Golden Hope (39 page)

‘Pretty girls? I look like a scarecrow!' Clytie said.

‘I should be so lucky,' Mary Mac said with resignation. ‘Now you're here, love, you might as well get paid for a couple of hours' work.'

‘But what would Mrs Yeoman say?'

‘I'm cook, now. I'll tell her I needed a bit of help. She'll be sweet.'

Working alone in the pantry, where Mary Mac had assigned her to reorganise the shelves, Clytie completed the work by climbing up the stepladder to place the publican's wife's favourite crystal decanter safely on the highest shelf.

The sharp tug on the hem of her skirt caused her to give a yelp of anger, expecting to find one of Moggy Mick's cronies had cornered her, intent on taking ‘liberties with her person' as had so often happened to her in the past.

She whirled around and demanded fiercely, ‘What the hell do you think you're doing?'

Only to find it was not a man's hand up her skirt, but the cold nose and teeth of a dog tugging at the hem.

‘Shadow! It's you!'

The Kelpie immediately released the material that he had taken care not to tear. His low growl was insistent but his bright eyes had a pleading look. She had learned to interpret that expression.

‘What's up, boy? Something's wrong – show me!'

He bounded out the door. Clytie had no choice but to follow. She stuck her head around the kitchen door where Mary Mac was rinsing out the ruined clothing in the sink that ran red like blood.

‘Someone's in trouble – I have to go. Tell Mrs Yeoman I'm sorry to bolt. I'll be back as soon as I can.'

She fled, unmindful of the fact she was enveloped by an apron.

The main road was water-logged and in the darkness Clytie bunched up the hem of the apron to avoid the pitfalls.

‘Easy, Shadow I'm running as fast as I can.'

She paused, panting at the realisation that Shadow was heading for Doc Hundey's house. Shadow never slackened his speed.

‘Sit on the veranda and don't move, Shadow. I hope you haven't made a fool of me. I have no idea why I'm supposed to be here.'

Her tentative knock on the front door drew the physician's instant response. He didn't question her arrival.

‘Perfect timing, Clytie. I need help.'

She followed him into the front room where a makeshift stretcher-bed held the body of a young man lying under a sheet. His head was in shadow but it was clear there was a wooden stick bound with linen between his teeth.

Doc was calm but firm. ‘Roll up your sleeves and use that gown to protect your clothes. Wash your hands. I must operate immediately. No time to take him to hospital. I found him lying in the street after a brawl. He's lost a fair quantity of blood – could go into shock.'

The room smelt of alcohol and other strange substances Clytie could not identify. Blood covered the sheet at the back of the patient's head. No time for her to be squeamish.

‘I can't give you chloroform, lad. Understand?'

The soldier blinked his eyes in response. ‘Don't need it,' he mumbled.

He wasn't slow to accept the slug of whisky the Doc offered him.

Clytie followed Doc's curt instructions speedily, but her eye wandered to the khaki jacket slung over the back of a chair – clearly a V.M.R. uniform.

The patient turned his head into the light. His eyes were bright with fever but fixed on her intently as if to draw strength from human contact. Despite the wad in his mouth that distorted his features there was no mistaking that face, that snowy hair.

‘I know him, Doc,' she whispered.

Doc Hundey cast her a swift glance. ‘Friend of yours, eh?'

‘I forget his name. He was at the Women's Suffrage meeting – sitting at the back of the hall. I – it's a long story. I borrowed his Bowie knife.'

Doc's handiwork with needle and thread finally completed, he had time for a wry smile. ‘My sister
will
be pleased to meet him. Not too many young men support the vote for women.'

‘I'm not sure he does. Poor lad looked hungry. I fancy he just came in off the street for the free supper.'

Doc gently removed the gag from the patient's mouth and patted his shoulder.

‘It's all over now, lad. Rest easy, you're going to be just fine.'

The soldier blinked his eyes as if to register his thanks, then looked across at Clytie and tried a feeble smile but the effort cost him and he fell asleep, his breathing reassuringly deep and even.

Clytie glanced at his battered kit bag and the greatcoat. She caught sight of the hole in the sleeve.

Doc picked up on her thought. ‘Yes, presumably a bullet hole. He's been through more than his fair share, I'll warrant. Already has a heavy scar on his scalp.'

‘He's probably on his way home somewhere.'

‘There must be some clues,' Doc said, going through the soldier's pockets and belongings.

Clytie returned the knife to his kitbag. There was nothing to identify the patient except a dog-eared map of Victoria and a handkerchief wrapped around a battered envelope. No name or address.

The doctor hesitated before opening it. ‘It may be personal. But it might well be from a family member. They'd want to know he's been injured.'

He withdrew a photograph and raised an eyebrow in surprise.

‘Are you quite sure you don't know who he is? He appears to know
you
.'

He handed the photograph to her. Clytie gasped with shock.

‘I sent this photograph to Rom! Oh my God, don't tell me this lad knew him and has come to tell me he's dead!'

Instinctively she reached out to wake him, but Doc stayed her hand and gently drew her away.

‘I understand your urgency, my dear, but this lad is in no condition to be questioned. I promise you I will let you know the minute he is well enough to see you. Right now there's nothing more you can do. Thank you for your timely help. I have no idea how you knew but I accept what Shakespeare wrote in
Hamlet
:
“
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio –”'

They turned around startled as the patient stirred in his sleep to utter the final words, ‘. . . than are dreamt of in your philosophy'.

‘Well, Clytie, that suggests we have an interesting conversation ahead of us when he is fit to speak. This chap is no ordinary volunteer, I'll warrant.'

Clytie handed back the photograph with some reluctance. Having sent it to Rom, she felt that no stranger had the right to it.

‘I wish him a speedy recovery, not just for his own sake. He has me to answer to – about Rom.'

Doc Hundey showed her to the door and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

‘If it is any comfort, I shall take note of anything he says in his sleep and let you know. Not strictly within the guidelines of the physician's code – but the circumstances are far from usual.'

Clytie nodded agreement and hurried back towards the Diggers' Rest with the faithful Shadow at her heels. She bade him wait by the side door and returned with a bone for him and gave a loving ruffle of his ears.

‘Good boy. You served your master well, Shadow. This soldier, whoever he is, holds the key to Rom. God willing he's alive and well. I feel in my heart he's close by. You'll tell me the moment you see Rom, won't you, boy?'

Shadow looked up from his bone and gazed intently into her eyes.

‘If dogs could speak, Shadow, I reckon you could write a book as long as the Bible.'

•  •  •

Clytie marked off the next few days on the calendar – and counted the hours within each day. She respected the doctor's orders and, restless as she was for answers, she did not try to pressure Doc into allowing her an interview with his patient.

On her weekly visit to the cemetery she laid fresh bush flowers on her little son's grave and bowed her head, but as usual was no longer able to pray to The Creator of All Things.

You listen to other people's prayers. Not mine. Surely it's my turn now.

She shivered, feeling sure that someone was observing her. For a split second she saw Rom at the far end of the cemetery, standing in the shadows of the tree beside the graves in the non-denominational section. Next moment a strong gust of wind almost blew her off balance. Only a moment's distraction – yet when she looked back the changed pattern of shadows revealed nothing. No one was there.

•  •  •

The following Friday morning was Doc Hundey's usual time to see his patients at the Diggers' Rest. Clytie was in the hotel kitchen when he confronted her, his eyes smiling, clearly the bearer of good news.

‘Our mystery man is on his feet today and eating everything I – that is, my sister – cooked for him. He told me his name is Finch. He is suffering amnesia, a total loss of memory – evidently after being wounded at that tragic debacle at Wilmansrust, remember?'

Clytie flinched. She knew full well the growing stigma attached to the name. Controversy raged over the Imperial court martial in which three Australian soldiers were found guilty of mutiny. One of them was originally sentenced to death.

‘Rom wasn't one of the dead – I checked all the lists!' Clytie said quickly.

‘No, but many others escaped or were wounded or taken prisoner by the Boers. Maybe that's why Rom is still unaccounted for.'

‘Missing Believed Dead? No, I refuse to believe Rom's dead. This Finch may have lost his memory, but surely he must know how he obtained my photograph.'

The doctor nodded in empathy. ‘Finch told me he plans to visit you today. Try to keep your emotions in check, Clytie. He's not fully recovered yet.'

‘I won't lose my temper – as long as he tells me the truth.' Her lip trembled. ‘One way or another.'

Doc Hundey nodded and returned to face the line-up of patients.

Clytie worked feverishly, polishing anything at hand whether it needed it or not. This was her usual half-day off, but she had no intention of going anywhere until she had met with this Finch character.

Restless and unable to bear the waiting, she found herself drawn outside to the mouth of the carriageway, shading her eyes for any sign of an approaching figure. The road was empty except for the timber-laden old bullock wagon parked outside the O'Grady brothers' cottage.

The moment Clytie saw the sunlit outline of the soldier loping towards her, his kit bag slung over one shoulder, his slouch hat on his head, her heart skipped a beat.

Rom – this time it
is
you!

There was a sudden downpour and the glowering grey sky eclipsed the sun. It was all too clear. It was not Rom – only the man with no real name.

She bit her lip in disappointment. She suddenly had no desire to hear the words she feared he would say to her. But she held her ground, drenched to the skin by the summer rain.

•  •  •

Finch felt his gut tighten in anxiety the moment he saw Clytie Hart at the other end of the road, standing in the rain, watching his approach. He felt an acute sense of reprieve when she hurried back inside the hotel.

I've got to face her sooner or later. But this should be Rom, not me.

He paused by the brass plate inscribed with ‘Dr Robert A. Hundey, Physician and Surgeon'. The waiting room was almost empty. Seated on a chair like a pixie was Holy Maude. She was so short her tiny boots did not reach the floor.

‘Good morning, Finch. I'm Doc's last patient. I only came to collect my cough medicine. Why are you here? Hurt in that brawl, were you?'

‘Yes. No. That is, I only came to thank him.'

She lowered her voice in confidence. ‘Don't worry about your lost name. Stay in Hoffnung more than a week and they'll give you a nickname. If they don't – it means they don't like you. Tell me, do you know my friend Rom Delaney?'

He was saved from further grilling when the door opened and Doc ushered out a shabby man with a crooked spine.

Holy Maude piped up, ‘I'm in no hurry, Doctor. See this brave lad first.'

Finch was firm. ‘Thank you, but I insist you go first.'

Her consultation did not take long. On her way out she patted Finch's arm.

‘May the Lord speedily restore your memory, lad.'

He rose. ‘Amen to that.'

He wasted no time inside the surgery.

‘I won't keep you, Doctor. I just came to thank you for patching me up and getting me back on my feet. I'm in your debt. Sorry I can't pay you right now but I'm strong and able-bodied. I like to pay my way. So as soon as I find work –'

The hand on his shoulder gently lowered him into the seat.

‘Don't worry about a bill, lad. I never send them out. People pay me when they can. I often find a box of vegetables or a leg of lamb on
my doorstep or a stack of firewood. It's an ad hoc system that works. I never go wanting.'

‘In that case I'll see you right, one way or another, Doctor.'

‘Take it easy, son. Concentrate on getting your strength back – along with your memory. Meanwhile you might care to write to Heather Macqueen.'

Finch was startled. ‘How do you know her name?'

‘You kept calling out in your sleep, “I can't remember my life, but I'll never forget
you
, Heather Macqueen.” You talked to her quite a lot.'

‘Sister Macqueen was a nurse in the Australian military hospital near Johannesburg. She marked me down on the records with the name Finch – until the authorities trace my given names.' He rose. ‘I mustn't hold you up.'

‘One moment, Finch. No one knows you here. What say I write you a character reference – my name may carry a bit of weight when you're applying for work.'

‘That's very decent of you, Doctor. But you don't know me from Adam.'

‘I know enough. You revealed a fair deal about your character in your delirium. You were very respectful to Sister Macqueen. I sat with you at night. Australian soldiers are famous for their colourful language. No matter how much pain you were in, you never swore. You even quoted
Romeo and Juliet.
Seems you've been well educated – and taught good manners. That's enough for a genuine character reference.'