Golden Hope (30 page)

Conscious that Shadow was watching her anxiously, she gave him a hug. ‘Mama was right, we won't give in to fear.' At the sound of the wagon drawing up outside, she added quickly, ‘I've left plenty of food and water for you. Be a good boy and guard the house till I return tomorrow morning.'

The driver of the mail wagon was an elderly bachelor whose nickname, in Hoffnung's contrary tradition, was Curly because
he was as bald as a billiard ball. He was obviously nervous at the prospect of taking ‘a woman with child' along bumpy roads uninhabited for long stretches except by occasional ‘ghost towns'.

He gingerly helped her clamber up onto the front seat. The back was piled with canvas bags of mail and packages destined for South Africa.

‘How thoughtful of you, Curly, to supply me with a rug and cushions. Every home comfort.'

‘No thanks to me, lady. Miss Hundey's doing it was. Likewise the picnic basket of food and drink to keep you going.'

Whenever they rattled over giant potholes, Clytie bounced on her seat like an India rubber ball.

‘Plenty more of them – and we've got two flooded creeks to cross. Don't say I didn't warn ya,' Curly said dolefully.

‘I'm not easily scared. I've performed every dangerous circus act – except fire eating. I'm ready for anything,' Clytie said airily.

‘What if babe comes tonight, but?'

‘I'm not due for six weeks. Anyhow, babes have been getting themselves born without doctors and midwives for centuries.'

Curly failed to be convinced.

Clytie played her trump card. ‘Look at baby Jesus. He didn't have any medical help in the manger.'

Curly crossed himself, wide-eyed with horror at what he considered Clytie's blasphemy.

‘That were different! The Holy babe were a
immaculate
conception.' He added darkly, ‘I take it
you
ain't even married.'

‘Neither was the Virgin Mary, if what I hear was true.'

Curly cracked his whip vehemently. ‘I'll thank you to watch your tongue, Miss! God is always listening.'

Clytie bit her lip to stifle a giggle and allowed him time to cool his outrage.
That's cooked my goose. In his eyes I'm a heathen as well as a Fallen Woman.

She followed the patterns of shape-shifting clouds and the arc of the rainbow for some miles until she decided it was safe to begin teasing out snippets of information about Curly's youth at the diggings.

‘That there mullock heap was where they found the famous Shamrock nugget,' he said, gesturing to the roadside. ‘I was on
Ballarat at the time but I came back here to try me luck – not that it did me much good.'

Clytie was suddenly alert.

‘Ballarat. So you were there in the early years? Did you ever see a beautiful dancer named Lola Montez perform for the diggers?'

The name caused Curly to spit onto the side of the road. ‘Don't mention that harlot's name to me. Spawn of the Devil she was!'

Realising she had got on the wrong side of him again, Clytie quickly changed the subject to his family.

Once Curly warmed to a subject there was no stopping him. ‘Born on the diggings, youngest of seven. Sisters all married, one brother's a priest. Another was ready to take his final vows when he got seduced by a shanty-keeper's daughter.' He spat into the bush as if the words had fouled his mouth.

‘Ma crossed his name out of the family Bible – dead to us, he is. Pa cleared off to the Coolgardie diggings and never come back. No one to work the farm but Mum, so I got this job driving the mail to keep things afloat. Forty years – and I ain't had a day off sick.'

Desperate to discover a glimmer of romance in this ill-fated family, Clytie asked, ‘Did you ever want to marry?'

Curly was genuinely surprised. ‘Why? Ma cooks for me and washes and mends me clothes. From what I've seen married life is trouble – nothing but kids, bills and wives who think getting churched gives 'em a licence to nag a man.'

Clytie felt desperate for a little light at the end of the tunnel. ‘What of the future, Curly? How would you feel about women like your sisters getting the vote?'

He chewed that over. ‘I reckon it'd be all right as long as they vote the way their husbands tell 'em to.'

Clytie decided it was safer to confine herself to points of interest. She was not prepared for what happened next.

‘I was driving along this stretch early one morning some time ago when I came across a young bloke walking along the road, headed for Hoffnung. I had no choice but to give him a lift. He was stark naked except for his boots.'

‘My goodness. What had happened to him?'

‘Best not to ask, Miss,' Curly said darkly. ‘He was a lad with a bad reputation. I heard he later donned the khaki, so I reckon that Lord Kitchener will sort him out.'

Clytie suddenly shivered. ‘Do you know his name?'

‘Delaney or some such,' Curly said vaguely.

Clytie felt the babe kick in her womb in agitation. She remembered that final night they had made love. Rom climbing through her window . . . how moonlight had etched every line of his strong, beautiful body . . .

Did this encounter on the road happen before or after Rom met me?

Clytie was silent for the rest of the journey.

•  •  •

Enveloped in her flamboyant shawl, Clytie sat in the back row of Bitternbird Town Hall. It was only two-thirds full and the hands on the clock showed it was past the appointed starting time.

Clytie was enchanted by the elegance of the building. Her eyes traced the rich, intricate patterns of stained glass on the giant domed ceiling, the delicate pastel colours edging the cornices, windows and doors. A veritable little palace.

If only it had been built in time for Lola to perform on this stage.

Clytie visualised the scene, the wild dance that either shocked or enchanted her audience and made her notorious.

Tonight there was a strange contrast between the grandness of the architecture and the spectators. Women were dressed like a sombre army in dark coats, hats and long skirts, their hair hidden from sight as if a luxuriant head of hair was a frivolous sign unworthy of the seriousness of the night's program.

Only a few males were formally dressed, one or two of whom sported a clerical collar. Most clutched hats and umbrellas, ready to depart at the first opportunity.

The five women seated on the stage ranged in age from those who might have put their hair up for the first time to weathered-looking matrons. Beside them on an artist's easel was a handsome photographic placard of Vida Goldstein. None of the women remotely resembled her with her patrician beauty. Clytie was startled to recognise the hat worn by a lady in the front row who was more elegantly dressed than the others. The fashionable large-brimmed hat was
adorned with an exotic bird-of-paradise. The hat turned, the bird seemed to wave its beak at Clytie, and the bright blue eyes beneath the hat smiled back at her as if to welcome a new recruit to the cause.

That's Noni Jantzen's Aunt Rhoda!

A group of late arrivals charged in noisily in heavy boots, leaving a distinct trail of alcohol behind them. The strident pitch of their voices signalled that they were here to make sport. The younger ones gave Clytie the bold eye as they pushed past her.

Here's trouble! But I wonder how keen they'd be if they knew I'm about to drop a foal!

Clytie concentrated on each woman's speech and tried to take mental notes that would satisfy Miss Hundey when she reported back the night's proceedings.

At first she found herself floundering in the rhetoric but soon found her mind stretching to encompass ideas that were intellectual, explorative, half-baked or brave and increasingly charged with emotion.

When a young shopgirl nervously addressed them, Clytie hung on every honest, forthright word about her first-hand experiences of the poor conditions suffered by hundreds of females employed in department stores. Forced by their employers to stand for eight hours each day, six days a week, and forbidden to take a seat for a minute even when the shop was empty of customers.

A lanky redhead with a face resembling a portrait of Joan of Arc gave an impassioned speech about the exploitation of servants on remote rural properties, where their mistresses often treated them as virtual slaves.

Phrases rang and collided in Clytie's head.

‘Why do male politicians allow women to be exploited in this way . . .?'

‘Alone we are weak, together we are strong . . .'

‘Nothing will change until we gain an equal footing with men – under the law . . .'

The Joan of Arc girl raised her arm, not with a clenched fist, but a beckoning gesture. ‘Come on! Why wait for Britain and America to give their women the vote? We should lead, not follow!

‘New Zealand women were the first in the world to win the vote! South Australia was quick to follow. I ask you, now that we are
united as one country, why is Australia lagging behind? The power lies in our hands. Nothing will change unless
we
Victorian women change our world!'

Clytie heard a woman cheering and realised the voice was her own.

On stage a mousy-haired woman tossed her hat aside and stepped forward, reading out an inspiring statement from Miss Vida Goldstein that was welcomed with rousing cheers.

The next moment the scene turned ugly. Clytie found herself at the centre of a tirade of abuse from a group of men determined to wreck the meeting. When volunteers were asked to step forward and circulate copies of a petition, she elbowed her way free of the men and volunteered to hand it around.

The woman in the bird-of-paradise hat was the first she approached. She signed with a flourish, her eyes twinkling. ‘Your daughter will be proud of her mother, m'dear.' She signed her name – Miss Rhoda James.

Clytie grew in confidence as she collected signatures. The evening was fast blossoming into the surreal quality of a dream. When the rally broke up she floated out into the cold night as if her boots walked on air. The world around her seemed coloured by a glowing light, superimposing a glimpse of a future she had never imagined possible.

She laughed in surprise when the babe in her womb did a series of flip-flaps, catching the excitement her heartbeat passed on to him.

No doubt about it, he's born for the circus.

A man's voice brought her back to earth.

‘You women are gunna change the world, are ya?' Curly asked as he helped her climb up into the wagon.

‘Not tonight, Curly. But there's plenty of time tomorrow.'

He had made up a rough bed in the back of the wagon and Clytie thankfully curled up on it. Rocked by the motion of the cart, she watched the stars flying overhead, one moment screened and filtered by racing canopies of trees, the next set free to scatter like stardust across the midnight sky.

Wherever you are, Rom, these stars will carry my love to you. I will never believe you're missing – you're just out of sight.

It was at that moment she felt a rush of warmth between her thighs. Her waters had broken. Dolores's grandchild had signalled that the first of the Harts' sixth generation was coming, ready or not!

‘Curly, there's a slight change of plans. Would you please drive as fast as safety allows?'

Curly cracked the whip and the horses galloped into the darkness.

•  •  •

Dawn was breaking when Curly charged along Main Street. The horses were shining with sweat.

Clytie was relieved but not surprised when they passed Long Sam, who was heading towards her house to work on the vegetable garden.

‘Hey, Sam. I can't work with you today. I think he's coming early.'

As calmly as if she had a baby every day of the week, she thanked Curly.

‘I'll be fine now, Curly. My friend Sam will call Doc Hundey.'

‘Good luck to you, Miss Hart,' Curly said, touching his cap in a salute but clearly relieved to escape.

Long Sam took one look at Clytie and needed no words to interpret the scene.

‘We go to hospital right away, Miss Clytie.'

‘No, I'll wait here for Doc. Just leave him a message.'

‘No good. Baby won't wait. We go to hospital right now, you hear?'

Long Sam was already charging up the hill in the direction of the nearest neighbour's cottage.

The tidal waves of contractions increased in strength, the time between them steadily decreasing. Clytie sat on the garden bench, breathing deeply as each wave of pain came to her. She heard a soft rustle of leaves behind her and turned, half-expecting to see Dolores watching her.

‘I know you're there, Mama. I remember what you said. Stay happy and the babe will be born laughing . . . oh, shit – here comes another big one!'

The next contraction was so acute it almost enveloped her. As soon as it subsided she waddled down the path, her belly cradled in her arms, wasting no time to climb into the vehicle that Sam had brought her.

A dog cart! But who am I to be choosy at a moment like this?

She was too heavy for Shadow to pull her. Sam did not hesitate. He drew the halter over his shoulders and, amazingly fleet of foot, set off at a cracking pace, pulling the cart behind him. As they travelled
the length of Main Street Clytie was vaguely aware of children's catcalls and whistles as Long Sam whizzed past them.

The outline of the bush hospital suddenly reared up before them. Sam dropped the halter and ran inside, emerging moments later with a woman in nurse's uniform, her shoulder-length white veil blowing in the wind.

Sister Bracken eyed Clytie coolly.

‘I'm Clytie Hart, I'm not due for another six –'

‘Your babe has other ideas. Get yourself inside.' She turned to Sam and shouted at him as if he were deaf and a child. ‘You. Get doctor! Run! Savvy?'