Golden Hope (35 page)

Rom rolled over, muttering obscenities under his breath.

Finch could not help himself. He asked a final question. ‘Well, suppose I have amnesia because I can't face something terrible that I did . . .? Are you awake?'

The only response was the sound of Rom snoring heavily.

Finch pushed the wine bottle aside unfinished. He vowed this would be the last time ever he drank alcohol. From here on he must remain abstemious to keep his wits about him until he remembered exactly who he was.

The last image he had before he fell asleep surprised him. It was not a scene from
Soldiers of the Cross.

It was a camera on a tripod.

. . . a man stood behind it, his head covered by a black cloth to block out the light as he took a photograph. The subject was a small boy in a sailor suit who stood stock still in front of the camera. Finch was startled. The boy looked remarkably like
him
 . . .

The sharp prod of a boot in his ribs woke Finch with a start. The Gardens were empty. Rom was nowhere in sight. A figure in a navy blue uniform studded with brass buttons and topped with a hard helmet loomed over him, armed with a police baton.

The law has tracked me down. I'm done for!

‘Rise and shine, soldier. I could send you to the Watch House on two counts. It's an offence to drink alcohol in the park and an offence to sleep in a public place. That warrants a hefty fine or a gaol sentence.'

Where the hell is Rom when I need him? Trust him to leave me to take the rap.

‘Sorry, officer. Our ship only docked in yesterday from South Africa. I'd forgotten the power of Melbourne beer. Best beer on earth,' he said diplomatically.

‘Seeing as you're a returned volunteer, I'll let you off with a warning.'

The constable turned before leaving. ‘I only wish I'd been young enough to join you at the Front. A glorious adventure, eh?'

The words dried in Finch's mouth. ‘I guess you could say that, Sir.'

You wouldn't be so quick to say that if you had seen blokes in hospital screaming in agony, dying from a hole in their gut.

The constable continued towards the main road, swinging his baton.

Rom chose that moment to reappear from behind a tree trunk that was as wide as a hansom cab.

‘See? You've picked up a few clues from me already. You're getting the knack of talking yourself out of trouble.'

‘Bad habits, more like it. Come on, this is your city – doesn't feel like mine. But I've been studying the map. Here's the route to Bitternbird.'

Rom gave him an odd, sidelong look. ‘Let's drop in on Hoffnung on the way. It's only a few miles from Bitternbird as the crow flies. Hoffnung has a gold mine, the Golden Hope, friendly people – particularly the
girls, if you know what I mean. It's got the best damned doctor in Victoria, the best pub and best mineral springs to boot.'

Finch was suspicious. ‘Why the change of plans?'

Rom was casual. ‘Trust me. I reckon you'd really take to the place.'

Finch was feeling hung-over and in no mood to be manipulated.

‘I haven't come all the way from South Africa on a sight-seeing trip. My mission is to find out if that girl can identify me. You shoot off to wherever you damn well please. I'm sticking to the road to Bitternbird – come what may.'

‘Keep your shirt on, mate. It was just an idea. No need to split up. We've come this far together, might as well see the whole thing through to the end.'

‘Good. That's settled, then!'

Restless to be free of the bustle of ‘Marvellous Melbourne' and on the open road, Finch began whistling an unknown melody, startled when Rom identified it
Sarie Marais.

‘You mean it's a Boer song?' Finch asked. ‘It sounds like a love song.'

‘It's a bit of both. The tune's an old American folk song. Some Afrikander wrote new words in his lingo in honour of his wife. The English translation is dead popular. You either heard our blokes singing it – or Boer prisoners of war. It's sort of become their anthem.'

Finch was conscious his heart was beating rapidly.
Is this love song the key to my memory?

The sun suddenly turned sour on them. The downpour came out of nowhere, wind and rain plastering Finch's long hair to his face. They turned up the collars of their great coats and ran for shelter, shouldering their kit bags. They had few changes of clothing. In what had become an automatic response, Finch checked his breast pocket to ensure that the unknown girl's photograph was protected from the rain.

The sun was arching across the sky as the pair zigzagged north-west, walking for miles in between a series of short lifts given them in farmers' carts.

Finch now felt hollow with hunger, which did not improve his temper.

‘I don't know why I let you talk me into this whole stupid exercise, Rom. That girl's photo means nothing to you. My lost memory is
my
problem. Not yours.'

The silence between them was rare and so total it seemed unnatural. Finch needled him further for an explanation. ‘Don't you have a life of your own?'

Rom's face was expressionless. ‘You owe me, mate.'

‘So you keep saying. What the hell did you do for me? I don't want to be in any man's debt?'

‘I'm offering you the keys to a brand new life.'

‘Can't you get it through your thick skull? I want to find my
old
life! I don't want a
new
life.'

‘You will, mate, trust me.'

‘I'd sooner trust a death adder!'

Rom was having no luck flagging down a lift. ‘I must look disreputable. I'll take cover in the bushes. You have a go.'

Finch donned his khaki coat, smiled and thumbed for a ride. The next vehicle, a farmer's cart loaded with cabbages lumbered to a halt.

Finch smiled and pointed to the map. ‘Are you going anywhere near Bitternbird?'

‘You're in luck, soldier. I can drop you off at the turn-off road. It's a bit of a detour but I reckon we owe you fellas for fighting the Boers for us, eh?'

The driver was a huge, pot-bellied bloke. It was clear there was space for only one person on the seat beside him.

‘Can I put my kit in the back? And I'm travelling with a mate.'

The driver squinted in surprise. ‘Sure, plenty of room in the cart.'

Rom sprang out of the bushes and leapt up on to the back, settling down between their swags.

‘What did I tell you, Finch? Stick with me and you'll lead a charmed life.'

Finch chose to ignore him.

By the time they reached the turn-off road, Finch knew what horse to bet on in the Melbourne Cup, which boxer would win the World Heavyweight Title, and the athletes tipped to win the Stawell Gift, which the farmer boasted was ‘the richest prize for a footrace in Victoria – and maybe the world'.

‘The first Stawell Gift was won by a bloke who reckoned he trained for the race by chasing kangaroos!'

The driver's belly shook with laughter. He offered Finch his hand.

‘Good luck, Digger. Hope you find a heap of gold and a good woman. If you take up with a
bad
woman, she'll go through your gold quick smart, don't say I didn't warn you.'

‘Thanks for the ride, mate. Your blood's worth bottling.'

Finch stood beside Rom, watching the cart disappear over the rise in a cloud of dust.

The signpost to Bitternbird stood like a silent sentinel on the side of the empty road. A flight of cockatoos screeched overhead and were lost from sight in the bush.

The pair plodded on in silence.

Finch wished that he was anywhere else in the world.
Before the war broke out and buggered up my life.

When they reached the outskirts of Bitternbird, Finch broke the stalemate. ‘Truth is, we're getting on each other's nerves, Rom. How about we split up for a bit? Two independent minds on the case are better than us being hobbled together,' he suggested. ‘I'll look out for that Photographic Studio.'

‘Righto. If you have no luck there, take it from me, females in country towns have long memories. The gold may be thinning out, but women are a mine of information. What say we meet up in the park in a couple of hours?'

Neither of them had a watch. They glanced up as the Town Hall clock struck the hour.

Hitching his kit bag over his shoulder, Rom swaggered off without waiting for Finch's agreement.

Finch soon found the sign for G. Johnson's Studio. The photographer in residence was pleasant enough and duly inspected the photograph.

‘Sorry, soldier. I bought out Johnson some months back. He threw in the towel, went to try his luck at a new strike on Kalgoorlie. He burnt his bridges behind him – and all his files.'

Finch felt his heart sink. ‘I've got to find this girl.
' So I can find out if I need to do the right thing by her.

The photographer was sympathetic. ‘What's her name?'

‘I don't know, mate. I've lost my memory.'

‘That
is
a problem. Look, I can only suggest you show this picture to the coppers and everyone who crosses your path.'

Finch decided it would be wise to give the Police Station a miss. Towards the end of the main street he was beginning to flag from the heat. He stripped off his coat and folded it in his kit bag. He had stopped in front of an old-fashioned window bearing the words ‘Bitternbird Charity Shop. Est. 1873'. In the centre of the window on the plaster head of a mannikin was a striking hat adorned with the feathered plumes of a Bird-of-paradise.

It was blessedly cool inside the store, lit only by sunlight from the street. Finch was so tired and hungry he barely made it to the fragile chair reserved for customers.

The sole assistant was an elderly woman so elegantly dressed she did not appear to be in need of any of the second-hand goods on sale. Finch closed his eyes, surprised when she returned with a tall glass of water.

‘Here, lad, you're all done in. Drink this down.'

Finch downed it in one draught.

‘You're very kind. Look, I don't want to sail under false colours. I didn't come in here to buy anything.'

‘Neither did I. I came to deliver my unwanted gowns and hats for sale. I'm a volunteer – like you. Just back from the war, I take it.'

‘My name's Finch.'

‘Miss Rhoda James,' she said politely. ‘How may I help you?'

He whipped out the photograph. ‘I'm looking for this girl. Problem is, I've forgotten her name. But I must find her.'

Miss James eyed the photograph dubiously and handed it back to him.

‘A circus equestrienne! Good heavens, I don't move in
those
circles.'

‘Please, take another look at the face. Her features are quite distinctive.'

She examined it through her lorgnette. ‘Yes, I remember now. A young woman I saw some months back at a Women's Suffrage rally at our Town Hall.'

Finch felt curiously elated. ‘You're sure it was the same girl?'

‘Quite. She asked me to sign the petition – and I did so.'

‘Did you learn her name?'

‘No. But I saw her being driven away in a mail wagon – so
presumably she lives somewhere along the mail route that passes through Barnaby's Ridge to Hoffnung.'

‘Have you ever seen her since?'

‘No, but I presume by now she's safely delivered. That was months ago.'

Finch was completely confused. ‘Delivered home? Why wouldn't she be?'

‘No, no, I meant – well, she was very much
in the family way
.' Miss James looked at him sharply. ‘Are you responsible, young man?'

‘No! But I must find her.'

Finch doffed his hat and, mumbling his thanks, turned on his heel and fled.

So this girl was expecting a kid! God, this story's getting complicated.

He found Rom stretched out on a park bench in front of the new Boer War Memorial, lazily enjoying a cigar.

‘Good morning, ladies,' Rom called out to a pair of passing nursemaids pushing big wicker baby carriages.

Intent on their chatter, the girls ignored him. Rom swung his legs to the ground, surprisingly cheerful, and gestured to the backs of the nursemaids. ‘Swagmen are invisible, mate.'

‘Maybe people think we're going to ask for a hand-out,' Finch suggested.

Rom gestured to the war memorial with the fresh gold lettering. ‘One of my mates is listed here – gone to God. Good bloke.' He gave a shrug of acceptance. ‘Did you have any joy with the photograph?'

Finch decided to play his cards close to his chest. ‘You might say that. A lady recognised her as a girl she saw at a Women's Suffrage rally in the Town Hall.'

‘A ruddy suffragette! Shit, mate, we'd best steer clear of that lot!' It was clear Rom was only half joking.

Finch could never think straight when he was hungry. ‘So what do we do next? I could eat a horse. Don't you ever get hungry?'

Rom looked sly. ‘Yeah, but even more for a night with a good woman. Surely you can remember what that feels like?'

‘None of your business,' Finch said icily. He swung his swag over his back and stalked off down the road.

‘Hang on, wait for me. How do you know which road to take?'

‘I bought a map. I may have a blank memory, but I can read signposts as well as the next bloke. There's a chance this girl lives somewhere along the mail route to Barnaby's Ridge and Hoffnung.'

‘Righto. Off we go. It'll take a while to get there on foot, but stick with me, Finch, and I'll lead you to a great new life.'

Finch gave a derisive hoot. ‘That'll be the day!'

Christmas and New Year's Eve had passed without Clytie's participation.