Golden Hope (6 page)

‘Just make sure they give you the twenty guineas, lad. Twyman is a slippery customer to say the least!'

It was at that moment that Rom took a second, hard look at the fairy on horseback, puzzled as to where he had seen her before. Her abundant dark hair, anchored by a sparkling tiara, streamed behind her in the wind. Her young breasts pressed against the tight bodice of her costume, a hint of their true shape curving above the neckline. Her smile was confident, a practised expression aimed at all in the crowd, flirting with the men but equally intent on winning over the women and children.

‘Bravo! Good on you, girl!' Rom called out to attract her attention.

The moment she recognised him, she transformed a delicately curled hand into a cleverly disguised ‘thumbs up' sign to acknowledge his role in bringing the circus to town.

Jesus! She's that cheeky lad covered in axle grease.

‘Seems you've won a heart. You know her, do you?' Doc asked.

‘You could say that,' Rom said drily.

The procession halted in front of the Diggers' Rest. The troupe gave the spectators a taste of their expertise – juggling, performing handsprings and building a human pyramid with acrobats stacked on each other's shoulders.

Rom felt his hackles rise at the sight of the large swarthy man in Ali Baba costume who caused nervous squeals from the women spectators as he juggled lethal-looking knives, teasing them by suddenly advancing as if to place them in danger.

Boss Gourlay, an impressive figure in top hat and scarlet cape, extolled the virtues of his circus, promising feats of daring never seen
before in the Colony. He offered the crowd just enough to whet their appetite for the performances to come.

After a rousing rendition of Banjo Paterson's new song
Waltzing Matilda
was performed by the brass band, Gourlay presented Councillor Twyman with an invitation for his family to attend the opening performance.

Twyman was forced to accept it but his aside to Pius James reached Doc's ears. ‘That quack Hundey will rue the day he pulled rank over me.'

Rom propped himself against the hotel's veranda post, basking in the praise of those in favour of the circus. He was intrigued by the undercurrent being played out between the young girl on the white horse and the voluptuous brunette seated on the wagon marked Daring Dolores Hart and Little Clytie. Dolores was distracted, watching every move the younger girl made as if she were her instructor.

Clytie. So that's the kid's name.

His hackles rose again at the sight of the man billed as Vlad the Knife-Thrower. Large of frame and swarthy, his bare chest as hairy as a wombat's hide, his full-blooming red trousers were adorned with an outsized sabre hanging from a jewelled belt. The muscles in his arms rippled as he juggled an increasing number of knives.

Rom noticed that when he fumbled one of his knives, he hissed at Dolores, ‘Wake up! That was your cue, woman!'

Dolores retrieved the knife with a graceful curtsy as if it was all part of the act. She graciously inclined her head towards Rom when he initiated a round of applause that was picked up by the crowd. Rom knew it was common knowledge that theatrical females were notoriously ‘easy'. He watched Clytie sweetly order her horse to cross his front legs and execute a bow – a final touch that delighted the crowd.

Before climbing back on the wagon beside Dolores, Clytie turned on Rom a cheeky smile and in a time-honoured theatrical gesture blew him a kiss.

‘Yes, sweetheart, I've got you hooked,' he said softly under his breath.

Gourlay was ready to move on. ‘Now if someone would kindly direct me to our venue, we will set up our Big Top ready for our first performance.'

Fuming with impotence, Twyman refused to back down.

Doc Hundey quietly took control. ‘It will be my pleasure, Mr Gourlay. The creek is rising, I'll show you the safest crossing.'

Doc slung his tweed jacket over his shoulder and armed with his medical bag, climbed up beside Gourlay onto the box seat and chatted as if they were old friends. Leaving the impromptu audience eager for more, Gourlay gave the order for the wagons to roll. Doc gestured to points of interest as he directed him along the route to the Cricket Ground.

Rom was elated, his imagination fired by two lovely images. The twenty guinea reward that would soon be in his pocket – and Little Clytie's teasing kiss.

She's damned pretty – in an exotic kind of way. Young, but not young enough to land me in gaol.

He felt drunk on success despite past experiences when Lady Luck had proved a fickle mistress.

‘I reckon I'll have that girl in the cot before the circus leaves town.'

He muttered his usual boast aloud, convinced he was on a winning streak.

Yet he felt unaccountably nervous. For once it really seemed to matter.

The electric feeling in the air before Show Time never failed to send Clytie's pulse racing. Yet tonight there was something intangible in the air.

The setting sun was a blaze of red and gold behind the hills encircling the oval. The circus hands had worked their magic to transform Hoffnung Cricket Ground, swiftly erecting the Big Top and tiers of seats around the sawdust ring, the lights and bandstand. Bunting and flashing coloured lights festooned the Big Top and the small booths for hoopla, fortune-telling and the fire-eater.

Clytie obeyed her mother's rule never to eat before a performance, but as she passed the cricket grandstand her mouth watered at the tantalising smell of hot pies, sausage rolls, and the popular new lamington cakes. The ‘adult soft drinks' supplied by the Diggers' Rest were no doubt beer in disguise.

She instinctively avoided the guy ropes as she sauntered around the perimeter of the oval, drawing her shawl close to cover the spotted ‘kiddie' dress worn in readiness for her first appearance.

What was different about tonight? She felt a curious sense of nervous excitement welling up inside her. W
e were destined to come here. Why?

Clytie returned the cheery waves of the younger roustabouts who were her classmates in Pedro's circus school. They ran like clockwork to avoid Boss Gourlay docking their pay.

She felt a deep wave of affection and loyalty to the only life, the only family she had ever known. Yet tonight she felt another emotion, somewhere between nostalgia and an unfamiliar, wistful pain for something she had never known.

Hoffnung's distant twinkling house lights seemed to beckon her – a symbol of her long dormant wish to taste the experience of ordinary folk who lived out their entire lives in one place from one sunrise to the next. What would it be like to have a real
family
home, a bedroom of her own and school friends? Time to grow a garden,
observe the changing seasons, to wake to the laughter of kookaburras each morning, knowing she would sleep in the same bed every night.

Why can't we just stand still for a while?

‘Am I being selfish?' she asked herself out loud. ‘No!'

Clytie felt driven by a growing sense of urgency. It would be months before Wildebrand travelled to their customary winter base to rest, repair their props and equipment and rehearse new routines. She needed to buy time now.
Mama needs to rest – no matter what Vlad says.

Hearing Madame Zaza call her name, Clytie paused by the fortune-teller's booth, its canvas wall showing an exotic gypsy with palms held over a crystal ball. Painted twenty years earlier, it was touched up each winter during the lay-off period. The fine cracks in the canvas now mirrored the lifelines on the old woman's face.

‘Tiche told me what happened last night. You know the rules. We try not to interfere in domestic problems. But a Romani woman never turns her back on a friend. Your mother needs help. I will stand by you – if I can.'

‘I know you will, Zaza. But I can't make Mama see the truth. She's under so much pressure from Vlad, I'm afraid she'll start again. She won't, will she?' Clytie added nervously. ‘She crossed her heart this time.'

No need for me to spell it out. Her problem with the bottle is an open secret.

It was a practice heavily frowned on. No matter how diligently they rehearsed and performed they were always shadowed by the threat of bad luck, injury, death.

Madam Zaza plucked at her sleeve and whispered against possible eavesdroppers.

‘Dolores Hart loves you more than her life. She would never intentionally break her word. But you must watch Vlad like a hawk, yes?' She gave a low moan of warning. ‘Something terrible is coming . . . I see money – a bank.'

‘You mean a bank hold-up? Like Ned Kelly's gang?' Clytie asked in disbelief.

‘No! Let poor Kelly rest in peace! But it will come before the moon wanes – and change everything!'

Clytie failed to hold her tongue. ‘I'd be grateful for any clues, Zaza.'

Clytie held her breath while Zaza focussed on the crystal ball. Her response was a mumbled Romani phrase that sounded ominous.

‘Here they are again! Those two young men. The one with the silver tongue. The other has no name. Hold a tight rein on your heart, girl – love is a runaway horse.'

‘Don't worry, I'm too young for all that stuff,' Clytie said in quick denial.

‘You're past fifteen. Legally old enough to marry. Men believe they're born to rule over women.'

Does she mean Vlad and mother? Or someone in
my
life?

‘How can I tell the good ones from the rotten apples in the barrel? Mama hasn't had much luck choosing men.'

‘I've watched Dolores since she was a little sprat younger than you. The Flying Harts were top-liners in all the great circuses across the water. Astley's, Barnum and Bailey, and all. Her parents trained her well, but they spoilt her. She always led with her heart – threw caution to the winds when some handsome man promised her the world.'

‘Is that what my real father did? You know who he was, don't you? Please, Zaza, tell me!'

Zaza shook her head. ‘If you want your family history, ask Dolores.'

‘I've always wondered, do you tell the truth to all the townies who pay you?'

‘I am a proud Romani,' Zaza corrected firmly. ‘I do not lie. Sometimes I just tell them what they want to hear – because the truth would be so painful it would spoil what little happiness remains to them.'

‘How difficult to decide how much to reveal. Are you hiding bad news from me? I can take the truth.'

The old hands fluttered like fragile birds to dismiss her. ‘Go child or Vlad will be on your tail. May the
Bari Weshen Dai
guard you and your mother.'

The Romani name for the Great Forest Mother – a blessing.

Clytie bent and kissed the withered old cheek.
‘
Thank you, Zaza.'

Drawing her shawl around her shoulders, she headed towards the Hart wagon, her unwanted thoughts stuck like flies to flypaper.

That Rom Delaney has a silver tongue – and he's quite handsome in a roguish kind of way. If he tries to trick me, he'd better stand warned. Two can play that game – and I've cut my teeth on Vlad.

Pedro the Clown was hovering a short distance from the Hart wagon, clearly waiting to waylay her. His extremely tall, stalk-like frame gave the impression he was walking on stilts even before he had strapped them on. Already in costume, his long mournful face was made up with the individually registered clown make-up that no other circus clown would dare copy. Pedro had taken the twelve-year-old Tiche under his wing after the boy's well-to-do family placed him in the circus, relieved of the embarrassment of having a dwarf in the family. Fluent and eloquent as Pedro was as a teacher to the circus children, his speech when nervous was splintered with a heavy stutter.

‘Clytie – I need to warn you. Tiche told me about Dolores. More trouble is brewing.'

‘Don't worry, Pedro. I can handle Vlad.'

‘This time it's not so simple, girlie. I want you to know – we are always on your side. I'm proud to have taught you – you are always so hungry for knowledge. If our paths should
ever part
– please continue to study.'

He seemed so distressed Clytie touched his sleeve to detain him.

‘Pedro, tell me the truth. There's talk of a mutiny.'

He mimed a sad, bewildered shrug and at the sound of Gourlay's warning bell, hurried away.

The moment Clytie entered her mother's wagon, trouble was indeed waiting.

Vlad stood toe to toe with Dolores, shouting down at her. Clytie flinched with anger at the sight of the dark smudges of kohl make-up around her mother's eyes – a clear sign of tears. But for once Dolores was challenging him.

‘I never agreed to this, Vlad! I won't let you do it.'

‘You have no choice. Do it or you're on your own. I wipe my hands of you.'

‘Mama, what's wrong?' Clytie demanded.

Her mother's tragic blue eyes and the pleading note in her voice struck Clytie with the sudden realisation. Their roles were reversed. Dolores had regressed to a child, leaving Clytie to play the role of mother.

‘It wasn't my fault, Clytie. I didn't break my promise. I just didn't realise it had vodka . . .'

She gestured helplessly to the flask. Vlad grabbed it and smashed it against the wall.

‘Stop lying, Dolores!' he yelled. ‘You're a boozer, a hopeless case. I was crazy to put up with you all these years.'

He rejected Dolores's tentatively outstretched hand, lunged out and sent her flying. Hitting her head against the wall, she cowered in the corner, sobbing like a child.

‘Don't you dare touch my mother, you brute!' Clytie flew at him, pushing him against the wall with a strength that surprised them both.

Vlad backed away, hands held up in surrender. ‘Face the truth, girl. She's too drunk to stand up – let alone perform on horseback. You can't blame me for that. I'm not her keeper. Gourlay will sack the lot of us when he catches her in this condition.'