Golden Hope (47 page)

Taking her seat at one of the long trestle tables in the upstairs gallery, she studiously averted her eyes from the men reading the leading Melbourne newspapers,
The Age
,
The Argus
and
The Herald,
plus respected rural newspapers such
as The Ballarat Star
,
The
Bendigo
Advertiser
and
The Bacchus Marsh
Express.
From the shape of the newspaper columns, Clytie realised some were comparing the latest gold yields from the prosperous Ballarat, Castlemaine and Bendigo mines with the poor returns said to come out of the Golden Hope – a figure she had heard old Boss Jantzen was unwilling to name.

One man was intently checking the results of the race meetings in Melbourne and Sydney and the steeplechase events in Adelaide. Another man's stubby finger traced the long lists of second-hand goods for sale. Clytie gave an involuntary sigh of sympathy – a clear sign of the times.

There was only one newspaper still available. With mixed feelings she began scanning the latest casualty lists from South Africa. The names of dead and wounded had lessened in number – along with the level of hope for those families with lads unofficially listed as missing.

Why do I keep doing this? I feel Rom's alive. I'd swear in court I wasn't dreaming – I lay in his arms one night. Why am I searching for further proof? He
will
come back to me. Dolores said she'd haunt him if he broke his promise.

The silence was so complete, Clytie realised her heavy breathing had betrayed her. Three men were staring in her direction.

‘You all right, Miss?' an old-timer asked politely. ‘Ain't lost no one, I hope?'

‘No. Thank you, Sir. My man Rom Delaney is safe.'

They resumed their reading. All but one. At the far end of the hall, wearing a slouch hat low over his brow, Finch cast her a tentative smile then resumed writing down addresses from a slim newspaper column she recognised was ‘Jobs Vacant'.

I have every right to be here. I won't scuttle like a scared rabbit just to avoid talking to Finch.

As each man left the hall Clytie inherited their newspapers. She searched for the haphazard placement of accounts of the South African war and reports from Lord Kitchener, Commander-in-Chief of the Imperial Forces; world news, including the aftermath of the Boxer Rebellion in China; the new Federal Parliament; the new Premier of Victoria, Alexander Peacock. She avidly read advertisements and critiques for opera singers and plays at Her Majesty's Theatre in Melbourne and the musical companies on tour in Victoria.

Surreptitiously she withdrew a pencil from her coat pocket and jotted down the latest fashion trends from a Women's Page. She seized on the step-by-step illustrations showing how to achieve the latest variation in the wild, yet natural bouffant hairstyle worn by Colleen Clifford. The quintessential Gibson Girl had been chosen by Charles Dana Gibson to illustrate his famous beauties in magazines, cartoons and advertisements for beauty products.

Clytie's astringent budget did not stretch beyond soap and water to Pond's Cold Cream and Vanishing Cream. But it cost her nothing to do her hair in a fashionable style – or design her own.

She tried to adapt her mother's clothes to reflect the new fashions, but she refused to confine herself in either of the feminine moulds in vogue: the Modern Woman who espoused suffragette causes, or the more glamorous alternative. This ethereal, swan-shaped, corseted, wasp-waisted Gibson Girl was said to be adored by men the world over, from royalty down to the working man.

Clytie accepted this feminine ideal epitomised both Europe's
Belle Epoque
and America's Gilded Age.

But I don't see why we should allow men – and the law – to box us into any one ideal feminine role to make them happy. I want to be free to work for women's rights – but why not wear my hair in Gibson Girl style at the same time?

Her notebook filled, she became aware that the men had left the hall, leaving her alone with the sole man at the far end of the long boarding-house table – Finch. She had no wish to be left alone with him, but neither did she wish to cut him dead. She rose and wrapped her cloak around her.

‘I imagine I have you to thank for the pyramid of logs. It was a kindly thought, Finch, but I thought I made it clear I need no man to take care of me. I will thank you to respect my wishes in future.'

Finch blinked, hastily rising to his feet and folding the copy of
The Age.

‘I have no wish to offend you, Miss Hart. But I must honour the promise I made to Rom. I won't bother you. No one will ever see us together – unless it is by your choice.'

He pointed to the electric light. ‘Lights go out in five minutes. May I walk you home – at a discreet distance, of course?'

‘Thank you, no. I have Shadow to protect me.'

‘Oh well, I can't hope to compete with a Kelpie,' Finch said drily.

He touched the brim of his hat and left her alone.

She noticed he had dropped a piece of paper. It was covered with the word ‘Danger' written in different sizes and shapes.
How curious. What is he afraid of?

Clytie found her cheeks were burning as she hurried down the spiral staircase and out into the night air.

I wouldn't trust Finch an inch, but Rom evidently did. So I'll just have to keep my eye on him.

•  •  •

At the end of the week as Clytie walked to Midd's General Store she clutched in her pocket the last remaining coins before Mr Yeoman paid her wages. The shifts that his wife assigned her were becoming irregular, confined to those occasions when the dining-room was booked for one of Twyman's Shire Council dinners or the town's increasingly rare family celebrations.

Each time she passed down Main Street it seemed a For Sale notice had been pasted on yet another building. Rumours were rife about the poor yields of the Golden Hope. Mary Mac had told her that two local men had placed a wager on how long Sonny Jantzen could manage to keep the mine solvent. It was an open secret that
his father's behaviour grew increasingly erratic – one day morose, the next buoyant to the point of wild extravagance.

She hoped there would be some mail for her, even if only an advance date for the next Women's Meeting, but Clytie did not manage to emerge unscathed. Postmistress Marjory eyed her knowingly when she announced Clytie's pigeon-hole was empty.

‘Seems like your odd friend Miss Hundey's up to something.'

Clytie fiddled with her purse, trying not to appear eager for the answer.

‘That woman actually paid for that chink, Long Sam, to deliver her letter directly to Sister Bracken – evidently the old bird doesn't trust the Victorian Mail.'

Clytie held her tongue.
Doesn't trust you not to steam it open, more like.

‘Sam is totally reliable. It must have been very urgent,' she managed to say.

‘Doc's sister's up to no good, if you ask me. Doc's a rare gem of a man. He doesn't deserve to have a millstone like her around his neck. Cracked in the head, she is, some say.'

Mrs Baker asked for her mail, preventing Clytie's need to retaliate.

She hurried into the street, concerned that she had had no contact with Adelaide for several weeks. Doc had never been busier. He had been seen driving to all points of the compass at all hours of the day and night. Clytie decided she must send him a note discreetly enquiring after his sister's health.

Why on earth would Adelaide contact Sister Bracken? She dislikes the woman as much as I do. She claims Doc's unaware Bulldog Bracken's set her sights on marrying him.

Clytie glanced at the moon waxing in the blue sky. It was almost Full Moon – said to be the time when the mentally unstable became increasingly unbalanced.

She bought three pounds of potatoes, the one staple vegetable that she and Sam had trouble growing, and slung the hessian sack over her shoulder.

Passing the hill of churches, her stomach knotted at the sound of the bell tolling at the Catholic Church. Men wearing shabby funereal black clustered outside the porch. The glass-sided funeral hearse
arrived hung with black and purple crepe, the driver in full uniform, his top hat tied with black streamers.

Clytie halted, stunned by the sight of the hearse. There was no coffin. No body. The young volunteer had been buried where he fell in South Africa. The wagon contained nothing but wreaths of flowers. She felt a sting of pride and sadness at the sight of the new Australian flag displayed in tribute to a fallen soldier. The design was particularly fitting for Graham Pitt – marrying the Union Jack in one corner with the stars of the Southern Cross represented the lad's British ancestry and his proud boast that grandfather Longley had been a rebel miner who fought under the Southern Cross of the Eureka flag.

When the mourners had entered the church Clytie slipped quietly away, feeling uneasy that a hearse had crossed her path.
Could this be a sign of ill omen?

•  •  •

At her back doorstep Clytie slung the gunny sack to the ground and stood panting from the heat, listening to the rhythmic swing of the axe sounding in the bush. In the next paddock Finch acknowledged her with a wave of the hand then resumed a rapid tattoo, splintering a log into chips.

Concentrated on his work, he avoided her eyes. Clytie was free to study him, the damp shirt clinging to the muscular torso, his sleeves rolled up to reveal strong arms, free of tattoos. The legs planted astride to balance him were the long, taut limbs of a sprinter. His snowy mass of hair, wet with sweat, was by manly standards in need of a haircut. It curled around his ears and down the back of his neck. His hands kept drawing Clytie's eyes. Well-shaped, despite their work-scars and calluses, they could have been the hands of a teacher, a musician, even a priest.

Finally, discomforted by her intense gaze, Finch looked up. A young face lined by the sun, eyes too old for the face. They had seen too much, forever lost their innocence. Despite herself, Clytie was drawn to that strange expression.
Is it the legacy of the war? Or was it some private guilt?

He delivered the axe a final blow into the woodcutting stump to keep the blade sharp and stood mopping his brow with his shirtsleeve.

‘Enough to keep you going for one day, Miss Hart?' he asked lightly.

‘I could build a pyramid with that lot. I reckon you've earned a cup of coffee.'

‘
Coffee?
Has someone left you an inheritance?' he teased.

‘Doc was paid in kind by a miner who left the Reef dead broke but wanted to pay his way. Doc drinks nothing but Hoffnung's mineral water, so he gave me the coffee. I reckon he had you in mind. He likes you for some peculiar reason.'

‘No accounting for different tastes.'

She bent to retrieve the hessian sack but in two strides Finch was by her side. His hands closed over hers and freed their hold.

‘Here. Allow me.' He carried it inside, heaved it up onto the deal table then hurried past her to return outside. Seated on a log in the shade of a gum tree, one arm propped on his thigh, he ruffled Shadow's ears.

The dog lay panting, looking meaningfully between Finch and his empty bowl. Clytie heard Finch say softly, ‘Trust me. She's not a woman to let a chap go hungry, mate.'

The innuendo was not lost on Clytie. She re-lit the stove and replaced the iron kettle to bring it to the boil. Through the window she saw Finch talking to Shadow like an old friend.

If he thinks he can get into my bed by charming my dog, he's got another think coming.

Despite this warning, she emptied freshly baked biscuits onto a china plate and covered the table with a tea-cloth.

Clytie reminded herself she did not wish to encourage Finch, but could not dismiss the fact he was Rom's friend. She felt her mouth dry at the thought of Rom. Despite everything Finch had said to the contrary, she was troubled by an uneasy thought.
Am I simply keeping Rom alive in my head and my heart?

A clumsy touch of the kettle burnt her hand and she poured the pitcher of cold water over it, catching the precious water in a bowl. She looped a clean handkerchief over the burn and called Finch through the window.

‘Come and get it!'
He better not misinterpret those words.

Her hand smarted under its hasty bandage but when Finch paused in the doorway she was pleased by his look of approval as he surveyed the room.

Beside the mirror hung the framed poster of Daring Dolores on horseback with a five-year-old Little Clytie on her shoulders. A jar of bush flowers sat on the mantelpiece. The cushions were made from brilliant remnants of circus costumes. A collection of one-of-a-kind ‘gypsy' plates overlapped each other on the wall shelf. A glittering fringed curtain was draped across the entrance to the bedroom, like an Eastern bazaar.

I hope that doesn't remind him of some soldiers' brothel.

Finch's eye was caught by the sepia photograph of Rom, standing tall and handsome in his V.M.R. uniform – a glint of laughter in his eyes. He avoided the photograph and looked around the room.

‘Perfect,' Finch nodded, in approval.

‘What's so special? It's just a bush cabin.'

‘To you. This is the first time I've been invited inside a real home since . . . well . . . who knows how long?' he added quickly.

‘Take a pew. And help yourself to the biscuits. I trust you can take your coffee black. I didn't have time to walk to the dairy to buy milk.'

It was a patent lie but Finch nodded acceptance. He glanced at the billycan hanging by the stove. The hole did not escape his notice.

Clytie felt the heat of embarrassment flush her cheeks.
He mustn't know I don't even have the price of a new billy.