A Tattooed Heart (14 page)

‘Sorry,' Sophie said, turning scarlet. ‘Least it was only me and not Robbie. He'd have smacked the shit out of her.'

‘Where is Robbie?' Harrie said, looking about.

‘Aye, and where the hell's Walter?' Leo demanded, a note of panic in his voice.

They were found on the back verandah, lounging in Harrie's cane chairs, feet up on the handrail, smoking pipes and chatting in the dark. Clifford lay between them, snoring peacefully.

Leo gave Walter's ear a really good yank.

‘Ow!'

‘Listen, son, you tell me where you're going every time you leave my side, d'you hear? Even if it's only to the bog. You've got to be
careful.
'

Startled, Walter stared up at him, then nodded.

‘And you, lad,' Leo added to Robbie, ‘don't you lead him astray.'

Robbie spat, barely missing Clifford. ‘Don't tell me what to do.'

Harrie gasped. ‘Robbie!'

‘I bloody well will,' Leo replied, ‘when it comes to matters you know bugger all about. He doesn't, does he?' Leo asked Walter.

Walter shook his head.

‘Well, keep it that way,' Leo barked, ‘for your own good. And his.'

There was one other slightly unfortunate incident that evening, thanks to Friday's drunken behaviour. Clearly smitten, Matthew lavished attention on Lucy, telling her amusing stories, bringing her plates of food and topping up her glass with sherry.

At his third approach with James's cut-crystal decanter, Lucy, giggling, waved him away. A pretty pink flush had spread across her cheeks and was now creeping down her pale neck. ‘Really, no, thank you, Mr Cutler. I shall make a fool of myself shortly.'

‘I do beg your pardon, Miss Christian. I had no intention —'

‘Ah, go on, you did so,' Friday said, cackling and giving Matthew one of her muscular shoves. ‘Get her swattled and then —'

‘Friday, shut up,' Sarah warned.

Looking mortified, Matthew said to Lucy, ‘I can assure you I —'

As everyone else watched with interest, Lucy raised her hand, stifled the tiniest and politest of burps, then interrupted him. ‘I do beg your pardon. Matthew, leave this to me. May I call you Matthew?'

‘Of course,' Matthew said, inordinately pleased.

‘Miss Woolfe,' Lucy began.

‘Oh, for Christ's sake,' Friday grumbled. ‘It's bloody Friday, and you're Lucy. We don't stand on fancy bloody manners here.'

Lucy said graciously, ‘All right, then. Thank you, Friday. And, yes, please do call me Lucy.' She smiled sweetly and smoothed
her skirt. ‘Matthew and I were having a conversation and you interrupted it with what can only be considered a vulgar insinuation.'

Harrie and Sarah exchanged uneasy glances and Matthew opened his mouth, then shut it again impotently. Aria inspected her fingernails.

‘But I can see that you're well into your cups,' Lucy went on, ‘so I'll attribute your rudeness to that, though I would appreciate an apology.'

Friday snorted. ‘Well, you're not getting one.'

‘That really is a shame,' Lucy said. ‘I like you, and Matthew's just spent half an hour telling me what a decent and kind-hearted person you are. I was very much hoping we could be friends.'

Wrong-footed, Friday floundered, resorted to her usual, ‘Oh . . . fuck off,' grabbed a bottle of brandy and stormed out of the room.

Thumping down the hall, she marched out to the back verandah, where she found Hannah sitting alone cross-legged in a chair with a plate of pastries. Friday slumped into the seat beside her.

‘Want one?' Hannah asked.

‘No.'

‘Why not? They're nice.'

Friday lifted the bottle. ‘I'm drinking. No room for food.'

‘Can I've some?'

‘No.'

Hannah shoved half a pastry into her mouth and, crumbs flying, said, ‘Have you been sent out here for being naughty?'

‘Something like that.'

‘Me, too. Mam says I can't be trusted to behave. Look, there's Angus in the bushes. He must be hunting.
Angus!'

Angus the cat leapt in fright, then turned and glared as his quarry skittered off into the night.

‘Did you slap someone?'

‘No.' Friday got out her pipe, tamped in tobacco and lit it.

‘Can I've a smoke?'

‘No. You're a nuisance, d'you know that?'

‘Everyone says that.' Hannah wriggled in her chair and chose another pastry. ‘I try not to be, but I can't help it. I told Mam I want to be just like you when I grow up and she said over my dead body.'

Friday laughed.

‘I do, though. You're so pretty and everyone likes you. 'Cept for Mam.'

Actually, Friday thought, sometimes no one likes me. Because
I
can't be trusted to behave, either.

‘And I wanna wear bright dresses and smoke a pipe and drink and swear all the time, like you do,' Hannah went on excitedly.

Friday looked at the little seven-year-old face, framed by pale gold plaits bleached white by the verandah lamplight. ‘Why the hell would you want to do all that?'

‘'Cos I'm bored, and you never seem to be bored. I'm not allowed to do
anything
.'

‘Do you know what I do for a job?'

‘Mam won't tell me but Abi says you're a lady of the night. I'd love to work in the night.' Hannah made her eyes go huge and round. ‘I've got cats' eyes, like Angus. I can see in the dark.'

‘There you are,' Aria said, stepping out onto the verandah. ‘I have been looking for you.'

Hannah waved the plate at her, now containing several half-eaten pastries. ‘Want one?'

‘No, thank you, little girl. Friday, you should apologise to the Lucy woman. Your behaviour was crass.'

‘Yeah? Well, I don't feel like it.'

‘Go and do it. And put that bottle down. You do not need any more to drink. You are drunk enough already.'

‘Drunk enough for what?'

‘Drunk enough to annoy me.'

‘I'm going inside now,' Hannah said, and scampered off.

Friday looked up at Aria. In the half-light her eyes looked even darker and more unfathomable than ever, and she was obviously angry. For at least the hundredth time, Friday wished she hadn't so foolishly declared in front of her and Mrs H that she didn't need to drink any more. What a bloody idiotic thing to say! Since then she'd been drinking openly in front of Aria, but she hadn't said a word about it — until now. She'd assumed it meant Aria didn't mind, but perhaps silence was Aria's way of showing disapproval? A little spurt of angry dismay sent burning bile up her throat as she realised that here was yet another person she'd have to dance around. How the hell was she supposed to know what Aria was thinking about something if she never said a single word about it?

A fat, lazy moth fluttered around Aria's hair: Aria shot out a hand, crushed it and wiped the mess off on the handrail. I'm like that moth, Friday thought: I
have
to be around her, though she's the last person I'd compare to a lamp. She's dark. She's the darkest person I've met. Not just her beautiful complexion, but her character, and her passion and her desire. And I love her.

‘Why does it annoy you?' she asked, knowing it'd be far wiser to leave the matter alone but she just had to pick away at it. And she already knew the answer; what annoyed Aria would be what annoyed Sarah and Harrie and everyone else she cared about.

‘Because it makes you behave unpleasantly. You are rude and aggressive and unreliable.'

‘And you know this after us only being together a couple of weeks?'

‘That is right.'

‘But I'm like that when I'm sober. And
you're
rude and aggressive, too.'

‘You are rude, loud, funny and delightful when you are sober. And we are not talking about me, we are talking about you.'

‘Are you telling me to stop drinking?'

‘I am telling you that you should go inside and apologise.'

‘Why?' Friday asked, then winced. She sounded like Hannah.

‘Because what you said and did was undignified. You are more worthy than that.'

‘I'm not.' A silence descended. Without taking her gaze from Aria's, Friday took a deliberate swig from the bottle, hiccupped and let out a meaty burp. Then she sighed, knocked the ash out of her pipe and stood. ‘All right then, I will, if it'll make you happy.'

While Friday had been outside, Lawrence and Eloise Chandler had gone home, but not before Lawrence had recommended to Lucy a reputable women's boarding house on Castlereagh Street, and Eloise had promised to speak to a friend who ran a school for privileged and talented girls.

‘Talented in what way, Mrs Chandler?' Lucy had asked.

‘Do you know, dear, I'm not sure, but I believe they do more than the usual needlework and painting and how to plan a dinner party for thirty. In fact, I believe they actually learn Latin. Or is it French? And read the Classics. My friend Mrs Armitage has very modern ideas. But nothing too intellectually strenuous, I'm sure. It would be wasted on girls.'

‘Do you think so?'

‘Yes, I do.' Eloise patted Lucy's arm. ‘But I'll certainly talk to her. She may have need of an extra tutor.'

Nora, George and their children were also leaving, baby Lewis asleep and draped over Abigail's shoulder. Hannah was looking bilious, having eaten nine pastries, but she quite cordially — for her — accepted Anna's invitation to visit in a couple of days, though she was unable to resist saying, ‘Though I come here all the time, to see Harrie,' earning a yank on her plait from Nora.

Friday waited until they'd gone before she approached Lucy and Matthew. ‘Look, Lucy, sorry about what I said. I was just joking. Matthew's really not like that. Sorry, Matthew.'

‘No need to apologise to me,' Matthew muttered. ‘I'm used to it.'

Lucy smiled. ‘Thank you, Friday. Now, perhaps we can start again?'

She offered a hand; Friday took it and they shook. James and Harrie exchanged happy glances. Friday taking against Lucy would have spoilt things considerably.

Harrie nudged Sarah and whispered, ‘We've got plans for Matthew and Lucy.'

‘Have you now?'

Then Lucy gave a jaw-cracking yawn, which she barely covered with her hand. ‘Oh dear, pardon me. It's been a lovely and, er, quite eventful party, but I'm absolutely exhausted. Does anyone mind if I retire?'

‘Actually, I think it's bedtime for quite a few people,' Harrie said, looking pointedly at Anna, who was nodding off on the sofa.

Once Sophie, Anna and Robbie had been sent upstairs — Robbie grumbling all the way — and James had been dispatched to read Charlotte a bedtime story, that left in the parlour only those who knew about Walter's predicament.

‘Well,' Sarah said to Leo, ‘have you had the other half of your idea yet?'

‘Not quite,' Leo said, scratching his head.

‘You do realise the first place she'll look for him will be at your house?'

Walter sat bleak-faced with Clifford on his lap. Leo settled a hand on his shoulder. ‘Don't talk about the lad as if he's not here. And, aye, I do realise that. Of course I do.'

‘Well, he'll have to go somewhere else, won't he?' Friday said. She, Sarah and Harrie looked at one another. ‘But not with us. Sorry, Walter. Bella knows you're mixed up with us. She'll know where to look.'

Serafina said, ‘He could come and —'

‘No, he couldn't,' Leo interrupted sharply. ‘I'm not having you dragged into this. It was bad enough with bloody Jonah Leary.'

‘Mrs H's cellar again?' Friday suggested.

‘Not ideal,' Leo said.

‘There's room in my quarters at the Vincents',' Matthew said.

‘But that's on Princes Street,' Friday protested, ‘just along from Bella's brothel.'

‘Doesn't mean she knows I live there. Why would she? I'm in the annex now above the carriage house. It's private and there's a day bed. You could stay with me for a week or two, Walter, until we work out something better. How would that suit you? You'd have to be very quiet, though. I'm fairly sure Mrs Vincent wouldn't be too happy about having an extra lodger.'

Walter shrugged.

‘You could show a bit of gratitude, lad,' Leo said.

‘I wanted to stay at your house.' Walter stroked Clifford. ‘And what about her? Can she come?'

Leo said, ‘You can't stay with me, not until things have been sorted out. And no, you can't take the dog.'

‘Not going, then.'

‘You are,' Leo declared flatly. ‘Thank you, Matthew. That's a very kind offer. I'll pay for the lad's food, of course, and any other costs.'

It was a good thing that Walter did have somewhere else to go, because when he and Leo returned home that night they discovered that the lock on the door had been forced open. Nothing was missing, but someone had definitely been inside, poking about. So Walter packed his bits and pieces into his sea bag, said a tearful goodbye to Clifford and went with Leo to Princes Street to be smuggled into Matthew's quarters.

Matthew sat down to breakfast at the Vincents' dining table, surreptitiously examining their faces — as he did every morning — for signs that they were aware something was amiss. Walter had been hidden in his quarters for the past week with strict instructions to stay inside, be quiet, and keep away from the windows. It was a tall order for a boy accustomed to being outside and doing as he pleased, and Matthew knew Walter wasn't at all happy, but so far they appeared to be getting away with it.

However, Jonathan Vincent seemed his usual pleasant, imperturbable self, and his wife Madeline was busy cheerfully ordering about the four children, all under the age of ten, as she always did. She was a decent woman, but she had Rules with a capital R for everything, and rather rigid opinions, which Matthew had discovered to his discomfort when he'd first moved in.

For the first month of his stay he'd sat at this very table shovelling sugar into his tea with abandon, forgetting how pricey it was by the time it had travelled all the way to Australia, and Mrs Vincent hadn't said a word. She'd simply watched him like a falcon preparing to swoop on a mouse. Matthew had thought she was observing his table manners, and had taken no end of care to not clatter his spoon or spill a drop.

Eventually, Jonathan Vincent had taken him aside and said, ‘Go
easy on the sugar, old man. The wife objects to having to pay the earth for it and she's rationed us all to one
small
lump per hot drink.'

Matthew had nearly fainted from embarrassment, and had learnt since that there were myriad other ‘correct ways' of doing things in the Vincent household, but overall it was a pleasant environment in which to live. The children were fun and the Vincents' housegirl, Dolly, nice enough, although he was uncomfortably aware that she harboured an infatuation for him, which she believed entitled her to take small liberties such as calling him Matthew instead of Mr Cutler when they were alone. Though he didn't want to encourage this, he felt he couldn't say anything to her in case she took it badly and retaliated by doing something mischievous like telling the Vincents about his lion and peony tattoo, of which he knew Mrs Vincent most certainly would not approve. Also, Dolly
really
hadn't liked Sally Minto, but then neither had Mrs Vincent, and both had been inordinately pleased when Sally had refused his offer of marriage. Mrs Vincent, however, continued somewhat embarrassingly to raise the subject of him finding a suitable wife, and frequently professed that she simply could not understand why a nice young man such as himself had not yet married. Dolly never did, though, not that it was her place to comment, or any of her business. Matthew strongly suspected that she was happy he was still a bachelor, and perhaps even secretly fancied herself as Mrs Matthew Cutler, which was never, ever going to happen.

This morning, Madeline Vincent said conversationally, ‘I happened to see Mrs Chandler in the street yesterday — Dr Chandler's wife? — and she was telling me you were getting on rather well with a very attractive young lady at the soirée you attended at Dr Downey's home last Sunday. Do tell me that's true, Matthew.'

There was a clatter as Dolly dropped a serving spoon.

‘Not on your apron, Dolly!' Mrs Vincent scolded. ‘Fetch another one.'

Matthew felt himself go pink. ‘Er, yes, I suppose I was.'

Dolly took a clean serving spoon from the sideboard drawer and set it in the egg dish.

‘Mrs Chandler mentioned that Miss Christian is a teacher. I must say, that's a little more illustrious-sounding than a baker's assistant, isn't it? Elbows off the table, please, Florence.'

Florence, aged nine, stuck out her tongue at her smirking younger brothers and straightened in her seat.

‘She hasn't found a teaching position here yet, though,' Matthew said.

Mrs Vincent waved a hand. ‘Oh, Eloise Chandler will soon see to that. She's
very
good friends with Gertrude Armitage. She runs a school, you know. Not that Miss Christian will be needing an income for long as she's bound to be snapped up by some suitor, a pretty and educated girl like that. Any aspirations along those lines yourself, Matthew?'

‘Er . . .'

Dolly stamped out of the dining room.

‘Leave the poor man alone, Madeline,' Jonathan Vincent muttered from behind the
Sydney Gazette
. ‘You'll put him off his eggs.'

Ignoring her husband, Madeline Vincent said, ‘If so, I wouldn't dally. According to Mrs Chandler, Miss Christian has taken a room in the Acacia Boarding Establishment for Ladies. I'm sure the girls are chaperoned there, but away from the stabilising influence of Dr Downey and his wife . . .' She let the sentence hang.

On her way to the kitchen, Dolly stepped out onto the back porch and, in a fit of temper, hurled the dirty serving spoon as far down the yard as she could, which annoyed her even more as she would only have to go and fetch it later. It had been bad enough when Matthew was moping after Harrie Clarke, and then he was going to marry that scrag-end Sally Minto from the bakery, but what chance would she — a
housegirl
— have, now that a pretty
little
teacher
with all her letters and numbers and probably a different dress and hat for every day of the week had taken his fancy?
None
, that's how much.

The kettle screeched: she wrapped a cloth around her hand, snatched the kettle off the grate so violently that water sloshed onto the fire in a hissing billow of steam, and dumped it next to the tea tray. It wasn't fair, and after everything she'd done for him. For over three years she'd cleaned his room, washed his linen, scrubbed his underthings, ironed his clothes, cooked food she knew he liked — not easy when Mrs Vincent was so pernickety about menus — and generally looked after him. She might as well be his wife already!

She spooned tea leaves into the pot, then added the water. If he did marry this Lucy Christian, he'd move out of the Vincents' and she might never see him again! Overwhelmed with panic, she dug her fingers into the sugar bowl, crammed seven lumps into her mouth and stood there crunching them and wondering what to do. What
could
she do? It just
wasn't
fair.

Wiping sugar crumbs off her lips with her sleeve, she picked up the tea tray and carried it into the dining room.

But Matthew was nowhere to be seen.

‘Where's Mr Cutler?'

‘Gone to his office early.' Mr Vincent folded the paper and pushed his chair back from the table. ‘Which is where I must be myself. I'm afraid I don't have time for tea now.'

‘Well, I certainly do,' Mrs Vincent said, ‘if you would be so kind as to set the tea tray down, Dolly. Do stop daydreaming. What is the matter with you this morning? Shouldn't you be getting on with the laundry?'

Dolly set the tray on the table, gathered up an armful of dirty breakfast dishes and trudged back out to the kitchen. She filled the laundry copper with water and lit the fire beneath it, then washed and dried the dishes while it heated. First she stripped the children's
beds, then Mr and Mrs Vincent's, then she went out to the carriage house and climbed the stairs to Matthew's quarters. The week before he'd told her he was happy to tidy his room himself from then on, and bring down his laundry on Monday mornings so she wouldn't have to traipse up and down the stairs with piles of linen, etc, but he'd obviously forgotten about it this morning. No matter, she had a key. She wasn't supposed to have it but she did, and had used it in the past to sneak up to his quarters when he wasn't in and have a good look around and read his letters from his mother and sniff his clothes, which she was entitled to do as a potential wife. Today she was only going to collect his dirty bed sheets, though sometimes even they were interesting.

She slipped the key into the lock, opened the door and let out a squawk of fright. On Matthew's unmade bed reclined a barefoot, scruffy-haired boy, naked from the waist up, arms comfortably above his head, lying there as if he owned the place.

Gored by disappointment, then moments later righteous anger and a sense of having been deliberately and unreservedly cheated, things suddenly began to make sense to Dolly.

When Matthew arrived home from work that night, it was to find his travelling trunk sitting outside the carriage house. Inside were all his clothes, books and smaller possessions. What on earth was going on? Trotting up the stairs, he opened the door: the bed had been stripped, the few illustrations he'd bought had been taken off the walls, and there was no sign of Walter.

Outside again, Jonathan Vincent waved at him from the back verandah of the house. Matthew approached him.

‘What's going on? My trunk . . . I don't understand.'

‘Come into the parlour, will you?' Jonathan said. No greeting, no smile, nothing.

Matthew followed him inside, utterly mystified. In the parlour Madeline Vincent sat on the sofa as straight-backed and grim-faced
as if she had a fire iron up her backside. Dolly stood behind her, a smirk escaping the tight corners of her mouth.

Jonathan didn't invite him to sit, and didn't take a seat himself. He cleared his throat. ‘Er, look, Matthew, this is a delicate subject and there's no easy way for me to broach it, so I'll just come out and say it. Dolly found a young boy in your room this morning. We really can't —'

Matthew nodded. ‘That's right, he's —'

Jonathan's hand shot up. ‘Please do me the courtesy of allowing me to finish, and I don't care who he is. We really can't tolerate that sort of behaviour under our roof, so I'm afraid you'll have to leave.'

Appalled, Matthew stared at him. That sort of behaviour? ‘No, you don't understand. We weren't . . . He's not . . . I mean, I'm not —'

Madeline said tersely, ‘We don't want to hear your excuses, Mr Cutler. Please just leave. Immediately. If you send word, we'll have your things sent on.'

Matthew noticed detachedly that her lips had almost completely disappeared. This couldn't be happening, surely? ‘Where's Walter now? What have you done with him?'

‘If you mean the boy,' Jonathan replied, ‘Madeline told him to leave as soon as Dolly discovered him. And he did.'

‘Bugger,' Matthew said, envisioning Walter being dragged off the street and into Bella's midnight-blue curricle. ‘Bugger, bugger, bugger.'

Madeline's hands flew to her ears.

‘And Matthew's got a tattoo!' Dolly blurted gleefully. ‘On his arm. A huge one. I've seen it!'

‘Oh, shut up, Dolly,' Matthew said. ‘Look, Jonathan, I'll go but I'm sorry it's come to this. I'm not what you obviously think I am, and I've thoroughly enjoyed lodging here. Thank you for having me.' He offered his hand, which Jonathan refused. Matthew
shrugged. ‘Thank you, too, Mrs Vincent. Please say goodbye to the children for me. And Dolly? I really do hope you eventually get the husband you deserve.'

As Matthew left the house, he didn't look back. There wasn't any point. In a way it would almost be funny if he wasn't so worried about what might have happened to Walter. He walked down Argyle and turned onto George Street, hurrying along until he came to the little alleyway next to the Sailor's Grave Hotel where Leo had his tattoo shop. The
CLOSED
sign was on the door at this hour but he banged loudly anyway.

When Leo answered he said without preamble, ‘Is Walter here?'

‘Aye, he is, thank Christ. Turned up this morning.'

Matthew heaved a very large sigh of relief. ‘I had visions of him being snatched off the streets.'

Walter appeared, Clifford in his arms. ‘Sorry. That servant girl just come barging in. Didn't have time to hide. Then that other lady, the bossy one, chucked me out.' He reddened. ‘I think they thought I were a renter.'

‘Bit of a performance, was it,' Leo asked, ‘when you got home from work?'

‘Actually, I don't have a home any more.'

‘Shite.' Leo scratched at his beard.

Walter said sorry for the second time.

Opening the door wider, Leo said, ‘You're welcome to stay here.'

‘Thanks, but I'll think of something.'

‘Aye, I'll have to as well,' Leo agreed, frowning. ‘We're back to where we started, aren't we?'

Matthew said good night and, feeling a lot better now that he knew Walter was more or less safe, walked to Harrie and James's house.

James answered the door, just as Matthew remembered that James didn't — and couldn't — know anything about the trouble Walter was in.

‘Matthew! This is a surprise.'

‘Er, yes. I'm afraid I've been booted out of my lodgings. Do you think I might stay here for a couple of nights?'

‘Well, of course, but why?'

Stepping inside and flapping his hand as if what he was about to say was almost too silly to mention, Matthew said, ‘Oh, for some reason Mrs Vincent's got it into her head that I'm a molly and I was asked to leave.'

‘What? A
molly?'
James laughed heartily, then stopped. ‘But you're not. Are you?'

‘Of course I'm bloody well not.'

‘No, right, didn't think so. You can have Lucy's room. She moved out the other day.' James stuck his head out the door. ‘Where are your things?'

‘I'll have to send for them.'

‘In fact,' James said, ‘stay as long as you like. I'm sure Harrie won't mind.'

Tempting though the invitation was, Matthew thought it was probably time he finally got around to doing something about buying himself a house.

Leo still wasn't entirely clear about what he intended to do when he found himself knocking on Bella's door the next morning — and looking nervously around for those vicious bloody dogs of hers — but he'd dithered shamefully since Walter's return, and now Matthew'd lost his lodgings.