Golden Hope Read online

  Chapter 5

  Rom Delaney rode the mare until her hide was shining with sweat. They were beautifully in tune. Goldie seemed able to read his mind, confident that he would never hurt her or push her beyond her limits. She gave him all that she had – and seemed born to race.

  They covered the tracks between every isolated cluster of houses within a wide radius of Hoffnung. Bitternbird, the nearest town of any size, had its own railway station, but he also covered many tiny hamlets like Barnaby’s Ridge, Yankee Gully and clusters of farms with Aboriginal names, their meaning long lost in translation.

  Rom rode hell for leather. Pumped up with energy he ignited excitement in each place. He knew all the local legends. Now I’m creating my own!

  He handed out fliers to children in a schoolhouse originally built for a ‘lady of pleasure’; to farmhands on the property of a Yankee Forty-niner who’d made his fortune selling water at the diggings; to the publican of the Brunswick Arms Hotel beside an old Lutheran cemetery; to blacksmiths, storekeepers, girls and grannies with Celtic names and faces. To one and all he cried out, ‘Wildebrand Circus is coming – the chance of a lifetime!’

  He left his most important port of call to last – The Hoffnung Progressive Society’s Extraordinary Meeting being held in the Mechanics Institute – the nearest thing the town could claim to a Town Hall.

  Panting from exertion, he stood observing proceedings from the rear of the hall. Standing guard on the other side of the door was the thick-set Sergeant Bruce Mangles. Rom gave him a cursory nod which the young policeman returned warily.

  I always cop the evil eye. Anyone would think I was a bank robber.

  The thought of his unplanned ‘adoption’ of Goldie in the bush made Rom push the possible consequences aside – in favour of the challenge at hand. The meeting was well underway, at the point where Councillor Twyman was fast losing control of his notorious temper. Questions and interjections flew at him from all points of the compass.

  Rom waited, trying to judge the right moment to act. He had just taken a wild gamble. It would either elevate him to the status of town hero – or else . . .

  The whole circus will be out for my blood. I hope to hell Doc turns up. He’s the only bloke I can count on to back me.

  Among the familiar faces he recognised those likely to be biased against any plan offered by a fly-by-night like him.

  Seated in the front row was Paul ‘Pius’ James, the holier-than-thou owner of the hardware store and blacksmith’s forge. He threw the occasional day’s work Rom’s way but counted every penny like a miser. Beside him, casually rustling her skirt to draw attention to the fact it was silk, was his pride and joy, his daughter.

  Noni considered herself the town ‘princess’. The moment their eyes met, Rom gave her a broad wink calculated to annoy her.

  It’d take more than you to cut me down to size, girl.

  He was amused by the gaggle of black-clad matrons seated like magpies in a row. Despite the waves of heat in the hall, they were engaged in knitting khaki woollen socks for the Australian volunteers fighting the Boers in South Africa. Rom sobered at the thought that several of these women might have a son or brother dead or missing at the Front.

  The Anglican and Catholic priests and the Methodist clergyman were each seated in a nest of their congregations. Alone and intent on hearing every word was the elderly eccentric Holy Maude, so-called because she played her organ-on-wheels for all the congregations and the tambourine for the Salvation Army.

  Rom was pleased to see the pale, handsome profile of Sonny Jantzen. The son and heir of Boss Jantzen, owner of the Golden Hope, was sitting erect in the posture of a soldier. Rom knew the story. Sonny was keen to enlist, but his father wanted him to remain to help him run the mine. Despite Sonny’s status as Hoffnung’s most eligible bachelor, Rom liked his unaffected good manners. Sonny always had time to have a chat.

  With a bit of luck Sonny might back me.

  Rom grew restless. Time was running out to state his case.

  The argument about the design for the proposed Roll of Honour for Hoffnung’s War Memorial finally ended with Twyman’s decree.

  ‘We all regret the loss of Mr Levi’s son, of course. But it is standard procedure to mark the names of our glorious dead with a small gold cross. We can’t make an exception in his case with some fancy six-pointed star –’

  ‘The Star of David,’ the elderly watchmaker corrected quietly. ‘My son was proud to serve his country. But he died in battle, unable to be buried as a Jew. All I ask is permission to pay for a gold Magen David beside his name.’

  In turn the local Catholic Priest, Father Donnelly and each of the Protestant clergy stated they supported Mr Levi’s request. They were also quick to point out that Mr Levi had also given a generous donation to the local public school to create a garden dedicated to the memory of their recently deceased monarch, the beloved Queen Victoria.

  Twyman glowered, unable to argue on that score, but he refused to back down and postponed his decision about the ‘fancy star’ to a later date.

  Rom stiffened in anticipation. His big moment had finally arrived.

  Bank Manager George Tribe rose to address them, garbed in a heavy three-piece serge suit that defied the summer heat. His opening statement buoyed up Rom’s spirits.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, as we all know our loved town has seen better days in economic terms. Yet we have much to offer visitors – springs with a mineral content said to rival Bath and Baden Baden, unspoilt scenery, a fine hotel, guest houses and all modern conveniences including street lighting in Main Street –’

  ‘Yeah, but no railway!’ a rasping male voice called out.

  ‘The Melbourne train stops at Bitternbird – that’s hardly the ends of the earth,’ Twyman countered.

  The Bank Manager tried to regain control of his speech. ‘Be that as it may, I am here today to offer the people of Hoffnung a fine incentive to re-establish Hoffnung as a colourful, prosperous place in which to invest capital.’

  ‘The Golden Hope’s on its last legs, ain’t you heard?’

  Rom recognised the angry voice of a miner who had just been retrenched.

  Sonny Jantzen half rose from his seat but spoke quietly. ‘On behalf of my father, I would like to assure you all that is not the case. The Golden Hope has survived difficult periods in the past. My father gives you his word that the recently dismissed miners will be reinstated at the first opportunity.’

  There was a half-hearted grumble of assent from several miners’ families.

  Councillor Twyman seized the moment to regain his authority. ‘On behalf of the Hoffnung Progressive Society we are offering a reward for the first successful event to attract custom and visitors to Hoffnung . . .’ He paused, then added dramatically, ‘An account at Tribe’s Mortgage Bank for the sum of Twenty Guineas!’

  This was the moment Rom had waited to hear. He strode down the aisle brandishing his scroll.

  ‘Gentlemen, I am here to offer you the perfect solution – Wildebrand Circus!’

  Without invitation, he leapt up onto the stage and unfurled the circus poster, angling it so that it could be seen by Twyman and Tribe as well as the audience.

  ‘And what’s more, Doc Hundey is right behind the plan!’

  At sight of Doc’s entrance his confidence soared, but Twyman’s response was laced with sarcasm.

  ‘I hardly think that is any recommendation, given the Town’s only medical practice is known to be close to insolvency.’

  Voices rose in Doc’s defence. Rom was desperate to turn the tide in his own favour.

  ‘Hear me out, will you? I’m handing you all success on a platter! I have just arranged for the world-famous Wildebrand Circus to perform here in Hoffnung. I have personally alerted Bitternbird and the whole locality for miles around. Tomorrow you can expect a crowd to descend on Hoffnung. Money will pour in to the Diggers’ Rest, our shops and produce stores. Wildebrand Circus is coming to Town!’ />
  Voices began talking on top of each other. Rom felt his lips dry with excitement. He stabbed his finger at the poster.

  ‘Where else can you see Lionello the Lion-tamer place his hand inside a lion’s mouth, then lie down and use the lion as a pillow? And clowns, fire-eaters and gorgeous girls in spangles and tights?’

  ‘The idea has my vote,’ Doc Hundey said quietly. ‘A circus is entertainment for all ages.’

  There were growing murmurs of assent.

  Rom rode the wave. ‘And Daring Dolores Hart and Little Clytie are world-class equestriennes who defy gravity. Vlad the Knife-Thrower is from the Royal Russian Circus. And there’s a German brass band. Everyone for miles around will down tools and head for Hoffnung – and the Diggers’ Rest.’

  Publican Tom Yeoman seized his cue but asked the question with native caution. ‘How’d you manage to swing it, lad? What did you promise them in return? Exactly where will this circus perform?’

  At Rom’s glazed smile, Twyman fought to regain control of the decision. ‘Quite so, Yeoman. Hoffnung is a respectable town. There’s no space for a circus. The Mineral Springs park is out of the question. No local paddocks are suitable. They can’t perform in Main Street – it blocks the traffic.’

  Everyone knew that there were never more than a few stationary carts and buggies.

  ‘The idea of a circus is absurd, I reject it out of hand!’ Twyman shouted.

  Sonny Jantzen’s quiet voice came to the rescue. ‘Rom Delaney has shown great initiative. He deserves to be allowed to state his case.’

  All heads swivelled to focus on Rom. His mouth dried. He had taken a quantum leap but he was fast running out of steam.

  It was Doc Hundey who filled the breach.

  ‘Where else would they play? Hoffnung Cricket Ground is the perfect venue. There’s a small grandstand where the Diggers’ Rest and the General Store could sell food and drinks to the public. There are two W.C.’s and a ready-made ticket box. Lerderderg Creek is just a stone’s throw away, a ready supply of water for the circus animals. What more do you need?’

  ‘Our Cricket Ground?’ Twyman echoed in horror. ‘You must be mad, Doctor. We’re playing Bitternbird on Saturday. We’ve got a chance to beat them for the first time in years.’

  ‘The Cricket Ground isn’t exactly hallowed ground, Sir,’ Doc said lightly. ‘It sounds like most of Bitternbird will be here to see the circus.’

  An old miner with a rasping voice piped up. ‘Why not ask the skipper of our team what he thinks?’

  Slow to seek the limelight, Sonny Jantzen rose to his feet to respond. ‘As Captain, I regret I am not well enough to play this match, but I feel confident I can speak on behalf of the team. We would be agreeable to postpone the last match of the season – to give local children an event they will remember all their lives. I cast my vote in favour of the circus.’

  Rom held his breath. It could go either way. The decision was balanced on a knife edge. Until the rear doors burst open to reveal Paddy O’Grady, a boy in short pants. His face shone with excitement.

  ‘Yous won’t believe what’s coming down the road. Horses, wagons, clowns – and a real live lion!’

  The invitation was irresistible. There was a rush for the door. Bodies elbowed each other as they jammed in the exit.

  Rom grasped the doctor’s shoulder in a gesture of thanks as they followed the crowd downhill to the road.

  ‘Thanks for saving the day, Doc.’

  ‘You earned it, lad!’

  Young Paddy O’Grady had clearly done his job as town crier. Women and men were fast pouring out of the General Store and Post Office, the second-hand Church Charity Bazaar, the Feed and Grain Store – even the blacksmith had downed tools, drawn to the commotion.

  Rom and Doc exchanged broad smiles. ‘What a sight this is! Takes me back to my childhood,’ Doc said.

  Marching towards them to the jaunty music of a German brass band, the convoy of horse-drawn wagons was stepping out in style. The scene was a blaze of bold colours flashing in the sunlight, each wagon decorated with painted signs, every member of the troupe dressed in costume.

  At the head of the procession a young girl dressed as a fairy stood poised on the back of a strutting white horse, smiling and waving a fairy wand at the children. The bodice of her costume was a mass of sequins that caught the dying sunlight, the short skirt a token gesture of modesty to cover the tops of long legs encased in flesh-coloured tights. A pair of clowns wore identical spotted pantaloons. One was over six feet tall, the other a dwarf. Both had happy-sad expressions painted on their white faces. Giant sunflowers grew out of their wild red wigs, which amazingly stayed in place as they tumbled and executed rows of cartwheels.

  Pouring out of the cottages, children raced ahead of the mothers hastily untying their aprons to see what the commotion was. The raggle-taggle band of children squealed with delight when the clowns handed each one a lollypop attached to a circus flyer.

  Rom grinned with relief at the expressions etched on the faces of wizened men and respectable matrons. Every adult seemed to be a changeling, transported back to their childhood.

  ‘Thanks, Doc. That was a close call. What an entrance! Twyman hasn’t a snowflake’s chance in hell of stopping it now.’

  ‘Just make sure they give you the twenty guineas, lad. Twyman is a slippery customer to say the least!’

  It was at that moment that Rom took a second, hard look at the fairy on horseback, puzzled as to where he had seen her before. Her abundant dark hair, anchored by a sparkling tiara, streamed behind her in the wind. Her young breasts pressed against the tight bodice of her costume, a hint of their true shape curving above the neckline. Her smile was confident, a practised expression aimed at all in the crowd, flirting with the men but equally intent on winning over the women and children.

  ‘Bravo! Good on you, girl!’ Rom called out to attract her attention.

  The moment she recognised him, she transformed a delicately curled hand into a cleverly disguised ‘thumbs up’ sign to acknowledge his role in bringing the circus to town.

  Jesus! She’s that cheeky lad covered in axle grease.

  ‘Seems you’ve won a heart. You know her, do you?’ Doc asked.

  ‘You could say that,’ Rom said drily.

  The procession halted in front of the Diggers’ Rest. The troupe gave the spectators a taste of their expertise – juggling, performing handsprings and building a human pyramid with acrobats stacked on each other’s shoulders.

  Rom felt his hackles rise at the sight of the large swarthy man in Ali Baba costume who caused nervous squeals from the women spectators as he juggled lethal-looking knives, teasing them by suddenly advancing as if to place them in danger.

  Boss Gourlay, an impressive figure in top hat and scarlet cape, extolled the virtues of his circus, promising feats of daring never seen before in the Colony. He offered the crowd just enough to whet their appetite for the performances to come.

  After a rousing rendition of Banjo Paterson’s new song Waltzing Matilda was performed by the brass band, Gourlay presented Councillor Twyman with an invitation for his family to attend the opening performance.

  Twyman was forced to accept it but his aside to Pius James reached Doc’s ears. ‘That quack Hundey will rue the day he pulled rank over me.’

  Rom propped himself against the hotel’s veranda post, basking in the praise of those in favour of the circus. He was intrigued by the undercurrent being played out between the young girl on the white horse and the voluptuous brunette seated on the wagon marked Daring Dolores Hart and Little Clytie. Dolores was distracted, watching every move the younger girl made as if she were her instructor.

  Clytie. So that’s the kid’s name.

  His hackles rose again at the sight of the man billed as Vlad the Knife-Thrower. Large of frame and swarthy, his bare chest as hairy as a wombat’s hide, his full-blooming red trousers were adorned with an outsized sabre hanging from a jewelled belt. The muscles
in his arms rippled as he juggled an increasing number of knives.

  Rom noticed that when he fumbled one of his knives, he hissed at Dolores, ‘Wake up! That was your cue, woman!’

  Dolores retrieved the knife with a graceful curtsy as if it was all part of the act. She graciously inclined her head towards Rom when he initiated a round of applause that was picked up by the crowd. Rom knew it was common knowledge that theatrical females were notoriously ‘easy’. He watched Clytie sweetly order her horse to cross his front legs and execute a bow – a final touch that delighted the crowd.

  Before climbing back on the wagon beside Dolores, Clytie turned on Rom a cheeky smile and in a time-honoured theatrical gesture blew him a kiss.

  ‘Yes, sweetheart, I’ve got you hooked,’ he said softly under his breath.

  Gourlay was ready to move on. ‘Now if someone would kindly direct me to our venue, we will set up our Big Top ready for our first performance.’

  Fuming with impotence, Twyman refused to back down.

  Doc Hundey quietly took control. ‘It will be my pleasure, Mr Gourlay. The creek is rising, I’ll show you the safest crossing.’

  Doc slung his tweed jacket over his shoulder and armed with his medical bag, climbed up beside Gourlay onto the box seat and chatted as if they were old friends. Leaving the impromptu audience eager for more, Gourlay gave the order for the wagons to roll. Doc gestured to points of interest as he directed him along the route to the Cricket Ground.

  Rom was elated, his imagination fired by two lovely images. The twenty guinea reward that would soon be in his pocket – and Little Clytie’s teasing kiss.

  She’s damned pretty – in an exotic kind of way. Young, but not young enough to land me in gaol.

  He felt drunk on success despite past experiences when Lady Luck had proved a fickle mistress.

  ‘I reckon I’ll have that girl in the cot before the circus leaves town.’

  He muttered his usual boast aloud, convinced he was on a winning streak.