In answer, Finch fished around in the bedside cupboard and handed Rom an envelope. ‘This proves somebody knows me.’
Rom felt his heartbeat racing as he withdrew the photograph – shocked to find he was staring into Clytie’s eyes. She was so real he could almost touch her.
‘Hey! She’s a good-looker, Finch. Is there any writing to identify her?’ Rom asked, knowing the answer. The back of the photograph was blank.
‘Only the name of the photographers. See for yourself.’
‘G. Johnson and Sons. What do you know? What a coincidence. Bitternbird is a lovely town just a hop, skip and a jump from where I come from – Hoffnung.’
‘Hope,’ Finch said, then added, ‘that’s what you’ve given me. Hope. I now have a real clue to her identity – and mine.’
‘You sure have,’ Rom said confidently. ‘Now get some shut-eye. I’ll be back as soon as I nick out to buy a pack of fags. Then we’ll go out on the veranda and have a smoke and a chat.’
‘Thanks, but I don’t smoke.’ Finch added quickly, ‘I know that much about myself. Billy, that Canadian bloke over there gave me one of his cigarettes. I coughed like crazy – hate the taste of tobacco.’
‘In that case I’ll grab you some chocolate.’
For the first time Finch gave a wry smile. ‘Now you’re talking, Rom.’
From the doorway Rom jerked up a thumb in the reassuring Australian gesture that meant ‘she’ll be sweet’, a silent reassurance that all was well.
The moment he was out of sight Rom ceased smiling. Already the seeds of a plan were germinating in his head – an idea in which Finch, stripped of all memory, could play a significant role.
He smoked a cigarette on the veranda where a window looked directly into the ward where Finch lay.
His curiosity was aroused by the sight of Sister Macqueen, her white nurse’s veil floating across her shoulders as she crossed to Finch’s side. Rom lingered on the veranda to eavesdrop on their conversation.
‘Doctor will examine you in few minutes, Finch. Try to recall anything to tell him, no matter how small. Even some image in a dream.’
Finch was flushed with excitement. ‘Better than a dream, Sister. There’s a clue that could well be a breakthrough. Rom knows the town where this girl’s photograph was taken. It’s a start, isn’t it? If I can find her, she’ll know who I am. Maybe she’s waiting for me. My fiancée – maybe even my wife. I can’t rest until I contact her –’
‘Calm yourself, Finch. That’s good news, but it’s time to rest easy now. You need to regain your strength.’
She held a glass of water to his lips for him to swallow the tablets. Finch drank obediently but asked her a final wistful question.
‘Is it possible for a man like me to forget the face of the girl he loved, Sister?’
The nurse had no need to answer. Finch’s eyelids were already half-closed, overcome by a wave of fatigue.
Rom watched them unobserved, feeling a flash of guilt. Maybe I should ask myself the same question.
The Australian surgeon questioned Finch with surprising patience, given the staggering list of patients in his care. Finch was examined, tapped, prodded and questioned thoroughly, meanwhile keeping one eye on Sister Macqueen as she recorded notes on a clipboard.
Chain-smoking on the veranda, Rom tried to tune in to their low-key comments but failed. I’ll bet they don’t know what I suspect – that he bolted.
Finally, chafing to hear the doctor’s verdict, Finch interrupted. ‘I can’t remember my name or my personal history, Doctor. But I can see and hear perfectly. I can walk and talk, and my appetite’s improved out of sight. I remember how to read, write, play the piano – and pray to God. Surely these are encouraging signs, are they not?’
‘They are also quite timely,’ the doctor said wearily. ‘Another batch of wounded chaps is due to arrive by hospital train from the Front. We may need to bed you down elsewhere.’
‘Can Sister Macqueen come with me?’
The doctor ignored his intended pleasantry. ‘Sister will help with your memory problems – if she can spare the time.’
Another nurse hovered, anxious to interrupt him. ‘The train has arrived with the wounded, Doctor. You’re needed in surgery.’
Without a word he headed for the operating room.
Rom watched as pairs of stretcher bearers carried the badly wounded to vacant beds. Many lads were blood-stained and dirty. Different accents floated across the room. Most of the wounded looked barely old enough to have left school. Rom suspected many had put up their ages to enlist – as he had done.
Maybe Finch did too. He doesn’t even know how old he is.
Rom tracked Sister Macqueen down in the nurses’ small alcove where she was making tea. Up close, he could not help admiring the way her pale complexion was peppered with faint orange freckles, close in colour to the wisps of hair that escaped her veil. He stared down into her eyes – eggshell blue with long sandy lashes. She wasn’t conventionally pretty but her smile lit up her face like a sunrise.
He reminded himself of the dimple that came and went at the corner of Clytie’s mouth. What I’d do for a kiss that lasted all night.
Aware of the intensity of his stare, Sister Macqueen cleared her throat. ‘So what are you doing here, Delaney? This is the nurses’ oasis,’ she said lightly.
‘I’m concerned about Finch. What chance does he have of regaining his memory?’
‘I’m not a doctor. But from what I’ve seen of these cases it could return overnight – or take years for small memories to knit his past life together.’
‘How can I help him?
‘Talk to him. Make him laugh, give him confidence. He needs specialised help but as you can see our medical team is drastically short-staffed. We must concentrate our main efforts on saving lives, not restoring memories.’
‘Finch could get proper medical help back in Australia, right? If someone here wrote the right papers for him?’
‘Not until we know exactly who he is – it’s not even certain whether he’s Australian, English or even a Kiwi. His accent is rather neutral.’
‘Righto, so that’s the hold up? You can count on me, Sister. I’ll do my best for him.’
Rom wasted no time in hobbling down towards the railway station where he found a small store beneath the subway. He managed to buy two small loaves of bread at one shilling each, six apples at three shillings a dozen and some chocolate squares at threepence each – leaving him with tuppence halfpenny.
Back at the hospital he traded the bread and apples with a patient who didn’t smoke for a packet of cigarettes and a Cuban cigar.
On his return, he addressed Finch in the manner of a sergeant-major.
‘On your feet, soldier. Quick march out onto the veranda. That’s an order.’ He added as an aside, ‘Matron will shoot me if I’m caught smoking in here but the veranda is no man’s land.’
Seated on cane chairs, with a table between them, Rom cut straight to the core.
‘Let’s tally up what you know. Exactly where are you right now?’
‘In a British military hospital outside of Johannesburg, getting the third-degree from you. But don’t think I’m not grateful for your offer of chocolate,’ Finch added hopefully.
Rom grinned at the subtle prompt and handed him the chocolate squares.
‘You’re in the best place for you, mate. But actually it’s an Australian military hospital with a reputation so good that when Tommies get wounded they beg to be brought here instead of their own hospitals. This place is packed like sardines with different accents – Australian, Cockney, Kiwi, Scots, Irish, Canadian, Indian, you name it. So which are you? I’ll tell you one thing for free – you’re not Australian.’
Finch looked startled. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘I’ve been talking to you for ages and you haven’t sworn once. No Digger alive can go ten minutes without dropping a swear word or three.’
Finch looked
blank, and then laughed. ‘You certainly can’t.’
‘I grew up in Catholic Boys’ Homes. Every time I cussed the nuns washed out my mouth with soap and water. I’m making up for lost time. Can you remember being a kid?’
‘Total blank. I want to ask you something. If I was in the V.M.R., wouldn’t you know me?’
‘No, there are hundreds of us. Ever since we lobbed here, we’ve been shunted around from pillar to post, attached to one Imperial officer after another for flaming months on end.’
Rom lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the one just smoked.
‘So you’re not a regular soldier?’ Finch asked.
‘I was dead keen to see the world. So I volunteered to get into the action. I never saw a shot fired in anger until they sent me out on patrol to scout. Some Imperial officers don’t think much of us Diggers. Some of them admit we’re top notch at riding and scrounging. Not surprising really. Most of us were raised in the bush. Country blokes know how to light a fire and live off the land. Poor bloody Cockneys haven’t a clue. They’d starve to death without a can of bully beef to open.’
Finch was listening attentively.
Rom warmed to the subject. ‘Our own officers know what we can do. They don’t just march us around the parade ground and waste hours polishing our kit as if we’re about to front up for inspection by the Queen.’ He paused. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Queen Victoria. But she’s dead. Her son Edward VII is now on the throne – with Alexandra his queen consort.’
Rom looked pleased. ‘Good on you, mate. That was a trick question. You’ve got a grip on world events – just mislaid your personal life.’
‘I guess that’s something to be grateful for,’ Finch said dolefully.
Rom pushed a pad and pencil across the table. ‘I just nicked this out of Heather’s office. Write something. No need to feel embarrassed. I’m a rotten speller myself.’
Finch hesitated then wrote fluently, filling the page before he handed it back. Rom was impressed. ‘Shit! It’s longer than the Bible.’
‘What does this prove? It seems I’m reasonably literate. I can remember every word I want – except my own name.’
‘That’s the least of your worries.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘If you’re not ruddy careful they’ll send you back to the Front to fight the Boers – yeah, I thought you’d hate the idea of that. So do I.’
Finch’s question surprised him. ‘I understand you encountered a Boer Commando at Wilmansrust. Who won?’
Rom Delaney looked out the window and his words came in a rush.
‘Let’s just say the Boers are still celebrating. Wilmansrust was not our finest hour. More Australians went to God in ten minutes than any other day in the war. Don’t get me started on who was to blame. The Boer Commando appeared out of bloody nowhere, firing from the hip, left, right and centre. No time to reach for our bloody rifles. Only had one choice. Get shot dead or run for dear life.’
‘Your choice?’
Rom shrugged. ‘I’m no hero. I never stopped running.’
Finch took a deep breath. ‘You think maybe I’m a deserter, don’t you?’
Rom combed his fingers through his lank hair. His dry laugh was devoid of humour. ‘Don’t know. Don’t care, mate. We’re both alive.’
‘Forgive me. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s just that I’d welcome any memories, good or bad. It’s like my life began when I woke up here with my head bandaged like an Egyptian mummy. All I know is the doctor reckons I must be around twenty-three years old – something to do with my teeth. I got examined like a horse.’
‘Can you ride?’ Rom asked.
‘Try me. I don’t know how I know, but feel dead sure I can ride like the very devil.’
‘That proves you’re Australian,’ Rom teased. ‘Maybe they can’t find any record of you because when war broke out again a lot of Australians were working here in the diamond mines and volunteered to join local units. No wonder the Imperial Army has a headache keeping track of us all.’
‘You mean they might never trace where I come from?’ Finch asked bleakly.
‘I’ll tell you one thing for free.’ Rom paused for effect. ‘I know where you’re going. That’s if you trust me to get you out of here.’
Finch weighed him cautiously. ‘How? I’ve got to find that unknown girl. You’d understand if you had a woman who writes to you.’
Rom patted the pocket that held Clytie’s letter. ‘Here’s one of them.’
‘One letter – or one of your women?’
Rom’s lips curled in admiration. ‘Sharp, aren’t you!’ He threw the butt of his cigarette into a flower bed. ‘I don’t want to boast but I’ve got enough hot-blooded memories to last a lifetime, mate. How about we concentrate on finding yours? The girl in that photograph is worth searching for, isn’t she? Go on, take a good look at her.’
Finch seemed reluctant to share his sole link with his unknown past.
‘She’s quite something, eh?’ Rom prompted.
Finch studied it carefully. ‘The photographer is an amateur. The horse is a fake. Mangy, no doubt stuffed years ago.’
‘What are you – an art critic?’ Rom snapped. ‘Be reasonable. You don’t expect an equestrienne to take her circus horse into a studio, do you? Look at her face. A beauty or what?’
‘She’s all right.’
‘All right? What’s wrong with your eyesight? That’s a girl any man would be willing to die for. We’ve got to find her.’
‘What do you mean we?’
Rom assumed a hurt look. ‘I’m trying to help you regain your lost life, Finch. I’m not the enemy.’
Finch apologised and Rom pressed on. ‘Your memories will flood back when you meet her face to face.’
‘Haven’t you heard, there’s a war on. We can’t get an overnight pass to sail thousands of miles to Victoria.’
Rom eyed him coolly, his head cocked to one side. ‘Anyone would think that you don’t want to get your memory back.’
That did it. Finch let his anger rip. ‘You wouldn’t be such a smart arse if your whole past life was a blank. Can’t you see how unnerving it is? I might turn out to be some kind of Jack the Ripper.’
Rom leaned across and gripped his shoulder. ‘No chance. I’m a great judge of character. Your mum, whoever she was, brought you up right. You’re not a man to walk out on any woman.’
Rom felt the irony of these words coming from him but he allowed them to hang suspended in the air, giving Finch time to digest the thought before he summed up his case.
‘Leave it to me, Finch. I’ll get us on board a ship to Melbourne by hook or by crook.’
‘Hold your horses. First I need to talk to Sister Macqueen.’
Rom eyed him shrewdly. ‘Got your sights set on Heather, eh? Sorry, mate. I got there first.’
Finch seemed unsure whether this was mere bragging, wishful thinking or the truth. ‘Sister Macqueen’s a good woman. Deserves to be treated right,’ he said stiffly.
Rom’s answer struck home. ‘So does the girl in that photo.’
Checkmate. Rom pressed his advantage. ‘So it’s settled. Best get you back into bed before the night Matron is on the warpath. I’ll see you later. I’ve got to set our plan in motion.’
‘How’s that?’ Finch sounded resigned to his fate.
‘How to get a transit document on a ship to Australia for a nameless soldier who officially doesn’t exist. And how to get the name Roman Delaney listed as Missing.’
Wearily Finch heaved himself back into bed. ‘I reckon you were born to attract trouble.’
‘I was. But I also have a knack of making the impossible happen.’
In the doorway Rom glanced back at Finch. He was carefully placing Clytie’s photograph beneath his pillow. The gesture gave Rom an odd twinge of jealousy.
I wonder what No-name would do if he discovered just how I intend to use him.
Chapter
20
Hoffnung was just beginning to stir as Clytie arrived at the Post Office, her first port of call before her appointment with Doc at his surgery. The Diggers’ Rest was not yet open for business, but the shutters were being raised on the stores in Main Street where the Bakery and Blacksmith’s Forge had been active since dawn.
Once again there was no mail for her. Marj Hornery could not resist a casual comment behind Clytie’s back as she left the store.
‘No letters in months. I reckon that Rom Delaney’s Missing in Action. Or else he’s dodging the Knife-Thrower’s Daughter’s claim that he’s the prospective father of her kid.’
‘How do you know she’s even written to tell him, Marj?’ Mrs Midd asked slyly.
Marj patted one finger against her nose and said no more.
Outside in the heat of the day, Clytie fumed with rage.
‘Why is no one brave enough to insult me to my face, Shadow? This town runs on slanderous innuendo and anonymous notes.’
As she always did, she checked the noticeboard for any fresh news from South Africa, alerted by a printed notice headed ‘To Whom It May Concern’.
A man sporting a grizzled, waist-length beard and old-style flap-fronted trousers worn by last century’s gold diggers, read it out haltingly for his own benefit.
‘Residents of Hoffnung stand warned, you have been hoodwinked. For some years we have had in our midst two residents who are not what they claim to be. Far from respectable, they are a danger to the high moral tone of this town. One lives on remittance cheques – England’s shame banished out of sight in the Colonies. The other is a proven liar, a danger to all who seek his medical help.’
The bearded man turned to Clytie to explain. ‘It’s signed “A. Friend”.’
‘It’s clearly aimed at Doc and his sister! How can anyone believe scurrilous, anonymous notes like this?’ Clytie stammered. ‘Who would do such a thing?’
‘That’s easy, girlie. Doc only has one enemy – Bruiser Twyman. But don’t you worry. No one takes a blind bit of notice of his poison pen.’
‘So why do people put up with it? Doc and his sister don’t deserve this cruelty.’
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