Golden Hope Read online

At the sound of the approaching wheels of a heavy vehicle, Dolores pointed to the bush track in triumph.

  ‘I told you. Here it is – abracadabra!’

  Magic indeed. Clytie gasped in admiration. There, mounted on top of an old bullock dray with Rom at the reins, was a house! A timber shell with four windows, front and back doors, and a chimney forged from kerosene cans welded together in the tradition of old pioneer cottages.

  ‘Oh Mama! It’s just wonderful. Where did you find it?’

  ‘Father Donnelly sold it to me – for a very modest donation to his R.C. Church. He’s been relocated to Bitternbird or some such place, but he’ll be travelling back regularly to preach to his flock. So you can thank him personally.’

  ‘Indeed I will! My God, Zaza’s prediction’s come true!’ she said, startled by the memory. ‘She said I would live in a priest’s house! I was nervous she meant I’d take the veil.’

  ‘Hmm, but that’s not a bad idea for our next act,’ Dolores mused. ‘“The Flying Nuns” – I can just see the poster. But come to think of it, maybe it would offend some Catholics. And those long black robes would be dangerous doing flip-flaps. On second thoughts, it’s safer to stick to spangles and tights.’

  Clytie was dancing up and down like an excited child in front of the bullock dray. ‘Rom! You’re a wonder. But how are you going to get it down off the wagon and set it up as a proper house? It’ll fall apart, won’t it?’

  Rom tilted his hat on the back of his head and smiled down at them. ‘Oh, ye of little faith. This is a priest’s house. It wouldn’t dare fall apart!’

  He drew the dray to a halt perilously close to the verge, where a deep trench carried overflowing stormwater downhill. In response to his shrill, fingers-in-the-mouth whistle, three hefty blokes sporting varying shades of red hair, leapt down from behind the house and joined him. They politely removed their caps in deference to Dolores.

  Clytie eyed her mother nervously. All three boys wore green shirts and Rom sported a green neckerchief – a colour that to Dolores was an omen of bad luck. But for once she showed no open sign of distress.

  ‘You have my word, we’ll have the place all rigged up by sundown,’ Rom promised with a wink. ‘These blokes are the O’Grady brothers. No need to pay ’em for the use of their dray – they owe me a favour. But if you could see your way clear to offering them a glass of something cold when the deed is done . . .’

  ‘Beer? I’ll do better than that. We’ll have a proper house-warming,’ Dolores said firmly.

  The lads set to work, heaving and grunting in obedience to Rom’s instructions.

  Dolores caught Clytie’s nervous glance in her direction. ‘Green? No need to worry. No doubt this O’Grady mob are of Irish descent. Green is the colour of the shamrock, a lucky symbol to the Irish – so their good luck will rub off on us.’

  It was Clytie who pinned down the day’s significance. ‘And it’s the seventeenth of March – Saint Patrick’s Day. No wonder they’re all wearing the green!’

  • • •

  It seemed Rom Delaney was out to prove to them he was a man of his word. By sundown the priest’s house was installed on a foundation of tree stumps for which they had sunk holes to varying heights to ensure that the floor of the house was level. Only one section had come adrift in transit and Rom promptly nailed the timber slabs back in place. Doors and windows were made operative, the metal chimney tested to send smoke skywards and prevent it regurgitating back into the larger of the two rooms.

  ‘What’s all this extra stuff?’ Dolores asked. ‘I can’t afford to pay for any of this.’

  Rom was reassuring. ‘Father Donnelly threw in a few sticks of furniture gratis to go on with.’

  It was more than a few sticks. Clytie and Dolores reverently touched the wrought iron bedstead, firm mattress, the fine Welsh dresser, deal table and two chairs – and a keg of beer as a housewarming present.

  Dolores gasped. ‘The man is indeed an angel in disguise!’

  Clytie rummaged inside the circus wagon and returned with brightly coloured circus cloaks which she ordered Rom to tack up as makeshift curtains for the sake of privacy.

  Standing in front of the house to admire the total effect, her eyes suddenly filled with tears of happiness. Unable to check her impulsive gesture in front of her mother, she embraced Rom and all three O’Grady brothers in turn then kissed Dolores on both cheeks.

  ‘You don’t know what this means to me, Mama. But you always said you weren’t cut out to live in a house without wheels. What changed your mind?’

  A wistful smile flickered at the corner of Dolores’s mouth. ‘I wanted you to have a taste of real family life, before you go off and make your own way in the world.’

  ‘My way? Us, you mean. We’ve always been Daring Dolores and Little Clytie and we always will be.’

  ‘Aye, so we shall,’ Dolores assured her, then turned to Rom. ‘One last job for you, young man. Open Father Donnelly’s keg of ale.’ Prompted by Clytie’s anxious frown, she added quickly, ‘I don’t drink myself, but I want to toast you lads for the fine job you’ve done – and honour your Saint Patrick.’

  She brought out plates of sandwiches, biscuits, fruit and a big ball of cheese and invited them all to tuck in. The two older brothers each quickly downed a couple of glasses but stopped Dolores topping up the youngest O’Grady’s glass.

  ‘He’s too young to drink, Missus, so we’ll drink his share for him.’

  Smiling with slightly glazed eyes, they finally thanked Dolores for her hospitality. Finishing each other’s sentences, they excused themselves on account of their mother.

  ‘We left Ma at home with the sheep she slaughtered. She’ll be roasting it for all nine of us – and our cousins. It being March seventeen and all.’

  Rom was quick to respond. ‘La Fheile Padraig sona Daoibh to the lot of you!’ The three brothers exchanged anxious glances.

  ‘That’s Happy Saint Patrick’s Day, isn’t it?’ Rom said. ‘My Gaelic’s a bit rusty.’

  The eldest brother smiled in relief. ‘Thank ye kindly. But we O’Gradys have been here for four generations. It is only Great Grandmother who remembers the Gaelic.’

  They waved the brothers out of sight, as they headed home erratically in the old family bullock dray now used to transport lumber to and from the mill.

  Dolores had not recovered from the revelation about their mother. ‘So Mrs O’Grady slaughters sheep herself, does she? They must breed women tough in these parts.’

  ‘Tough – and canny,’ said Rom. ‘It reminds me of the story of my own grandmother and the bushranger, Captain Moonlite.’

  Rom allowed his glass to be refilled and urged by mother and daughter launched into the story of how his canny young Irish granny had outwitted Captain Moonlite, the bushranger who led a double life and was really lay-preacher Andrew George Scott, whose career ended on the scaffold.

  Clytie was enthralled by Rom’s gifts as a story-teller, but one half of her mind questioned their authenticity. Each of the tales about his past ‘nine lives’ seemed to be tailored to please his audience. She wondered if he invented them to fill the void of unknown parentage.

  How often have I fantasised about my own father’s identity?

  Later, urged on by his eager audience Rom recited with great feeling The Vagabond, a poem by the bush poet they all admired, Henry Lawson.

  He caught Clytie’s eye when he came to a line in the poem which inferred that Lawson might have ‘a dash of the Gipsy blood’ on his father’s line.

  Is this hint of Lawson’s heritage also true of Rom’s own background? Or does he simply want it to be?

  Clytie felt uneasy catching Dolores’s expression, the way her eyes narrowed while studying Rom.

  A few moments later Clytie was aware that Dolores, while apparently listening to Rom’s boast about his ability to train horses, was weighing whether he was a man to be trusted.

  ‘Could you teach a horse to answer your questions? I
know one that could.’

  Rom grinned. ‘You’re pulling my leg.’

  ‘True as God. He was billed as Mahomet the Talking Horse, a star circus act trained by the American Probasco, who played Australia in the nineties. I was one of a small group who squeezed into a photographer’s studio to watch Mahomet having publicity photographs taken. I watched Probasco like a hawk, determined to learn the secret of his act.’

  ‘And did you?’ Clytie asked.

  ‘I’ll tell you exactly what I saw. Probasco asked Mahomet two questions. “How many ladies are in this room?” Mahomet instantly struck the floor five times with his hoof. There were indeed five women in the room.

  ‘Probasco then asked, “How many of these ladies are wearing hats?” Mahomet knocked once with his hoof.’ Dolores paused. ‘I was the only woman wearing a hat.’

  Rom looked dubious. ‘His trainer was cueing him, surely.’

  Dolores shook her head. ‘My eyes never left Probasco. He was standing at least four feet away from Mahomet – and made no sign whatsoever. Make of it what you will, Mahomet the Talking Horse is the cleverest animal I’ve ever seen in any circus.’

  Rom leaned forward. ‘I reckon you could see right through any trickster.’

  Clytie held her breath as Dolores replied with quiet significance, ‘If you want to put me to the test – hold out your hand.’

  Clytie saw that Rom recognised the truth. He was the one being tested. Hesitant for only a few seconds, he offered her his upturned palm.

  Dolores studied it in silence, tracing the lines with one finger. Her voice sounded slightly distant as it always did during a reading. ‘You are a man with itchy feet. Your travel line is broken in fits and starts. Your life line resembles the proverbial nine lives of a cat. You have already lived several lives – more are to come. I see a young man crossing your path – he has no name. I am not sure just who is tricking who. I see you with a girl wearing a white veil . . .’

  Clytie held her breath. Is she seeing me?

  ‘No, not a bride,’ Dolores decided.

  ‘A nun, maybe a bride of Christ?’ Rom asked, half teasing.

  ‘Well, if life is all a joke to you, maybe that’s all to the good.’

  ‘I’m sorry, please continue,’ Rom said quickly.

  Dolores’s voice resumed its normal tone and she closed the fingers of Rom’s hand over the palm and pushed his hand away.

  Clytie felt slightly uneasy. What else has she seen?

  Dolores’s mood changed suddenly. ‘Let’s eat. I’m as hungry as a horse.’

  Clytie drew the damper from the camp oven over the open fire. The old iron stove inside the priest’s house would be cleaned and made productive tomorrow.

  The damper smelt like heaven. They carved it up and smothered the slices with raspberry jam, laughing over the memory of the false measles spots that Rom’s quick-thinking grandmother had used to foil Captain Moonlite when he bailed up her coach.

  Clytie was relieved to see that although Dolores liberally refilled Rom’s glass, she continued to drink nothing but ginger ale herself.

  They toasted in turn the newly crowned King Edward VII, Australia’s first Governor-General the Earl of Hopetoun, followed by Dolores’s special toast of thanks to the generous Father Donnelly. They were on the point of toasting Rom as hero of the day when all heads turned at the sound of an approaching horse and cart.

  ‘What’s Doc Hundey doing here?’ Clytie asked. ‘None of us are ill.’

  The physician came bearing gifts – a large box piled high with vegetables and fruit. Planted at the heart of it was a bouquet of Sweet William and pansies.

  ‘A small house-warming gift from my sister Adelaide to welcome you to Hoffnung, Mrs Hart.’

  Clearly the ‘Mrs’ was honorary but Dolores bowed her head politely.

  ‘Most kind, Doctor. Please convey my thanks to your sister. Clytie and I look forward to meeting her.’ She added tentatively, ‘Perhaps she would care to call on us . . . or we could call on her?’

  Clytie knew they were on unsure ground concerning local etiquette. The doctor’s words put them at ease.

  ‘Indeed I trust you will, one day. I’m afraid Adelaide is rather shy, indeed some consider her reclusive. She emerges but rarely to collect mail at the Post Office each month. But she was indeed most impressed with Wildebrand Circus – I regret I was unable to attend myself. She asked me to convey to you her admiration for your performances.

  Dolores nodded in acknowledgement of the praise. ‘That was Clytie’s night of triumph. I myself was unwell that night. I rarely miss a performance.’ She looked directly into the doctor’s eyes. ‘May I offer you a glass of wine, Doctor? A fine South Australian claret, I’m told. I have no way of knowing. I am teetotal.’

  Clytie caught the exchange of glances. Is mother flirting with him?

  Clytie reached for one of her mother’s best wineglasses but Doc Hundey held up a hand to halt her.

  ‘Thank you, but I too am teetotal. I’d gladly stop and chat but I’m on my way to attend a patient on the far side of those hills.’ He gestured to the track that disappeared in the direction of the mountains behind which gold and crimson streaks fanned out from the setting sun.

  Doc rose, smiling. ‘I also came as the bearer of good news, Mrs Hart. That idea you had for the Diggers’ Rest – Mr Yeoman is happy to grant you the use of a room. He believes your skill will attract custom. I see patients in my own rooms there each Friday. Perhaps our paths shall cross again.’

  He doffed his hat to her, nodded to Clytie and Rom and drove off.

  Following her mother inside the house, Clytie kept her voice low.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you planned to work at the hotel? That’s not a good idea, Mama, and you know it.’

  ‘You think I can’t be trusted? Don’t worry, I won’t be in the bar. I plan to read Tarot cards and palms like Zaza taught me. I’ll charge for each reading. I don’t have to pay Yeoman rent on the room until the end of the month. I’ll place a discreet advertisement in the local newspapers. Now stop worrying. It’s a golden opportunity to make good money.’

  ‘I’m sorry I doubted you. Please leave the dishes to me. You look very tired. Please ask Doc Hundey to prescribe you a tonic.’

  ‘Nonsense, I’m as fit as a flea. Just weary, is all. I could do with an early night. Make sure you don’t stay up late yourself – he’s a handsome lad,’ she jerked her head in Rom’s direction. ‘But you’re barely sixteen and he has a silver tongue in his head, so keep a tight rein on yourself, girl. I’ll say goodnight to him.’

  Clytie began to wash the dishes but strained her ears to the conversation on the veranda.

  Her mother sat down beside Rom, and poured herself a glass of ginger ale.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, Rom. I’m grateful for all you did for us today.’

  ‘But . . .?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s something that needs to be said – and I’m the one to say it. You are a man. I don’t think less of you for wanting what every man wants. My daughter may seem worldly on the surface, but she has a trusting heart. I can’t protect Clytie from falling in love – that will happen sooner or later. I can and will warn her against men who are liars – which from my experience are most of the male race.’

  ‘You’re calling me a liar? Look, I may exaggerate a bit but –’

  ‘Allow me to finish. I just want you to swear to me that you won’t promise her more than you intend to deliver. No lies. I can’t prevent nature from taking its course – but I won’t stand by and see her trust a false heart. Don’t ever tell her you love her unless you really mean it.’

  Even from the angle of his profile Clytie could see Rom was taken aback. He nodded thoughtfully then offered his hand. ‘You have my word, Mrs Hart.’

  Dolores silently shook his hand.

  ‘Break that promise – and stand warned. I’ll come back and haunt you.’

  With a weary laugh she rose and returned to th
e house. Passing Clytie, she silently kissed the crown of her daughter’s head.

  ‘Rest easy, Mama.’

  The door to the bedroom closed behind Dolores leaving Clytie feeling uneasy. Her mother had lost weight in recent weeks – but she told herself that living with Vlad’s ugly temper was enough to test anyone’s health. Now she was free of his domination she would grow stronger.

  Rom was sitting on the steps by the front door gazing at the moon. Clytie squatted beside him, hoping he would be the first to break the silence. He did not.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done for us, Rom, but it is getting late. I’d better turn in for the night.’

  ‘You’ve only got one bed,’ he said. ‘I’ll track down another mattress for you tomorrow.’

  ‘No need. There’s plenty of bedding in the wagon,’ she said hastily. ‘Anyway, you’ve done more than enough already.’

  ‘Right. So I’d best say goodnight.’ He rose and turned back as if the thought had just occurred to him. ‘But before you turn in, it would be wise for me to point out the old cabin where I’m living with Shadow. Just in case there’s any emergency during the night – y’know, like a death adder under your bed or something.’

  Clytie hesitated between alarm, curiosity and native caution.

  Rom continued without pressure. ‘It’s just a stone’s throw from here.’ He held out his hand to her. ‘Come on, the moon will light our way. Then I’ll walk you back.’

  Placing her cool fingers inside the warm hollow of Rom’s hand, she walked beside him. What is that Chinese proverb? The longest journey begins with a single step. I wonder what they say about the shortest journey.

  The moment she saw the jagged outline of the miner’s right cabin etched against the moonlight, Clytie caught her breath at the mysterious beauty of the scene. It was like an illustration in a Grimms’ Fairy Tales. Shadow lay across the stone doorstep, as if lying in wait to protect them. But from what?

  ‘Want to see inside? There’s only one room so it won’t take long. I’ve just discovered a sort of diary cum scrapbook that must have belonged to the old digger who built the place. It’s a bit of a mystery. Full of pictures of a beautiful dark-haired dancer called Lola something. Ever heard of her?’