Golden Hope (52 page)

Holy Maude did not miss a beat. ‘I don't mind if I do,' she said, and whipping off her apron, accepted Finch's arm and allowed herself to be led to the centre of the floor.

Finch drew her as close to his chest as he would a beautiful young woman, and with his arm coiled tightly around her waist he spun Holy Maude in a series of whirls that drew the attention of everyone in the hall. He led her into the dance in which men formed the anti-clockwise inner circle and women progressed in the outer circle from partner to partner. He enjoyed the confident smile on Maude's face as she progressed to each partner in turn. It was clear the townsfolk were seeing her in a new light.

At the end of the dance, when all the women had returned to their original partners, Finch delayed Maude with a European-style kiss on her hand. Aware they were the focus of all eyes, he clasped her small hand in his.

‘Miss Maude, there's something I've wanted to say ever since I was first introduced to you.'

‘To Holy Maude, Hoffnung's town joke?' she asked amiably.

‘On the contrary, your name describes exactly what you are – totally ecumenical. You play music for all congregations. You support all their charities. You refuse to take sides in the age-old Catholic versus Protestant conflict. No, you're not a joke, Maude, you're a blessing on this town. I feel privileged to know you.'

Maude's eyes widened and a faint blush coloured her cheeks. ‘I should warn you, Finch, tomorrow people will link your name with the woman said to have been Ned Kelly's lover.'

‘Then let's
really
give them something to talk about, shall we?'

Finch leant down and gently kissed Maude's cheek. When he escorted her back to the door of the kitchen, her parting comment caught him by surprise.

‘Don't sell yourself short, lad. A girl can fall in love with a man without knowing it.'

Finch was left wondering if her words referred to any particular girl.

He glanced surreptitiously at the door on the off-chance Clytie would appear but he didn't hold out much hope. The night was young. He needed to fill in the time somehow.

Aware of the low ratio of men who were prepared to risk rejection, Finch stood up for each dance, choosing married women from the sidelines and kitchen helpers like Mary Mac, who were delighted to take a break from cutting crusts off sandwich bread.

Slowly, slowly catchee Monkey. I'm being accepted in Hoffnung.

All heads turned to the entrance to study the two latecomers.

Ginger had not entirely scrubbed her face clean of make-up. She was dressed in a blue gown that might have looked sedate on any other woman's body but only served to transform her into a modern-day Salome. The man towering over her was a stranger to Finch. Tall and muscular, with an air of arrogant superiority despite his shabby clothing, his swarthy, granite-like features were adorned by a drooping black moustache and his hair was tied back in a sailor's queue. The stranger attempted to take hold of Ginger's arm as if it was his God-given right, but she broke free of him.

Finch was instantly at her side. ‘My waltz, I believe, Ginger.'

Without waiting for the man's response, Finch drew her into his arms. Ignoring Marj Hornery's look of chagrin as he waltzed Ginger past her and her partner, he executed a series of spiral turns which took them to the far end of the hall before he spoke.

‘Who's that chap you came in with? A friend of yours?'

‘Just some stray bloke who turned up at the pub demanding a drink after closing time. Wouldn't take no for an answer. There's nothing for the likes of him in Hoffnung. I reckon he'll be off by sundown tomorrow and good riddance.'

The stranger was standing on guard at the rear of the hall, his arms folded across his chest as he eyed every woman in the room like a buyer at a cattle auction.

As soon as the music ended Finch steered Ginger to a seat where she was soon surrounded by a swarm of admirers from the Diggers' Rest, headed by Moggy Mick, who was known for his many hands.

The fiddlers returned to the stage to accompany the soloist, Ivor Willliams, in his pure rendition of the Welsh national anthem,
Land of My Fathers,
in his mother tongue. Finch had an instant flashback . . . he was lying on his back on the veldt in the dark of night, listening to the rousing song carried on the still air by some unseen, far-off Welsh battalion . . . the same song . . .

He was jolted back to his presence on the dance floor when Ginger hooked her hand firmly through his arm and steered him to the side exit.

‘It's hot as Hades in here. Let's get a dose of fresh air. I'm desperate for a ciggy. One puff behind the bar and old Yeoman would boot me out onto the street.'

Finch did not smoke but he took her unlit cigarette and asked another man for a light. On his return to her, Ginger inhaled deeply then with a provocative smile, tried to place it between his lips.

‘Go on, Finch, you know you want it. And I'm just the girl to give it to you.'

No two ways about her meaning. Finch reminded himself he had a role to play – the man with no memory.

‘That's a lovely offer, Ginger. But before I get involved with any girl, I need to find out whether I'm single or married with kids.'

‘I'd be happy to entertain you in the meantime, Finch.'

Ginger toyed with her cigarette then tossed it to the ground.

Ever mindful of the hazards of starting a bushfire, Finch automatically swivelled his heel to stamp out the butt.

Ginger playfully gripped his ears to draw his face down to her level and covered his mouth with a kiss that left no doubt about the invitation. Her eyes were closed. Finch counted the seconds before he could politely withdraw.
What the hell. Why waste my time trying to win Rom's woman – she's made it clear she doesn't want a bar of me.
Yet despite that knowledge he kept an eye on the path in case Clytie decided to appear.

The fiddlers were now playing a lusty polka but Ginger was in no mood to break free from the kiss. Finch gave himself up to the pleasure of it. It was then he recognised the man watching him from the shadows of the bush.

Larger than life. And his timing is perfect!

Rom Delaney's stance was cocksure, his hat on the back of his head, a trail of smoke rising from his cigar. He grinned at Finch and raised his thumb in a sign of approval.

Finch's hand was behind Ginger's back holding her against his chest. He discreetly raised his thumb to return Rom's signal.

‘Don't look at me, like that, Shadow. It's a woman's privilege to change her mind,' Clytie reminded the Kelpie as she ordered him to wait for her outside the entrance to the Mechanics Institute. ‘I won't be long. A couple of whirls around the dance floor and I'll be out of here. I'll bring you something nice to eat.'

She offered the ticket-seller her money.

‘Mr Finch left a ticket for you, Miss Hart. Good of you to support our cause.'

A woman of tact, Mrs Binstead did not ask if Clytie had any news of her missing fiancé, but her eyes were full of silent sympathy. No doubt she meant well.

Rom's missing, not dead, lady. I can feel he's so close he could walk through the door at any moment.

Clytie stood framed in the doorway, half pleased, half defiant that she had broken the unwritten law against ‘barmaids and undesirables' joining the so-called elite of Hoffnung.

There was a break between dances. Mick and Proddie downed their fiddles and hot-footed it to the kitchen to be plied with tea and cakes before slipping outside the hall to pass the whisky hipflask back and forth between them in silence.

Through the windows of the hall the light fell in shafts across the rough ground covered with fallen leaves and gumnuts that crunched under the footsteps of those who had gone outside to smoke – or have a discreet fumble under the cover of darkness. The red tips of cigarettes glowed in the dark like the eyes of bush animals caught in the glare of a lantern.

Clytie felt a lurch of nostalgia at the sight of two lovers outlined on the rim between darkness and light. Locked in an embrace, their bodies were as one.

How long ago since Rom and I stood like that, oblivious to the world around us? How long before I hold him in my arms again?

Tears threatened to spring unbidden to her eyes, but they dried
when she recognised the two figures as they pulled apart. Ginger, unmistakeable even though for once wearing a modest blue gown, was firmly hooked arm in arm with a tall man. Clytie felt a sudden flash of unease. Pushing her way through the couples returning to the dance floor, she hurried out the main door and whistled Shadow to follow her. The circle of light from the sole streetlamp danced across the quartz stones then lost her as she broke into a run through the darkness towards the safety of the priest's house.

I should never have come. Finch is a free agent. I have no right to feel . . . whatever it is I'm feeling.

Shadow was not himself tonight. He bounded ahead of her but in sight of her house he froze and growled. Clytie didn't break her stride until she saw the outline of a horse tethered a short distance past the house.
No saddle. A stray. Or someone has left it there to graze
.
If no one claims him, I could do with a horse like that.

Shadow continued to snarl as he blocked her entrance to the door, determined to hinder her from placing the key in the lock. The door was slightly ajar.

‘I'm in such a muddle I forgot to lock the door. Shadow, what on earth are you carrying on about? Is there a snake inside or what?'

She pushed the door open, annoyed when Shadow gripped the hem of her skirt in his mouth determined to pull her away.

‘Stop that, Shadow, you'll tear my dress!'

She felt blindly for the place she kept the matches and lit the lamp to explore the cause of his disobedience.

The arc of light came to rest on the corner of the room. The rocking chair was empty – but it remained rocking gently. The hairs stood up on the back of Clytie's neck. This was certainly not the work of a snake.

The man's face was blanched white by the lamplight, a flickering meld of black and white shadows like an image in the Biograph she had seen long ago in Melbourne. His voice was dark, slurred, and aroused a dozen ugly memories.

‘Well, if it isn't the Knife-Thrower's Daughter herself.'

‘Get out of my house, Vlad. There's nothing here for you.'

‘Wrong, Little Clytie. There's everything here for me. I'm
family
, remember?'

‘That word is an obscenity in your mouth.'

Vlad was seated at the deal table, playing with the tip of his knife, the blade of which he had used to scratch the letter ‘V' onto the table top. Clytie saw that the description in Pedro's postcard was true. Vlad's hands were indeed badly gnarled by arthritis but she was not going to risk him using Shadow as a target.

‘It's all right, Shadow.
Outside,
boy!'

Shadow obeyed with a marked show of reluctance.

Faking an attitude of indifference, Clytie crossed to the stove, struck a match to light the kindling wood and placed the iron kettle on the open ring.

‘Family? That's a joke. Your idea of family is a man's right to beat his women. Mother was afraid of you. Her daughter is
not.
'

‘You always were a feisty little kid,' Vlad admitted. ‘And you've grown up to be quite a woman. You're even lustier than your mother was when she was young.'

He paused in engraving his name on the table. The way his eyes wandered over her body gave Clytie instant recall of the time he had trapped her naked in the wagon.

He mustn't know how vulnerable I am. Ginger has her hooks into Finch. Chances are he won't return home till morning.

‘You must be earning a good screw at the pub, a lusty wench like you.'

‘None of your business, Vlad.'

‘I'm told Dolores made good money fleecing blokes in her so-called Tarot readings – on her back. Like Mother like daughter, eh?'

His smirk was insufferable. It was all Clytie could do to restrain herself from clawing his face. Her tongue was her only weapon of defence.

‘And what of you? It's widely known your hands are crippled with arthritis – no circus wants a bar of you. Your knife-throwing act is on the scrap heap.'

Vlad gripped the handle of his knife and flashed the blade at her. ‘Don't you believe it, girlie, I could be a headline act in any Australian circus.'

She crossed the room. Using the table as a barrier between them she rested her hands on it to conceal their trembling, and leaned forward to deliver the words in what she hoped was a tone of soft menace.

‘And I could slit a man's throat at thirty paces. You taught me well, Vlad.'

‘I did indeed.' He gave a confident laugh to conceal the fact he had lost face. ‘We'll make a great team. I'll work up a new act – Vlad and the Knife-Thrower's Daughter. But I'm not your father. So there's no law against us having it off together.'

‘You are pathetic, Vlad.'

Too late. Her taunting words were a mistake. With lightning speed Vlad pinned down both her hands under one powerful, gnarled fist and held the tip of his knife at her throat, tracing it against her skin as if to sketch the letter ‘V' into her flesh.

‘You silly little bitch! Hand over the money Dolores stole from me – that wad of notes she kept in her
treasure
chest
.' To reinforce his sarcastic words, his knife slashed through the neckline of her blouse to reveal her naked breast.

Clytie's voice rose in a desperate attempt to conceal the quiver of fear in her words. ‘You're too late. Mother's money is long gone.'

She broke free and tried to cover herself.