Golden Hope (40 page)

Finch watched the doctor writing in a neat hand and noted the careful way his left hand held the pen to avoid smudging the ink. Blotting it with a roller pad, he folded the letter into an envelope, addressed it ‘To Whom It May Concern' and handed it across to Finch.

‘I don't know if it's any help in regaining your memory. But when you talked in your sleep, some phrases were in English, French and German. You were reciting the 23
^rd
Psalm in French. How does it go?'

Finch hesitated, afraid he might be walking into a trap. ‘L'Eternale est berger . . . The Lord is my shepherd.'

Doc nodded. ‘But I know enough French to recognise that it was some archaic form of Old French. At the height of your fever you kept repeating one particular phrase I can only say in English.' Doc
was eyeing him keenly. ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil . . .'

Finch was shaken by images so bright they seemed to blind him. He felt small, like a child listening to a young man teaching him the French words.
My father?!

Doc's gentle voice brought him back to the moment at hand. ‘The valley of the shadow of death – I will fear no evil. What words of timeless beauty – and faith.'

Finch nodded, so disturbed he could not find the right words.

‘I expect you to keep in touch, Finch. Don't hesitate to call on me, either as a doctor or a friend.'

The man's kindness increased Finch's sense of confusion – perhaps even guilt. He was in such a weakened state he blinked back the tears that threatened to spill over.

‘Thank you,' he mumbled as he hastened from the surgery.

Outside in the street, his thirst was so strong it was biting his throat. He was startled to discover coins in his pocket.
I was flat broke when I entered Hoffnung. Who put this money here?

Finch was tossing up whether to order a beer or a cup of tea when he was approached by an old man in baggy overalls, whose face glistened with sweat above the grubby rim of a collarless shirt. The rasping voice was not unkind and he offered his hand.

‘Good to see you're back on your feet, soldier. The name's Lucky Jack –'cos in thirty years I never had a day's luck fossicking. Just passing through, are you, son?'

‘No, I'm looking for work. Any advice?'

‘Don't like your chances, son. Hardly enough work for our own, seeing as our last mine the Golden Hope's threatened with closure. Boss Jantzen is getting past it. His son Sonny's a real gent, but he's got a weak chest. Consumption always gets you in the end, don't it?'

Finch began to feel in danger of dying along with the town.

‘I'll take anything going.
Anything
.'

‘You might strike better luck in Bendigo, Ballarat or Clunes.'

‘Thanks, I'll keep them in mind. But right now I have business here. I'm looking for a lady. Miss Clytie Hart. Do you know her?'

Lucky Jack gave a knowing laugh. ‘Who doesn't?' He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘
Business,
eh? You'll find the
lady
in the hotel kitchen. You're a new face. You might get lucky.'

Lucky Jack swung off to the bar leaving Finch tight-lipped with anger at the obvious innuendo. This was the girl Rom Delaney had loved and deserted, leaving her alone to give birth – a stigma that branded her as a loose woman.

‘I wouldn't count on your getting lucky with
me
, Finch.'

He spun around at the sound of the girl's voice, a curious mix of velvet and sarcasm.

‘I wouldn't argue with a woman who can handle a Bowie knife like you can.'

‘Wise man,' she smiled, and the dimples at each side of her mouth were tempting.

‘We meet again, Miss Hart,' he said politely to cover the other man's casual insult. ‘My name's Finch – that's all I know. Doctor Hundey found me lying –'

‘I know. I helped hold you down while he stitched up your wound.' Her head cocked to one side as she eyed his forehead. ‘Hmm, neat job.'

‘I seem to be in everyone's debt.' Suddenly woozy, Finch staggered to regain his balance. ‘Excuse me, I need to sit down.'

Clytie ushered him to a bench on the side veranda and returned with a glass of orange juice she placed carefully in his hands.

‘You're as white as a sheet. You all right?'

‘Perfect – if only I could remember who I am.'

The words were like a mantra. He was tired of having to explain himself. Tired of the web of lies, the promise that bound him to Rom – he hated lying to Rom's girl.

‘Maybe that's a blessing – to remember only the good stuff,' she said cheerfully.

‘It would be – if I
could
remember the good stuff.' He wiped his hand in front of his face as if cleaning a dirty window pane. ‘Nothing. Good, bad – or bloody.'

He rose in haste, ‘Forgive me, Miss. I have been around soldiers too long. My language isn't fit for a lady's company.'

Her laugh was an attractive, throaty sound. ‘No ladies in sight, soldier. Relax.'

He did not know how to answer.
I wish to hell Rom was here to advise me – how on earth do I ask about her baby?

‘Don't move, I'll be right back,' Clytie said.

Finch watched her receding figure skip lightly down the flagstone veranda to the kitchen door, noting her tiny waist, the black hair piled on her head that no side combs seemed able to tame and the flash of pretty ankles beneath the long skirt. He felt a sense of reprieve for himself, anger towards Rom, and a sense of injustice that a girl must always pay the price of a man's pleasure if she ‘fell' and forever lost her good name.

She returned with a tray bearing a plate of steaming sausages, mashed potatoes, green peas with mint sauce and a china jug of tomato sauce. Alongside them were a linen serviette, cutlery, and a wedge of apple pie and custard in a bowl.

His mouth watered. ‘Look, I can't afford to pay right now.'

‘No need. You're in luck. I'm in charge of the kitchen today.' Her smile was infectious, her wink conspiratorial. ‘I'll leave you to it. But perhaps we can talk later, Finch? About my friend Rom. Roman Delaney?'

Her eyes beseeched him for confirmation.

He nodded and watched her leave before he remembered. The photograph was intact in his pocket.
She's knows I've got it – she'll want to know how I came by it.

Too hungry to worry further about how he was going to extricate himself from his role as go-between, he said a hasty prayer to thank God. French words that came to him from somewhere deep within him.

His hunger satisfied, he thought of the kindness of the girl who loved Rom Delaney and had waited for his return, trapped in this backwater town, the butt of snide remarks.

She's quite a fighter, this Clytie Hart. No wonder she climbed on the suffragettes' band-wagon. Not even a rotten tomato could dampen that girl's spirit.

The meal finished, Finch was startled to see Rom beckoning him urgently from the shadow of the giant elm tree that shaded the hotel's driveway. He laid the empty tray on the bench and crossed to Rom's side.

‘Thank God you turned up. She's seen the photograph she sent you. What do I tell her?'

‘That can wait. Follow me!'

Rom's face was taut, his words a command not a request. He charged along the main street and up the hill, leaving Finch struggling to keep pace.

W
e're heading for the cemetery. What's the hurry? They're all dead.
Finch arrived panting at the cemetery's gabled lych gate.

A few rows away Rom was standing in front of a grave, hat in hand, his face shadowed, his eyes haunted. Finch stood by his side and silently read the words.

‘Sacred to the Memory of Robert Hart. Loved and lost by his mother Clytie Ellin Hart. Age five days . . .' The date was 1901, only a few months earlier.

Finch placed his arm awkwardly around Rom's shoulder. ‘Dear God, I'm so sorry, mate. What a terrible shock.'

Rom's voice was harsh. ‘Is it? One in four kids die before they're five years old. Mine didn't even live to see out his first week.' Rom turned on him accusingly. ‘You know what's hard to take? Clytie didn't even give my kid the name Delaney. Like I never bloody well existed.'

‘Surely you don't blame
her?
She had no choice. She couldn't use Delaney until she had written proof you acknowledged yourself as his father.'

‘And I never bloody well answered her letter! Too late now.' Rom shook off Finch's comforting arm. ‘What are you? Some kind of bush lawyer?'

‘Who knows? I'm only sure of one thing. Your Clytie is a good woman, no matter what narrow minds think of her. She's suffered enough, Rom.
Please
make yourself known to her.'

‘I will in time. But I'll do it my way. I need to get my head around this. My kid is dead. This changes everything. Right now you and I need a place to live. There's a derelict miner's right cabin I shacked up in before I enlisted. With a bit of luck it's still vacant.'

Finch pulled a clump of dandelions from the long grass and placed them at the head of the little grave, alongside a recent spray of bush flowers in a jar of water. He sensed Rom's thoughts.
One love child has died. The other girl is married. Has his other babe survived?

Finch recognised from the slump of Rom's shoulders that he was grieving, that his curt words masked deep pain. He followed him silently out of the cemetery and along a narrow track that led deep into the heart of the bush. Branches caught at their clothes like tentacles determined to impede them.

•  •  •

The stone cabin had long ago lost its chimney and door but the roof was relatively intact. Rom's mood changed like quicksilver.

‘It's pretty much in the same mess as I left it,' he said philosophically. ‘But it'll keep us dry until something better turns up.'

‘Doctor Hundey gave me a good character reference, so I reckon I'll soon have some money coming in. We'll survive.'

‘Good for you. Doc's a rare gent. He often works around the clock. But socially he keeps to himself. No doubt due to his sister – a real oddball. If her remittance cheque from England isn't at the Post Office she throws a tantrum. People reckon Doc locks her up when the moon is full.'

Finch was stunned. ‘Do you mean, like in a lunatic asylum?'

‘Maybe just town gossip,' Rom said, throwing his kit bag down. ‘I'll fetch us clean straw for bedding.'

‘How are you going to do that? Not a brass razoo between us.'

Rom said patiently as if to a child, ‘I was in the V.M.R., remember? Out scouting on the veldt for days, often without army rations. I'm an expert at commandeering whatever I need to survive. You rest easy. I'll see you right.'

Rom had bolted outside before Finch had right of reply, so he stretched out on his army blanket and used his kit bag for a pillow. He felt a faint wave of guilt that he had left Clytie without a word of thanks, but assured himself he would seek her out tomorrow and answer whatever questions he could – unless he could convince Rom it was time to front up and take full responsibility. Right now Finch had no fight left in him. He gave in and allowed sleep to carry him off – knowing the chances he would be trapped in nightmares in the darkness . . .

•  •  •

The hotel veranda was empty. Clytie stood, hands on hips, staring at the tray that was empty of every skerrick of food.
The bird has flown No wonder with a name like Finch. Just like a man – bolts whenever he feels cornered.

‘Well, he can't have gone far!' she said out loud. ‘I'll track him down if it's the last thing I do.'

‘Another bloke left you in the lurch, has he, love?' the new barmaid from Bendigo said in a teasing voice.

‘Piss off, Ginger! You're talking through your hat.'

Clytie discarded her apron, washed her hands, and retrieved the straw boater that she had covered with a scarf to camouflage the knife-hole she had made in it. She tracked down Mrs Yeoman to establish the hours she had worked, then marched off down the main street in the direction of home.

With waning hope, she checked in at the Post Office in case some long missing letter from Rom had turned up. There was only a flyer for a Women's Suffrage meeting.

Ballarat. No doubt they'll get a good crowd. But it's too far away for me.

‘She's one of them suffragettes. The kind what hates men,' Marj Hornery said in a superior tone to the next woman in the queue, yet loud enough for Clytie to hear.

Clytie turned to face her. ‘You should know. This letter's been steamed open.'

The postmistress blushed. ‘Don't look at me! How dare you suggest –'

‘Who else? You're famous for it. How else can you spread all the gossip?'

Clytie left Marj with her slack jaw moving like a fish.

She nodded to the occasional figure she passed but gave no opportunity to be questioned about the presence of Finch.

Clytie was not surprised to see Shadow waiting by her front gate. She knelt and ruffled his ears in the affectionate way Rom had done.

‘Where have you been? There's something fishy going on, boy. I keep feeling your master is hiding out somewhere. Rom's just out of sight.'

The Kelpie's ears pricked up at the sound of Rom's name.

‘I'll make you a meal. Just promise me you'll let me know if you spot Rom.'

Shadow barked as if he understood every word.

‘You'd make a great mind-reader, mate. We could put you in a circus.'

Shadow was eating with reasonably good manners from the tin bowl placed outside her back door. In the process of pouring boiling
water into the iron saucepan Clytie chanced to look out the window. Her eye was caught by a movement under the flowering gum tree in the corner. Her pulse quickened but she tried to stay calm.