Golden Hope (55 page)

The police officer listened patiently to Sister Bracken until, like a broken clock that had wound down, she ran out of accusations and excuses and desperately tried to salvage a vestige of pride.

‘Everyone knows me, Sergeant. I have given twenty-five years of my life to running Hoffnung's Bush Hospital. No one has ever questioned my competence or my high standards, I'm trained in the Nightingale method.'

Sergeant Mangles looked from one woman to the other. ‘It seems your verbal disagreement got a little out of hand. But no real harm done. Except,' he coughed in embarrassment, ‘is that the normal angle you wear your hat, Miss Hundey?'

‘Only one half of it, Sergeant. But I shall not press charges for damages. Sister Bracken knows where she stands with me. I shall leave her to examine her conscience and take immediate action –'

‘There's nothing wrong with my conscience!' Sister Bracken's voice rose in anger and she took a step forward, to be barred by Sergeant Mangles planting the bulk of his body between them.

‘That's quite enough, Sister. Miss Hundey has agreed not to claim damages for her hat. I suggest you both quit while you are ahead. I want to hear nothing further from either of you ladies on the subject.'

Despite the apparent drama of the situation, Sergeant Mangles's moustache was twitching uncontrollably.

Clytie seized the moment to run to her friend's side, adjusting Adelaide's hat and veil and murmuring words of consolation. Simultaneously, Finch and Sonny alighted from the buggy and exchanged a nod of complicit agreement.

Sonny crossed to Sister Bracken's side, helped her into his buggy and drove off with her in the direction of the Bush Hospital.

Finch doffed his hat to Miss Hundey and Clytie.

Suddenly deflated and red-faced, Miss Hundey was already crossing towards her own cart when Finch strode across and assisted her to climb aboard.

‘You are clearly quite shaken, Ma'am, please allow me to drive you ladies home.'

‘I'll walk, there's no room for three,' Clytie said, but her offer was immediately countered.

‘There's room if we all squeeze up,' Miss Hundey said curtly. She pulled Clytie up beside her and for the remainder of the short journey remained silent.

Clytie and Finch took their cue from her and did no more than exchange meaningful glances.

In front of Doc's house, Clytie jumped down and assisted her friend to alight.

‘I'll unharness the horse for you and put the cart in the shed,' Finch said firmly. He drove to the side of the house.

‘You have a bad bump on your head, Adelaide. Please allow me to dress it for you. I've learned a lot from Doc.'

‘Thank you, my dear. But what's the point in having a doctor in the house if I don't take advantage of his services?'

‘Very well, Adelaide, but I must say I was very proud of the way you stood up to that arrogant Sister Bracken – although I didn't understand a word of your disagreement.'

Clytie waited, hopeful of being enlightened.

‘Which is how it must remain for the time being, lass. Robert will be angry about my interference. But time is running out. For all of us.'

There was something ominous behind the words.

‘Because Bracken has resigned from the hospital?'

‘Yes. But more than that. Robert's very upset that his private diary has disappeared. If it has fallen into the wrong hands it will be the end of all of us.'

Clytie felt a shiver of dread, reminded of Mary Mac's revelation about Twyman's long held desire for revenge against Doc.

A shadow of despair passed across Adelaide's face. But her next words surprised Clytie by their candour. Before opening her front door, Adelaide pointed a gloved hand in the direction Finch had taken.

‘That's a good man going to waste. I hope the right girl snaffles him up,' she said with a wicked gleam in her eye.

‘You can't mean, me, Adelaide. You know I'm waiting for Rom.'

Adelaide sighed. ‘Yes, of course. Anyway that Finch won't be on the shelf much longer from what I hear told.'

Clytie felt a sudden pang of curiosity. ‘What do you mean?'

‘The Post Mistress follows him with her eyes like he's the best invention since white bread. And that barmaid Ginger – what's that colourful slang term men use? Ginger is “on the make” for him. Happy for Finch to leave his shoes under her bed.'

Clytie was appalled. ‘Neither of them is in Finch's league,' she said quickly.

‘Maybe so, but that Ginger certainly has a way with her.' About to slip inside the front door she had the final word. ‘I must say, if I were twenty years younger, I'd rather fancy Finch myself.'

The door closed, leaving Clytie feeling disconcerted.

‘Right, that's my good deed for the day,' Finch said as he returned to the front of the house.

Clytie had not exchanged more than a distant nod with him since the morning he had packed up and left the barn. She had the sudden urge to detain him.

‘There's some big event at the Diggers' Rest tonight – involving some news about the war. I presume you'll be coming?'

‘That depends, if nothing better turns up.'

Finch remembered to doff his hat to her but his eyes were cool. He strode off and left Clytie standing looking after him.

The Church bells were peeling as if in a bid to outdo each other when Finch walked down Main Street that evening. The heart of the township was alive with activity, its store fronts hung with red, white and blue bunting – even the dusty face of the long-empty bank was dressed in Royal colours. Lining the store windows were portraits of the reigning monarch, King Edward VII and Lord Kitchener, Commander-in-Chief of the Imperial Forces in South Africa.

Finch dodged the firecrackers thrown by schoolboys. He amiably declined to join drunken miners dancing in the street, their elbows linked, tossing their hats in the air.

It was late in February. He doubted the celebration was a declaration of peace. There had been several false alarms in recent weeks. The war was held to be staggering towards a treaty between Kitchener and the Boer leaders.

Moggy Mick slapped Finch on the back. ‘The war's almost over, Finch – we've got those Boer buggers on the run. You did your bit for the Empire. We'll put your name up on the roll of honour on the memorial – as soon as you remember what it is, right?'

Pleased with his witticism, Moggy Mick lumbered into the bar and could be heard roaring at Ginger for service.

Finch registered no emotion other than a trace of cynical amusement.

Easy to celebrate if you weren't there in the firing line, mate.

He recognised the Anglican clergyman, Reverend Gordon, standing on the sidelines, smiling tolerantly.

‘What's going on, Reverend? What's the celebration in aid of?'

‘He's been imprisoned – just like Napoleon was. No chance of escaping from St Helena, eh?'

‘Who?' Finch asked, but the clergyman's response was lost when the crowd drew him into a line of Morris dancers.

The answer came in the form of an effigy carried on a pole by a group of schoolboys. Stuffed with straw, Ben Viljoen's rag body was set alight and thrown on the bonfire to the accompaniment of three rousing cheers.

Without expression, Finch watched it crackle and burn. He was reminded of his father's tale of his Huguenot ancestors being burned alive for their renegade faith.

How medieval! The more things change, the less they change!

Turning away in disgust, he entered the crowded bar of the Diggers' Rest, ordered two beers and drank the first down in one unbroken draught. It was a drink he needed, he was sweating so profusely his shirt clung to him like a second skin. He had not eaten all day and the grog went straight to his head. For once he did not give a damn. Tonight Mangles had granted the pub special dispensation to stay open. The bar and dining room were crowded.

Finch didn't want anyone's company. He caught a glimpse of Clytie carrying a tray of empty glasses but avoided her eyes. He was content to sit alone – but privacy was a luxury he was denied. Rom straddled the chair facing him. He had that look in his eye that suggested he was drunk. His smile was amiable enough but his words had an edge.

‘You betrayed me, Finch.'

‘What are you on about? I did exactly what you told me. Acted as your go-between – above and beyond the call of duty. Just shut up and drink my beer, there's a good chap.'

‘I accepted you as a likely deserter, a liar, a coward and all that. But I didn't count on you being a thief,' Rom said.

‘You're crazy. What in hell was there for me to steal?'

‘Clytie. You seduced my woman. Don't lie. I was watching her house – you were at it all night long.'

Finch felt waves of shock, shame then anxiety, aware that all the heads turned to focus on him were a ripe source of gossip.
Are they listening?

‘Keep your voice down, Rom. Blame
me.
Don't do this to Clytie. Hasn't she suffered enough already? How about we settle this outside?'

Rom stabbed his finger into his chest. ‘We'll settle this here and now! You're shagging my girl and it's eating you up because you know Clytie loves
me.'

‘Don't I know it!' Finch hissed. ‘I'd take her away from you if I could. I tried, but I failed. You're right! Clytie's a one-man woman – all yours!'

‘I'll bet you haven't told her about your dirty past.'

Rom crowed when he saw the guilty expression that Finch failed to conceal.

‘No, I thought as much! Why keep it a secret? It's time the whole town knew the truth about you!'

Finch was suddenly aware of Clytie standing in the doorway to the dining-room, a starched apron covering her work clothes. Even a plain servant's dress could not conceal her beauty, the hourglass figure, the wasp waist, the rich mass of dark hair piled artlessly on top of her head . . . those dark eyes, that passionate mouth . . .

Clytie – mine for one night. Never again.

Finch met her eyes. She stood rigid at the side of the giant stone fireplace.

Sweat poured down his neck. His voice rose. ‘Shut up, Rom. She'll hear you!'

Clytie was staring fixedly at Finch with a puzzled frown.

Rom pressed his advantage. ‘Time she did! If you're too gutless to tell them your dirty secret,
I
will!'

Rom rose to his feet, arms outstretched to embrace the whole scene.

‘Ladies and gentleman, you all know me, Rom Delaney. What you don't know is that there's a snake in the grass – right here in your midst.' He gestured to Finch.

The patrons seemed to ignore Rom's drunken, slurred announcement. Only Clytie was staring at them, as if rooted to the spot.

Finch's voice rose in anger. ‘Hold your trap, Rom. I'll do things my way.'

The bar was suddenly quiet.

Finch stumbled to the centre of the room, aware Clytie was watching every move he made. He hated to do this to her, but there was no backing down now.

‘What my drunken friend is trying to say is that I've been sailing under false colours ever since I came to Hoffnung – an Australian soldier returned from the South African war, sound in body but with my memory shattered in battle.

‘You made me welcome. Doc Hundey helped get me back on my feet. Clytie Hart gave me a place to live because I was the mate of her fiancé, Rom Delaney.'

Finch caught sight of his boss and looked directly at him. ‘Sonny Jantzen gave me employment. You all trusted me.'

His look encompassed every male in the room, young, old, miners, storekeepers, plus a pair of travelling salesmen in suits, celluloid collars and ties. Among the women present two were standing – Ginger and Clytie.

‘I betrayed every last one of you. I
am
an Australian. I
was
a soldier. I
was
wounded in the South African War. I
had
lost my memory. And when I came to Hoffnung I was living in fear of arrest and being court-martialled.'

‘Why? What did ye do?' a gruff male voice demanded to know.

‘Because I'm not one of your heroes. My name won't be honoured with your sons and brothers on your war memorial on the hill.'

He paused to scan their faces. ‘When war broke out I was working in Johannesburg. British loyalists said it wouldn't last a month. Boer sympathisers claimed a fortnight. It was chaos. Men everywhere were rushing off to fight for the Empire – or join a Boer Commando. Some brothers enlisted to fight on opposite sides. I didn't want to bear arms against either side, so I volunteered to be a stretcher-bearer.'

Sweat poured from his hair and forehead and stung his eyes.

‘The truth is, I didn't fight the enemy – I
am
the enemy. I joined the Boers in Ben Viljoen's Commando!'

Finch stood rocking on his feet. Waited for the silence to be shattered by waves of hatred, insults, by men ready to fight him, women ready to tear him apart.

There was nothing but bitter silence. There was no stopping Finch.

‘Tonight your children burned Viljoen's effigy because the British captured him, imprisoned him on St Helena. Whatever the rights and wrongs of this long, ghastly war, I thank God he's alive. In my eyes General Ben Viljoen is an honourable man – and I'm proud to have served under him.'

The heavy silence was broken. A solitary figure stood up and applauded him.

Rom Delaney.

Finch saw Clytie cover her face with her hands and rush from the room.

A man called out, ‘Get out of here, you traitor!'

Publican Tom Yeoman moved to Finch's side and took him firmly by the arm.

‘Outside, Finch. Take your troubles outside my hotel.'

Pinioned between two burly men, Finch was shoved out into the darkened street. The street lamp cast a mushroom-shaped circle of light on the road. He was instantly trapped with his back to the wall, facing a ring of men poised on the balls of their feet, fists tight, their faces mirroring each other's contempt and thirst for revenge.