Golden Hope (28 page)

‘I guess that's something to be grateful for,' Finch said dolefully.

Rom pushed a pad and pencil across the table. ‘I just nicked this out of Heather's office. Write something. No need to feel embarrassed. I'm a rotten speller myself.'

Finch hesitated then wrote fluently, filling the page before he handed it back. Rom was impressed. ‘Shit! It's longer than the Bible.'

‘What does this prove? It seems I'm reasonably literate. I can remember every word I want – except my own name.'

‘That's the least of your worries.'

‘What the hell does that mean?'

‘If you're not ruddy careful they'll send you back to the Front to fight the Boers – yeah, I thought you'd hate the idea of that. So do I.'

Finch's question surprised him. ‘I understand you encountered a Boer Commando at Wilmansrust. Who won?'

Rom Delaney looked out the window and his words came in a rush.

‘Let's just say the Boers are still celebrating. Wilmansrust was not our finest hour. More Australians went to God in ten minutes than any other day in the war. Don't get me started on who was to blame. The Boer Commando appeared out of bloody nowhere, firing from the hip, left, right and centre. No time to reach for our bloody rifles. Only had one choice. Get shot dead or run for dear life.'

‘Your choice?'

Rom shrugged. ‘I'm no hero. I never stopped running.'

Finch took a deep breath. ‘You think maybe I'm a deserter, don't you?'

Rom combed his fingers through his lank hair. His dry laugh was devoid of humour. ‘Don't know. Don't care, mate. We're both alive.'

‘Forgive me. I shouldn't have asked. It's just that I'd welcome any memories, good or bad. It's like my life began when I woke up here with my head bandaged like an Egyptian mummy. All I know is the doctor reckons I must be around twenty-three years old – something to do with my teeth. I got examined like a horse.'

‘Can you ride?' Rom asked.

‘Try me. I don't know how I know, but feel dead sure I can ride like the very devil.'

‘That proves you're Australian,' Rom teased. ‘Maybe they can't find any record of you because when war broke out again a lot of Australians were working here in the diamond mines and volunteered to join local units. No wonder the Imperial Army has a headache keeping track of us all.'

‘You mean they might never trace where I come from?' Finch asked bleakly.

‘I'll tell you one thing for free.' Rom paused for effect. ‘I know where you're
going
. That's if you trust me to get you out of here.'

Finch weighed him cautiously. ‘How? I've got to find that unknown girl. You'd understand if you had a woman who writes to you.'

Rom patted the pocket that held Clytie's letter. ‘Here's one of them.'

‘One letter – or one of your women?'

Rom's lips curled in admiration. ‘Sharp, aren't you!' He threw the butt of his cigarette into a flower bed. ‘I don't want to boast but I've got enough hot-blooded memories to last a lifetime, mate. How about we concentrate on finding
yours?
The girl in that photograph is worth searching for, isn't she? Go on, take a good look at her.'

Finch seemed reluctant to share his sole link with his unknown past.

‘She's quite something, eh?' Rom prompted.

Finch studied it carefully. ‘The photographer is an amateur. The horse is a fake. Mangy, no doubt stuffed years ago.'

‘What are you – an art critic?' Rom snapped. ‘Be reasonable. You don't expect an equestrienne to take her circus horse into a studio, do you? Look at her
face
. A beauty or what?'

‘She's all right.'

‘
All right?
What's wrong with your eyesight? That's a girl any man would be willing to die for. We've got to find her.'

‘What do you mean
we
?
'

Rom assumed a hurt look. ‘I'm trying to help you regain your lost life, Finch. I'm not the enemy.'

Finch apologised and Rom pressed on. ‘Your memories will flood back when you meet her face to face.'

‘Haven't you heard, there's a war on. We can't get an overnight pass to sail thousands of miles to Victoria.'

Rom eyed him coolly, his head cocked to one side. ‘Anyone would think that you don't want to get your memory back.'

That did it. Finch let his anger rip. ‘You wouldn't be such a smart arse if
your
whole past life was a blank. Can't you see how unnerving it is? I might turn out to be some kind of Jack the Ripper.'

Rom leaned across and gripped his shoulder. ‘No chance. I'm a great judge of character. Your mum, whoever she was, brought you up right. You're not a man to walk out on any woman.'

Rom felt the irony of these words coming from him but he allowed them to hang suspended in the air, giving Finch time to digest the thought before he summed up his case.

‘Leave it to me, Finch. I'll get us on board a ship to Melbourne by hook or by crook.'

‘Hold your horses. First I need to talk to Sister Macqueen.'

Rom eyed him shrewdly. ‘Got your sights set on Heather, eh? Sorry, mate. I got there first.'

Finch seemed unsure whether this was mere bragging, wishful thinking or the truth. ‘Sister Macqueen's a good woman. Deserves to be treated right,' he said stiffly.

Rom's answer struck home. ‘So does the girl in that photo.'

Checkmate.
Rom pressed his advantage. ‘So it's settled. Best get you back into bed before the night Matron is on the warpath. I'll see you later. I've got to set our plan in motion.'

‘How's that?' Finch sounded resigned to his fate.

‘How to get a transit document on a ship to Australia for a nameless soldier who officially doesn't exist. And how to get the name Roman Delaney listed as Missing.'

Wearily Finch heaved himself back into bed. ‘I reckon you were born to attract trouble.'

‘I was. But I also have a knack of making the impossible happen.'

In the doorway Rom glanced back at Finch. He was carefully placing Clytie's photograph beneath his pillow. The gesture gave Rom an odd twinge of jealousy.

I wonder what No-name would do if he discovered just how I intend to use him.

Hoffnung was just beginning to stir as Clytie arrived at the Post Office, her first port of call before her appointment with Doc at his surgery. The Diggers' Rest was not yet open for business, but the shutters were being raised on the stores in Main Street where the Bakery and Blacksmith's Forge had been active since dawn.

Once again there was no mail for her. Marj Hornery could not resist a casual comment behind Clytie's back as she left the store.

‘No letters in months. I reckon that Rom Delaney's Missing in Action. Or else he's dodging the Knife-Thrower's Daughter's
claim
that he's the prospective father of her kid.'

‘How do you know she's even written to tell him, Marj?' Mrs Midd asked slyly.

Marj patted one finger against her nose and said no more.

Outside in the heat of the day, Clytie fumed with rage.

‘Why is no one brave enough to insult me to my face, Shadow? This town runs on slanderous innuendo and anonymous notes.'

As she always did, she checked the noticeboard for any fresh news from South Africa, alerted by a printed notice headed ‘To Whom It May Concern'.

A man sporting a grizzled, waist-length beard and old-style flap-fronted trousers worn by last century's gold diggers, read it out haltingly for his own benefit.

‘Residents of Hoffnung stand warned, you have been hoodwinked. For some years we have had in our midst two residents who are not what they claim to be. Far from respectable, they are a danger to the high moral tone of this town. One lives on remittance cheques – England's shame banished out of sight in the Colonies. The other is a proven liar, a danger to all who seek his medical help.'

The bearded man turned to Clytie to explain. ‘It's signed “A. Friend”.'

‘It's clearly aimed at Doc and his sister! How can anyone believe scurrilous, anonymous notes like this?' Clytie stammered. ‘Who would do such a thing?'

‘That's easy, girlie. Doc only has one enemy – Bruiser Twyman. But don't you worry. No one takes a blind bit of notice of his poison pen.'

‘So why do people put up with it? Doc and his sister don't deserve this cruelty.'

The old fossicker gave a resigned sigh. ‘She's Doc's problem, poor man. All that counts is Doc's the best darned doctor this town has had since –'

‘Since the Gold Rush.' Clytie echoed the time-honoured phrase in frustration. ‘Well, if people believe that they should put a stop to these anonymous notes – and challenge Twyman face to face!'

With an angry flourish she ripped the page from the noticeboard and tore it into shreds.

Clytie continued to mull over the clues about Twyman's anonymous warning about the Hundey brother and sister and the cheques Adelaide received every month.

She may well be a ‘remittance woman' banished from England by her family but that doesn't mean she and Doc have done anything wrong.
Doc's life could hardly be more public – he spends every waking hour driving through the bush to save someone's life.

She was aware most of the townsfolk felt an element of pity for Adelaide Hundey's crippled foot, but this was probably at the seat of the problem – an assault on her pride. Clytie knew that Adelaide had rejected any friendly overtures and although she gave a small annual donation to each of the churches she refused to attend any of the places of worship. The women in town had simply given up on her – except as a subject of gossip.

Everyone accepted that brother and sister could neither live together – nor without each other. Consequently, Doc had divided his house to accommodate them both – and retain a measure of domestic peace.

Clytie recalled the strange scene last night when she had called at Doc's house to leave a note requesting an appointment on Friday morning. She had rung the bell. The sound of an operatic aria playing on the gramophone competed with Adelaide's strident voice sounding from the back rooms that were her domain. Feeling guilty, like an intruder in a domestic scene, Clytie had begun to scuttle off in the direction of the priest's house. Moments later Doc had stormed out
of the house, pausing only to acknowledge Clytie's note.

‘Nothing wrong, I trust, Clytie? Good. In that case I'll see you tomorrow morning.'

He drove off in haste, leaving what sounded like Madame Melba's recorded voice playing, presumably a calming panacea for Adelaide's angry mood.

Now as she entered Doc's surgery she decided not to mention the slanderous anonymous note that she had destroyed. Heaven only knew how many copies of it were spread around the locality.

Doc examined her thoroughly and reassured her there were no signs of Dolores's T.B. ‘I am more than satisfied with your progress, Clytie. Your babe's heartbeat is strong.'

‘He can't come soon enough for me.'

‘He? I trust you will not be too disappointed if the babe enters the world wearing pink booties?'

Clytie giggled. ‘It would be the first time Mama failed in a prediction.'

‘No doubt Rom will be delighted – boy or girl.'

Her mood clouded at the mention of his name. ‘People are saying he's Missing in Action. Believed dead.'

‘It means
missing.
The authorities have a tough job tracking down hundreds of Australians who are moved from unit to unit like pawns on a chessboard. Don't worry until I tell you to worry,' he said firmly.

Clytie's smile was shaky as she gathered up her things but Doc motioned her to remain a moment.

‘I regret the short notice, but my sister asked me to invite you to take afternoon tea with her. Would three o'clock suit you? It's quite a first. Adelaide doesn't take to most women. She says they have gossip not blood flowing in their veins.'

Clytie blushed with guilt. ‘I'm afraid I occasionally listen to gossip – but I never repeat it.'

‘That's human nature, Clytie. But you have no call to be nervous of Adelaide. She's a great admirer of yours.'

Clytie asked his opinion as to what she should take to her hostess.

Doc's response was prompt. ‘Just yourself. You're the best possible antidote for Adelaide's fiery temper.' He added with a short laugh, ‘Don't be shocked. I speak from a lifetime of experience.'

•  •  •

The sun shone bravely through the storm clouds that threatened the mountain ranges beyond Hoffnung. Clytie arrived at Doc's house bearing a basket of Puffaloons, her second attempt at the special deep-fried scones her mother had made on their camp fire wherever they travelled.

Her knock went unanswered. Doc's wagon was absent – no doubt he was out on a house call somewhere in the bush. There was no response to her second knock so she motioned Shadow to stay and moved around to the side of the house. Unlike the front, the windows were barred with an elegant wrought-iron design.

She rapped on the back door and waited, admiring this secluded part of the garden densely packed with flowers, vegetables, fruit trees and an arbour heavy with passionfruit vines.

‘You're late. It's past three,' the voice called sharply. ‘I thought you'd changed your mind. I've been sitting in the garden for an hour. Melting in the sun.'

That seemed a wild exaggeration given the cool wind from the valley, but Clytie decided to let it pass.

‘I'm very sorry, Miss Hundey. I burned the first batch of Puffaloons I made and I didn't want to turn up empty-handed.'

‘I'm not a charity case, you know.'