Golden Hope (21 page)

Dolores smiled. ‘Franco came to me in a dream last night. He showed me the babe he carried in his arms. Stark naked it was. No mistaking it was a boy!'

Clytie laughed. ‘Then I'm sure it's true.' Tears of joy and sadness threatened to mar the moment.

Dolores changed the mood. ‘Come inside and I'll read you a letter Rom wrote to me. There's an amazing story about a circus.'

Intrigued by the fact Rom had also written to her mother, Clytie hurried inside. Wineglass in hand, Dolores curled up on the lumpy old couch. Clytie decided it was no time to spoil the precious night by reminding her mother of her promise not to drink.

Dolores handed her the letter. ‘Read it aloud – he's your man.'

Dear Mrs Hart,

I could tell you heaps of adventures I have experienced in recent weeks. But as I have orders to go off scouting alone tomorrow I wanted to tell you about a first-hand account I had from a Boer prisoner we captured. A young farmer, he looked just like our lads, sun-tanned, snowy-haired, a real boy from the bush – but in this case the veldt. I offered him a cigarette and showed him the glamorous photograph of Clytie in her circus costume. He was most impressed. He told me a true story that probably never got into Australian newspapers.

Wirth's Circus arrived in Johannesburg just before the outbreak of war and hired a theatre. Two Boer leaders, President Kruger and General Cronje, asked their permission to use the theatre for a political meeting. Wanting to remain
impartial, the Wirths refused. Soon after a British colonel made the same request – and was also refused. The young prisoner told me that Boers never forget a good turn. Some months later Cronje allowed the circus train to be the last one to cross the Modder River – before his Commando blew up the bridge and railway lines to prevent our troops getting provisions and transporting our wounded. That's war. Each side plays it by their own code of honour.

Please give my kind regards to Doc and Long Sam. And a hug for Clytie. I haven't heard from her yet – maybe she's forgotten me?

Yours respectfully, Rom.

‘But I've written every week!' Clytie cried, touched by the word ‘respectfully'.

‘Keep writing, they'll catch up with him sooner or later,' Dolores assured her.

Both were enchanted by the circus story.

‘How diplomatic and clever of the Wirths.'

‘Yes, Mama, and it says a lot about the Boers – and their principles.'

The evening ended as happily as it could do under the bitter-sweet circumstances. Clytie and Dolores pored over the newspaper cuttings of the young Fearless Franco, with Clytie demanding every intimate detail of her parents' brief but intense love affair.

Clytie wanted to share her mother's bed that night, but Dolores dismissed the idea with a light laugh. ‘Nothing doing. I need my rest. You kick in your sleep like a mule. Now there'd be two of you to kick me.'

Clytie smiled at the fanciful idea. She tucked herself into her own cot bed, carefully placing Rom's letter in the box that she hoped would soon fill up with his letters.

She wasn't sure if she was dreaming when she saw Dolores's silhouette framed in the doorway. Moonlight had drawn a silver thread outlining her body.

‘Don't wake me in the morning, sweetheart. I need a sleep-in. I just wanted to remind you. Don't be sad for me. I lost the love of my life, Franco. But he gave me the light of my life – you.'

‘Promise me one thing, Mama. You'll be with me when the babe is born.'

‘Where else would I be?' she asked softly. ‘I'll be beside you every step of the way.'

The door closed quietly behind her.

Clytie lay awake, unable to sleep. Lusty little elbows and feet jabbed her belly as a sharp reminder that she was not alone.

Doc was right
.
A mother's and daughter's secrets are shared at last.

Early next morning, honouring her mother's wish to be allowed to sleep in and rest, she crept from the house to work at the hotel. All morning the baby kicked her incessantly as if to say, ‘I'm here'.

When she saw the expression on Doc's drawn face as he entered the kitchen, she stepped backwards and held up her hands to ward him off.

‘No! Don't say the words out loud!'
Don't make it real.

Doc nodded in silence and drove her home
.
The priest's house was empty. Her mother's bed had been freshly made up with clean linen. There was no trace of her except her perfume – and a note with a list of instructions that she had written some weeks before she finally fell asleep.

Clytie's eyes read the words blindly then re-read the final paragraph.

‘Remember, Little Clytie. I will be with you whenever you need me – but when my
finale
finally comes, remember what I said. Horses are meant to entertain people –
not
to bury them.'

The frost lay glistening on the grass. The sun filtered hazily through the grey clouds. It was a lonely procession up the rainy, windswept hill. Dolores had always shuddered at the sight of formal, horse-drawn, glass-sided funeral carriages bedecked in black and purple, their horses' heads bobbing with the plumes of funeral regalia. Dolores wanted no part of the exit that was considered
de rigueur
at the end of the Victorian age. Clytie heard the echo of her mother's oft-repeated words: ‘Horses are meant to entertain people – not to bury them!'

Dolores had left strict written instructions about what she called ‘my last day above ground'. Clytie had no choice but to obey them to the letter. Dolores had refused to countenance any undue expenditure, money which she was determined would be reserved for Clytie's baby.

Doc had taken care of all the details. There was no church service as The Creator of All Things was the only deity that Dolores acknowledged. The pallbearers were Doc Hundey and the three O'Grady brothers who had helped Rom to erect the priest's house on their land. On top of the pine casket was an exotic wreath of bush flowers that Adelaide Hundey had sent from her garden.

Shadow led the little entourage with quiet dignity as if conscious of the duty he must perform in the absence of his master Rom. Clytie told herself she did not give a damn that no town residents were there to join them. Publican Yeoman had sent a note of sympathy along with his regrets that he was unable to leave the hotel unattended.

Clytie was suddenly conscious they were not alone. A tall, lanky figure wearing an oilskin raincoat and the traditional sou'wester rain hat worn by fishermen, took up his stance near Clytie. He handed her a large black umbrella, nodded to Doc and stood respectfully with bowed head.

Doc was about to deliver the short eulogy that Clytie had approved. They all turned in surprise at the sound of the commotion coming from the direction of the three churches on the top of the hill.
A ragged, bob-tail group of people were puffing and swearing as they struggled to push a trolley drawn by a Shetland pony to the gates of the cemetery.

Clytie recognised several faces, among them the Irish fiddlers, Mick and Proddie, Long Sam, Sergeant Mangles, young ‘Kanga' Smith, some children and the old eccentric whose face always recalled the memory of Rom's joking reference to Ned Kelly's lover.

Clytie turned to Doc. ‘My God, Holy Maude has dragged her old organ here – even though everyone knew Mother didn't want a religious ceremony.'

The truth was soon revealed. Holy Maude anchored the hatpin into her hat and began to conduct the group. Fiddles, concertina, organ, tambourines and the children's gumleaf whistles all joined to burst forth in a rousing rendition of the traditional music played at the finale for Wildebrand Circus's Grand Parade. It was absurd in this context but so joyous that Clytie wanted to laugh out loud. Even the pony with a horseshoe of bush flowers around its neck joined in with high-pitched neighing.

Doc gripped Clytie's arm. ‘This town is nothing if not ecumenical. You see what they're trying to tell you? They're sorry for the way some folk treated your circus family.'

The Grand Parade music came to a rousing climax followed by a clash of cymbals from a small boy. The Irish fiddlers gave a final flourish. As if running out of steam the little band suddenly froze, unsure whether it was more disrespectful to stay when it was not wanted – or to up stakes and depart.

Clytie ran up to Holy Maude, kissed her on both cheeks and shook hands with each member of the band.

‘You wonderful people! You have given my mother the most perfect finale any circus star can have. Please come down and join us.'

The pony was unleashed to carry the horseshoe of flowers down to the grave.

Doc Hundey's voice was rich with emotion.

‘Dolores Hart was a performing artiste blessed with God-given gifts. A fifth generation equestrienne, her entire life was spent in a circus family, travelling the world. She was rich in friends and blessed with a daughter after her own heart. Mrs Hart may not have chosen
to follow a formal religion but she respected all faiths and honoured The Creator of All Things. I believe she found what she had been searching for here in Hoffnung.'

Doc paused and looked at each one in turn. ‘Because Dolores Hart knew she could count on leaving her loved daughter among friends.'

Holy Maude nodded firmly in response. ‘Amen to that!'

‘Your inspired music is the perfect final tribute to Dolores Hart,' Doc continued. ‘It is now time to let her go. To remember her as she wished to be remembered. I only knew the lady for a brief time but I am full of admiration for her courage, dignity – and generosity of spirit. And the wicked sense of humour she retained until the very last hour of her life.'

‘Amen' was echoed by the three O'Grady lads. The word dried in Clytie's mouth.

The stranger in the mackintosh cleared his throat and said with awkward respect, ‘Your mother was a real lady. She always gave me good value, girlie.'

‘Thank you, Sir.'

With a nod to the Doc, the stranger walked off down the hill towards the Landau carriage parked in the main street.

Clytie watched him, wondering if he was her mother's wealthy client from Bitternbird.

I'm grateful he came to pay his respects. It's true. Whether performing in the ring or reading the Tarot, Dolores always gave the punters value for money.

Doc Hundey offered her his arm. ‘I'll drive you home, lass. Best you rest up. Your mother would want you to take good care of her grandchild.'

‘Thank you, Doctor. But I have to attend to something on Mother's behalf.'

She walked off alone, dry-eyed, the wind and rain chafing her face, her hands in her pockets, blue with cold. She was vaguely aware of Doc's invitation to all present to join him for a drink at the Diggers' Rest. The two Irish fiddlers were not slow to accept.

•  •  •

In the dining-room of the hotel Clytie asked the publican's wife if she could have a private word with her husband. Mrs Yeoman's eyes
seemed intent on avoiding Clytie's belly although she was desperate to confirm if the gossip was true.

‘I'm right sorry for your trouble, girl. I'll fetch my husband for you.'

What trouble does she mean? Mother's death? Or my status as a fallen woman?

Tom Yeoman looked discomforted. ‘Sorry I couldn't attend. We're short-staffed.'

‘I understand perfectly, Mr Yeoman. Mother didn't want any fuss. I came to ask if you'd allow me to take over my mother's readings. I've been properly instructed in the Tarot by Mother and a wise Romani gypsy. I assure you, like Mother, I'm dead honest. I'm no charlatan. If I can't see anything constructive in the cards, I'll return their money.'

‘I'm sorry, lass. I'll wipe out your mother's debt for the rent. But I can't allow you take over her readings – it wouldn't be right. It would be bad for my hotel's reputation.'

The words were out before she could prevent them. ‘Bad? Why? Because I'm with child? Rom Delaney and I will be married on his return from South Africa.'

That was stretching the truth but she needed the work and hoped the half-truth sounded convincing.

‘No, it's not that. I won't speak ill of the dead, you understand?'

Clytie looked into his eyes and knew her suspicions were true. Dolores's readings for women had suddenly petered out. Her last remaining clients were men.
That's why she came home later and later – in the early hours of the morning. And that's what that stranger meant . . . ‘she always gave me good value'.

She was determined not to register her feelings of shock and defeat. ‘Exactly how much rent does my mother owe you, Mr Yeoman?'

‘I'm not out for blood, girl. I told you – your mother's debt died with her.'

‘But not with
me.
I insist on paying you in full.'

She pushed the money into his hands. ‘We're all square now.'

‘No. I can't accept this. You're a good worker. If it will help you out until your man returns from the war, you can work in the kitchen – out of sight.'

Clytie did not know whether to swallow her pride or walk out.

I have the babe to think of. But I can't let him off scot free.

She cast a cool glance in the direction of the bar. ‘I think I should warn you about what is being said about the Diggers' Rest. That when a man is drunk in your hotel his grog is watered down – but he's still charged full price.'

Tom Yeoman looked appalled. ‘That's a lie! I do no such thing. I'll thank you to put a stopper on whoever is spreading that mischief – or they'll face me in court!'

Clytie returned to the main street with a bitter sense of triumph.

Me and my big mouth. But it was worth it. I told him the truth. But I won't dob in the source. It's up to him to put a stop to the practice.