Golden Hope (49 page)

‘I feel privileged to know you, Adelaide Hundey,' she said and jumped down.

Miss Hundey's cart rattled off, wobbling over the many potholes, in the erratic style that had become her signature.

Clytie was left feeling curious about the reason behind the confrontation at the bush hospital, yet a far stronger emotion was uppermost. She was deeply touched by the woman's wistful parting confession.

‘I can only imagine, Shadow, what it cost her to tell me that dark secret.'

Skirting the house via her side vegetable garden, Clytie's eyes were drawn to the two distant figures of Finch and Long Sam, who had set out early that morning to mend the sliprail fence down by the creek.

She was struck by Finch's odd posture. His long legs were straddled over a felled tree, as if riding a horse and cracking an imaginary whip in the air.

Long Sam was laughing at some tale Finch was telling him. Clytie was unable to hear their words but from the exaggerated way Finch grabbed a stick, raised it to his shoulder and fired it, it was clear he was enacting some outrageous tall tale inspired by the war.

At the climax to the dumb show Finch took an acrobatic fall from his ‘horse' and rolled over to hide behind a rock, like a sniper shooting at ‘the enemy'. Sam was bent double laughing and Clytie found it so infectious she joined in.

That's the first time I've ever heard Sam laughing.

She was struck by the strange irony of the scene.

Finch is play-acting a light-hearted moment – in a war that he cannot remember fighting.

•  •  •

That evening she went to particular pains to present a healthy meal for Sam and Finch as thanks for their hard day's labour restoring her boundary fence. As ‘mother' of the table, she was pleased to listen to the easy way Finch conversed with Long Sam, drawing out stories from him about the grand Bendigo Joss House that Sam visited each Chinese New Year. He showed real interest in how Sam and his four compatriots had built the original small joss house for the hundreds of Chinese fossicking on the Lerderderg River at Crimea Point during the height of the Gold Rush.

Finch has a certain knack of talking to people, no matter their age or background. I wonder where he spent his own lost years.

Lying in bed that night Clytie reflected on the day's events, particularly Adelaide Hundey's dramatic confrontation with Bulldog Bracken. Unable to fit the pieces together, she had barely drifted asleep when she was startled awake by the sound of a man shouting in some foreign tongue then swearing in English, ‘Keep your head down or they'll blow it off, you bloody fool.'

The shouting came from the direction of the barn, but a moment later all was quiet.

Clytie remained awake for some time, wondering about the unknown ways men were forced to deal with their experiences of war. It was a sobering thought.

By day Finch can amuse Long Sam with his antics as a V.M.R. soldier – but by night he's trapped, fighting Boers in his sleep.

Today was a red letter day. Finch was determined that nothing and no one was going to stand in his way to prevent him reaching his goal. For months he had felt as if he were climbing a greasy pole, sliding back each time he was in reach of the prize.

Today would be the turning point in the short, fragmentary life of shadows that was all that his memory had revealed to him of his personal life. The moment he heard the kookaburras' laughter that heralded the dawn, he hurtled out of the makeshift bed in the barn and held the cut-throat razor in steady hands as he shaved his jaw line.

Today I will be seen to be a man everyone will look up to – everyone, even Clytie. I can trace my ancestors back to the sixteenth century – which is more than most men can. And I know they were brave men of principle.

He was stopped by the thought that maybe he was the one rotten apple in the family tree.

The blade of the razor froze in his hand.
Family Tree.
The map he had drawn as a child flashed before his eyes. And the words printed clumsily at the top
. The Danger Tree.
He repeated the words with varying emphasis, in English, French and German. The phrase was tantalisingly elusive. What dangers? He closed his eyes and tried to hear his father's complimentary voice. ‘
Très bien, mon fils
– but you have forgotten the apostrophe and the “s”. That's the key to where we came from.'

The apostrophe! That was the key. He said the word with a French accent, softening the hard English ‘g' to a soft French sound. ‘It's my name! D'Angers! We originally came from Normandy, from the old royal capital, Angers! And whatever country gave us refuge, we kept our old name as a mark of pride – our proof of survival.'

His eyes watered. He laughed in embarrassment and wiped the soapy residue from his face. He spoke to the fragment of mirror as if to reach beyond the reflection of his own face to the generations of his ancestors.

‘No matter what I've done in the past to disgrace your name, from this day forth I swear to
L'Eternale
I'll make you proud of me.'

God was his witness. There could be no going back on that promise.

As he sang snatches of an old French song that had lost its words, he washed himself at the tank, delighting in the abrasive thrill of cold water. Sunrise had never looked more inviting. Its rays filtered through the trees like angels' wings.

Today he would discard the khaki uniform that had camouflaged his memory. He gratefully donned the garments from Rom's wardrobe that Clytie had washed and pressed for him in readiness for this all-important day.

Clumsily he tried to knot the man's tie, unfamiliar with the process. He polished his boots to a high shine. Tie in hand, he sprang up the steps to the back door of the priest's house. Through the window he could see Clytie busily making breakfast.
His breakfast.
The fantasy pleased him. He had never slept in her bed but she was washing his clothes and feeding him.
Sooner or later bed will follow.

He smiled in expectation. Some instincts could not be banished. He knew exactly what he would do with her when that moment came.

•  •  •

Clytie was dressed sedately enough in the white Gibson Girl blouse and the flirty-hemmed shirt over dark stockings that had been neatly darned. She wore a jaunty tie loosely knotted at the collar. But her hair had not yet been piled up on her head. It gave her the slightly wanton look of a woman who had just made love all night.

She eyed him speculatively. ‘You don't look too bad in Rom's clothes,' she said and waved him to the waiting seat at the table.

‘Bacon as well as eggs. How on earth did you come by that? I thought we were broke.'

‘Not “we” – “me”. And I'm not broke, just cutting my coat to suit my cloth. I'll get paid at the end of the week. The fact is I found your breakfast wrapped up in a cardboard box on the doorstep this morning.'

‘I should thank Shadow for not eating it.'

‘He wouldn't dare!' Clytie said. ‘I've trained him to eat nothing except at my hands – in case some villain lays a bait for him. Some men hate all dogs – dingos, sheepdogs, you name it.'

‘Aren't you going to share breakfast with me? I don't feel right eating it all by myself.'

‘I'll have breakfast later when I get to the pub.' She eyed him seriously. ‘You never want to look hungry when you're applying for work. It would make you look desperate.'

‘Yes, Ma'am,' he said, managing to disguise his smile. ‘I'll remember that.'

She drank a cup of tea, watching him while he ate. ‘You look different this morning. Like a cat who's tasted cream.'

He was startled by the thought she had read his mind about her. ‘Maybe it's because I've remembered my name – half of it, anyway. D'Angers,' he said, caressing the word with a soft French accent.

‘Hmm, Finch D'Angers. It suits you.'

He wanted to change the subject. ‘I've forgotten how to knot a man's tie. Can you give me a hand?'

He offered her the tie and saw her hesitate about accepting it, as if the gesture was one that aroused intimate memories of Rom.

‘I can only do it as if I were tying it on myself,' she said and walked behind his chair.

Her arms slid around his neck and she folded the two ends expertly. The sweet smell of her hair as it fell across his cheek was almost overpowering.

‘Don't worry, I'll make a man of you,' she said lightly.

It was as much as Finch could do to keep from twisting her down onto his lap and kissing the cheeky smile off her face.

‘Thank you,' he forced himself to say. ‘A man, if not a gentleman.'

‘I rather suspect you are both,' she said.

Buoyed by a glimmer of hope he thanked her for the meal and for the clothes and found the courage to say the words as casually as he could.

‘I don't know what work Sonny might offer me – if any. But one way or another I'll be free this evening. I guess you know there's a dance being held tonight at the Mechanics Institute to raise funds for the volunteers' comfort parcels. Did you know the mighty Imperial Army doesn't even provide them with soap?'

Heaven on earth! What made me say that?

His invitation was coming out all wrong and he cursed himself for his clumsiness.

‘Perhaps you might like to come along with me? It's all in a good cause.'

Clytie did not hesitate. ‘Thanks, Finch, but it's hard enough to be pointed out as the Knife-Thrower's Daughter, the girl Rom Delaney left at the altar, without giving them fresh ammunition.'

‘Who cares what people think? Look, it's a good cause. Some of the money raised will go towards Hoffnung's war memorial.'

That was an instant mistake. It raised the possible spectre of those Missing in Action – and Rom's name on the list.

‘It isn't just me, Finch. None of the women who work at the Diggers' Rest are welcome tonight. Marj Hornery is head of the committee. It's been made loud and clear. Respectable women will stay away in droves, if we turn up to lower the tone!'

Finch swore under his breath as he saw his chance slipping away from him.

‘I tell you what, I'll leave a ticket in your name at the door – in case you change your mind. That's a lady's privilege, isn't it?'

Clytie could not be swayed. ‘Sonny will have offered you a good job. I'd put money on it. You'll be in a mood to celebrate your change in fortune. But I should warn you about Hoffnung dances. There's a total ban on alcohol in the hall. So blokes fuel up on grog before they show up at the dance. ‘

‘I don't drink much at the best of times.'

‘Can you dance?'

‘I'm about to find out.'

‘Just show willing and there'll be a stampede to claim you when it's the ladies' choice. Don't worry, you won't have much competition. Most blokes simply go to eye off the young girls who are forced to dance with each other for lack of male partners.'

‘How about you give me a few tips?'

To his surprise Clytie rose to the bait, guiding him through the waltz and demonstrating the revolving patterns of the Progressive Barn Dance.

He followed her instructions, trying not to be distracted by the smell of her newly washed hair and the sweetness of her breath against his chest.

Why feel guilty? Damn it all, there ought to be some compensation for playing Rom's go-between.

He broke away. ‘Thank you, Miss Hart. At least I won't walk on some poor girl's feet. I'd best go. Don't want to keep Doc waiting.'

‘Good luck, Finch D'Angers,' she called after him.

He had a flash of a woman's naked body locked into his, rising and falling under his hands, crying out with joy under his determined persuasion. He realised with a jolt just how long it must have been since he had been to bed with a woman.

•  •  •

The bells of St Xavier's Church were tolling for Mass. Trudging uphill towards the sound was a cluster of the faithful, men in miners' garb ready for their next shift, women with heads covered in scarves, keeping a tight rein on small sons who dragged a step behind, as if unwilling to bare their secret sins at Confession.

Standing outside the Diggers' Rest on the corner of Main Street and the road to the Mineral Springs, Finch was ironically aware his early stance at the doors of the pub might place him by association with Frankie the Fly, the bar-fly who was first through the doors each morning. He was also uncomfortably aware that, being surprisingly well dressed in Rom Delaney's best clothes, he was the subject of female interest that no doubt would be transmuted into gossip and spread by the early-bird passers by.

Some women were bold enough to comment audibly on his appearance.

‘Take a gander at that Finch, all dressed up all of a sudden,' the baker's wife said as she waylaid postmistress Marj en route to opening up the Post Office.

‘I prefer him in uniform, myself,' Marj replied, ‘but he's not that bad looking, in an English gent sort of way.'

‘You think he's a Pom, do you? Poor lad, it must be weird not knowing who you are. Like an unwanted baby abandoned on a doorstep.'

They were still discussing his lost memory when entering the General Store.

Ginger, the auburn-haired barmaid with the bold eyes ringed with kohl, gave him a confidential aside as she passed him.

‘Don't mind them, sweetheart. They wouldn't recognise a real man if they woke up and found one in their bed,' she said with a bold wink.

While Finch tried to sort out a response that couldn't be read two ways, the barmaid tossed him a final smile before she entered the hotel.

‘Don't be a stranger, Finch. We welcome gents like you. You raise the tone of the place.'