his flock. So you can thank him personally.'

‘Indeed I will! My God, Zaza's prediction's come true!' she said, startled by the memory. ‘She said I would live in a priest's house! I was nervous she meant I'd take the veil.'

‘Hmm, but that's not a bad idea for our next act,' Dolores mused. ‘“The Flying Nuns” – I can just see the poster. But come to think of it, maybe it would offend some Catholics. And those long black robes would be dangerous doing flip-flaps. On second thoughts, it's safer to stick to spangles and tights.'

Clytie was dancing up and down like an excited child in front of the bullock dray. ‘Rom! You're a wonder. But how are you going to get it down off the wagon and set it up as a proper house? It'll fall apart, won't it?'

Rom tilted his hat on the back of his head and smiled down at them. ‘Oh, ye of little faith. This is a
priest's house
. It wouldn't dare fall apart!'

He drew the dray to a halt perilously close to the verge, where a deep trench carried overflowing stormwater downhill. In response to his shrill, fingers-in-the-mouth whistle, three hefty blokes sporting varying shades of red hair, leapt down from behind the house and joined him. They politely removed their caps in deference to Dolores.

Clytie eyed her mother nervously. All three boys wore green shirts and Rom sported a green neckerchief – a colour that to Dolores was an omen of bad luck. But for once she showed no open sign of distress.

‘You have my word, we'll have the place all rigged up by sundown,' Rom promised with a wink. ‘These blokes are the O'Grady brothers. No need to pay 'em for the use of their dray – they owe me a favour. But if you could see your way clear to offering them a glass of
something cold
when the deed is done . . .'

‘Beer? I'll do better than that. We'll have a proper house-warming,' Dolores said firmly.

The lads set to work, heaving and grunting in obedience to Rom's instructions.

Dolores caught Clytie's nervous glance in her direction. ‘Green? No need to worry. No doubt this O'Grady mob are of Irish descent. Green is the colour of the shamrock, a lucky symbol to the Irish – so their good luck will rub off on us.'

It was Clytie who pinned down the day's significance. ‘And it's the seventeenth of March – Saint Patrick's Day. No wonder they're all wearing the green!'

•  •  •

It seemed Rom Delaney was out to prove to them he was a man of his word. By sundown the priest's house was installed on a foundation of tree stumps for which they had sunk holes to varying heights to ensure that the floor of the house was level. Only one section had come adrift in transit and Rom promptly nailed the timber slabs back in place. Doors and windows were made operative, the metal chimney tested to send smoke skywards and prevent it regurgitating back into the larger of the two rooms.

‘What's all this extra stuff?' Dolores asked. ‘I can't afford to pay for any of this.'

Rom was reassuring. ‘Father Donnelly threw in a few sticks of furniture gratis to go on with.'

It was more than a few sticks. Clytie and Dolores reverently touched the wrought iron bedstead, firm mattress, the fine Welsh dresser, deal table and two chairs – and a keg of beer as a housewarming present.

Dolores gasped. ‘The man is indeed an angel in disguise!'

Clytie rummaged inside the circus wagon and returned with brightly coloured circus cloaks which she ordered Rom to tack up as makeshift curtains for the sake of privacy.

Standing in front of the house to admire the total effect, her eyes suddenly filled with tears of happiness. Unable to check her impulsive gesture in front of her mother, she embraced Rom and all three O'Grady brothers in turn then kissed Dolores on both cheeks.

‘You don't know what this means to me, Mama. But you always said you weren't cut out to live in a house without wheels. What changed your mind?'

A wistful smile flickered at the corner of Dolores's mouth. ‘I wanted you to have a taste of real family life, before you go off and make your own way in the world.'

‘
My
way?
Us
, you mean. We've always been Daring Dolores and Little Clytie and we always will be.'

‘Aye, so we shall,' Dolores assured her, then turned to Rom. ‘One
last job for you, young man. Open Father Donnelly's keg of ale.' Prompted by Clytie's anxious frown, she added quickly, ‘I don't drink myself, but I want to toast you lads for the fine job you've done – and honour your Saint Patrick.'

She brought out plates of sandwiches, biscuits, fruit and a big ball of cheese and invited them all to tuck in. The two older brothers each quickly downed a couple of glasses but stopped Dolores topping up the youngest O'Grady's glass.

‘He's too young to drink, Missus, so we'll drink his share for him.'

Smiling with slightly glazed eyes, they finally thanked Dolores for her hospitality. Finishing each other's sentences, they excused themselves on account of their mother.

‘We left Ma at home with the sheep she slaughtered. She'll be roasting it for all nine of us – and our cousins. It being March seventeen and all.'

Rom was quick to respond. ‘
La Fheile Padraig sona Daoibh
to the lot of you!' The three brothers exchanged anxious glances.

‘That's Happy Saint Patrick's Day, isn't it?' Rom said. ‘My Gaelic's a bit rusty.'

The eldest brother smiled in relief. ‘Thank ye kindly. But we O'Gradys have been here for four generations. It is only Great Grandmother who remembers the Gaelic.'

They waved the brothers out of sight, as they headed home erratically in the old family bullock dray now used to transport lumber to and from the mill.

Dolores had not recovered from the revelation about their mother. ‘So Mrs O'Grady slaughters sheep herself, does she? They must breed women tough in these parts.'

‘Tough – and canny,' said Rom. ‘It reminds me of the story of my own grandmother and the bushranger, Captain Moonlite.'

Rom allowed his glass to be refilled and urged by mother and daughter launched into the story of how his canny young Irish granny had outwitted Captain Moonlite, the bushranger who led a double life and was really lay-preacher Andrew George Scott, whose career ended on the scaffold.

Clytie was enthralled by Rom's gifts as a story-teller, but one half of her mind questioned their authenticity. Each of the tales about
his past ‘nine lives' seemed to be tailored to please his audience. She wondered if he invented them to fill the void of unknown parentage.

How often have I fantasised about my own father's identity?

Later, urged on by his eager audience Rom recited with great feeling
The Vagabond,
a poem by the bush poet they all admired, Henry Lawson.

He caught Clytie's eye when he came to a line in the poem which inferred that Lawson might have ‘a dash of the Gipsy blood' on his father's line.

Is this hint of Lawson's heritage also true of Rom's own background? Or does he simply want it to be?

Clytie felt uneasy catching Dolores's expression, the way her eyes narrowed while studying Rom.

A few moments later Clytie was aware that Dolores, while apparently listening to Rom's boast about his ability to train horses, was weighing whether he was a man to be trusted.

‘Could you teach a horse to answer your questions? I know one that could.'

Rom grinned. ‘You're pulling my leg.'

‘True as God. He was billed as Mahomet the Talking Horse, a star circus act trained by the American Probasco, who played Australia in the nineties. I was one of a small group who squeezed into a photographer's studio to watch Mahomet having publicity photographs taken. I watched Probasco like a hawk, determined to learn the secret of his act.'

‘And did you?' Clytie asked.

‘I'll tell you exactly what I saw. Probasco asked Mahomet two questions. “How many ladies are in this room?” Mahomet instantly struck the floor five times with his hoof. There were indeed five women in the room.

‘Probasco then asked, “How many of these ladies are wearing hats?” Mahomet knocked once with his hoof.' Dolores paused. ‘I was the only woman wearing a hat.'

Rom looked dubious. ‘His trainer was cueing him, surely.'

Dolores shook her head. ‘My eyes never left Probasco. He was standing at least four feet away from Mahomet – and made no sign whatsoever. Make of it what you will, Mahomet the Talking Horse is the cleverest animal I've ever seen in any circus.'

Rom leaned forward. ‘I reckon you could see right through any trickster.'

Clytie held her breath as Dolores replied with quiet significance, ‘If you want to put me to the test – hold out your hand.'

Clytie saw that Rom recognised the truth. He was the one being tested. Hesitant for only a few seconds, he offered her his upturned palm.

Dolores studied it in silence, tracing the lines with one finger. Her voice sounded slightly distant as it always did during a reading. ‘You are a man with itchy feet. Your travel line is broken in fits and starts. Your life line resembles the proverbial nine lives of a cat. You have already lived several lives – more are to come. I see a young man crossing your path – he has no name. I am not sure just who is tricking who. I see you with a girl wearing a white veil . . .'

Clytie held her breath.
Is she seeing me?

‘No, not a bride,' Dolores decided.

‘A nun, maybe a bride of Christ?' Rom asked, half teasing.

‘Well, if life is all a joke to you, maybe that's all to the good.'

‘I'm sorry, please continue,' Rom said quickly.

Dolores's voice resumed its normal tone and she closed the fingers of Rom's hand over the palm and pushed his hand away.

Clytie felt slightly uneasy.
What else has she seen?

Dolores's mood changed suddenly. ‘Let's eat. I'm as hungry as a horse.'

Clytie drew the damper from the camp oven over the open fire. The old iron stove inside the priest's house would be cleaned and made productive tomorrow.

The damper smelt like heaven. They carved it up and smothered the slices with raspberry jam, laughing over the memory of the false measles spots that Rom's quick-thinking grandmother had used to foil Captain Moonlite when he bailed up her coach.

Clytie was relieved to see that although Dolores liberally refilled Rom's glass, she continued to drink nothing but ginger ale herself.

They toasted in turn the newly crowned King Edward VII, Australia's first Governor-General the Earl of Hopetoun, followed by Dolores's special toast of thanks to the generous Father Donnelly. They were on the point of toasting Rom as hero of the day when all heads turned at the sound of an approaching horse and cart.

‘What's Doc Hundey doing here?' Clytie asked. ‘None of us are ill.'