Tiger Men (18 page)

‘You’ve never told me you love me.’

‘I tell you every day, Doris. I tell you with every look and every deed.’ He couldn’t help but smile: she was so forlornly childlike. ‘However, I will say the words on a regular basis if you would prefer. I’ll start now, shall I? I love you. I love you. I –’

‘No, no, Jefferson, please,’ she said, embarrassed, ‘I am aware you love me, of course, it’s just that I have presumed your love sprang more from friendship –’

‘It does. It always did and it always will.’ Jefferson dropped the banter. ‘When does friendship become love, Doris? Do you know? I don’t. I only know that our friendship has produced a love that reaches beyond all else. My dearest girl, you are everything to me.’ He kissed her gently. ‘You are my very life.’

Doris gazed into her husband’s eyes with newfound purpose.

‘I will give you other children, Jefferson, I promise.’

‘I know, my dear, I know you will. Once we get you strong again.’

‘And I will start with a son. Father says it is my duty.’

‘And Father is quite right,’ he said with a smile.

One year later, true to her word, Doris bore Jefferson a son. They named the child George Hamish Brindsley Powell in order to keep everyone happy.

‘Michael is leaving now, Doris . . .’

While Jefferson had been chatting away with Mick O’Callaghan, Doris had remained gazing out at the garden, lost in her memories, oblivious to the men and their conversation.

She looked at the rose bushes that grew from the cuttings they’d first planted, and the wooden garden seat that Jefferson had built, now scarred by the weather but all the more attractive for it, and the silver birches that had lived up to their promise and become elegant trees. The garden is not only a tangible reminder of the past, she thought, the garden reflects the growth of our love . . .

‘Doris, my dear, Michael is leaving . . .’

She was jolted from her reverie by her husband’s voice and looked up, startled to discover that both men were now standing.

‘You were miles away, weren’t you?’ Jefferson said.

‘Yes, I’m afraid I was,’ she replied as she rose to her feet.

‘Forgive us for being so remiss, my dear. We got a little carried away in conversation, or rather I did.’

‘Not at all. If there is an apology due, it is mine for having become so lost in my own thoughts. Please excuse my inattentiveness, Mr O’Callaghan.’

‘To be honest, Mrs Powell, I myself have been so lost in your husband’s tales of the past, that any inattentiveness on your part went unnoticed, I assure you.’ Mick was quite genuine. He would have pretended avid interest had Jefferson bored him witless, but he had indeed found the man fascinating. ‘Why, I had no idea that the infamous George Arthur who was Governor of Van Diemen’s Land went on to become Lieutenant Governor of Upper Canada,’ he said. ‘It is a fact which explains a great deal, I must say.’

Jefferson caught his wife’s amused glance. ‘No, no, Doris, I have not been telling my life story, I promise you. We were talking of patriotism in general, and Michael simply asked me how it was that the members of the Patriot Movement should have ended up in Van Diemen’s Land.’

‘I certainly did,’ Mick agreed. ‘It has been a mystery to me. From the moment I first heard of the French-Canadians and their American sympathisers being sent here, I thought why in God’s name?’ He had thought no such thing, he was courting favour, but upon reflection, he found the subject extremely interesting. ‘Who would think to send them to Van Diemen’s Land, I asked myself. And now I know,’ he said with a comical shrug. ‘Who else but the demon governor himself, George Arthur?’

‘And what a favour he did me, as it turned out,’ Jefferson said, smiling unashamedly at Doris. ‘What a very great favour. Were it not for George Arthur I would never have discovered this paradise on earth. Nor would I have discovered the perfect wife . . .’

Doris was not a woman who blushed, which was fortunate, for had she been so prone, Jefferson would have caused many a crimson flush in the early days of their marriage. His speechifying, his penchant for telling his life story, and above all his open displays of affection represented everything that, in Doris’s rigid upbringing, was unacceptable. Now, she loved him for his very lack of inhibition and for the way he expressed himself with such freedom. It did not stop her, however, from calling a halt when she considered he was on the verge of going too far.

She offered her hand to the young Irishman. ‘It has been a pleasure to meet you, Mr O’Callaghan.’

Mick realised that Doris Powell was putting an end to the conversation. How extraordinary, he thought, and he glanced at Jefferson, but Jefferson was smiling benignly, not in the least offended.

‘The pleasure was all mine, Mrs Powell, I assure you,’ he said as they shook. ‘Thank you kindly for the tea and for the delicious cake.’

‘I am glad you enjoyed it.’

He proffered a winning smile. ‘Martha is quite right when she says it is the best cake in the world.’

‘Martha rarely shares her sentiments so willingly. You made quite an impression upon my daughter, Mr O’Callaghan.’

‘She’s a beguiling child, to be sure.’

Mick wondered what the woman was actually saying.
You made an impression upon my daughter, but not upon me
– was that it? Her tone was pleasant and her manner polite, but for God’s sake did she never smile?

The men stepped out onto the front verandah and Mick departed with the promise that he would return in the next day or so with an apprentice waterman.

‘I’ll find the perfect for’ard hand for us, Jefferson: you need have no doubt of it.’

‘I’m sure you will, Michael,’ Jefferson said. ‘I have great faith in your judgement.’

As Mick walked off down the garden path his mind was on Doris Powell. Was she for or against him? He would need her support in the future if he was to secure the position of ferry service manager and the little stone cottage that went with it. But he had no idea where he stood with her and he was mystified. Plain women were always the easiest to conquer, yet she seemed impervious to charm.

For the life of him, Mick could not fathom Doris Powell.

A
N EXTRACT FROM
‘A T
IGER’S
T
ALE
’,
A
WORK IN PROGRESS BY
H
ENRY
F
OTHERGILL

L
ONDON
, 1840

Pigeons scattered every which way as Sir Albert Broughton strode across Trafalgar Square. He dodged the evening traffic, ducking behind a hansom cab, then skilfully stepped over a pile of steaming horse droppings to reach the pavement and press on through the chill of evening towards his destination, the Voyagers’ Club in Pall Mall.

Sir Albert, as a director, had called an extraordinary meeting of the board of the Van Diemen’s Land Company and, in anticipation of complaints regarding the necessity of such a meeting, had decided to hold it in an anteroom at his gentlemen’s club. This meant he could indulge in a decent supper with his friend Anthony PetersTedman, a zoologist and Fellow of the Royal Society, whom he’d invited to attend the meeting to offer information and advice if called upon.

‘Good evening to you, Bertie,’ Anthony Peters-Tedman called from atop the steps of the Voyagers’ Club. ‘A chilly night for this early in the season, what?’

‘Indeed it is,’ Albert replied, removing his glove and shaking his friend by the hand. ‘Been waiting long?’

‘Barely a minute, old man.’

‘Good to hear, good to hear.’

An elderly doorman opened the large oak-and-glass door. ‘Good evening to you, Sir Albert.’

‘Evening, Sykes.’ Albert replied, ushering his friend inside. They handed their coats, hats and gloves to the ancient retainer. ‘We’d better hurry along upstairs Tony, I’ve scheduled the meeting for half-past six.’

‘Right you are, Bertie.’

The two men scurried up the several flights of stairs and through the double doors into an anteroom containing eight men seated around a large table.

‘Gentlemen.’ Albert’s stentorian voice caught them all unaware as he knew it would. He was stamping his authority over those present in order to nip any complaints in the bud. ‘I won’t delay you any further than is necessary, but I can assure you this extraordinary meeting is most definitely called for. So,’ he said crisply, ‘I shall call it to order, shall I?’

The correct procedures were observed by Albert and the company secretary without interruption and, finally, he sat himself down at the head of the table and introduced his friend.

‘My good friend Dr Anthony Peters-Tedman, Fellow of the Royal Society, has seen fit to join us for what should be a brief meeting and shall offer his knowledge on colonial fauna if required.’

‘Colonial fauna? What the deuce is this all about, Bertie, if I may be so bold as to ask?’

‘You may indeed be so bold, George,’ Albert replied with false joviality. George Weekes had recently been appointed to the board by virtue of his father’s death the previous year and Albert didn’t like him. He thought Weekes an indecisive creature, a pale copy of his father, who once roasted and ate his prized whippet merely because the animal had failed to win a coursing race in Norfolk.

‘I have here,’ Sir Albert said, waving aloft a paper, ‘a letter from one of our principal representatives in Van Diemen’s Land, Arthur Curry, a man I trust implicitly.’ Several mutters of ‘hear, hear’ echoed around the table. ‘He is of the opinion we increase the bounty payable for the destruction of those blasted wolves, or whatever you call them.’ Albert looked at Peters-Tedman for support. ‘What do you call them, Tony?’

‘Thylacines, Bertie. The Latin name is Thylacinus cynocephalus: it means “dog-headed, pouched” –’

‘Yes, yes! I’ve got it!’ Albert interrupted. ‘Striped like a tiger! Now I remember. Van Diemen’s tiger.’

‘Isn’t there already a bounty on those things?’ It was Weekes again. ‘My father told me. Correct me if I’m wrong but I believe it’s been in force for years.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Albert said impatiently, ‘five shillings has been offered for every male hyena,’ he stumbled slightly over the word, ‘and seven for every female, with or without young, since 1830. It was increased to ten shillings in 1831, and it needs to be increased again.’ He waved the letter sent to him from the colony as if it contained an incontrovertible truth.

‘Are we – I mean is the company legally entitled to set these bounties?’

‘Oh, do hush, Weekes.’

‘I mean, what’s the colonial government got to say about all this?’

‘We have a Royal Charter to develop two hundred and fifty thousand acres, Weekes. What we do with those acres is of no concern to the colonial government.’

‘I see. Sorry.’

‘Apology accepted. Now, let’s get on with it.’ Albert glared about, defying each man at the table to offer any further disruption. ‘Don’t want to be here all night, do we?’

Those present had no intention of interrupting Sir Albert in full flight. Besides they all had homes, or better still mistresses, to go to. The meeting progressed apace and a motion was made and passed that the bounty be increased. Sir Albert then called the meeting closed and within minutes found himself alone with his friend and colleague.

‘I thought you handled that superbly, Bertie,’ Peters-Tedman exclaimed. ‘No need for me to wade in at all, eh, what?’

‘They’re investors, Tony. They know the company is losing money in Van Diemen’s Land. Good Lord, we’ve barely turned over ten thousand pounds in the fifteen-odd years since the company was founded. And it’s all thanks to those bloody what-ya-ma-call-its –’

‘Thylacinus cynocephalus.’

‘Exactly!’

‘They’re really that bad, are they?’ Peters-Tedman’s scientific interest was now genuinely aroused.

‘According to our supervisors on the company properties along the north-west coast of the colony, yes,’ Albert said as he strode out of the anteroom and down the stairs. ‘The wretched animal is virtually the sole reason for their failure to produce wool. Vicious predator! Insatiable appetite! I am informed it is a fierce and determined creature, and if attacked will fight in the most desperate manner. Indeed, I’ve heard one of them was observed standing at bay, surrounded by a number of dogs, and bidding them all defiance. Not a single dog dared venture within reach of the thing.’

‘You don’t say?’ Tony Peters-Tedman said, breathless after trying to keep pace with his friend down the stairs to the club’s foyer. ‘I must take the trouble to study up on this animal.’

‘I wouldn’t bother.’ Albert laughed. ‘With the new bounty imposed I shan’t be surprised if there are none left within a year. Sykes!’

‘Yes, Sir Albert?’ the doorman answered.

‘Supper for two: see to it, will you?’

‘As you wish, Sir Albert.’ With a flourish of his arm the elderly retainer ushered them into the dining room.

M
ick O’Callaghan worked harder than he’d ever worked in his life over the next six months. He’d considered his duties as deckhand aboard the
Maid of Canton
hard work, but they paled in comparison to the lot of a waterman.

There had been times during those six months when Mick had come close to walking away from the job, times when the easy life beckoned and the little voice in his head whispered
Leave the drudgery for those born to it, Mick, you were meant for better things.
At first, his sole motivation had been the lure of the cottage and the job of manager upon which he’d set his sights, but in working hard to prove himself worthy of the position, he’d discovered an even stronger motivation. He was driven to prove his worth to Jefferson Powell, not only as a worker, but as a man.

Jefferson had had a profound effect upon Mick, as he did upon all those who worked for him. Even-tempered and easygoing though he was, the American was tough, and his men respected him for it. His rules were simple. He demanded honesty and hard work, and he got it. No-one cheated Jefferson Powell.

‘I’d like to see the man who’d try,’ one of the watermen said, a big Welshman from Cardiff.