Golden Hope (31 page)

Sam turned and bolted but called back from the top of the rise.

‘Don't worry, Miss Clytie. I'll find Doc.'

Irritated, Sister Bracken drew her inside. ‘It beats me why that chink doesn't go home to China where he belongs.'

The next contraction was so overwhelming, Clytie had no time for anything but to strip off her clothes, don a hospital nightgown and collapse thankfully on a stretcher bed in an alcove under the stairs – and wait for Doc.

The little hospital was alive with the sounds of early morning activity splintered by the laughter of kookaburras that seemed intent on mocking Sister Bracken's crisp, efficient orders. To Clytie her tiny corner, cut off from the other patients, was a blessing.

The contractions seemed to grow less frequent after Clytie stroked her belly. ‘Wait your turn, kid! We can do better when Doc gets here.'

Blown by the wind a flowering eucalypt tapped against the windowpane its feathery, coral blossoms and the gumnuts shaped like pixies' hats. Through a break in the trees she glimpsed the front gate and kept a lookout for Doc.

‘Doctor will come if he can, but don't count on it,' Sister told her. ‘He's needed at the mine, there's been an accident. One end of the tunnel caved in. The Golden Hope was bound to collapse sooner or later.'

The Sister measured the time between contractions. ‘You're babe's getting lazy.'

‘It's not his fault!' Clytie sprang to his defence then felt foolish.

‘Whose is it then? His mother's?' The words were laced with sarcasm.

Clytie fought to control her anger, aware she was now dependent on this woman's care. ‘I suppose you've delivered scores of babes here.'

‘Four hundred and twelve,' was the crisp reply.

From the other end of the little building came the lovely sound of a baby cooing in response to its mother's voice. Sister Bracken jerked her head in that direction.

‘That's the Jantzens' babe – born here a few days ago. His father, Sonny, was the first babe I delivered when I came here twenty-five years ago. Sonny Jantzen is a real gentleman – the best man this town ever produced.'

The note of maternal pride in her voice was evident. Clytie tried to distance herself from the pain of contractions.

So what
?
Noni Jantzen has a private room and is allowed a procession of visitors. Sister would bend her iron-clad rules for Noni. One set of rules for the Jantzens, one for the likes of me.

The pain of the next contraction turned to a cry of triumph at the sight of Doc hurrying down the path towards the front porch, the sleeves of his baggy jumper already rolled up, his coat slung over his shoulder. He brushed past Sister Bracken with a brief nod and greeted Clytie with a broad smile.

‘Thanks for waiting for me. I would not have missed this for anything. I've never delivered a circus equestrian before. Fifth generation, isn't she?'

‘Sixth!' she managed to laugh, ‘and
he's
a boy. Dolores told me.'

‘Far be it from me to contradict a grandmother's intuition.' He questioned her about her contractions as he scrubbed up and returned the bowl.

‘Thank you, Sister, I shall remain with Miss Hart. I leave the other patients in your most capable hands.'

Clytie looked into the doctor's eyes and her fear melted away. His expression was clear – they were embarking on a shared adventure.

‘You can thank your mother that you are going to have a relatively easy birth.'

‘Mama?!'

‘Your muscle tone is excellent, your breathing controlled. You don't succumb to panic. Your years of physical and mental circus training are paying off, my girl.'

Clytie followed his instructions to the letter, riding the contractions like waves that grew larger and stronger but drew her ever closer to the shoreline – where she would meet her baby.

The actual moment of birth caused her to gasp in bewilderment at the extraordinary sensation. A large object pushed itself into the most intimate part of her body and forced its way forward. No time for fear or panic. She was consumed by a sense of awe, an astonishing sensuality that vividly brought back the first time Rom had made love to her and she had known what it was to climax. She gave a cry of joy.
My God. Giving birth is another act of love
.

How strange to be experiencing this moment of intimacy in the presence of another person.
Thank heavens it is Doc – not Sister Bracken.

When he bent over her thighs to free the babe, odd details were imprinted on Clytie's memory. His hair was wild but there was no sign of a bald spot . . . his hands were cool . . . his voice gentle as he encouraged the unborn babe. ‘Good lad. We'll soon have you out in the world.'

There was no sound of a baby's cry. Clytie grew anxious.

‘What's wrong? He's not crying.'

‘Don't worry. There was no need to smack him. He's taken to breathing on his own. Not a whimper out of him.'

Doc Hundey gave her a thumbs up sign of approval and placed in her arms the blood-speckled babe wrapped in linen.

‘Clever girl, Clytie. He's a dead ringer for Rom. You've done him proud.'

‘He's perfect!'

‘What else would he be? You and Rom created him.'

Clytie murmured to the baby, ‘Thank you for coming, little one.'

Doc was pleased. ‘The afterbirth has come away cleanly. An excellent sign.'

He scrubbed his hands in the hot water Sister brought him. Disapproval was stamped on every line of her face. It was clear she did not appreciate being relegated to a backstop.

‘Have you and Rom chosen a name for him?' Doc asked.

She refused to admit in Sister's presence that she had had no letters in weeks.

‘I don't believe sons should be named after their father. They get stuck with names like Junior or Sonny all their lives.' She hesitated. ‘Would it embarrass you if I named him Robert? People gossip so I'll understand if you'd prefer I did not.'

Doc's face seemed to shed ten years. His smile was dazzling.

‘I'd be honoured – more than I can say.'

He stayed with her as long as he could before checking on the Jantzen mother and babe then returning to the injured miners.

It was a sharp reminder that Doc Hundey had no time for a private life. Clytie had a flash of insight.
His role as a doctor is all he's ever wanted.

Sister Bracken cleaned and dressed the babe then returned him to instruct Clytie how to position her breast so that he could suckle to advantage.

‘Your milk won't flow in for a day or two, but colostrum, a colourless liquid, will sustain him. Baby Hart seems to have grasped the idea.'

‘You can add the name
Robert
to his chart, thank you, Sister.'

‘Indeed? Well, at least
that's
respectable, poor little mite.'

Clytie was ready to bite back at her with the crude expletive used in the circus when a performer misjudged his timing. Too late, the nurse had swept from the room.

That dragon never misses an opportunity.

All resentment was washed away by a feeling of awe at the sight of the tiny boy confidently suckling at her breast. Here he was, on his first day of life, skinny, bald, with mottled, spindly limbs, yet he looked as if he had been born knowing just how to handle his world.

‘You are your father's son, no mistake. This motherhood game is new to me. But you look as if you've been here before.'

As if in response little Robert wrapped his fist around one of her fingers in a surprisingly firm grip – as if signing a contract.

When he was filled to the brim and the clear liquid dribbled from his mouth, Clytie carefully inspected every corner and crevice of him, awed by the perfect formation of dimpled elbows, a tiny belly button, perfectly shaped feet and toes.

‘You're born to be a high wire dancer like your grandfather, the Fearless Franco.'

His scalp was as downy as a peach. His unblinking eyes watched her face as if calculating her inexperience as a mother.

‘You're nobody's fool, Robert Hart.' She gave a little cry of joy, utterly charmed by the nape of his neck. Three tiny tufts of hair sprouted in the shape of a
fleur-de-lys.
Clytie bent and kissed it.

Rom studied the scene from the doorway of the ward. Finch stood by his neatly made up bed, packing his kit bag with the last of the few articles that he owned. Sister Heather Macqueen hovered nearby, casting a motherly eye over his efforts.

It was the first time Rom had seen Finch fitted out in uniform – the khaki a marked contrast with the head of snowy hair grown almost shoulder-length during his weeks of hospitalisation.

Feeling himself under scrutiny, Finch met his gaze. The strong blue of his eyes reminded Rom of an Australian sky – not a cloud in sight.

Finch's head bent to catch the nurse's words and Rom felt a sudden wave of irritation that their intimacy excluded him.

I have to admit the bloke is handsome in a rugged, earthy kind of way. Easy to see why my little Kiwi has taken a shine to him. She'll get over it. I need him more.

‘Talking about me behind my back again, are you?' he asked with mock severity as he barged into their space to break up their conversation.

Finch's stammer was a clear sign of guilt. ‘I was just explaining to Sister that we're headed for Bitternbird, to track down that unknown girl in my photograph.'

Sister Macqueen's smile was a tease. ‘She might be your
bride,
Finch.'

Rom smiled tolerantly at the ruse. My
photograph, mate. And
my
girl. But God willing you won't cotton onto all that until we hit Hoffnung.

He sensed something in the air between the three of them. Macqueen was careful not to play favourites among the patients, and a man without a memory got more than his share of attention. Yet Rom had also caught the nurse off-guard, looking at
him
in a certain way.

‘How about the three of us have a last drink together, before we head for the docks, eh Finch?'

Rom laid his hand on the nurse's shoulder in a sign of casual possession. ‘You're off duty at three, aren't you, Kiwi? What say we meet for afternoon tea in that cosy canteen sort of place those upper-crust English ladies set up for us lads in khaki to write letters home. I've never been there.'

Finch looked a shade embarrassed. ‘Funny, I was just inviting Sister to meet me there. You're welcome to join us of course, Rom.'

Sister Macqueen cast a knowing glance between them. ‘Three o'clock. I'll see you
both
there.'

Finch and Rom watched her retreating figure until she was out of sight.

‘You're a sly dog,' Rom said casually. ‘You could be married with four kids.'

Finch wasn't a man to back down. ‘I intend to write to Sister from Australia and tell her whatever I find out. Not that it's any of your business.'

Rom's friendly hoot of derision broke the tension. ‘Thanks a lot! Need I remind you that you wouldn't be on that ship bound for Australia if I hadn't pulled a few strings in high places. I reckon you owe me, mate.'

Finch sounded genuinely contrite. ‘Forgive me. You've stuck by me like a brother.'

‘Let's step outside for a few moments. I need to brief you about a few things in private.'

Finch looked suddenly disconcerted. ‘But you're travelling on board with me, aren't you – once your transit papers have been stamped?'

‘You can bet your sweet life, I am. But we'll be packed in like sardines. You never know, one of us might get off-loaded onto a later ship. We need to know exactly where to link up in Melbourne. Come on, it's stifling in here. I'm sweating like a pig. I need some air.'

They walked in silence to the edge of the soldiers' graveyard at the edge of the hospital grounds. Automatically they stood to attention as two stretcher-bearers and a nurse accompanied a linen-covered stretcher to one of the freshly dug graves.

‘Anyone we know?' Rom asked casually.

‘Yeah, Billy, that friendly young Canadian who was generous with his smokes. I promised him I'd write to his mother if he didn't make it. Ironical, isn't it?
I can write her a whole letter but I can't even sign my true name.'

Rom was restless. The sweat was soaking his shirt and he was anxious it wasn't just due to the humidity.

‘Look, Finch, I'm sorry for the way I acted. I'm not myself. It'd be just my rotten luck to cop another dose of enteric fever only hours away from sailing time.'

‘Make sure you get yourself on board. You can count on me to take care of you.' Finch sounded genuine. ‘I need you. Like a blind man needs a guide dog.'

Rom clasped his shoulder, thankful he had something to steady him on his feet. ‘We'll find a new life for you in Victoria, mate, trust me.'

‘Maybe. But one thing's got me beat. Why are you as keen as I am to track down this girl? You must have family and friends of your own back home.'

‘I'm a rolling stone. I can put my life on hold. Let's get
your
life sorted out first.'

Rom was anxious time was running out. ‘When we hit Port Melbourne, if we get separated, I'll meet you in the bar at Young and Jackson's. That's a posh hotel on the corner of Flinders and Swanston Streets, Melbourne. Got it? They call it the pub where the tills run hot.'

‘Right. But there's something else, isn't there? You aren't levelling with me.'

‘Not a thing.' Rom paused. ‘Except take a bit of advice from a bloke who's kissed more girls than you've had hot dinners.'

Finch looked wary. ‘All right. Out with it.'

‘When you meet that lovely girl in the photograph, even if you don't remember her, tell her she's a girl worth waiting for.'