Tiger Men (11 page)

‘So what do you think, Ma? Am I the goods or am I not?’ she’d said and she’d twirled about the room, pulling off her gloves and caressing her garments with her bare fingers. ‘Feel that for velvet.’ She’d hoisted her skirt up over Ma’s lap, heedless of the crumbs which nestled there. ‘And how’s that for petticoats, now?’ she’d said ruffling the many layers of ruched cotton beneath.

‘That’s fine fabric all right,’ Ma had said, stroking the velvet reverently with the back of her hand, careful not to touch it with her buttery fingers, ‘that’s fine fabric indeed.’

‘And the bonnet, Ma, just look at the bonnet.’ Releasing the ribbon at her throat, Red had pulled off the bonnet. Her hair tumbled to her shoulders, for the bonnet was all that had been holding it in place – she never cared much for combs and pins. ‘Take a peek at the lace in that brim.’

‘Easy girl, easy,’ Ma had scolded as the bonnet was plonked on her lap. ‘A thing like this should be treated with care,’ and she’d wiped her hands with the cloth on the table before touching the fine ruffled lace.

But Red wasn’t listening. Hauling off her cloak, she’d thrown it around Ma’s shoulders. ‘And try that for warmth,’ she’d said, ‘that’ll beat your old shawl any day.’

‘My old shawl will do me just fine, thank you, Eileen,’ Ma had said, her tone now one of distinct reprimand, and she’d taken the pelisse from her shoulders, folding it carefully. She never addressed Red as Eileen unless they were alone, and then only when she had a point to make, which she now did. ‘You show some respect for fine clothes like these, girl,’ she’d said, ‘they’re worth a tidy sum, and you never know when a tidy sum might come in right handy. Now you put them over there on the chair by the window before they get covered in butter.’

‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Ma.’ Red’s shrug had been dismissive, ‘I can get clothes like these whenever I want –’

‘There’ll come a day when you won’t be able to say that, Eileen,’ Ma had said ominously. ‘The good times don’t last forever. Now put your fine clothes on that chair.’

Red had done as she was told, albeit a little sulkily, but she’d quickly perked up when Ma had poured them both a rum and they’d settled down to talk.

‘Right,’ Ma had said, starting on her fourth scone. ‘How’s it all going at Trafalgar? You tell me everything you’ve been up to, Red.’ And Red had.

Both gloves were now in place, and Mick continued to watch spellbound as Red raised her arms and slowly drew her mane of hair back from her face. It was an action so uninhibited he felt he was peeping through a keyhole observing a lady at her toilette.

Then in one swift movement she deftly twisted her tresses into a knot at the back of her head and turned to Ma. ‘I won’t leave it so long between visits next time, Ma,’ she said. The sensual act for his benefit was obviously over. ‘I can’t promise when I’ll be back though.’ Pinioning her hair with one hand, she picked up her bonnet with the other. ‘I don’t get out the way I used to these days.’

‘So I’ve gathered,’ Ma replied drily, and Mick could only wonder at her meaning.

Having anchored her hair with the bonnet, Red tended to the ribbon and, within only seconds (despite the impediment of gloves) a perfect bow rested at the left side of her throat. ‘It’s been grand meeting you, Mick,’ she said with a smile, ‘particularly grand, you being a fellow countryman and all.’

She offered her hand and they shook.

‘Yes,’ Mick said, ‘it’s been grand indeed.’ He was lost in admiration. With not a hair out of place she was once again the impeccably attired young lady he’d bumped into at the baker’s shop.

‘I’ll see you when I can, Ma.’ Red kissed Ma on the cheek and, with a wave to them both, she was gone.

‘My, my, but she’s a flirt, that one.’ Ma stared affectionately at the closed door before turning to flash him a yellow-toothed grin. ‘She had you going there, didn’t she, Mick? You fancied her something rotten and don’t you try denying it.’

‘Oh I certainly did, Ma, I’ll not deny it for a moment.’

‘Mind you,’ Ma said in all fairness, for Mick’s honesty won her over every time, ‘Red took a bit of a fancy to you too, I could sense it.’

‘Did she really, Ma?’ Of course she did, Mick thought. God in heaven, a blind man could have sensed it. ‘Do you think so indeed?’

‘Oh yes, she wouldn’t have flirted with you like she did if she hadn’t found you fanciable. She wouldn’t have wasted her energy.’

‘So you think I’m in with a chance, do you Ma?’

His smile was roguishly confident and his question light-hearted, but Ma recognised the underlying seriousness of his intent, and the answer that came back at Mick was totally unexpected.

‘Not for one minute. You don’t stand a chance in hell.’ Knowing her brutal response had come as something of a surprise, Ma patted the chair beside her. She’d wanted to have a personal chat with him for some time, but she’d been wondering how to broach the subject. Red now seemed to have provided the perfect opening. ‘Sit down, lad,’ she said. ‘Come on, sit down and have a drink with me.’

He sat and she poured him a tot of rum in the mug Red had used then topped up her own.

‘You won’t score a win with that one, Mick,’ she said, ‘you won’t even score a place. You need money for a woman like Red. She’s way out of your price range.’

Mick didn’t like being talked down to by the likes of Ma Tebbutt. ‘There are other ways to win women, Ma,’ he scoffed. ‘I’ve not needed money to find favour in the past, and I’m not about to start paying for the privilege now.’

Ma, in turn, did not like being scorned. Oh, she thought, so I’ve punctured his ego – poor young buck’s pride is wounded – well, too fucking bad. ‘I’m telling you here and now, boy, if you don’t have the money, you won’t make it with that one, so don’t bother bleedin’ well trying.’ She knocked back her rum in one hit. Damn his hide, she’d only been offering a word of advice.

Realising that his pride had got the better of him and that the old woman actually did know what she was talking about, Mick tried to make amends.

‘Will you tell me why then, Ma?’ He appealed to her with all the boyish earnestness he knew charmed her, but with a genuine desire for the answer ‘Will you tell me why, if Red had no interest in me, why on God’s earth she flirted with me in such a way?’

‘She was having a bit of fun, that’s all.’ Ma’s tone was still short: she wasn’t about to be mollified that easily. ‘There’s business and there’s fun. You’re no good for business, so she flirted with you for fun. But Red doesn’t fuck for fun, I can tell you that here and now.’

Mick was taken aback. ‘So she’s a whore then?’ He didn’t know why, but the notion came as a mild shock. He’d gathered that Red was no gentlewoman, but he’d thought perhaps she was a wealthy man’s mistress or . . . Or what? he wondered. Upon reflection, he realised he hadn’t actually thought what Red might be at all: he’d been far too intrigued by the woman herself.

‘Course she is.’ Ma’s attitude softened. Sharp as young Mick was, he could be downright naive at times. ‘Not your run-of-the-mill whore though. Our Red’s for select use only. She works at Trafalgar.’

Of course, Mick thought. That explained everything. Trafalgar would be right up Red’s alley.

‘Trafalgar’ was an impressive two-storey stone townhouse in Barrack Street. Built as a personal residence for a rich English merchant who had since returned to Britain, it had been purchased by a fast-thinking entrepreneur who had retained the name of the building but not its residential status. Now a haven for the wealthy, Trafalgar was a gentlemen’s club where the term ‘exclusive’ had genuine meaning. Catering to the rich and powerful, the club boasted a fine bill of fare, a plush lounge and bar, and the requisite green-felt gaming room. Indeed, Trafalgar offered everything an elite gentlemen’s club was expected to offer, and something else besides. The exotic hostesses who entertained the members as they dined and drank were known for their beauty and also for the fact they could be bought. Should a club member wish, he could, for a substantial price, be provided with further entertainment upstairs in one of the well-appointed apartments, and he could do so without fear of damage to his reputation, for at Trafalgar ‘exclusive’ was another term for discreet.

‘I take it you’ve
heard
of Trafalgar.’ Ma’s remark was heavily laced with irony, but Mick didn’t pick up on it.

‘Yes, I’ve heard the place mentioned.’ Of course he had. Several of the men at Farrington’s spoke of little else. They’d been trying to inveigle him into joining them for some time, but he was not interested in the offerings of a high-class bordello, and the club as a facility was beyond his means.

‘I thought you might,’ Ma said, ‘given the circles you move in.’

This time he registered an innuendo, although its meaning escaped him.

‘I see a lot from up here, Mick.’ Ma gestured to the window that looked down over the laneway. ‘I see you leaving all decked out in your finery. And what I don’t see the girls report to me anyway. I see and hear everything. Nothing escapes me. I know what you’re about, lad.’

‘Oh, is that so? And what is it I’m about?’ There had been no accusation in Ma’s words, but Mick felt a surge of anger. How dare they spy on him? How dare they talk about him behind his back? ‘I like fine clothes, is that a crime? I’ve never hidden the fact. And what exactly is wrong with fine clothes, may I ask?’

‘Nothing, nothing at all; no-one’s saying there is. The girls love seeing you in your fancy clobber. They think you look downright handsome and they can’t wait to tell me. Don’t get yourself wound up over nothing, Mick.’ She picked up his mug and held it out as a peace offering. ‘Here, have a swig of rum and calm down; no offence was intended.’

Mick knew he’d overreacted, and he felt rather stupid. The girls always gave him whistles and cat-calls when they saw him dressed up – of course they would talk about him to Ma. He accepted the mug and sipped his rum.

‘There’s a good lad.’ Ma poured herself another. ‘It’s not the clothes, Mick, it’s what they signify.’ She paused long enough to take a swig. ‘I’m going to give you a word of advice, whether you like it or not, but I’d appreciate you listening because it’s well meant.’

Mick nodded, attentive but wary: he was not seeking advice.

‘I don’t know where you get the money for your fancy clobber –’ He was about to protest, but she would have no interruption. ‘Hear me out. I don’t know and I don’t care. I’m not accusing you of any wrongdoing. Not yet anyway. But you lust for the good life, and that can be dangerous. You’re going to have to choose a path soon, lad, and I wouldn’t like to see you choose the wrong one.’

He quelled another surge of irritation. She was telling him everything he already knew, and what business was it of hers anyway?

‘I have connections, you know. If you’d like, I could point you in the right direction.’

‘And exactly what direction would that be, Ma?’ Labouring for a pittance on the wharves, Mick wondered, or sweating it out day and night in a factory, or working in the stinking blood and guts of a tannery? Those would be Ma’s connections.

She ignored his obvious cynicism. ‘There’s a man by the name of Powell,’ she said, ‘Jefferson Brindsley Powell. American he is, and a right gent too. He come out here as a political prisoner – a
political
prisoner, mind.’ Ma clearly deemed this fact to be of huge significance. ‘As a youngster he got caught up in the colonial wars,’ she went on to explain. ‘He joined the French-Canadians in their fight for liberation from British rule. Called themselves the Patriot Movement they did, and a whole mob of them was rounded up and shipped down here in 1840. Close to a hundred there were in all, Canadians and their American sympathisers like young Jefferson. I remember the talk that went on at the time. None of us thought it was right. It didn’t seem fair to be sentenced to life for something you believed in. It didn’t seem fair at all.’

Ma had contradicted herself yet again, but as always Mick didn’t point out the time discrepancy. Whether she’d forgotten her original story that she and Sid had taken passage from England ten years previously, or whether she simply couldn’t be bothered keeping track of the details, was immaterial anyway. He’d long since discovered her story was pure fiction, as were the stories he’d heard from so many others.

Although he was in no mood for the advice Ma was plainly eager to give, Mick found he was interested in spite of himself. Ma never spoke of a convict’s background. No-one in Wapping did. Yet it appeared a political prisoner was a different matter altogether. At least it would seem so to Ma, for she was determined to tell him all about Jefferson Brindsley Powell.

‘Jefferson was granted a ticket of leave in ’44 and that’s when me and Sid met up with him. He was only a lad in his twenties, not much older than you, but he was having trouble fitting in and getting a job. In those days, people never quite knew how to handle political prisoners, least they didn’t around these parts.’ Ma lowered her voice conspiratorially as if, through the pub’s impregnable stone walls, neighbours might be listening. ‘They still don’t, to tell you the truth. Political prisoners aren’t the same as convicts, you know what I mean? A lot of locals feel uncomfortable around those who have a political background. They’ve done nothing criminal, see?’

It was a further giveaway that intrigued Mick, the virtual admission that Wapping was inhabited principally by ex-convicts. Ma’s really opening up today, he thought.

‘Anyway, Sid and me took a shine to young Jefferson,’ Ma went on. ‘And why wouldn’t we, I ask you. A right young gent he was, and by all accounts still is, although I haven’t seen him for some time. We set him on his feet, we did. Sid talked old Hamish McLagan into giving the lad a job as a waterman with the McLagan Road Transport Company’s ferry-boat service.’

Ma leant happily back in her armchair, mug clasped to ample bosom. ‘My Sid did the right thing by the lad there,’ she said with pride, ‘for the McLagans was the making of young Jefferson Powell. It wasn’t long before they took him into their home – he became practically one of the family, he did. Only a year or so later he was granted a full pardon and he could have gone back to America if he’d wanted to. But he didn’t. By then he’d decided his true home was here. Right here in Hobart Town.’ Her tale concluded, she downed a triumphant swig of rum.