Golden Hope (3 page)

First patient of the day was Rom Delaney.

Doc Hundey eyed him speculatively. His masculine, good looks were just short of handsome. The intelligent eyes today seemed overly bright. The slightly lopsided mouth was quick to grin but it was an expression that changed swiftly between humour and anger.
I suspect he was born to talk himself out of trouble.

Town gossip had chalked up a reputation for Delaney involving widows on remote farms who fed him for ‘services rendered'.
I trust he's not contracted a venereal disease. I'm running low on mercury.

Rom stood, feet apart like a soldier at ease, his broad-brimmed hat on the back of his head. The words came out in a rush as if time was of the essence.

‘Sorry to disturb you, Doc. I'm not here as a patient. I've decided to volunteer to fight the Boers in South Africa. I reckon this second time around the war won't last long. But they're calling for volunteers from all over the Empire – to support the Mother Country.' His voice broke off, smothering a cough.

‘I see. And so you have come to see me, because . . .'

‘I don't want to miss the chance to do my bit, Doc. I want to enlist. I reckon I'll sail through the V.M.R.'s riding and shooting tests. But I need a medical certificate from someone who knows me. And a character reference from you would carry weight. I'm as fit as a fiddle, as you can see.'

‘You're also very young. Underage, I should think?'

‘Fair go, Doc. I'm twenty-two. Lots of blokes are tied down with wives and kiddies at my age.'

Doc gestured him to take a seat.

‘Let's talk it through. Examine it from all sides. War is not simply a matter of national loyalty and dodging bullets. Just look at Britain's medical record at the Crimea. More men died of fever and dysentery than were killed by the Russians.'

‘Yeah, but that Nursing Sister Florence Nightingale did wonders. It would all be different this time,' Rom said confidently.

‘I suspect you have more faith in military organisation than I do, young man. Men die like flies from insanitary conditions in any war – a terrible waste of life. And as for this second outbreak of conflict with the Boer farmers, it's been a long time brewing. Despite British optimism and statements by Lord Kitchener and his ilk, I believe it will take some years to resolve.'

‘You mean you won't help me?'

‘I didn't say that. I notice you have a nasty cough. I also suspect you have a high temperature – a touch of fever. I shall give you a thorough medical examination, and if I find anything wrong, I'll strongly recommend you wait until the problem is cleared up. Agreed?'

‘Fair enough. But the thing is, Doc, volunteer soldiers sign up for a year – and they get paid each month with bed and board all told.'

God, what a child he is. He hasn't a clue about the reality of war.

‘Newspaper accounts of honour and glory are far different to what soldiers experience in battle. Don't be tempted by the lure of a soldier's low pay, lad.'

Rom Delaney bridled. ‘Five shillings a day might appear low to some, but it's
regular.
The fact is, Doc, I'm scratching to earn a crust, since Cobb and Co bailed out on me. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a man to accept charity. No soup kitchens or hand-outs for me! I'll pay
my way – as soon as I can. I have a plan I'm going to put to Twyman at the meeting this morning.'

Doc Hundey felt the lad was talking off the top of his head – or perhaps it was just the fever talking.

‘Your temperature is indeed high. One hundred and two. I can arrange a bed in the bush hospital –'

‘Thanks, Doc. Hospitals aren't for me. No time to spare.'

Doc Hundey examined him thoroughly, explained each point of reference and asked questions in the hope of drawing the lad out.

‘What is the mainstay of your diet?'

‘Tea and damper. The fish are just begging to be caught in the creek behind my hut – that's a miner's right cabin. Roof is sound, fireplace intact. Beats sleeping rough, eh?'

‘Do you have any family in Victoria?'

‘I never knew my Ma. She evidently cleared off with a bloke with money in his pocket. My Da worked at whatever was at hand. We travelled around all over, South Australia, down the Murray. When he was in luck and taken on for a season, I went to some bush school. I ended up in a Boys' Home. I'm a quick learner.'

Doc Hundey read the form Rom had filled in. ‘I can see that. Decent grammar and you write a fair hand. Forgive my curiosity, but your plan for Hoffnung – does it involve a large investment?'

‘No, Doc, that's the beauty of it.' Rom stalled, as if embarrassed. ‘To be honest, right now I'm skint. I'll have to wait a bit before I can pay you.'

Doc smothered a smile.
You – along with half the town.
‘I'm often paid in kind with boxes of cabbages, fruit and eggs. It's a system that works. I never send out a bill. And I never go hungry.'

Rom wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve. ‘Thanks, Doc. I'll square things with you when I can. Best be off.'

‘One moment.' Doc removed a bottle from his medical bag. ‘I'm told this new cough mixture is excellent. You'd be doing me a favour if you'd test it and tell me if it works. It was a sample,' he added pointedly. ‘I didn't have to pay for it.'

Rom accepted the bottle on that basis – unaware Doc had mixed the medicine himself and knew it was highly effective.

‘Tell me,' he asked casually, ‘what exactly do you need to convince Councillor Twyman of your plan – whatever it is?'

The youth leaned forward, his eyes shining like a zealot who alone could see the future. There was no stopping him.

‘My idea will sell itself. Hoffnung was bypassed by the railway, cut off from the outside world for years. The goldmine is a spent force. The town needs to hold special events to attract people here from far and wide.

‘I've got the very thing to start the ball rolling. The famous Wildebrand Circus just finished a season at Ballarat. It only played to half-filled houses. Bad planning. Another circus was in town. Wildebrand Circus is forced to head back to Melbourne.'

‘So where do you fit into the picture?'

‘I'll convince them to take a detour – come here to Hoffnung. Can you imagine what it would do for this town? To have a circus play here for the first time ever? People would come in droves. Spend up big. There wouldn't be a spare bed in town and they'd drink the Diggers' Rest dry.'

Doc fingered his smooth chin and, against all odds, felt a rising tide of interest in the crazy idea.

‘I must say as a child I never missed a circus.'

Rom's mouth twitched in a smile of triumph. ‘There you go! Will you back my plan to the Council this morning?'

Doc Hundey felt cornered. ‘I'll do my best to attend. But it depends on the line-up of patients.'

‘I knew I could count on you, Doc. When I pull this off, I'll get you ringside seats.'

It was clear Rom Delaney only heard what he wanted to hear.

Doc Hundey felt reluctant to deflate the impossible dream as he showed his patient to the door.

‘May I wish you the best of British luck, young man? But remember, Twyman is a man notoriously slow to make decisions. By the time they gave you the nod, the circus would be virtually back in Melbourne.'

Rom Delaney's eyes widened and his smile was beatific. ‘You're dead right, Doc. I've got the wrong end of the stick. First catch the circus!'

Rom Delaney gave a ‘thumbs up' sign and dashed outside.

Through the window Doc watched the lad swing effortlessly up onto his bareback mount, waving his hat and giving a stockman's holler as he rode away.

The waiting room was already half-filled with patients who swivelled their head in his direction, like a nest of chicks waiting with open mouths to be fed by the mother bird.

‘Good morning. Next patient, please,' he said cheerfully, trying to live up to his reputation as the doctor of whom it was claimed, ‘Doc Hundey can cure anything – including a broken heart.'

If only they knew . . . Physician Heal Thyself.

There was no moon at all. All around them was a black cocoon broken only by that low, whispering undercurrent of nameless sound that was peculiar to the Australian bush. The Wildebrand Circus camp lay shrouded in darkness, the ring of wagons close to each other forming a wedge against the darkness.

Clytie felt nervous, wondering if the barrier was strong enough to keep out the evil spirits that Aborigines believed preyed on those who left the protection of the firelight. All inside the camp was quiet except for the occasional snuffling sound of Missy asleep in the lion cage. Alone in the Hart wagon, Clytie lay coiled in her bedroll, unable to sleep, listening for the signs she dreaded.

Vlad's wagon was cheek to jowl with theirs. He was making an effort to keep his voice low but Clytie caught broken phrases. ‘Ballarat, Bendigo, the whole bloody Gold Triangle . . . a washout – thanks to Gourlay . . . face it, woman . . . the circus is in the
red . . .
a mutiny on our hands . . .!'

Clytie was stunned by the word ‘mutiny.' Vivid images sprang to mind of Pedro's history lessons about the infamous mutiny on Captain Bligh's ship
The Bounty;
the Rum Rebellion caused by officers' monopoly of the rum trade; the rebel miners at the Eureka Stockade fighting under their Southern Cross flag.

Could a mutiny happen in Wildebrand Circus? A circus is family – Mama says so. We must all pull together.

The argument escalated. The unmistakable sound of a heavy slap and her mother's cry of pain sent Clytie springing to her rescue. Barefooted, she hurtled across the gap between their wagons and rapped on Vlad's door, uncaring if she woke the whole camp.

Vlad peered through the doorway, his handsome face flushed and slack with drink, red veins in his dark eyes.

‘Mama, are you all right? Come with me!'

He attempted to shut the door in her face but Clytie wedged her shoulder into the gap.

‘Piss off, kid. Mind your own damned business.'

‘Mama
is
my business!' Clytie hissed at him, refusing to budge until she heard her mother's voice.

‘I'm all right, sweetheart. It was just a misunderstanding. Go back to sleep.'

The door was slammed shut.

Shivering with cold in the darkness but reluctant to leave her mother behind, Clytie was relieved to see she was not alone. Standing outside his wagon in his pyjamas was her classmate, Tiche the Clown, whose name was borrowed from the English music hall star. A dwarf in height, the twelve-year-old had the courage of a lion and sprang to the defence of anyone in trouble. Tiche had the punch of a heavyweight and could use his short height to advantage by delivering a savage bite to an opponent's kneecap.

He charged up to her, ready for a fight. ‘Is Dolores all right? I'll give it to that mongrel Vlad, just say the word. I'll kneecap him!'

Clytie hesitated then reluctantly signalled in the negative to prevent the attack that Vlad deserved. ‘Thanks, Tiche. I know you would. But Mama says she's fine.'

He looked disappointed. She was comforted by the knowledge he disliked Vlad as intensely as she did.

‘Righto. But you can always call on me, Clytie.'

‘I know we can, Tiche. You're true blue.'

She gave him a quick hug then reluctantly returned to her bedroll.

Sleep was evasive. She lay awake, on the alert for further trouble, her thoughts gnawing around the strange love-hate relationships between some adults.

Do all men beat women behind closed doors? Was my true father like Vlad? How can I tell if a loving man will turn out to be a rotter? I reckon it's safer never to marry. But Mama says when love hits you – common sense flies out the window . . .

The sun had already broken free from the straggling streamers of dawn's light when Clytie awoke alone in the Hart wagon. Her head ached from the heat that promised another scorching day – her headache reinforced by her night of broken sleep.

The cheery sounds of the crew of boy roustabouts at work and the chatter of women cooking breakfast over their own small campfires urged Clytie out of bed. She rummaged for the comfortable articles of boys'
clothing she wore on the road to save wear and tear on the sole town dress she was fast outgrowing.

She poured water from the jug into the basin and stripped naked to wash herself from head to toe. No matter how grubby she became at her assigned tasks, polishing the wagon and oiling the wheels with axle grease, it was Mama's unwritten law that Clytie began and ended the day scrupulously clean – the first rule of good health.

Standing naked in front of the mirror, she brushed and plaited her wavy dark hair into a single braid as thick as a man's arm. She suddenly felt acutely conscious of how her body had begun to blossom. The buds of her breasts had seemed to sprout overnight, the nipples rosy in colour – more like the breasts of a woman, than the child's body she was familiar with. She tentatively touched her breasts. The sight both pleased and discomforted her.
I'm growing out of my own body. Better get used to the idea.

It was then she glimpsed the reflection at the edge of the mirror. She instantly grabbed a towel to shield herself, her mouth dry, her heart beating fast.

Vlad stood leaning against the doorway, his arms folded across his chest.

‘Not Little Clytie anymore. Not by a long shot.'

‘Piss off, Vlad!' Her voice pitched high with anxiety. ‘I locked that door!'

‘Broken. Anyway, there's no lock can keep me out if I have a mind to enter.'

She stammered out the words. ‘Knock before you enter our place.'