Tiger Men (33 page)

*

Ma Tebbutt was dying. She’d been dying for some time and had accepted the fact with great equanimity. For several months now, barely able to walk, she had insisted upon being helped from her bed into her sitting room and placed in her armchair. The exercise was a painful one, but she refused all persuasion to remain in the comfort of her bed.

‘You never know which day you’re going to die,’ she said. ‘It’s best to be prepared.’

In the final weeks, sensing the end was close, she had embraced religion, or at least she’d made the pretence of doing so. The local parish priest whom she’d ignored for years visited on a daily basis to say prayers and offer comfort. However she admitted to Mick, who popped in to see her several afternoons a week, that her conversion was more a safety measure than anything.

‘Best to cover all bets, isn’t it?’ she said as they shared a tot of rum. ‘Just in case there really is a Heaven and Hell. At least I don’t have to confess all my sins like your mob. Better to keep some things to yourself, I say.’

‘The good you’ve done would outweigh the bad, Ma,’ he assured her, ‘I’d bet my last shilling on that.’

Ma had also called in her lawyer. Always meticulous when it came to business, she had set her affairs in order well before her demise, although she told no-one of her plans until the very end. When she finally did unveil them it was not unsurprisingly to Mick, and only two days before her death.

‘I’ll be gone in the next day or so,’ she said.

They were sitting companionably at the table sipping their rum, Ma’s ashtray and clay pipe before her, although only as a reminder. She had not smoked for a long time now: the coughing fits her beloved pipe brought on were unbearable. It was April, and outside people were rugged up against the bite of a bitterly cold autumn day, but the little fire in the grate kept Ma’s room warm and cosy.

‘Get away with you, Ma,’ Mick scoffed, ‘you’ve been saying you’re going for months now. We’ll get a good year out of you yet.’ When she was in one of her maudlin moods, he usually managed to jolly her out of it.

‘No, no, my time’s up, I can feel it. But there’s a promise I need you to make to me before I go.’

‘And what’s that?’ Realising this was no maudlin mood, he dropped the banter. ‘I’ll do whatever you wish, you have my word.’

‘I’m leaving you the pub, Mick.’ Her eyes met his and in their rheumy depths the shrewdness of old burnt as fiercely as ever. ‘You’ll find out from my lawyers as soon as I’m gone that the Hunter’s Rest is yours. You’ll also find out that there are certain conditions laid in place, but as these conditions will be difficult to meet and as I won’t be around to see you observe them, I want you to give me your word here and now.’

She spoke haltingly, her breathing shallow and laboured like the wheezing pant of an old dog. Mick nodded, and waited for her continue. For once he was at a loss for words.

‘You’ve been like a son to me, Mick, just like the girls have been my daughters. You’re not to sell the pub straight off. I want you to promise me that, a solemn oath, mind. A new owner could close the brothel, and I won’t have my girls put out into the street –’

‘I’d never sell the Hunter’s Rest!’ Mick interrupted vehemently, wounded that she could even consider he would do such a thing. ‘I’d never sell it, Ma, I swear,
never
!’

‘Never’s a foolish word, boy.’ Ma’s retort was scornful, but she quickly checked her emotions and returned to her measured shallow breathing as exertion of any kind brought on the coughing. ‘You can’t halt progress, Mick. Hobart Town’s changing by the minute. God Almighty, just look at the docks. The waterfront’s unrecognisable from what it was when I first got here, and it’s not going to stop where it is now, I can promise you that. You’ll no doubt sell the pub one day to some big businessman or the government or whatever –’ He was about to interject again, but she waved a hand irritably. She was tired now.

Mick remained silent, waiting while she wheezed enough air into her diseased lungs to continue. It was amazing that she’d talked for this long without suffering a coughing fit, but it appeared Ma’s sheer determination could achieve miracles.

‘You say you and Red are to marry.’ Her voice was weaker when she finally spoke.

‘That’s right, probably within the next month or so.’ Mick hoped, and even secretly prayed – a ritual he had not practised for some years – that they would
have
to marry within the next month. They had been taking no precautions and Eileen suspected she might be pregnant. The prospect of both marriage and parenthood pleased him immensely and he had a feeling deep down that it also pleased Eileen, although she refused to admit it.

‘Red will want you to sell the Hunter’s Rest,’ Ma said. ‘She’s a hard girl, with little feeling for others –’

‘No, Ma, you’re wrong. She’s not –’

Another irritable wave of the hand silenced him.

‘I mean no criticism, boy. I know full well what’s made Eileen the way she is and I respect her for it, but the fact remains she looks after herself and bugger the rest of the world.’ Ma paused, once again taking care to pace herself as the wheeze turned into a rattle. ‘I want you to promise me, Mick, that you won’t sell up until my girls have retired.’

Retirement
was Ma’s genteel word for that time when a prostitute was too old to ply her trade and was forced to seek employment in a factory or to offer her services as a washerwoman.

‘Maeve and Peg will be seeking alternative employment soon,’ she continued, ‘but the others have a ways to go yet, and I don’t want them working the street – that’s a dangerous trade.’ With the last ounce of strength she could muster, Ma’s voice took a commanding turn. ‘You are to give me your word, Mick, that you will look after my girls.’

‘I’ll look after your girls, Ma. You have my solemn oath on it.’

‘That’s good.’ She smiled wearily. The effort of talking for so long and with such vigour had exhausted her, but she was satisfied with the outcome. She took a final swig of her rum, which she always found soothing and which cleared the pipes. Rum was a great comfort. ‘Off you trot now. I’m going to have a bit of a snooze, but pour me another tot before you go.’

Mick was not with Ma when she died two days later. No-one was with her, which was strange for as always throughout the day she’d had many visitors. Len, Billy, Freddie, Tiny and every single one of the girls regularly popped upstairs to see her, either to chat, or simply to sit and keep her company. But there was a half-hour or so late in the day when they usually left her alone to nap after a couple of rums, and that was when she slipped away. Quick and quiet on the dot of five-thirty: it was an unexpectedly merciful exercise. She did not choke from one of the painful coughing fits that racked her body, nor did she fight for the last vital gasps of air in a fearful struggle to stay alive. Instead, she succumbed to a mild heart attack as she slept, and died in her armchair as she had determined she would, with a glass of rum on the table before her.

Mick mourned Ma’s passing, as did all who knew her. Ma Tebbutt had been a popular figure in Wapping, offering employment and a helping hand to many. Dozens were gathered together in the Trinity Burial Grounds at the top of Campbell Street wishing to show their respects as she was lowered into her grave.

It would have been hypocritical of Mick not to rejoice in his personal gain, however. Eighteen fifty-six it seemed was a year of windfalls for Mick O’Callaghan. Already he had a modest fortune in the bank, and upon the reading of the will he would become the owner of a highly successful pub with a functioning brothel upstairs.

‘Sell it, Mick.’ Eileen’s reaction was just as Ma had predicted it would be. ‘Ma’s made a real success of that pub,’ she said when he told her the news. ‘Sell it while it’s running well and you’ll make a fortune.’

‘I’ll make more in the long run if I keep the place working successfully,’ he replied with a brisk new business-like edge to his voice. The will had yet to be announced, but Mick couldn’t wait to leap into the fray. ‘Besides, if I sold the pub whoever bought it might close the brothel and then the girls would be out working the street. I can’t have that.’

‘Why not? It’s what a whore does.’ Eileen had worked the streets of Dublin at the age of fifteen; she couldn’t understand his concern. ‘There are good times and bad and you take what comes – every whore knows that. The younger, prettier ones will find a place in another brothel anyway.’

But Mick refused to be swayed. ‘I promised Ma,’ he said putting an end to the argument.

‘Oh well,’ Eileen shrugged carelessly. ‘It’s up to you. But if you’re going to run the pub, you’ll have to give up your job with Jefferson Powell.’

‘Yes I will. I intend to resign as of next week.’

Mick had come to his decision virtually overnight. He’d been in a quandary for some time, indeed ever since he’d accepted Silas Stanford’s payoff. One thousand pounds was a lot of money. He was a man of means, he’d told himself, and a man of means did not slog away for a weekly wage like those of the common classes. He’d become dissatisfied with his existence. But after losing fifty pounds at the card table in less than a week, he’d quickly realised just how tenuous his position was. Eileen is right, he thought. One thousand pounds, a sum which most never saw in the whole of their lives, would not last forever, and certainly not if he chose to lead the life of a man of leisure. Jefferson Powell paid a good wage, and with the barges now fully operational and Powell Channel Transport forging ahead, there was room for advancement – Jefferson himself had said so. Common-sense told Mick that it would be foolish to throw away such a career opportunity. But the easy money that had come his way had re-awakened his lust for the good life. It irked him having to work for another, even another like Jefferson Powell.

Now, thanks to Ma Tebbutt, everything had changed. He was no longer merely a man of means, but a man of property, and a businessman to boot. He recalled the advice of Dan, the tiger man. ‘
If you want to move up in this world, Mick . . . you’d best follow the path of the tiger man . . . Take whatever you can get. And use whatever you’ve got to take it . . . You’re living in a tiger town, my friend
.’

Mick was no longer interested in a life of leisure, and he no longer had need of the career Jefferson Powell offered. A third and far more exciting option lay ahead. He owned a part of this town now. He was on his way to becoming a tiger man.

He decided that his parting of the ways with the Powell Ferry-Boat Service must be kept as brief and uncomplicated as possible. He would simply hand over his letter of resignation and walk away. He’d already shifted most of his belongings from the cottage to Eileen’s house, in any event, and was principally living in Hampden Road these days, although he hadn’t told the Powells that. The upkeep of the cottage and its property was after all part of the ferry manager’s job.

It was a glorious autumn morning as Mick walked along Colville Street on his way to the Powells’. The air was bracing and the sky a pale, cloudless blue, but conditions were unlikely to remain so for the weather had been typically perverse of late. The distant peak of Mount Wellington was laden with the snow of last night’s storm and further blizzard activity was forecast. There might well be snow in the streets the following morning. As people were wryly wont to say, the only predictable thing about the weather of Hobart Town was its unpredictability, and the comment rang continually true.

As he turned into Napoleon Street and approached the house Mick felt for the very first time the faintest of misgivings. He didn’t see why he should. If he was letting Jefferson down in any way then it was certainly not his fault. He had fresh responsibilities now. He was leaving due to circumstances beyond his control: he could hardly be held to blame for that. But he nonetheless hoped Jefferson would not be at home – being a weekday it was most unlikely.

He walked up the path, mounted the steps to the front verandah and rapped with the brass door knocker.

‘Michael.’ It was Doris who opened the door. Her pregnancy having been confirmed in the first weeks of January she was now seven months gone and large with child. ‘How lovely to see you – what a pleasant surprise. Do come in.’ She opened the door wide and stood to one side, automatically glancing at his boots as she did so, checking for mud. She was pleased to see there was none, although had there been mud Michael would of course have removed his boots and left them on the front verandah as he had always done. The informality of their relationship was a great pleasure to Doris.

‘I’m sorry, but no,’ he said, ‘I can’t come in. This is strictly a business call, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh.’ She seemed surprised. ‘Jefferson isn’t here of course –’ Mick breathed a sigh of relief ‘– but is it something I can help you with?’

‘Yes, it is actually,’ he took the envelope from his pocket, ‘I’d be most obliged if you could give him this.’

‘Of course,’ she said, accepting the envelope and wondering why he was so very serious. ‘Please do come in, Michael, if only for a moment. Martha and George will be thrilled to see you.’

‘No. No, I can’t.’ At the mention of the children Mick felt a sudden and unreasonable sense of panic. Dear God, why must the woman make it difficult for him? He couldn’t bear the thought of seeing Martha and George. ‘I really must go.’

He started to back away, but she reached out and took a hold of his hand.

‘My dear,’ she said, ‘what is it? What’s wrong?’

Doris was strong and her grip was firm. Aside from wrenching himself free, he was powerless to leave.

‘Nothing is wrong, Doris. It’s all there in the letter.’

‘What is?’

‘My resignation.’

‘Oh goodness.’ She maintained her grip on his hand, her face now a picture of the deepest concern. ‘Something terrible has happened.’

‘No, nothing terrible has happened at all.’ God, how he wished she’d let go of him. ‘On the contrary, in fact – I am to be married.’ He had not intended to convey the news of his marriage, but then he had not intended to remain chatting at the doorway. Now, given her grip on his hand and his inability to escape, he was trying desperately to make normal conversation.