Tiger Men (10 page)

She appeared amused. ‘Your sincerest apology is accepted. But it’s just as well I didn’t drop my scones now, isn’t it?’ she said, holding up the bag she was carrying. ‘I’d never have forgiven you for that.’

Her voice was pleasing in timbre, but to Mick it was not the voice of a gentlewoman. She was clearly from Dublin; and although the lilt of her accent might have seemed well bred to some, as indeed might his own for he’d worked hard on eradicating the rough edges, he was sure he could detect a remaining hint of the backstreets. He curbed the desire to laugh in triumph, for if such was the case, he was surely on a winner.

‘You’re a long way from home,’ he said with the cheekiest of grins.

‘As are you,’ she replied coolly, and she stepped to one side about to make her way past him.

Her bearing was so haughty and her attitude so dismissive that Mick wondered whether perhaps he may have been wrong, but he refused to be deterred. He held up his hand and automatically she halted.

‘But surely . . .’ he said, his face registering a show of the deepest concern ‘. . . surely you’re not travelling unaccompanied.’ He looked about at the passing traffic. He could see no carriage or trap waiting by the curbside: although his concern may have been feigned, he was genuinely surprised that a young woman so attired, albeit from a background possibly similar to his own, should be walking the streets without a companion.

‘I am indeed.’ Her tone patently said
and what of that?

She was young, around twenty he guessed. As the hands that extended from the draped sleeves of the pelisse were naturally clad in gloves he was unable to see her ring finger, but she seemed far too free-spirited to be married.

‘Do you not consider walking alone a little risky, Miss . . .?’

The blatant question hung awkwardly in the air as she stared back at him, refusing to offer any name in response. Then, ‘Not at all,’ she said briskly, ‘I very much enjoy an invigorating walk without the interference of conversation from another.’

‘I promise then that I’ll not utter a word, if you will allow me the honour of escorting you safely to wherever it is you are bound.’ His hand on his chest, he gave another formal bow. ‘Michael Patrick O’Callaghan at your service.’

The corners of her mouth curled into a smile that could have been one of either amusement or mockery as her animal eyes flickered over him, taking in every aspect of his appearance. Mick sensed she liked what she saw in the man, but not what she saw in the cut of his cloth, and he cursed himself for having come out so poorly attired. His woollen coat was of good quality, but it was not the latest fashion. And as for being hatless and gloveless – well, that was unforgiveable if one wished to make an impression. But then of course he hadn’t known in popping out for Ma’s scones that he would be called upon to make an impression.

‘Thank you for your concern, Mr O’Callaghan,’ she said, ‘but I am in no need of an escort.’

‘I’m afraid I beg to differ there. In fact I must insist –’

‘No, Mr O’Callaghan,
I
must insist.’ Her steady, fox-like gaze now signalled a clear warning, although her tone remained pleasant enough. ‘I must insist that you allow me the pleasure of my own company. I thank you once again for your offer, and I bid you good day.’

With that, she sailed off down the street, leaving Mick to once again curse his ill luck. She’d found him attractive, he was sure, and had he been wearing his new waisted coat with satin-faced lapels and quilted lining, and his top hat and gloves, he would undoubtedly have passed scrutiny.

Oh well, he thought, shrugging off his disappointment as he entered the baker’s shop, Hobart Town isn’t exactly London – I’m bound to bump into her again. In fact, he was surprised he hadn’t encountered her before – she was hardly one to go unnoticed. Perhaps she was a new arrival. He would conduct some enquiries, he decided, and maybe orchestrate an accidental encounter when he would be better prepared to make a favourable impression.

Upon ordering his dozen scones, he was told by the baker, a dour Scot, that he’d have to wait if he wanted them fresh from the oven.

‘The lass who just left, she bought the last lot. I’ve another batch baking, but they’ll be a good half-hour.’

‘Who is she, do you know? Where does she come from?’

‘What’s that?’

‘The young woman who just left, who is she?’

‘No idea.’ The man’s reply actually said,
Are you daft, man? Do you think I’d tell you if I did?

Mick realised he’d been foolish to ask. ‘I’ll be back in half an hour,’ he said.

He took a shortcut through the laneways to the corner of Campbell and Liverpool where he sat quietly at the bar of the Union Hotel, nursing a tankard of ale. His encounter with the girl had set him thinking. The life he’d been leading of late had been enjoyable but costly and his stash was running low. He’d known that he would soon need to refurbish the coffers, but until now he’d given little thought to the problem of how he should actually go about it. He’d vowed not to return to a life of crime, but the alternative option held little attraction. With no skills to offer a prospective employer, the only jobs he could seek would be menial, the prospect of which he found thoroughly irksome. Which way was he to turn? He could no longer rely upon gambling to see him through: he’d had an unlucky run with the cards lately.

For the past several months, Mick O’Callaghan had been leading a lifestyle well beyond the means of a resident from the dockside suburb of Wapping. On his one night off a week, which Ma was happy to vary so long as it wasn’t a Friday or Saturday when the pub was at its busiest, he was invariably to be found at the card tables of Farrington’s Exclusive Gentlemen’s Club in Molle Street, on the western, more salubrious side of town. Many an afternoon too would see a visit to his tailor or hatter or boot maker, each of whom presumed they were catering to a member of the gentry, or if they didn’t they certainly made a good pretence that they did, which Mick loved almost as much as he loved mingling with the gentry at his club.

Farrington’s was one of a number of gentlemen’s clubs in Hobart Town, but it was certainly not ‘exclusive’ as it purported to be. Credentials were not required, and among its patrons there were possibly many poseurs like Mick. However, as questions were never asked by the fashionably attired men gathered to drink and smoke cigars and wager heavily at the card tables, the presumption was they were all gentlemen of sorts.

Mick had become quite a popular figure at Farrington’s, with his quick wit and personable nature, but just the previous week he’d varied his routine, forgoing the club to attend a performance at the Royal Victoria Theatre. Established by the well-known entrepreneur and founder of the Cascade Brewery, Peter Degraves, the Royal Victoria Theatre was the cultural pride and joy of Hobart Town, and Mick had viewed his outing as a further opportunity to observe and learn while he mingled with the upper classes. Having never been to a real theatre before, he had naturally presumed that, unlike the bawdy burlesque halls back home, such a venue would be the exclusive domain of the gentry as was the case in the west end of London. He’d arrived top-hatted and suitably attired prepared to socialise with the best of them, and he’d bought his ticket for a whole two shillings. There’d been four-shilling and even six-shilling tickets on sale for seats in the upstairs gallery and the boxes, but that had seemed an altogether ridiculous amount to fork out just to see a play!

I certainly learnt a lesson that night, he thought as he gazed out the window of the Union Hotel at the people scurrying by, fleeing the cold. He remembered how he’d stood among the riffraff in the pit – rough men swilling from tankards and spitting gobs of phlegm, sailors and tarts virtually rutting before his eyes – and how he’d stared up at the gentry in their boxes, the ladies all flounces and feathers, the men in tailored suits of the finest weave. Never had there been a clearer demarcation of commoners and privileged, he’d thought. He’d been bewildered that commoners should see fit to pay a whole two shillings for such an experience though. He couldn’t even remember the play himself. It was presumably funny, judging by the hoots from the surrounding buffoons, but he couldn’t be sure for he’d left barely ten minutes after it had started. He couldn’t wait to get out of the place before someone spat on his brand new satin-lapelled coat with quilted lining.

Mick took a sip of his barely touched ale. He would go back to the theatre one day. Perhaps, if he found the experience enjoyable, he may even become a regular theatre-goer. But never again would he stand in the pit with the hoi polloi. He would sit in a box like the gentleman God intended him to be. The only problem with such a plan of course, was money.

It was time to return to the baker’s shop. He stood, leaving his tankard nearly full on the bar: he hadn’t wanted a drink anyway. Money had been on his mind quite a bit since that night in the theatre, he realised, but it had taken the girl with the fox eyes to make him aware of the necessity for action, and the sooner the better. Although what particular action he should take remained at this stage a mystery.

After collecting the scones, he hurried back to the Hunter’s Rest as fast as he could, intending to deliver them still piping hot to Ma. He’d had the baker wrap them in several extra sheets of brown paper.

Bounding up the stairs three at a time, he gave his special knock on her door – two sharp taps, a pause, and then another two sharp taps.

‘Come in, Mick,’ she called in a loud bronchial croak that was followed by a hacking cough delivered with gusto. Ma never suffered in silence.

‘Prepare yourself, Ma!’ He made a showy entrance, taking care at the same time to close the door firmly behind him, as was the rule. For discretionary purposes when clients passed by, and also as a mark of respect for Ma herself, the door to her quarters remained closed at all times. ‘A special treat for my special girl,’ he said crossing to where she sat in her customary armchair beside the table, the corner desk chair pulled up beside it, presumably awaiting his arrival. She wore a thick woollen shawl, despite the fact that the room was warm and close, a fire crackling in the small grate beneath the mantelpiece.

‘Hot scones,’ he announced and, producing the paper-wrapped bundle with a flourish, he was about to place it ceremoniously in front of her when he noticed the plate on the table. It bore two lone scones, an abundance of crumbs, and beside it sat a half-finished bowl of butter.

‘You’re a bit late, I’m afraid,’ Ma said.

It was only then Mick saw the girl from the bakery. She’d been standing motionless by the window, staring down at the lane below, and now she turned. She no longer wore the poke bonnet, which dangled abandoned over the arm of a chair, and her flaming red hair hung in careless disarray to her shoulders. She’d divested herself also of the velvet pelisse, and had even removed her gloves, which Mick found most unusual, for he’d noted that ladies kept their gloves on at all times. The blouse she wore was high-necked, long-sleeved and demure in style, but the way it displayed her shape, tucking neatly in at the waist as it did, only seemed to accentuate the promise of what lay beneath the voluminous skirt. It’s as if she’s half naked, Mick thought. He was fascinated not only by the woman’s magnificence, but by the sheer impropriety of her state of undress. Fascinating too was her audacity, for she showed not a hint of embarrassment, but stood coolly observing him with her fox-like eyes.

Ma registered the direction of his gaze. ‘Oh, you haven’t met Red, have you, Mick?’ she said. Then she called over her shoulder to the window, ‘Red this is –’

‘Michael Patrick O’Callaghan,’ the woman said. ‘Yes, Ma, we’ve met.’ She crossed to join them, her hand extended in the most forthright manner. ‘Good to see you again, Mr O’Callaghan.’

They shook like men, and Mick was aware of the silky softness of her skin. A gentleman would rarely get the chance to shake hands with a gloveless lady, he knew. But then this was no lady. He’d been right.

‘Mick,’ he said. ‘Mick’ll do just fine.’

‘Eileen Hilditch.’ She looked down at Ma and the two shared a smile, ‘but as you’re a friend of Ma’s you can call me Red.’

‘Thank you, I’m honoured.’ Mick wondered briefly what Red’s connection with Ma could be. She was not the gentlewoman her appearance had first suggested, certainly, but she wasn’t a working girl. Eileen Hilditch was way out of Ma’s class.

‘Sorry I bested you with the scones,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t to know.’

‘Of course you weren’t.’

‘That’s funny, that is.’ Ma gave a cackle of laughter. ‘Red hasn’t been to see me for the best part of a year, but on the very day she chooses, you both turn up with scones. I think that’s real funny.’ She gave another cackle that quickly turned into a cough, which went on for some time, after which she produced a hefty gob of material that she unashamedly hawked into a cloth on the table.

Mick and Eileen said nothing throughout the performance, but stood boldly surveying each other, neither prepared to be the first to look away.

Ma finally drew breath and, glancing up, her shrewd eyes darted from one to the other.

‘Put your clothes on, Red,’ she said, ‘you’ll catch your death in that blouse.’

Red obeyed in an instant. Crossing wordlessly to the chair by the window, she took up the velvet pelisse and eased it over her shoulders, gently feeding her right arm, then her left, through the drapes of its sleeves, playing out every step with slow grace. She fastened the cloak’s collar and did up each of its front buttons with meticulous care, and her eyes remained on Mick all the while. Then picking up her right glove, she started teasing her fingers into it, delicately, sensuously.

‘I must be going now anyway,’ she said, her words addressed to Ma, but her eyes still on Mick.

He stared back, mesmerised. It’s like watching a woman strip in reverse, he thought. Every action was extraordinarily provocative. Had she been this seductive taking
off
her outer garments? he wondered.

Red had
not
been seductive in divesting herself of her outer garments, but she had indeed stripped with a purpose. In fact she’d put on quite a show for Ma as the old lady had scoffed back her scones.