Golden Hope (37 page)

‘You mean she was – ?'

‘Yeah. A woman of pleasure.' Rom looked at him with narrowed eyes. ‘Were you training to be a priest, or something?' At Finch's cold-eyed stare, Rom added, ‘All right, all right. None of my business.'

Rom wandered around as if he owned the place and helped himself to the half-ripe fruit. ‘Crab apples. They look withered, but they taste sweet.'

‘I'm not picky. If I can chew it, I can eat it. Better than an empty gut.'

‘We're in luck,' Rom called back. ‘There is still sweet water in the well – and a bucket.'

‘Hey, won't the owner rouse on us if she finds us here?'

‘Chances are she'll be out in the street, singing hymns.'

‘Around here? You're kidding. '

‘Not here, in Hoffnung. Holy Maude belts a tambourine for the Salvationists, but she's nothing if not ecumenical. She also plays her organ on wheels for each of the churches – Catholic, Church of England, Presbyterian and Methodist. Don't worry, if she was at home right now she'd cook us a meal. So help yourself to the fruit. We'll raid her kitchen for tea.'

Finch's curiosity was aroused. ‘You knew her well?'

‘I used to drive a Cobb and Co coach through here. She'd offer me a cuppa and hot scones. I promise you, she won't mind us helping ourselves.'

Joining Rom in the kitchen, Finch was curious about the woman who lived here alone. He was intrigued by the quality of the two sepia portraits, particularly the one of Holy Maude as a young woman.

‘They never smile in those old photographs. I reckon because they'd all lost their teeth,' Rom said lightly.

‘They needed to hold perfectly still for a long time or the image would be blurred. You try freezing a smile for half a minute – you'll look like a ghoul.'

Finch moved on to the other portrait of a handsome bearded man with haunted eyes. The frame of this one was shrouded with black crepe.

‘Who's he? Her husband?'

‘That's Ned Kelly, our most famous bushranger. You must have heard of
him
, Finch. Holy Maude is as ugly as sin but people reckon she was Ned's last lover.'

Finch peered closer at her youthful portrait. ‘Not a bad looking young girl – maybe it was true.'

Rom turned to him. ‘What are you waiting for? A gilt-edged invitation? Check out the larder for sugar.'

Finch discovered it among a shelf full of jars, all neatly labelled.

One bright yellow label was printed with the word ‘DANGER'.

Finch was startled by the strange sensation he felt as he stared at the word. His head was suddenly pounding. Was this some kind of warning? He backed away from the larder and returned with the sugar jar.

‘I hope our hostess's eyesight is good. Her sugar and tea are on the same shelf as the rat poison.'

Rom shrugged. ‘Don't worry about Holy Maude. Sharp as a tack, she is. She's everyone's friend, but she hates rats – and Boers.'

‘I can't wait to meet her,' Finch said lightly.

They built a fire in the blackened campfire in the yard behind the house.

Rom never missed an opportunity to boast about Australian Volunteers' ingenuity. ‘That's how our mob manage to survive better than the Brits on the veldt when we're short of rations and wood is as scarce as hen's teeth. Most of us volunteers are country lads, used to lighting fires and living off the land when times are tough. It was second nature for me to commandeer chooks from empty Boer farmhouses. Many of the Tommies are city lads. I reckon Cockneys go hungry if they can't open a can of Army bully-beef rations.'

Rom held out his cap filled with hens' eggs. ‘How do you like your eggs?'

Finch snapped at him. ‘You stole those! We aren't living off the veldt now!'

‘Don't look so shocked, Maude never locks her doors. Nothing to steal.'

‘How do you know that?'

‘Nobody
locks their doors around here – unless they've found gold.'

He threw a handful of tea into Finch's tin mug. ‘Maude doesn't hold with hard liquor but she never brews anything but the best China tea.'

Finch was too thirsty not to drink it but when the mug was empty he was determined to force the showdown that had long been building up between them.

‘I've come to the conclusion this whole trip has been a set-up. That you planned the whole thing. That Bitternbird was just a detour to throw me off the scent. Am I right?'

Finch tapped the photograph in his breast pocket.

Rom's eyes widened in surprise. ‘What are you talking about? That photograph was in
your
jacket.'

Finch's hands shook as he held the photograph in front of Rom's face. ‘Are you telling me you've never seen this girl before in your life?'

Rom shrugged. ‘You never asked me. Her name's Clytie Hart.'

Finch exploded with rage. ‘You unmitigated scoundrel! How can I trust a damned word you say?'

‘I don't have all the answers, mate. Any more than you do. We're in this thing together, right?'

‘What thing? Why the hell do you want me here?'

‘Keep your shirt on! I figured you owed me. I needed someone I could trust.'

Finch hurtled across the fire and pinned Rom down, his hands locked around his throat. ‘Tell me
why
or I swear to God I'll throttle you!'

Finch saw the scarlet veil cloud his vision and recognised the sickening bloodlust of battle – he had totally lost control. Everything was surreal.

Locked in combat they rolled over and over, pummelling each other in a desperate bid for survival. Finch saw the blood on his hands and felt flashes of pain. Nothing seemed to matter except to rid himself of the anger, hatred, shame, the overwhelming sense of sheer blind frustration. The only friend he had in the world had just tricked and betrayed him. Finally exhausted, he forced himself to release his grip on Rom's windpipe.

Rom was choking. ‘Take – it – easy. I needed a go-between.'

‘A go-between? Why!'

Rom gasped for air. ‘Letter. Pocket.'

Finch released him, fished in the pocket of Rom's jacket and unfolded a well-worn letter. He read it in haste. It was signed, ‘Ever your girl, Clytie.'

He was stammering with rage. The pieces all began to fall into place. ‘She says here, “What do you want to call the babe?” Jesus, that means you're the father of this girl's kid.'

‘So she said. That was months ago. Must be born by now.'

‘Months ago? So why the hell are you avoiding her? Aren't you sure if you're the father?'

Rom sprang quickly to the defence. ‘No way Clytie would lie about that. She's dead honest. Crazy about me. You can see it in her eyes. Warm, sweet as honey. But she's the marrying kind. I'm a rolling stone – or at least I was.'

‘So why not face her yourself?'

‘I let her down. Bolted. Ran off to enlist.'

‘Face her like a man – if she loves you she'll be glad you're alive.'

Rom eyed him as if weighing whether to hold the ground gained – or proceed. ‘The thing is. It's not
quite
that simple.'

When Finch reached out, ready to choke the life out of him, Rom was quick to call a truce. ‘Hang on, there's another letter. Other pocket.'

Finch opened the envelope to find a country newspaper cutting of the marriage of Miss Noni James to George ‘Sonny' Jantzen, Esquire. Another cutting was the formal notice of the birth of a son to Mr and Mrs George Jantzen. Finch noticed the date – six months later.

‘Look at the back,' Rom sighed.

Handwritten in ink was scrawled, ‘Don't bother to come back.'

Finch shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Good God, you can't mean . . .?'

Rom heaved a sigh. ‘Yeah, just my rotten luck. I can't be sure but it seems like I might have got two of them up the duff. One I cared about – Clytie. The other was just a bit of sport. Look, it's not what you think. I had every intention of keeping faith with Clytie after I took up with her. The trouble is, whenever I see girls crying their heart out – well, I comfort them, the only way I know how.'

Finch was exasperated. ‘And end up making them both pregnant!'

‘Hell, no, that was just an accident. I didn't know I'd done the deed when I bolted. But when I saw two girls with orange blossoms in their eyes, there was nothing for it but volunteer in the V.M.R.'

‘I get it. You haven't got the guts to face them so you want me to do your dirty work for you.'

Rom looked surprisingly nervous. His hands twitched.

‘No! I just want you to check out the lay of the land, see how Clytie is. Noni has married Sonny, the richest bloke in town – like she
always wanted. Me, I just want to do right by Clytie. I want a second chance. War – well, it changes us all, right?'

‘So why drag
me
into your unholy mess?'

‘I needed a bloke I could trust to find out what happened to them all – discreetly. Be honest, without that photograph would you have come seven thousand miles just to be my go-between?'

There was only one answer to that. No. Finch thought it through.
What other choices do I have right now? No job, no money and if it turns out I'm a deserter I'll be lynched.

‘I presume that's why you want to remain on the Missing list – until I find out which way the land lies with Clytie?'

Rom heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Thanks, mate. I knew you'd understand.'

They drank the dregs of the tea in a silence that was strangely companionable.

Rom tried his best to sound reassuring. ‘Hoffnung's only a few miles down the road. Best you front up there by yourself, where no one knows you. Don't worry, I'll soon meet up with you. There's a miner's right cabin where we can doss down. I need to keep out of sight for a bit. Remember, I'll be keeping an eye on you. If you get into trouble, I'll be there to save your bacon.'

Finch gave a dismissive wave of the hand, his voice loaded with sarcasm.

‘Thanks, Rom. More than I can say.'

He watched Rom stagger off until he was lost from sight in the feathery shadows cast by gum trees that were fast sinking into the darkness of night.

Feeling abandoned and knowing it was largely his own fault, Finch remained squatting by the embers of the fire, examining Rom's blood on his bruised hands.

He didn't fancy spending a night in this virtual ghost town, hospitable as Holy Maude sounded. So he swung his swag over his shoulder and set off down the road. A mile further on he was charmed by the sight of a wombat wobbling across his path. Soon after came the unexpected sight of the dark statue of a dog. It was standing as if waiting patiently forever by the side of the road. He was sure it was carved from stone – until the dog's ears wiggled.

‘Hello, fella? Going my way are you?' Finch asked, surprised when the black and tan Kelpie took the lead.

On reaching a fork in the road, Finch was about to veer left when the dog circled his legs as if rounding up a stray sheep to steer it in the opposite direction. As Finch crossed over the flat timber bridge the reason was obvious. The other track led down to the ruined pylon of an old bridge that had clearly been swept away by floodwaters. The faded sign written on yellow tin stopped him short. DANGER. The pain in his head throbbed like a military drum beat each time he looked back at the sign.

‘Smart dog!'

He patted the Kelpie's head and watched him bound up the hill towards a house that seemed to perch on the outskirts of a town. The setting sun lit up the glass panes of the windows as if the house was on fire. A little girl came out the front door and waved her handkerchief at him. Or was she waving at the dog?

This dog seems to know exactly where I'm headed – even if I don't. Who knows? Maybe I should show him the girl's photograph.

The fanciful idea made him smile. He was so exhausted he could have laughed uproariously at a funeral.

The first thing he noticed when he entered Main Street was a low-slung building on a corner in the centre of the town. Even at that distance he could read the sun-cracked sign painted on the veranda: ‘Diggers' Rest Hotel'.

‘Just what I need. If only I had the price of a meal and a bed.'

The dog was bounding ahead, barking excitedly as if alerting the townsfolk that something extraordinary was about to happen.

‘Don't get too excited, fella. I'm just a swagman without a penny to my name. Maybe a name I can't afford to remember.'

It was then he saw the sign outside the Mechanics Institute: ‘Tonight's meeting. Guest speaker from Melbourne – Mrs Enid Mayfield. All welcome. Free supper.'

Finch needed no second invitation.

•  •  •

He found himself in a building resembling a church hall except the central aisle ran between benches not pews. Within minutes the hall began filling up with wet, bedraggled townsfolk. Most were women
with raincoats and umbrellas but a surprising proportion were men, clean-shaven, be-whiskered or with long shovel-shaped beards, shaking their dripping coats and caps.

Some faces were lined like road maps of their lives, some tight-lipped and embittered, some young and determined, some merely curious. Finch felt sure he could predict the young larrikins and a few men smelling of whisky who had come merely for sport, to mock and heckle.

The stage side curtains were drawn back to reveal an empty stage, its backdrop painted with a surprising scene for a rural Australian community, an English Tudor village of thatched cottages. Above the proscenium arch was a gilt-framed portrait of the newly crowned King Edward VII, flanked by a portrait of Sister Florence Nightingale, looking as if she expected to be canonised any moment.

I guess we have her to thank. Rom and I would be long dead of enteric fever if it hadn't been for nurses like Heather Macqueen trained in the Nightingale method.