Golden Hope (58 page)

Finch was genuinely stunned by the unexpected windfall. ‘Sonny, that's a most generous gesture, but travelling on these rough roads – supposing I had an accident and damaged The Lady? I can't risk it!'

‘You can and you will,' Sonny said firmly. ‘That girl has had more than enough sorrow in her young life. She badly needs an adventure. And you're the right man to give it to her. No more excuses. In the offchance of a scrape, we will repair it. What is money for, eh?'

Sonny's light-hearted laughter was infectious even though it ended in a bout of coughing.

Finch raised his driving cap in a salute to him. Watching the young boss Jantzen re-enter the house, he couldn't fail to notice his step was far more buoyant than it had been an hour earlier.

Finch returned The Lady to the garage and bolted the padlock behind her.

Sonny's right about one thing. Clytie needs to be distracted, to have an adventure – and God willing I could be the right man to give it to her.

Clytie had packed a bag with a variety of clothing prepared for anything, but the sight of The Lady standing in the sunlight outside her house took her breath away.

‘Do you have to crack a whip to make her go?' she asked, only half joking.

‘Expertise, madam. That's all it takes.'

Finch offered her his hand to climb into the seat and warned her, ‘Hold on to your hat.'

Their longest journey down Main Street did not begin in the way of the Chinese adage with a single step, but with a gouty mechanical cough, a series of splutters, a bellow of smoke and a rev of the engine. That statement accomplished, The Lady and her driver reached a speed that astonished all the people they passed on the road, standing either open-mouthed in awe or shaking their fists in disapproval.

‘It's a disturbance of the peace!' an old-timer yelled. ‘Mangles should put a stop to these things before someone gets themselves killed!'

The boldest of the roadside boys, Paddy Freebody, the son of the new local schoolmaster, dropped his slingshot and bet his city cousin he could beat him and the contraption by running alongside it. Finch allowed them to keep pace for a few hundred yards, then increased the Lady's speed to leave them outflanked, panting and red in the face.

‘How fast are we travelling?' Clytie cried, clinging to the straw boater tied under her chin with a scarf, its ends streaming behind her.

‘An estimated seven miles an hour,' he said laconically. ‘But that's just because I have a lady on board.'

‘Don't mind me! I was raised to perform daredevil acts, remember!'

Finch's eyes were expressionless behind the goggles, his teeth bared in what might have been grim satisfaction.

‘You're a hard woman to impress, Clytie Hart.'

‘Impress? This is the most exciting day in my life, Finch D'Angers! And you gave it to me.'

He looked really chuffed. ‘You ain't seen nothing yet, girl, the day is just a pup.'

It was a momentary illusion that they had returned to a level of easy acceptance between them, as if That Night that they never spoke of had never occurred.

A picnic on the banks of a meandering creek and a glass of white South Australian wine that Finch had cooled in the water, wedged between rocks, had further broken through the barrier created by the weeks of stand-off that lay between them.

The wine took the edge off Clytie's caution. ‘I really regret my clumsiness – what I said the last time we talked, Finch.'

‘No need. I instantly dismissed it from my mind, whatever it was. Clytie – I regret nothing.'

His steely glance caused her pulse to quicken.

‘I brought you here today for two reasons. To fulfil your wish to support Emily Hobhouse's cause. And to fan the flames of my own future dream.'

‘Which is?'

‘I will leave you to try to interpret that at the concert tonight,' he said. ‘But I'll give you a clue. I could never hope to accomplish it in Hoffnung – it will need the dust on my shoes and many thousands of miles before that dream is in sight.'

‘You're planning to leave?' she asked quickly.

‘Did you ever doubt it?' he asked. ‘I wasn't cut out to live out my days under the jurisdiction of Counsellor Twyman and Marj Hornery's Gossip Brigade. I don't know how Doc Hundey puts up with them.'

Her smile had a distinct edge of bitterness.

‘So, you and Rom Delaney are cut from the same cloth. I hadn't thought of you as a rolling stone.'

‘But then, you never really knew me. My D'Angers ancestors moved from country to country across Europe to whatever town or city would give them refuge. From Normandy to Languedoc to Hanover for several generations, then Holland and London. Finally my photographer father's sense of adventure attracted him to the ends of the earth – Australia.

‘But you ended up in South Africa.'

‘Yes, as my father's apprentice. Which brings me to a small gift I would like you to accept as a token of my thanks for your trusting me – when I did not deserve your faith in me.'

He withdrew from his satchel a small parcel that had been gift wrapped, tied with ribbon. It revealed a velvet double frame like the twin covers of a book. Clytie opened it, instinctively afraid of what it contained – and gasped with shock. There, side by side, were two framed photographs she had never seen before. One was of herself. The other was of Rom Delaney in uniform – but it was nothing like the photograph he had sent her.

‘This can't be true! Rom's wearing an Australian officer's uniform – the upturned brim of his hat has emus' feathers!'

‘The uniform is genuine. Rom's elevation to the rank of officer was a temporary affair. He beat an officer in the Queensland Mounted Infantry hands down in a game of cards. The officer had nothing left of value to wager, so Rom talked him in to allowing him to borrow his uniform for a few hours. I paid a local photographer to accompany his equipment to the hospital for an hour. I staged the photograph myself. A fine sense of drama, if I do say it myself. And if you look closely at the eyes, you will see Rom is challenging you to enjoy the secret – a complete fabrication!'

‘Yes, he's laughing at both of us.'

‘Somehow a copy of this photograph found its way to Australia – and that's how legends are born.'

Clytie was laughing, her hands holding tightly to the frame to conceal their trembling.

‘
I don't understand. How did you come across this? You didn't even know who you were when you arrived.'

Finch hesitated. ‘It arrived a few weeks ago, in a letter from Sister Heather Macqueen, a kind young woman who nursed us both in Johannesburg. She had my address because I wrote to her. She asked me to pass the photograph on to Rom's family.'

‘His family? That means . . .?' Clytie was grasping for the truth but even more afraid of hearing it.

Finch avoided a direct answer and tried to divert her.

He pointed to the other photograph. ‘What do you think of that?'

Clytie studied the portrait of herself, astonished that she had been totally oblivious to the moment of its execution.

It showed her seated on the back steps of her house, looking dreamily out into the garden. She was wearing her best Gibson Girl
blouse and skirt, the tie loosened at the neck because of the heat. Her hair was piled high in slightly wanton disorder. At her feet, glaring balefully towards the camera, was Shadow.

‘There's a hole in my stocking, and my hair is a mess.'

Finch gave a snort of exasperation. ‘Women! You are your own worst critics. That portrait's a work of art.'

Clytie tried to sound contrite. ‘It's certainly clever. How did you manage to take it – without me being aware?'

‘A feat nothing short of magic. I had to take it several times because Shadow didn't hold his pose. You were so deeply locked into your thoughts that your house could have burned to the ground before you were aware of it.'

‘So you bought a camera with your first month's pay from Jantzen? I presume you intend to take up your old profession when you leave Hoffnung.'

‘Second-hand, in Bitternbird. But no, that belongs to the past. I have other plans for the future. Come, it's time to hit the road or we'll never make it on time.'

•  •  •

The concert had been a revelation, combining music, live performances, and lantern slides and moving picture segments via the Salvation Army's touring Biorama team. Headed by Brigadier Joseph Perry, his wife and sons who were all part of the Limelight Studios team, they had generously shown a retrospective of their moving film sequences interspersed with lantern slides to aid the South African Women and Children's Benefit.

Clytie had never seen the Limelight Studio's famous production of the Federation celebrations in Sydney's Centennial Park in January 1901. Their expertise was astonishing. Finch whispered explanations, how Perry had set up his camera at different locations to record the pageantry, the parade of thousands of uniformed contingents and bands, the carriages with the new Governor-General and political dignitaries – and how Perry and his team raced in a cart from location to location to capture the next sequence.

As astounded as Clytie was by all their films, it was the shadow play on Finch's face that kept drawing her attention away from the screen. He was like a child spellbound by magic.

At the end of the night, despite the live performances of operatic arias and pianoforte pieces, lightened by comedy duos from local performers eager to shine in more illustrious company, nothing seemed to move Finch from the world inside his head. Yet, when the audience was made aware of the baskets for offerings for the cause, he pulled every available coin and note out of his pocket.

Clytie leaned across and touched his hand. ‘Thank you – for everything.'

As he turned his head his lips brushed against her cheek. Suddenly aware of her, he seemed to see her from a distance that could never be bridged between them.

Wordlessly he handed her up into The Lady, and bundled her up in the blankets that were no more than a token gesture against the cold night air.

•  •  •

The sun was beginning to rise like an overture before the main performance of a hot summer's day. Finch steered The Lady down the middle of the road towards the signpost that proclaimed ‘Welcome to Hoffnung – 6 miles'.

‘
We're on the home stretch, now,' he said.

Taking great care to avoid potholes filled with water from last night's summer downpour, he seemed intent on delivering Clytie home before returning the vehicle to the Jantzen mansion and beginning his day's work after a night without sleep.

Clytie watched Finch's every movement, his look of concentration. She felt strange sitting there beside him like two old friends, yet distracted by the images that rose to the surface whenever she looked at those strong, sensitive hands caressing the steering wheel. It was impossible to forget how those same hands had made love to her on that extraordinary night – the night that had never existed.

Finch has kept his half of the bargain. So why do I feel so restless?

‘You're shivering. Here, take my jacket.'

He pulled the brake and the vehicle gave a hop, skip and a jump before it came to rest. He quickly divested himself of his jacket.

‘No, Finch. I have a cloak of my own.'

‘I insist. You need extra protection from the cold.' He wrapped it around her, and although his head was close to hers he avoided her eyes.

The vehicle was quickly restarted and they drove off, guided by the thin beam of light that was weaker than moonlight in the mist.

‘Well, what do you think of The Lady's performance?'

‘Quite impressive. But give me a horse any day of the week,' she said carelessly.

‘Fair crack of the whip!' Finch said. ‘This vehicle is the first of its kind! The inventor is only on the ground floor. She'll improve in leaps and bounds.'

‘You make it sound as if he's invented a real woman.'

‘Even God is still working on that,' Finch said drily.

As if to change the mood, Finch began to sing the haunting melody,
Sarie Marais.

‘I wouldn't mind betting one day it will be South Africa's national song. It's much more than a conventional love song. It contains bitter anti-British sentiments – and bitterness can take generations to die out.'

‘So what
are
the words in English?'

‘Don't say I didn't warn you.' When he reached the words of the final verse ‘The English are just like crocodiles, they always drag you down to the water', they left Clytie in no doubt that the Boers' bitterness would indeed take a long time to heal.

His voice was soft when he sang the final words: ‘Liberation came and it was time to return home, back to my dear Transvaal. The person I love will certainly be there, to reward me with a kiss.'

When Finch turned to observe her reaction, Clytie wasn't sure if she correctly read the message in his eyes. Curiosity prompted her to ask him a leading question.

‘I know it's really none of my business, Finch, but now you've got your memory back, is there a woman somewhere you want to return to? Were you only staying here because of your promise to Rom?'

Finch resolutely kept his eyes on the rocky road. But his voice was husky. ‘I'm
no longer
here because of my promise to Rom.'

‘About last night –' she began tentatively.

‘I was carried away by that wonderful tenor's performance of the aria from
The Huguenots
. I kissed your
cheek,
girl. A gesture between friends – nothing more.'

‘I wasn't complaining, I only meant to say –'

The brake grated noisily to bring the car to a halt.