Golden Hope (27 page)

He hated to be dependant on crutches, but until he retained his full strength there was no choice. Pacing the corridor, he returned to his ward and propped in the doorway, glad to lean against a supporting wall.

He studied the patient who lay in the far corner of the room, his gaze fixed on a small bird, a beautifully coloured African Finch that was pecking at a bowl on the windowsill.

Rom found it difficult to believe this was the same chap he had found in that barn, dirty, blood-stained, with matted dark hair, and naked.

The young man sitting upright in bed wore a regulation white hospital gown. Scrubbed and clean as a newborn babe, his shaggy long hair was now the colour of snow when stained by sunlight. His features, tanned by the sun, were strong – regular except for the long, slightly skewered nose. The high cheekbones and jaw line had a distinctive cast, the curve of the mouth wide yet surprisingly soft.

Even from across the room, Rom could see his eyes were the vivid blue often found on men born to the sea. He could be of Anglo-Celtic ancestry, or like many Australians of their generation, the product of mixed European ancestry with a strong Nordic vein.

Intrigued by the mystery of a man with no name, Rom hobbled across to his bedside. The snowy-haired patient watched his approach but gave no sign of recognition. Rom drew up a chair and propped his crutches.

‘G'day, mate. How are you feeling today?'

‘More than a bit lost. You
know
me, do you?' the patient asked.

‘Let's just say we have a bit of shared history. The name's Rom – Roman Delaney. I'm the V.M.R. scout who found you lying in a derelict barn, naked as the day you were born. You had a raging fever. You drained my water bottle. I slung you over my horse and headed for a field hospital. That's all I remember. Any of that make sense?'

‘Didn't they tell you? I'm the man with no name. Nothing.'

Rom nodded. ‘No need to bust a gut worrying. It'll all come back to you. I just dropped by to say thanks.'

‘What for? Sounds like you saved
my
life.'

Rom tapped the scar over his brow. ‘I copped a sniper's Maxim-Henry bullet. Evidently you came to and led the horse that carried me to safety. So here we both are, alive and all in one piece.'

‘Except for one vital missing part – my memory.'

‘Let time take care of that. Meanwhile, what the hell do I call you?'

The patient gestured to the windowsill. ‘When Sister asked who I was, I mumbled something. Maybe I said “French”. Maybe I was just looking at that African Finch. Anyway, she wrote “Finch” on my medical chart until my real name turns up.' He gave a deep sigh. ‘If it ever does.'

‘There must be some clues in the records. Us Australians were split up and assigned to British officers all over the country – as messy as a dog's
breakfast. But the Imperial records will track you down sooner or later.'

Clearly less confident, Finch shook his head. ‘They tell me scores of men have gone missing. Maybe killed in action and buried somewhere by the Boers.'

Rom had a vivid flash of the face of the young Boer he had buried in the mass grave at Wilmansrust.

He looked just like me. He could have been my brother.

Rom managed an evasive answer. ‘There's nothing more equal than death on a battlefield, mate.'

Finch gave him a searching look as if to test him. ‘Maybe I'm a deserter – they shoot you for that, don't they?'

Rom hoped he sounded convincing. ‘Nah, they're too busy shooting the Boers. But if you were a deserter, don't expect me to be shocked. There but for the grace of God, go I. After the bloodbath at Wilmansrust, I ran like the devil – until the Boers took a mob of us prisoner.'

‘Did they shoot any prisoners?' Finch asked warily.

‘Not their style. They stripped us of our weapons and uniforms, commandeered whatever Argentinean mules hadn't been shot in the ambush. Marched us miles across the veldt – then set us free to walk back to our lines barefoot. Guerrilla fighters don't have the facilities to take prisoners. I reckon as enemies go, the Boers are a decent mob.'

‘I'll have to take your word for that.'

To bridge the silence, Rom sounded positive. ‘Were there any clues in your jacket?'

In answer, Finch fished around in the bedside cupboard and handed Rom an envelope. ‘This proves
somebody
knows me.'

Rom felt his heartbeat racing as he withdrew the photograph – shocked to find he was staring into Clytie's eyes. She was so real he could almost touch her.

‘Hey! She's a good-looker, Finch. Is there any writing to identify her?' Rom asked, knowing the answer. The back of the photograph was blank.

‘Only the name of the photographers. See for yourself.'

‘G. Johnson and Sons. What do you know? What a coincidence. Bitternbird is a lovely town just a hop, skip and a jump from where I come from – Hoffnung.'

‘Hope,' Finch said, then added, ‘that's what you've given me. Hope. I now have a real clue to her identity – and mine.'

‘You sure have,' Rom said confidently. ‘Now get some shut-eye. I'll be back as soon as I nick out to buy a pack of fags. Then we'll go out on the veranda and have a smoke and a chat.'

‘Thanks, but I don't smoke.' Finch added quickly, ‘I know that much about myself. Billy, that Canadian bloke over there gave me one of his cigarettes. I coughed like crazy – hate the taste of tobacco.'

‘In that case I'll grab you some chocolate.'

For the first time Finch gave a wry smile. ‘Now you're talking, Rom.'

From the doorway Rom jerked up a thumb in the reassuring Australian gesture that meant ‘she'll be sweet', a silent reassurance that all was well.

The moment he was out of sight Rom ceased smiling. Already the seeds of a plan were germinating in his head – an idea in which Finch, stripped of all memory, could play a significant role.

He smoked a cigarette on the veranda where a window looked directly into the ward where Finch lay.

His curiosity was aroused by the sight of Sister Macqueen, her white nurse's veil floating across her shoulders as she crossed to Finch's side. Rom lingered on the veranda to eavesdrop on their conversation.

‘Doctor will examine you in few minutes, Finch. Try to recall anything to tell him, no matter how small. Even some image in a dream.'

Finch was flushed with excitement. ‘Better than a dream, Sister. There's a clue that could well be a breakthrough. Rom knows the town where this girl's photograph was taken. It's a start, isn't it? If I can find her, she'll know who I am. Maybe she's waiting for me. My fiancée – maybe even my wife. I can't rest until I contact her –'

‘Calm yourself, Finch. That's good news, but it's time to rest easy now. You need to regain your strength.'

She held a glass of water to his lips for him to swallow the tablets. Finch drank obediently but asked her a final wistful question.

‘Is it possible for a man like me to forget the face of the girl he loved, Sister?'

The nurse had no need to answer. Finch's eyelids were already half-closed, overcome by a wave of fatigue.

Rom watched them unobserved, feeling a flash of guilt.
Maybe I should ask myself the same question.

The Australian surgeon questioned Finch with surprising patience, given the staggering list of patients in his care. Finch was examined, tapped, prodded and questioned thoroughly, meanwhile keeping one eye on Sister Macqueen as she recorded notes on a clipboard.

Chain-smoking on the veranda, Rom tried to tune in to their low-key comments but failed.
I'll bet they don't know what I suspect – that he bolted.

Finally, chafing to hear the doctor's verdict, Finch interrupted. ‘I can't remember my name or my personal history, Doctor. But I can see and hear perfectly. I can walk and talk, and my appetite's improved out of sight. I remember how to read, write, play the piano – and pray to God. Surely these are encouraging signs, are they not?'

‘They are also quite timely,' the doctor said wearily. ‘Another batch of wounded chaps is due to arrive by hospital train from the Front. We may need to bed you down elsewhere.'

‘Can Sister Macqueen come with me?'

The doctor ignored his intended pleasantry. ‘Sister will help with your memory problems –
if
she can spare the time.'

Another nurse hovered, anxious to interrupt him. ‘The train has arrived with the wounded, Doctor. You're needed in surgery.'

Without a word he headed for the operating room.

Rom watched as pairs of stretcher bearers carried the badly wounded to vacant beds. Many lads were blood-stained and dirty. Different accents floated across the room. Most of the wounded looked barely old enough to have left school. Rom suspected many had put up their ages to enlist – as he had done.

Maybe Finch did too. He doesn't even know how old he is.

Rom tracked Sister Macqueen down in the nurses' small alcove where she was making tea. Up close, he could not help admiring the way her pale complexion was peppered with faint orange freckles, close in colour to the wisps of hair that escaped her veil. He stared down into her eyes – eggshell blue with long sandy lashes. She wasn't conventionally pretty but her smile lit up her face like a sunrise.

He reminded himself of the dimple that came and went at the corner of Clytie's mouth.
What I'd do for a kiss that lasted all night.

Aware of the intensity of his stare, Sister Macqueen cleared her throat. ‘So what are you doing here, Delaney? This is the nurses' oasis,' she said lightly.

‘I'm concerned about Finch. What chance does he have of regaining his memory?'

‘I'm not a doctor. But from what I've seen of these cases it could return overnight – or take years for small memories to knit his past life together.'

‘How can I help him?

‘Talk to him. Make him laugh, give him confidence. He needs specialised help but as you can see our medical team is drastically short-staffed. We must concentrate our main efforts on saving lives, not restoring memories.'

‘Finch could get proper medical help back in Australia, right? If someone here wrote the right papers for him?'

‘Not until we know exactly who he is – it's not even certain whether he's Australian, English or even a Kiwi. His accent is rather neutral.'

‘Righto, so that's the hold up? You can count on me, Sister. I'll do my best for him.'

Rom wasted no time in hobbling down towards the railway station where he found a small store beneath the subway. He managed to buy two small loaves of bread at one shilling each, six apples at three shillings a dozen and some chocolate squares at threepence each – leaving him with tuppence halfpenny.

Back at the hospital he traded the bread and apples with a patient who didn't smoke for a packet of cigarettes and a Cuban cigar.

On his return, he addressed Finch in the manner of a sergeant-major.

‘On your feet, soldier. Quick march out onto the veranda. That's an order.' He added as an aside, ‘Matron will shoot me if I'm caught smoking in here but the veranda is no man's land.'

Seated on cane chairs, with a table between them, Rom cut straight to the core.

‘Let's tally up what you know. Exactly where are you right now?'

‘In a British military hospital outside of Johannesburg, getting the third-degree from you. But don't think I'm not grateful for your offer of chocolate,' Finch added hopefully.

Rom grinned at the subtle prompt and handed him the chocolate squares.

‘You're in the best place for you, mate. But actually it's an Australian military hospital with a reputation so good that when Tommies get wounded they beg to be brought here instead of their own hospitals. This place is packed like sardines with different accents – Australian, Cockney, Kiwi, Scots, Irish, Canadian, Indian, you name it. So which are you? I'll tell you one thing for free – you're not Australian.'

Finch looked startled. ‘What makes you say that?'

‘I've been talking to you for ages and you haven't sworn once. No Digger alive can go ten minutes without dropping a swear word or three.'

Finch looked blank, and then laughed. ‘
You
certainly can't.'

‘I grew up in Catholic Boys' Homes. Every time I cussed the nuns washed out my mouth with soap and water. I'm making up for lost time. Can you remember being a kid?'

‘Total blank. I want to ask you something. If I was in the V.M.R., wouldn't you know me?'

‘No, there are hundreds of us. Ever since we lobbed here, we've been shunted around from pillar to post, attached to one Imperial officer after another for flaming months on end.'

Rom lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the one just smoked.

‘So you're not a regular soldier?' Finch asked.

‘I was dead keen to see the world. So I volunteered to get into the action. I never saw a shot fired in anger until they sent me out on patrol to scout. Some Imperial officers don't think much of us Diggers. Some of them admit we're top notch at riding and scrounging. Not surprising really. Most of us were raised in the bush. Country blokes know how to light a fire and live off the land. Poor bloody Cockneys haven't a clue. They'd starve to death without a can of bully beef to open.'

Finch was listening attentively.

Rom warmed to the subject. ‘Our own officers know what we can do. They don't just march us around the parade ground and waste hours polishing our kit as if we're about to front up for inspection by the Queen.' He paused. ‘What's her name?'

‘Queen Victoria. But she's dead. Her son Edward VII is now on the throne – with Alexandra his queen consort.'

Rom looked pleased. ‘Good on you, mate. That was a trick question. You've got a grip on world events – just mislaid your personal life.'