Golden Hope (34 page)

He remembered how Sister Macqueen had assured him that although amnesia had wiped out his personal memories he would still retain any previously learned skills such as languages, how to ride a horse and swim.

He recalled the King's birthday celebration when Sister Macqueen and the Matron gave every patient a small present containing
cigarettes, handkerchief, comb and a stamped postcard of Table Mountain to encourage them to write what might turn out to be their last-ever message home.

Billy, the Canadian lad who always shared everything he had with Finch, had asked him to hold his banjo while he heaved himself out of bed. Without thinking, Finch had plucked at the strings and began playing the first chords of
The Girl I Left Behind Me
, to accompany Rom.

Sister Macqueen's smile had been radiant. ‘Finch! You're a natural musician. Good enough to play in a band.'

Finch had tried to down play the compliment, sensing that he was no more than a gifted amateur.

Now seated in the elegant bar, he recalled the pleasure it had given Sister Macqueen to discover one of his ‘lost' talents. He softly repeated the words he had said to her.

‘I may never remember my name, but I'm never going to forget
you . . .'

‘I should bloody well think
not,
mate!'

Finch flinched, startled by the familiar deep male voice at his shoulder.

Rom Delaney placed a second icy cold beer in front of him, its frothy collar sliding over the rim. He explained it with a wink. ‘This one was going begging.'

‘Rom! Where on earth have you been? I saw you on board the day we sailed then you disappeared from sight.'

Rom tapped one finger against the side of his nose in a sign of conspiracy.

‘I got myself a free trip as a stowaway. Rather than keep me in the hold, they assigned me to kitchen duty. Don't worry, I've been keeping my eye on you.'

‘There's no doubt about you, Rom, you couldn't lie straight in bed.'

‘You calling me a liar?' Rom asked pleasantly.

Finch was equally relaxed. ‘If the cap fits, wear it.'

Rom tugged at his sleeve. ‘This place is full of snobs. The women wouldn't give us the time of day. Down at the wharf I overheard a bloke recommending a discreet
house.
Where the girls are pretty and patriotic about welcoming soldiers home – at a price.'

Finch shook his head resolutely. ‘Enjoy yourself. Count me out.'

‘Don't tell me you're a virgin!' Rom exclaimed in genuine horror. ‘Never mind, we'll soon take care of that.'

‘None of your damned business, but for the record I don't believe I am.'

‘How do you know?' Rom asked cannily.

‘Shut up, will you? For all you know I could be married to that equestrienne.'

‘You can't betray a girl you're not even sure is yours, mate. Your God wouldn't punish you for that.'

‘Since when were you an authority on the Lord?'

‘I've been dodging Him all my life – Him and any girl with orange blossoms in her eyes.'

Finch suspected Rom's careless words did not match his wistful expression.

They were interrupted by a portly man armed with two glasses of beer he placed ceremoniously on the table.

‘Here, lad, welcome home. We are all proud of your service to the Empire. You
heroes
have done Victoria proud.' He offered his hand. ‘The name's Burt. I hail from Bacchus Marsh.'

When Burt turned to acknowledge a friend, Rom seized the moment to advise Finch. ‘He's taken a shine to you. Ignores me like I'm not to be trusted. So
you
ask him for a lift. Bacchus Marsh would take us on the first leg to Bitternbird. What are you waiting for? You're a
hero
, the man said so. Ask him for a lift, for God's sake!'

Finch gave in to the pressure. Burt apologised that he was remaining in Melbourne for the races at Flemington then respectfully touched the brim of his hat and rejoined his friend.

Rom was ready with a back-up plan. ‘Keep your free rail pass for later. Naturally they don't hand them out to stowaways. We'll hit the highway first thing in the morning and flag down a ride. Tonight we can doss down in the Fitzroy Gardens. First we'll need some grog for the road – your shout. How much money do you have to keep us afloat?'

‘What do you mean
us?
What about your own pay?'

Rom said patiently, ‘Have you forgotten? I'm officially on the Missing Presumed Dead list. They don't pay dead blokes.'

Finch came up with his own alternative plan. ‘Let's go to the Salvation Army. I'm told they're hospitable to Diggers and people in need. And we fit the bill on both counts.'

Rom gave a resigned sigh. ‘Jesus, don't tell me I've landed myself with a religious nut. All right, follow me.'

•  •  •

Finch followed wherever Rom led him. What awaited them when they reached the Salvation Army National Headquarters in Bourke Street was more than Finch had bargained for.

Rom made himself scarce, pretending to read a copy of
The War Cry
while leaving Finch to do the talking. Finch was welcomed and offered tea and sandwiches by a young man wearing a slightly theatrical version of a military-style khaki uniform with contrast panels sewn across the chest. The letter ‘S' was printed on the jacket collar but instead of the words ‘Salvation Army' written on the officer's peaked cap the word ‘Biorama' was printed in gold letters.

‘Biorama? Jesus, is that some new kind of religion?' Rom asked Finch quietly when the young man turned aside to answer another's question. ‘Are we in the wrong place? I thought they were Salvos.'

Finch stammered an apology to the young man. ‘Salvos – no insult intended. We meant Salvationists.'

The young Salvation Army officer acknowledged Finch's words with a smile. ‘The fact is, we wear both names with pride. Biorama is the name of the Salvation Army's registered company, the Australian Kinematographic Company.' He held out his hand. ‘Brigadier Joseph Perry is Head of our Limelight Department. We are heavily involved in Kinematography, Photography, Optical Lantern Work and Slide Making. I don't wish to sound immodest but we are making history in what's beginning to be called the motion-picture industry – as a way to get our message across and attract people to hear the gospel.'

Rom looked distinctly dubious but Finch was suddenly fired with enthusiasm.

‘We're only just off the boat from South Africa so all this is new to us. Is there any chance my mate and I could see one of these performances? I am not a Salvationist, but I do believe in God,' he said sincerely.

‘You're most welcome. You've come at just the right time.' The young man smiled and handed him a ticket. ‘There'll be a performance
tonight at 8.00 pm outside, at the back of Little Bourke Street. Excuse me, I must help the team get everything ready.'

Rom eyed Finch warily. ‘I don't know what you've got us into. Sounds to me like they'll dunk us under water and baptise us before you can say J.C.'

‘I think you mean Baptists. What are you afraid of? We're going to see something we've never seen before – magic lantern slides combined with moving picture scenes!'

Finch showed him the printed ticket. ‘The Salvation Army' was written in small print above ‘Kinematographe and Lantern Display. Admit bearer. Commencing at 8 pm. Admission'.

‘It doesn't say how much,' Rom pointed out.

‘It's a gift. I'll put some money in the collection box.'

‘You seem to know a lot about religions.' Rom's eyes narrowed. ‘In hospital you used to mumble in your sleep stuff that sounded suspiciously like psalms.'

‘You're right, I remember them. But unfortunately nothing about my personal life. Come on, drink your tea, I want to get a decent seat.'

Finch was so energised he did not care whether Rom followed him or not. He felt a surge of excitement as he hurried out into Little Bourke Street. A crowd had already gathered in anticipation. Onto the high blank wall of a three-storey building emblazoned with the words ‘Wolfe's Schnapps', a huge light was projected, as if being tested before the performance.

Finch's eyes followed the source of the light to the elevated platform at the rear of the crowd where officers in Biorama khaki uniforms were ready to operate what he recognised as a magic lantern machine – and a strange version of a camera that he presumed was a motion-picture camera.

His eyes fixed on the man who was evidently in charge – an impressive figure with a dark walrus moustache, directing his assistants. This must be Brigadier Joseph Perry. In contrast to the peaked officers' cap he wore, his team of operators wore slouch hats with the sides turned up in military Digger-style.

Finch was mesmerised from the first moment to the last scene of the two-and-a-half hour performance.
Soldiers of the Cross
was an ingenious combination of sixteen dramatic 90-second motion picture
scenes interspersed with 200 magic-lantern slides with recorded orchestral music that Finch read in the program was from the
Masses of Mozart.

Finch was spellbound by the scope and dramatic power of this new medium. He noted the awe in the faces around him when the Jesus on screen raised Lazarus from the dead; their horror when a woman with babe in arms was hunted down by Roman soldiers. The audience reacted as if real-life events were unfolding before their eyes.

Finch was convinced that he was seeing the birth of a new art form that would sweep the world. By the end of the performance the crowd's emotions were at fever pitch and there were heartfelt cries of ‘Hallelujah!'

Dazed, he retraced his steps, less aware of the crowd around him than the filmic images re-running before his eyes.

Rom was leaning by a telegraph pole, smoking a cigarette.

‘Well, did they convert you?'

‘What's the matter with you, Rom? Can't you see that history is being made right here and now? Didn't you see any of it?'

‘I recognised some of the locations. The River Tiber looks a dead ringer for Richmond Baths – and I'll swear some of it was shot at the Murrumbeena Girls' Home.'

Finch felt close to exploding with rage. ‘What the hell did you expect? That the Biorama team would travel to Jerusalem to film it? You're an artistic Philistine!'

Finch was shocked to find his fist was clenched and how close he had come to throwing a punch at Rom. Shaken by his own lack of self-control, he strode off down the street.

Rom gave him time to cool down before he caught up with him.

‘Your instincts are pretty good, mate. You're heading in the right direction for Fitzroy Gardens. I did a bit of shopping,' he added, patting his kit bag.

‘Yeah, I can guess what that means,' Finch said disapprovingly.

‘Commandeering stuff is second nature to me, mate. Learnt it from Robin Hood.'

•  •  •

Warmed by the wine that had gone straight to his head, Finch lay in the Fitzroy Gardens alongside Rom. Overhead the stars seemed to
collide like fireworks on Guy Fawkes Night. He would have preferred to have shared this romantic moment with a special girl. Instead, he was stuck with Rom. He felt compelled to confess the truth.

‘If I hadn't given you my word to join you on this crazy goose-chase, I might have stood a chance with Sister Macqueen. I know she liked me.'

‘Heather likes every bloke she nurses, Finch. And they all love her. That's the sign of a good nurse. They don't play favourites. But when that little Kiwi was
off
duty, boy! That was a different matter.'

Rom gave a knowing hoot as if there were stories he could tell.

Wine made Finch bold enough to face the truth.

‘Did you two have an understanding? You didn't just take advantage of her and leave her high and dry, did you?'

‘Just a wartime romance,' Rom said sagely. ‘A bloke can't marry them all.'

Finch was struck by a sudden thought and turned to Rom.

‘Is there a woman waiting for you in your home town – wherever that is?'

‘It's a long story, Finch. I'll tell you all in good time. Best get a bit of shut-eye.'

The wine had made Finch philosophical.

‘Ever seen a ghost, Rom?'

‘Jesus, what brought
that
on?' Rom asked in irritation on the edge of sleep. ‘Don't tell me you believe in all that malarkey. They're just stories to scare the crap out of little kids. When you're dead you're
dead.
Now go to sleep, for Pete's sake.'

‘How do you know they don't exist? Just because
you
haven't seen one doesn't mean others can't. I've never seen an African pigmy but I accept the word of reputable explorers that pigmy tribes do exist.'

‘Bloody hell. All right, I'm fully awake. For starters, spooks in stories frighten people – because they dissolve right in front of your eyes.'

‘Maybe. Maybe not. Do you think a ghost forgets his past life?'

‘They don't flaming well exist, I tell you! What the hell are you trying to prove?'

‘Hang on, just suppose, for instance, that they lose their memories at the moment of death. How do you know that
I'm
not a ghost? And that I just don't want to face the fact I'm dead?'

‘Sweet Jesus!' Rom muttered. ‘You really
are
shickered. You couldn't be a ghost. You're as solid as a Mallee bull. Here, give me your hand.'

Finch was startled but obeyed. Rom gripped his wrist in the manner of Sister Macqueen.

‘So what does that prove?' Finch asked.

‘Sorry to shoot holes in your wacky theory but I just felt your pulse. Your heartbeat's strong. Your flesh is as warm as mine. You're alive and kicking. Now shut up and let me get some sleep, will you?'