Tiger Men (24 page)

She crossed to the washstand and dumped the flannel in the basin.

Mick was so taken aback by his own stupidity that he couldn’t feel anger. How very foolish of him. She was right, he’d been so eager to have her he hadn’t thought things through.

‘Clients settle up with Ruby Jack on their way out,’ Red said as she started to get dressed. ‘Of course if you’re willing to give it a try, you could walk off without paying – but I would strongly advise against it. This place is more than a fancy whorehouse, it’s a statement of who you are around Hobart Town. If a man doesn’t settle his debts at Trafalgar his reputation is ruined – among those who count anyway.’

He didn’t need to hear that from her either. In this town you didn’t welch on your debts, whatever circles you moved in. If it wasn’t your reputation at stake, it was your life.

He stood and pulled on his trousers, annoyed more with himself than with Red. He was not the victor at all. She’d won the battle, and purely because of his own stupidity.

‘Oh come along now, Mick, don’t sulk,’ she said playfully, ‘you had a good fuck when all’s said and done. And if you’re short on money, I’m happy to lend you some.’

He paused, his shirt half on half off. What was she up to now? ‘Why would you do that?’

‘Because I like you, that’s why.’

‘You like me?’

‘Of course I like you.’

‘You’ve a strange way of showing it. You make a habit of humiliating those you like, do you?’

‘Ah yes, you were out to get even with me,’ she said as if she’d forgotten. ‘Do you know I can’t recall what it was I did that was so very humiliating: can you tell me what you’re talking about?’

‘That day outside the church, that’s what I’m talking about.’

‘Oh good heavens above, is that all?’ she said dismissively. ‘You shouldn’t have been there. That was my private time. Private time’s very precious to a whore. You had no right to intrude.’

‘You said I was as common as muck,’ he exploded.

‘And so you are to one who knows.’ She hauled the green satin dress over her head and started doing up the bodice fasteners, which were conveniently located at the front. ‘You can’t fool me, Mick,’ she said, ‘we’re two of a kind. You can try as hard as you like and for as long as you like, but you’ll never be a gent any more than I will a lady. That’s why I like you.’ Having fastened the bodice, she re-positioned the shoulders of the dress and lifted her breasts into prominence. ‘Now do you need any money to pay Ruby Jack? I’m expensive, I warn you.’

Mick grinned. He no longer felt insulted: he felt elated. ‘No thank you, Eileen. I’m flush at the moment.’

‘I told you, it’s Red in here.’

‘And if I was after Eileen, where would I find her?’ he asked boldly. ‘I’m not allowed to seek her out at church on a Sunday morning, so where would you suggest I look?’

She met the challenge. ‘If you’re after Eileen you come to Hampden Road on a Sunday afternoon, the white wooden cottage just around the corner from Runnymede Street.’ She picked up the hairbrush that sat on the washstand. ‘Now hurry up and get dressed or you’ll be charged double time,’ she said, turning away to look in the mirror as she brushed her hair.

‘I thought you lived here at Trafalgar.’

‘No. Some of the girls do. In the converted servants’ quarters out the back,’ she added with contempt. ‘So much for the glamorous ladies of the night. Not me. I have a benefactor,’ she said with pride. ‘He’s set me up in my own house for his exclusive use during the afternoon hours when he might wish to visit. The nights of course are for his wife and children.’

‘Very impressive.’ Mick tucked his shirt into his trousers and sat to put on his boots. ‘I don’t suppose I’m allowed to know who he is?’

The withering look she gave him in the mirror told him he was a fool for asking. ‘He’s a devout churchgoer, that’s who he is, which is why Sundays are safe. But don’t come to the front door. There’s a track through the adjoining vacant block that leads to the back door. I’ll expect you at two o’clock, and make sure no-one sees you.’ She ran a final check over herself in the mirror, took his frock coat from the peg behind the door and helped him into it. ‘Now get along with you. I have clients waiting.’

He arrived at the weatherboard cottage on the dot of two. It was a pretty house, situated in an area that was home to master mariners and shipwrights and their families, and to seamen and shipping agents and others who worked in the shipbuilders’ yards and on the wharves. Modest and respectable like most of the other houses, it was certainly not an abode one would associate with a prostitute. Which no doubt pleases her churchgoing prick of a benefactor, Mick thought cynically, and of course the back lane offering discreet access would serve the hypocritical bastard’s needs to perfection. It was probably the sole reason he’d bought the place.

Mick had thought of nothing but Red for the past two days, and already he was jealous of the faceless, nameless man who held special rights over her. The clients at Trafalgar didn’t bother him at all, but the benefactor was an entirely different matter. The benefactor had personal access to Eileen Hilditch.

She was waiting for him. Without a word she whisked him inside and led him straight through to the bedroom, which rather surprised him, although he made no complaint. She was wearing a simple shift, and she undressed quickly and efficiently without any form of tease. Realising she expected him to follow suit, he obliged and before he knew it they were on the bed making love. Except we’re not making love, Mick thought, even as he felt his body respond to her every movement. She was working on him like she had at Trafalgar. She was a whore doing a job. He tried to slow down, to take control and give her some enjoyment, but she was clearly not in pursuit of her own pleasure. The experience ended as it had before, only this time when she twisted herself free she took him in her mouth instead of spilling him over her breasts.

Again, while he lay recovering himself, she rose and crossed to the wash basin and jug, which sat on the dresser in the corner. He watched as she poured herself a glass of water. She rinsed her mouth, then filled the basin and washed herself with a flannel. Every action was automatic. Her post-coital routine was obviously as regular here with her benefactor as it was with her clients at Trafalgar.

‘Are you going to wash
me
now?’ he asked.

‘If you’d like,’ she said carelessly.

‘I wouldn’t.’ He sat up on the bed.

‘The kettle’s warm.’ She started to get dressed. ‘I’ll make us some tea.’

‘No, don’t.’

She seemed surprised. ‘You don’t want any tea?’

‘No, I mean don’t get dressed. Not yet. Come and sit with me, Eileen. Let’s talk.’

Her look plainly said they could have talked over a cup of tea as she’d intended, but she joined him anyway, and they sat naked side by side, their backs resting against the wall.

Mick would like to have played the scene a little more conventionally. He would like to have lain with her in his arms, her head on his shoulder as if they were lovers, but he knew better than to suggest anything so intimate. There had been no personal pleasure for her in the act, he was sure. He wondered if there ever had been.

‘You don’t really enjoy sex do you?’ He half expected her to take offence at the question, but she didn’t.

‘I don’t mind it.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t think about it: why should I? I’m a whore. Sex is work.’

‘I know whores who enjoy their work.’

‘Really?’ She raised an eyebrow mockingly. ‘And how would you know? I thought you never paid for it.’

‘I don’t, but that doesn’t mean I’ve never slept with a whore.’ He thought of Evie and the other working girls he’d known. ‘The whores I’ve been with seem to enjoy sex.’

‘Did it ever occur to you they might be pretending?’

‘Of course not,’ he replied with a touch of indignation. ‘I can tell if a woman’s pretending.’

‘Can you?’ She was genuinely amused. ‘Well, well, I am impressed. Can you really now, fancy that.’

‘Yes. Yes I can,’ he said firmly, although he was aware he sounded more self-defensive than confident. In only seconds she’d managed to thoroughly undermine him.

‘Perhaps the whores you’ve bedded really did enjoy themselves, Mick, you’re a pretty dashing fellow when all’s said and done.’ She winked encouragingly, which only served to make him feel further patronised. ‘But as for me, I don’t fuck for fun.’

They’d been Ma’s words exactly, he remembered.
Red doesn’t fuck for fun, Mick
. He could hear Ma’s voice now, just as he fancied he could hear her saying, S
ee? I told you so.

‘If a man wants to share something personal,’ Red continued matter-of-factly, ‘he can look to his wife or his sweetheart. My job is to give good value for money and that’s just what I do.’

Mick was starting to wonder whether perhaps he might have missed something. ‘So I’m supposed to be paying for today then, am I?’ he asked.

‘Of course not. You’re here at my invitation. You’re a friend, not a client.’

‘In that case I don’t understand.’ He gestured at their nakedness and at the bedroom and all it signified. ‘If you don’t fuck for fun, why this?’

‘Because you’re a friend who’s a man and men like to fuck and I thought we’d get this part of the proceedings over and done with first.’

‘Ah.’ He remained bewildered. The remark didn’t clarify the situation, and it had a distinctly unflattering ring.

She realised that yet again she’d punctured his ego, but she was unbothered. ‘Come along now, Mick, admit it,’ she said practically, ‘you wouldn’t be interested in being my friend if a fuck wasn’t part of the bargain would you?’

‘Well . . .’ He didn’t know what to say. She was very confronting.

‘Of course you wouldn’t, and why should you? But I’ll tell you something for nothing.’ She looked him directly in the eye with an honesty that was undeniable. Hard, and at times ruthless as she could be, Red was invariably truthful. ‘A whore’s life can be lonely. Whores only have other whores for friends. Men use us and women judge us, and that’s just the way it is. You’re different. You’re a rogue, but you don’t look down on working women and I like you for that. Besides, as we agreed, we’re two of a kind. I’d value your friendship if you cared to offer it.’

He was lost in the green-gold-hazel, whatever-colour-they-were fox eyes and he knew from that moment he was gone. Friendship, he told himself, is a definite start. He could work on the rest. In the meantime, he’d play the game her way.

‘Consider me your friend, Eileen,’ he said. Then he added with a cocky smile, ‘So now the fuck’s out of the way, how about that cup of tea?’

In the cosy kitchen, over tea and a lemon sponge cake that she’d bought from the bakery that very morning on her way home from church, they discussed her benefactor. Not in any detail of course – Mick knew better than to seek the man’s identity – but he was keen to discover what level of intimacy his arch-rival had achieved.

‘What does he think about your clients at Trafalgar? Is he jealous?’ he asked casually.

‘Not a bit,’ she replied, ‘he knows they mean nothing.’

Mick could identify with that.

‘In fact he feels safe when I’m at Trafalgar. He doesn’t like me being out and about during the day though – if he had his way I’d never leave the cottage. I’m a virtual prisoner here throughout the week. He never lets me know when he’s going to call, and of course I’m expected to be here when he does. Whores are not supposed to have a life of their own, certainly not whores as well kept as I am.’

So that explains why I’ve so rarely seen her in the streets, Mick thought. He’d wondered.

‘He’s terrified that if I’m free to socialise I might meet the man of my dreams and decide to settle down to a life of domestic bliss,’ she said caustically.

‘That’s always possible isn’t it?’

‘Oh get away with you, Mick.’ She gave a derisive snort and helped herself to another slice of cake. ‘Can you just imagine me bringing up a parcel of brats on a pauper’s pay? I hardly think so. And a rich man wouldn’t take me for a wife, I’m damaged goods. No, no, my benefactor has nothing to fear, so long as he keeps providing me with the finer things in life.’ She took a huge bite of cake. ‘And I make sure he does, believe me,’ she said through a mouthful of lemon sponge, ‘I never want for the finest. He’s generous, I’ll give him that.’

‘Perhaps he really loves you.’

Red was aware that Mick was fishing for information, but she didn’t mind in the least. She hadn’t talked so freely with anyone except Ma and she was finding the experience exhilarating.

‘Of course he doesn’t love me. I’m like a drug to him, that’s all. He’s addicted. He can’t get enough of me and he doesn’t want to lose me, so he’s willing to pay.’

The way she spoke of her benefactor with contempt rather than gratitude pleased Mick. Only one further question played on his mind.

‘Does he call you Eileen?’

‘Never. I’m Red to him, always Red. He likes me for the whore that I am. He wouldn’t even know that I have another name, and he wouldn’t be interested if I told him.’

The serious intent of Mick’s query was not lost on her, however. ‘No-one except Ma calls me Eileen,’ she said, ‘and even then only when we’re alone. Certainly no man calls me Eileen. I’m Red to everyone but you, Mick.’

That fact put the seal on their friendship.

It was only as he walked home in the early dusk that Mick realised he’d completely forgotten afternoon tea at the Powells. And he further realised that, as Sundays now belonged to Eileen, afternoon tea with the Powells had become a thing of the past. In just several hours, his life had changed irrevocably.

‘S
o when do we get to meet her?’ Doris demanded.

‘Well . . .’ Mick’s reply was hesitant. ‘It’s a little premature . . .’

‘Now, now Doris, don’t hound the poor fellow,’ Jefferson interrupted, chiding his wife good-naturedly. ‘You heard what he said: they’ve only just met, and she’s shy.’

‘But it’s such a shame he can only see her on Sundays.’ True to form Doris remained persistent. ‘You must bring her to afternoon tea, Michael.’