Golden Hope (20 page)

The railway is the army's key supply route guarded by camps of troops and pickets every 20 odd miles. Hills are bare of timber, little better than desert. Our volunteers are noisy larrikins compared with the British Tommies. But they're trained soldiers – we're only here to help out for a year.

One thing really surprised me. The air is so clear you can see much further than in Australia. No haze – maybe because there are no forests. This may account for the legendary eyesight of Boer marksmen – they can shoot with amazing accuracy over long distances. I reckon I'll soon find out the truth of that!

Later: I copped my first sight of Boers on a train carrying hundreds of prisoners of war. A wild-looking bunch sporting long bushy beards and all sorts of dirty, discarded clothing. It's funny but I had to remind myself they are the enemy – and given half a chance we'd kill each other. Young Boer lads look just like us – country battlers, untrained but as brave as they come.

Later on outpost duty: we sleep in our uniforms. I'm lucky to get a wash three times a week. Lots of friendly lice to keep us company. Today had a welcome bathe in the Modder River. It's rumoured that hundreds of Boers were found here after a battle with stones around their necks. (I bet you won't read that in the newspapers.)

4.30 am. Just given the order to move on. No breakfast, our horses unfed. Destination unknown. C'est la guerre.

Have you written to me yet? Don't let Shadow forget me. I'll write again on my return to camp. Be a good girl, eh?

Your man, Rom.

Clytie sat rigid, clutching the letter. The pictures she imagined between the lines burned into her mind.

So Rom
hasn't had a single letter from me in months. I must keep on writing. But what can I possibly say in my next letter?

•  •  •

It was the mirror that revealed the secret next morning. Suddenly transfixed by her reflection, Clytie had stared into the depths of her eyes and drawn back in shock at the craziness of the thought.

I'm not alone anymore. I'm sharing my body with another soul.

Now, waiting outside Doc's surgery until all his patients had seen him, she faced the moment of truth.

Doc Hundey drew her into his surgery. Although his face was lined with fatigue and his voice betrayed a throaty rasp, his eyes were twinkling. ‘Well, m'dear, if I were a doctor, I would say that you were an advertisement for healthy young womanhood. You are positively blooming.'

Clytie returned his teasing smile, wrapped her mother's Indian shawl around her and seated herself in the chair facing him.

‘I never felt healthier – except first thing in the morning. I'm sure it will come as no surprise to you that I have not bled for several months.' She added quickly, ‘I know I'm supposed to be frightened or ashamed. The truth is I am so happy I just don't want to share my secret with anyone right now – not even Rom. Please tell me what I'm hoping is true.'

‘Let's find out shall we?'

His examination was gentle and thorough but she was suddenly nervous about the verdict.

‘Everything is going to plan, Clytie. You can expect to be delivered of your babe late in spring.' He glanced out the window and turned back to her, his eyes serious. ‘But it is supremely important that you follow my advice to the letter. Have you noticed any changes in your mother's behaviour lately?'

Clytie was thrown by the question. ‘My
mother?
She doesn't know!'

‘She suspected before
you
did, Clytie. That's why I hope she's been following a strict set of rules I gave her. Were you not aware of them?'

Clytie felt chilled, forced to confront the telltale signs she wanted to avoid.

‘Mother's hardly ever home. When she is she sleeps a lot. It's odd – we're very close but now she never kisses me – says she doesn't want me to catch her cough. She's become very finicky. Prefers to eat alone and uses separate crockery. On the rare times we're together she sits out of doors, saying she only needs fresh air to regain her strength.'

Doc Hundey nodded and waited for her to continue.

Clytie felt a sudden rush of guilt. ‘I'm afraid I've been so involved in my own life, my letters to Rom and the newspaper accounts, both
good and bad, about how the war is going. I've never really questioned her. It did strike me as odd Mama never seemed to wash her handkerchiefs – she keeps buying new ones.'

She shuddered at images of
The Lady of the Camellias.
Were all her mother's handkerchiefs spotted with blood?

‘Doc, please tell me it's not tuberculosis.'

‘I wish I could say otherwise, my dear.'

Clytie felt a stab of pain as if her whole body was crying inside her, but no tears came. ‘What a fool I am. The truth was right under my nose – I refused to see it.'

‘Mothers' and daughters' secrets. It's time they were shared, Clytie. Don't put things off. Use the time wisely.'

She felt the courage to blurt out the question. ‘You mean time is running out?'

‘Your mother will tell you herself. But just so you understand the background of the disease. Consumption or pulmonary tuberculosis at an advanced stage is not something that can be readily cured. As yet there are no real sanatoriums in Australia. Wealthy patients travel to Switzerland – their last hope of recovery. Even if she had the money for treatment there your mother would never go. She told me her sole goal is to see you safely delivered of your babe.'

‘You mean she's happy about it?'

‘Ecstatic,' he smiled. ‘You'd think she was the world's first grandmother. But I don't need to tell you how headstrong she is. Despite my instructions that she must rest, she's determined to earn enough money to tide you over – until Rom's return.'

Clytie's mouth and eyes were dry. ‘Why can't I cry, Doctor?'

‘Shock, my dear. I'll do my best to persuade her to cease all work. Plenty of rest, good food and fresh air will help to build up her resistance to the disease – and buy time for her.'

Clytie stumbled to the door, hearing his final gentle words as if they were filtered from a far distance.

‘The greatest gift you can give your mother is your joy in her coming grandchild.'

Shadow was waiting outside the hotel to escort her home.

‘I'll bet you've known about the babe all along,' she said, and from his serious expression she knew she had an ally. ‘Rom certainly
knew what he was doing when he left you in my care. Because the truth is, it's the other way around – you're taking care of
me.'

•  •  •

Dolores sat on a rug in the kitchen garden watching the play of golden, orange and purple streaks of sunset staining the sky. Her expression was like that of a small child discovering something beautiful for the first time.

Clytie forced herself to assume her brightest smile. ‘What a good idea, Mama. A picnic at sunset. I'll make it for us right away.'

‘No! Sit down and talk to me, child. We can eat later. Time is precious. I know you're worried about Rom.' She tapped her temple. ‘But I feel sure he will be true to you – and return from the war. I only wish I could be sure that you will always have someone special to love, to hang on to.'

‘What are you saying, Mama?'

‘There's an old saying: When an old life leaves this world, a new life enters it soon after. No one lives forever. I could die happy if I knew you had a child to live for – like I did. You were my guiding light, Clytie.'

Mothers' and daughters' secrets – time to share, Doc said.

‘There
is
a baby on the way, Mama. I didn't want to tell you – because I let you down.'

‘Let me down? Silly child! Now I can rest in peace.'

‘Don't even think like that. Doc's going to get you well again. We'll watch the baby grow together. Rom's coming back to marry me. He promised.'

‘He'd better! I told him if he doesn't I'll come back and haunt him.'

Dolores's face was flushed with happiness. She was suddenly transformed into the carefree young mother Clytie remembered as a child.

‘I'll start making a patchwork quilt straight away, like I made for you.'

‘Lovely. But you mustn't tire yourself. Right now I must take care of
you.
You
must eat
.'

‘Oh, all right. Just bring us some cheese and bread – and the wine I've been saving to celebrate good news. Don't look so shocked. It's just this once. What better news than this? I'm going to be a grandmother! God bless The Creator of All Things.'

Clytie wrapped her mother in blankets and shawls. Dolores, drunk on happiness that was helped a little by the wine, was determined to milk every moment of the beauty of the evening that covered them in an endless canopy of stars set in black velvet.

‘No wine for you, my girl. My grandchild doesn't drink alcohol!'

Her laughter was so infectious Clytie found it difficult to remember the serious problems that lay ahead. She gave herself up to the light, joyous mood that Dolores was determined to create for them.

‘Tell me one of your wonderful circus legends, Mama. I've never heard the same story twice.'

‘That's because I have five generations of circus life to draw from. Do you miss our old life, Clytie? You know you can always return to it later if –'

‘Rom
will
return, Mama. But yes, I do miss our “family” – Pedro, Tiche, Ruby, Zaza, my schoolmates and all. The circus is in my blood but right now I'm content to explore other things. There's something magical about this place, Mama. I just want to put roots down here and take stock of the past – and
my
past . . .' she added pointedly.

Dolores eyed her shrewdly. ‘All right, spit it out.'

‘Mama, you promised to tell me who my father was when I was old enough. I'll soon be a mother myself. Isn't
that
old enough?'

Dolores gave a short laugh. ‘I can hardly argue with that.'

She lay back to allow her eyes to scan the heavens. Her voice took on a soft, dreamy quality.

‘I met your father when The Flying Harts joined Wirth's Circus. I was seventeen, he was twenty-three. He was tall and handsome, a superb dancer on the high wire.' She paused. ‘Your father was the great love of my life, Clytie, never forget that. I hooked up with Vlad in an attempt to go on living. A bad mistake.'

‘Was my father Spanish? Greek? Pedro told me the name Clytie comes from a lovely Greek myth.'

‘His father might well have been Mediterranean.' Dolores hesitated. ‘I only know that his mother was an Aboriginal girl.'

‘Black? Why did you never tell me? That makes me one-quarter Aboriginal. Surely you didn't think I'd want to hide it. I've grown up knowing circus folk only judge people by how good they are as performers. How many times have you told me
that,
Mama?'

‘That's perfectly true! But Vlad was the exception. He had a real down on blacks and Celestials. If he'd known about your black ancestry he'd have used it as a weapon against you.'

‘Damn, Vlad. I'm proud of my father's heritage. What was his name? Who were his people? Where can I find them?'

Dolores laughed, warding off her questions. ‘One thing at a time. I'll tell you all I know. He never knew his real name. His mother died soon after his birth in northern New South Wales. As you know, it's not unusual for a circus to take in orphaned or illegitimate children, like Pedro and Ruby did with Tiche. The manager and his wife adopted your father, trained him in all the circus arts. This gave him the grace, balance and timing that made him a world-class tightrope performer. If he had lived he would have been greater than The Great Blondin.'

‘The Hero of Niagara!' Clytie whispered in awe.

‘His foster parents gave him his
nom d'arena,
The Fearless Franco. I'm sorry, that's all I know. But you inherited his beautiful curly hair and laughing eyes – and his timing. That's an inborn gift, darling. You can't learn that.'

‘What happened? Did Franco run out on us like Vlad did?'

‘Never! Franco's heart was pure. He truly loved me. An American circus touring New Zealand offered him a big contract he couldn't refuse. Franco sent money for you regular as clockwork. Suddenly his letters stopped. A few months later I received word from the Americans that he had died of pneumonia. He was only twenty-four.'

‘Where is he buried?'

‘He died on board ship and was buried at sea – off the coast of New Zealand.'

Clytie's heart sank.
After all these years I've come to a dead end. But at least I know he was a wonderful performer – and that he didn't abandon us.
‘So I'll never know my father's true Aboriginal name,' she sighed.

‘Maybe not. But have you never wondered about the odd spelling of your middle name, Ellin?' Dolores gave a sheepish smile. ‘It isn't a spelling mistake for Ell
en
. Franco was granted his wish for a daughter, so that's why we gave you your lovely Aboriginal name – it means “wish”.'

Clytie reached out and kissed her mother before she had time to prevent it.

Dolores caught hold of her hand. ‘In that trunk under my bed you'll find all my circus costumes. Who knows, you might need them one day. At the bottom is a book of newspaper cuttings and programmes about Franco's career. You'll see how handsome he was. There's also a roll of banknotes – I never trust banks, they have a nasty habit of collapsing. That money will tide you over after my grandson is born.'

‘How do you know it's a boy?' Clytie asked. ‘It's bad luck to read the cards for yourself.'