Tiger Men (15 page)

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’ The beady little eyes didn’t leave his.

She’s waiting for something, he thought. What?

‘It’s the best cake in the world,’ she said.

She was waiting for him to try it, he realised. He took a bite. He would have lied, but he didn’t need to: the cake was delicious. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘It is. It’s the very best cake in the whole wide world.’

And there it was again, that smile. The eyes disappeared, the dimples danced infectiously, and Mick wanted to laugh for the sheer joy of having shared a special moment with a four-year-old.

But sharing the moment cost Martha both her concentration and her grip. The plate wobbled in her hands and pieces of fruit cake slithered about wildly, threatening to drop to the floor.

‘Watch out, Martha!’ It was George who came to the rescue. He jumped up from the sofa and took the plate from his sister. He had been waiting impatiently for his cake and by now he was thoroughly irritated. ‘You’re taking all day and you nearly spilled the whole lot,’ he said. He presented the dish to his father, who accepted a slice of cake, and then progressed to his mother, who did the same, which meant it was finally his turn. Putting the plate on the tea tray, he picked up three slices and turned away quickly in the hope no-one had noticed. But someone had.

‘Georgie took three slices,’ Martha said accusingly. She was not normally a tittle-tattle, but she was cross that her brother had taken over her duty as host.

‘Yes, he did,’ Doris said (George’s misdemeanour had not escaped his mother’s eagle eye), ‘And Georgie is going to put them back.’

The little boy glared at his sister as he put the cake back on the plate, but Martha did not flinch. She returned the glare.

Mick watched the proceedings with interest. Would the children be sent off in disgrace? Doris seemed a most forbidding parent.

But Doris displayed no anger. She spread open a napkin, placed the three slices of cake on it and added a fourth. ‘You’re to leave us now, children,’ she said as she wrapped up the cake. ‘If you play in the back garden, don’t forget to put your galoshes on: it’s been raining.’ She entrusted the napkin to her son. ‘You’re to share this between you. Two pieces each, Georgie,’ she warned and the boy nodded. He would obey his mother, and with good humour, for they both knew he’d end up with three pieces of cake anyway. Martha would be able to eat only one slice, and she would quite happily give the second to her brother. The children’s spats never lasted long.

At the door, the little girl turned back for a final look at their guest. She was intrigued by the handsome young Irishman.

‘Goodbye,’ she said. Then, abruptly and without awaiting a reply, she followed in her brother’s wake.

‘I think you’ve found a friend,’ Doris said.

‘I hope so,’ Mick replied, ‘she’s a winner, your daughter.’

Jefferson was pleased the tea ritual was over. He’d been longing to get down to business. ‘Michael is to join Powell River Transport, my dear,’ he announced.

‘Oh, so you made the grand statement, did you?’ Doris said to her husband with dry humour. She turned to Mick and, in the vestige of her smile, he could see the faintest glimpse of a dimple. ‘Jefferson’s been dying to broadcast the news to the whole world,’ she said. ‘The change in the company’s title is not to be officially announced until next week, but he simply had to tell someone, and it appears you’re it, Mr O’Callaghan.’

‘I’m honoured,’ Mick said. He was also surprised. Doris Powell, nee McLagan, was obviously not in the least concerned about the omission of her father’s name. He wondered how Jefferson had managed to accomplish that.

‘And who better to make such an announcement to,’ Jefferson said, ‘than my new ship-to-shore waterman?’

‘Congratulations, Mr O’Callaghan.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Powell.’

‘We’re on the verge of a whole new era,’ Jefferson continued enthusiastically. ‘I was telling Michael about my future plans to employ a ticket-of-leave couple to manage the ferry service and help you with your chores, my dear . . .’

‘I do not need help, Jefferson,’ Doris said mildly but firmly, ‘I very much enjoy cooking and gardening, as you well know. Why should I deprive myself of that which I enjoy?’

How intriguing, Mick thought. The wife might well become his ally.

‘There are other chores, Doris,’ Jefferson waved a hand airily dismissing her argument, ‘and just imagine the gift we would be offering a young couple embarking upon a new life.’

Doris was silent: she could hardly contest such an argument.

‘It is a gift I owe to others, Michael,’ Jefferson said, ‘for I was granted such a gift myself. I will be forever grateful to Hamish McLagan for the chance I was offered . . .’ he smiled at his wife ‘. . . the chance to carve a new life for myself here in this paradise.’

Doris returned her husband’s smile, and this time Mick could see not only the clear indentation of a dimple, perhaps even two, he could see the love in her eyes. Of course, he thought, that’s where Jefferson’s power lies. A woman like Doris would be putty in the hands of a man like Jefferson Powell.

Grateful to Hamish McLagan, Doris was thinking. Why should her husband be grateful to someone who had taken such brazen advantage of him? Jefferson is speechifying again, she thought fondly. It was the American in him. Good heavens above, wealthy though her father was, he’d been on the brink of selling his three ferry boats when Jefferson had come into their lives. Her husband’s management had not only saved the flagging river transport business, it had led to the acquisition of an additional two boats, but had Hamish McLagan ever thanked him for it? Of course not, Doris thought. That had never been her father’s way. Instead he’d constantly reminded his son-in-law of the great chance in life that had been bestowed upon him.

‘I feel it my bounden duty to take up the mantel of benefactor, Michael,’ Jefferson continued earnestly, ‘it is the very least I can do in return for my father-in-law’s generosity.’

Doris watched her husband with loving exasperation. Jefferson was so naive, she thought. He saw the best in people and always had. She’d never had the heart to disillusion him, and she certainly wasn’t about to start now. If she tried, he wouldn’t believe her anyway.

She stood. ‘More tea, gentlemen?’

Mick jumped to his feet.

‘No, please, Mr O’Callaghan, please sit. I do not wish to intrude upon the conversation.’

Mick did as he was told and Doris took the men’s empty cups from them. She returned to her seat and as she poured the tea she remembered the exchange that had taken place when Jefferson had first told her of his plan to expand the business.

‘I shall call the new company McLagan and Powell Channel Transport,’ he’d proudly announced.

‘Why?’ she’d asked.

‘As a tribute to your father, of course.’ He’d looked surprised that she felt the need to ask. ‘In honour of his memory and to repay the debt I owe him.’

‘You are not indebted to my father, Jefferson,’ she’d said. ‘The name Powell must stand alone.’ He’d been about to disagree, but she’d continued firmly. ‘If you have any debt it must belong to the future not the past, my dear.’ Then she’d presented the irrefutable argument which she knew would clinch the matter. ‘Bear in mind that one day the company will be Powell and Son.’

Having poured the tea, Doris stood. The Irishman again made to rise to his feet, but again she stopped him.

‘Please, Mr O’Callaghan, please do not allow me to interrupt the conversation.’

By now the men had moved on to a broader theme, or rather Jefferson had, and it was clear he believed he was speaking to a fellow idealist.

‘In principal the debt one owes to an individual is not dissimilar to the debt one owes to one’s country,’ Jefferson was saying. ‘It’s a matter of principle and loyalty, Michael, as I’m sure you would agree.’

‘I most certainly would, Jefferson.’

A brief hiatus followed while Doris served the tea and then, as she returned to her seat, the men resumed their conversation. But Doris wasn’t listening.

It wasn’t that I hated Father, she thought as she poured herself a second cup. Far from it: she and Hamish had shared a strong bond. But she’d known him for what he was. Not a bad man, but a hard one who used people to his own advantage, including his daughter. He’d worked her as he would a son. Why in the early days of McLagan’s Road Transport Company she’d even driven one of the drays. And when her mother had died she’d continued to help with the business while also taking over the running of the household, though by then they could have afforded servants.

Doris remembered with vivid clarity the day Sid Tebbutt had approached her father regarding the employment of a young man called Jefferson Powell. She’d eavesdropped on the conversation, as she always did, and as her father instructed she always should. They would then confer on which tack to take, for by then they had become virtual business partners.

‘I know you’re not one to judge a man by his background, Hamish,’ Sid Tebbutt had said, ‘indeed I respect you as one who takes a stand against bigotry.’ Never having viewed her father as a man renowned for his principles, she’d found the approach a little mystifying at the time. ‘Well,’ the Yorkshireman had continued, ‘Jefferson is a strong and capable young chap unable to find employment because others are passing judgement upon him. And passing judgement upon what, I ask you? A blameless past, that’s what. The lad’s judged for the very fact he has no criminal conviction. There’s nowt fair about that, as I’m sure you’ll agree.’

It hadn’t taken her long to realise how very cleverly Sid Tebbutt was playing her father. The man knew Hamish McLagan as a canny Scot with an eye for a bargain. He knew, just as she did, that Hamish McLagan would hire the American not because of any principles on his part, but because Jefferson Powell was young and strong and desperate for work, which meant, above all, that he was cheap.

‘Aye, send the lad to me,’ her father had said magnanimously, ‘I’m sure we’ll be able to find a place for him at McLagan’s.’

That was the start of it all, Doris thought. How she’d blessed Sid Tebbutt for that day.

She re-directed her attention to the men, guiltily aware that in so ignoring them she was being remiss in her duty as hostess.

‘Why my very name is a statement of my own father’s ideals,’ Jefferson was saying. ‘I was named after Thomas Jefferson, the third president of the United States of America, who was so admired by my father and his father before him.’

‘Really?’ the Irishman said. ‘How very interesting.’

Doris smiled to herself. Jefferson was still speechifying. Her inattentiveness had gone entirely unnoticed.

‘Thomas Jefferson was a personal hero to my grandfather, who fought in the American War of Independence,’ Jefferson said.

‘The American War of Independence,’ Mick replied. ‘I find that fascinating, truly I do. Do you know, Jefferson, such a term is never bandied about in Britain. In Britain the reference is always to the Colonial Wars.’

‘As of course it would be,’ Jefferson drily remarked. ‘The British still have difficulty coming to terms with the fact they were defeated by a rag-tag army of colonists.’

Mick laughed. ‘Oh dear me, yes; it would have been a punch on the nose for King and Country all right.’

O’Callaghan is a little too eager to please, Doris thought critically. He seemed likeable enough, and the contact he’d shared with her daughter had been refreshing – Martha was not a child to be easily won – but the young Irishman was ambitious. There’s nothing wrong with ambition so long as it goes hand-in-hand with loyalty, she thought. But she would not allow her husband to be taken advantage of. She would keep her eye on Michael O’Callaghan. It would not be difficult to observe him without his knowledge, for he had clearly dismissed her, considering her of little importance. She was not in the least offended. Such a response was quite common.

She looked at the men, Jefferson in eager communication, the young Irishman hanging on his every word, lending agreement wherever possible. I need have no worry about my duties as hostess, she thought wryly, I might as well be invisible. She turned back to gaze out the window, allowing her attention to wander.

Doris Powell was fully aware of Mick O’Callaghan’s assessment of both her and her marriage. She had registered his reaction the moment they had met. She had seen such a reaction many times in the past. Why would a man like Jefferson Powell wed a woman like Doris McLagan if it were not for money? That’s what they all thought.

Her mind drifted as she gazed out at the garden. If they only knew, she thought.

D
oris McLagan was twenty-two years old when Jefferson Brindsley Powell had come to work for her father.

She’d found the American instantly attractive, as any young woman would, but she’d never admitted the fact, even to herself. Doris did not view men as other women did. She was not seeking a husband and doubted she would ever marry, though not because she was plain. Her plainness, of which she was fully aware, would have presented little obstacle had she wished to marry, for there was a severe shortage of women in the colony, and beauty, although preferable, was not considered mandatory by men seeking healthy wives to bear them strong children. Doris McLagan, had she made herself available, would no doubt have received many offers, and not just from those out to reap the benefits of her father’s hard-earned success. But Doris had long since accepted destiny’s dictate that her life was to follow a different path.

After the family’s arrival in the colony, Doris had worked by her father’s side for four long years, serving as the son Hamish McLagan had been denied. When she was twenty, her mother had died unexpectedly and she had come to serve as her father’s secretary, companion, cook and housekeeper. It was a position she expected she would continue to fill until the end of Hamish McLagan’s days, when she would become his carer and nurse. Such was her unquestionable duty.

A practical young woman, Doris had accepted her lot with equanimity. Indeed, so resigned was she to her future that it was a whole eight months before she finally recognised the first fatal symptoms.