Tiger Men (28 page)

‘I’m afraid the bandmaster must take all the credit for that,’ Amy said with a smile. ‘Mr Truscott has worked night and day.’

After a brief conference about the evening’s running order, during which it was agreed Geoffrey would introduce Sir Henry following the band’s current military bracket, Amy took her leave.

Mick bowed formally to Lady Young and Harriet McGregor, and nodded to each of the men. ‘Your excellency,’ he said to the Governor.

What exalted circles I’m mingling in, to be sure, he thought as Amy took his arm and they moved off on their rounds.

Surprisingly enough, there were a number of people present whom he knew, or at least recognised. Ruby Jack Clanton was there, regaling a group of men with his wild stories as they stood, glasses of ale in hand, under a conifer. Ruby Jack fitted in anywhere and everywhere it seemed. And there were various nodding acquaintances from Farrington’s Gentleman’s Club, men of questionable background, probably ex-convicts and possibly with a pedigree no better than his own, but with the money to purchase respectability. It gave a great boost to his confidence. And of course, there were the Dimbleby brothers.

‘Well blow me down, Mick, what on earth are
you
doing here?’

The use of his nickname did not bother Mick in the least, but Gerald’s tone was a definite insult.

‘Hello, Gerald,’ he said. ‘Hello, Charles.’

‘Hello, Mick.’ Charles, as usual, was far more polite, covering for his brother’s crassness. ‘Good evening, Miss Stanford,’ he said, tipping his top hat to Amy. ‘May I offer my congratulations? The society has done a splendid job. Why, the night is a triumph already and it’s only just begun.’

‘Thank you, Mr Dimbleby.’ Amy addressed Charles, ignoring Gerald altogether. ‘And thank you as always for your most generous assistance.’ Dimblebys, Purveyors of Fine Goods, had provided not only the tablecloths and napkins, but the cakes and confectionaries, which the ladies of the parish would serve following the savouries.

‘Rest assured we are only too happy to oblige at any time the society should wish to call upon us,’ Charles said.

‘I am well aware of that fact, and we are deeply grateful.’ Amy was forced to share her smile with Gerald, who was after all the other half of Dimblebys, but for some unknown reason his rudeness had irritated her intensely. ‘Now if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I must inform Mr Truscott that the governor is shortly to make his speech.’

She once again took the arm Mick offered her and, as they left, Gerald turned to Charles with a comically wide-eyed expression, but Charles merely shrugged.

The last fanfare of ‘The Marlborough March’ rang out, Mr Truscott gave a final flourish of his baton, the band came to a halt and the crowd burst into spontaneous applause.

Geoffrey Lyttleton stepped onto the dance floor. He acknowledged the Hobart Town Brass Band, encouraged another round of applause, and without further ado introduced the governor of Van Diemen’s Land, Sir Henry Young.

Sir Henry’s speech was succinct. He welcomed all those present and reminded them of the reason they were there. The Hobart Town Businessmen’s Philanthropic Society, he said, was a voluntary organisation devoted to providing succour and education for the poor.

‘Now, with self-government so closely to hand,’ he said, ‘we must look more than ever to the well-being of our citizens. We are on the brink of a new age, and it is with the help of organisations like the Philanthropic Society that we will successfully distance ourselves from the past and embrace a future of freedom, prosperity and equality for all. I thank you for your attendance, which is most appreciated, and please do continue to give generously to the cause.’

Geoffrey Lyttleton led the applause that followed, although he didn’t really need to. Sir Henry Young was a man well-liked by those who knew him. Then after reminding the crowd of the various donation boxes located in the marquee and about the grounds, Geoffrey thanked all those who had contributed so generously – ‘too many to mention individually, I’m afraid’ – and declared the official part of the proceedings over.

‘Have a wonderful night, everyone! The waltz orchestra will perform shortly, but in the meantime, put on your dancing shoes,’ he gestured flamboyantly to the bandstand, ‘as we once again welcome Mr Truscott and the Hobart Town Brass Band!’ Geoffrey was a born showman.

The band leapt straight into ‘Way Down Upon the Swanee River’, and within only minutes people were up on the dance floor. The night was now more than under way – it was in full swing.

‘Shall we?’ Mick asked.

‘We shall,’ Amy replied.

They danced a sedate two-step to ‘Way Down Upon the Swanee River’ and ‘My Old Kentucky Home’ after which the band upped the pace by jumping into ‘Oh Susannah’ and ‘Camptown Races’. The songs of Stephen Foster were firm favourites everywhere, the rhythm of many adapting well to British folk dance, and in colonial outposts around the world highland reels and Irish jigs were performed with gusto to the tunes of America’s most popular songwriter.

The Stephen Foster bracket was followed by ‘Laird of Strathalbain’ and ‘Jug o’ Corn’, after which Amy called a personal halt. By now she was thoroughly exhausted. She had danced many a highland reel before, and even on occasions an Irish jig, but never the way Mick did, never with such verve and energy. They’d jumped and whirled and twirled until she felt she couldn’t dance another step.

‘I need a glass of punch,’ she panted, and he led her from the dance floor.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said apologetically. ‘I’ve overtired you, haven’t I?’

‘To the contrary, I can’t remember ever having so enjoyed myself.’ She smiled even as she gasped for breath. ‘And as soon as I have recovered, I demand we return for more.’

‘Don’t move,’ he said, ‘I’ll get you some punch.’

He disappeared into the marquee, and the moment he’d done so, Phyllis Lyttleton materialised from nowhere.

‘Amy, my dear,’ she said, ‘I am a little concerned about the amount of time you are spending with Mr O’Callaghan. Do you not feel –?’

‘I have thanked all those who need to be thanked, Phyllis,’ Amy said, fanning her flushed face with a gloved hand. ‘I have done my duty.’

‘Of course you have, my dear. But I am sure there are other young men who may wish to dance with you –’

‘Ah yes, but do they dance as well as Mr O’Callaghan?’ Amy couldn’t help herself: she laughed. She intended no insult to Phyllis, whom she knew meant well, but she felt strangely heady and exhilarated.

‘Perhaps not, Amy,’ Phyllis said a little sharply, ‘and that may well be my point. Appearances must be observed, my dear. When the waltz orchestra commences I would like you to come and sit with Geoffrey and me.’

‘Oh no, I couldn’t do that,’ Amy replied. ‘I couldn’t possibly do that.’

‘Why ever not?’

‘Viennese waltzes must be danced to, Phyllis, and I intend to dance to every single one.’

Phyllis reported back to her husband, shocked, but Geoffrey seemed unperturbed.

‘Don’t fret, my dear,’ he said, ‘you’re being overprotective. The lad’s a bit of an upstart, I grant you, but Amy’s just having a good time. It’s nothing serious.’

An hour later, Mr Truscott’s eight-piece string and woodwind orchestra opened their programme with ‘Echoes of the Rhine Lorelei’ and, as the strains of Johann Strauss the elder flooded the grounds of the Hutchins School, Amy and Mick joined the other dancers to glide effortlessly about the dance floor.

Mick was a naturally gifted dancer. He hadn’t needed the lessons his elder sisters had given him. He’d been grateful at the time, but he’d quickly outstripped them in expertise, after which he’d learnt simply by watching whenever and wherever he could. Now, in his element, he could have waltzed and polkaed all night. So could Amy. And they did. As long as the orchestra played, they danced.

Phyllis Lyttleton was not the only person present who took note of Mick O’Callaghan’s monopoly over Amy Stanford that night.

Doris Powell said nothing to her husband as she watched the couple. Jefferson did not approve of gossip, and indeed nor did she. But she could not help thinking that young Michael O’Callaghan, having been recently disappointed in love and now seeking a new bride, might be looking a little unrealistically above his station. Doris did not disapprove, nor did she intend to utter a word upon the subject, but she did wonder what Silas Stanford might say upon his return.

The evening concluded with a resounding rendition of ‘The Radetzky March’, a tribute to the music of Johann Strauss the elder, the success of the ball and the triumph of the night in general.

As Amy and Mick stood on the dance floor clapping to the rhythm along with everyone else, the march signified something far more personal.

‘May I call on you?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’ She didn’t hesitate. ‘You could perhaps start by walking me to church in the morning.’ She turned to face him. ‘I’m afraid,’ she said regretfully, ‘that for propriety’s sake, Clara would need to accompany us.’

‘I look forward to meeting Clara.’ He knew the Stanford house in Macquarie Street; most people did. ‘What time shall I call?’

‘Nine o’clock would be suitable.’

N
ot surprisingly, Mick’s courtship of Amy Stanford met with the strongest opposition from Phyllis Lyttleton. Within only days, Amy was being firmly lectured, though she refused to listen.

‘I have hardly agreed to marry the man, Phyllis,’ she said. ‘I have simply accepted his friendship.’

‘Which is to accept his courtship, my dear – it’s one and the same thing, as you very well know. Good heavens above, he accompanied you to church, and then you invited him here,’ she looked around the sitting room, aghast at the thought, ‘here into your home.’

‘For morning tea and in the presence of Clara,’ Amy said unperturbed. ‘There has been no impropriety. Now please do not worry yourself.’

But Phyllis was unable to stifle her true misgivings, which had nothing at all to do with propriety. ‘My dear, he’s not good enough for you,’ she burst out.

Phyllis should have known better. Such a statement did nothing to further her cause. Indeed it only fuelled Amy’s desire to thumb her nose at those who stood in judgement of others.

‘I will decide who my friends shall be, Phyllis,’ she said pleasantly but firmly.

‘Very well, Amy. If you insist upon disregarding my advice, there is little more I can do or say.’ Without waiting for Clara to fetch her parasol, Phyllis snatched it up from the umbrella stand. ‘But bear in mind your father did entrust you to our care in his absence. We shall see what Silas has to say about this upon his return.’ And she swept out the front door in a huff to where her coachman was waiting patiently.

‘So you seriously believe Phyllis Lyttleton will try and turn your father against us?’

The following Sunday, Clara’s company did not in the least inhibit conversation as Amy and Mick sat in the front drawing room taking morning tea. They simply continued where they’d left off after their walk home from St George’s.

‘Oh, most definitely yes. Thank you, Clara,’ Amy said as she accepted the cup of tea the housekeeper passed her. ‘Phyllis is a good woman who believes she has my best interests at heart, but she is very straitlaced and finds my refusal to accept her counsel tantamount to rebellion.’

‘That is a great pity,’ Mick said. It might also be a great worry, he thought. Silas Stanford would surely take note of anything Phyllis Lyttleton had to say.

‘I do not believe so.’ Amy was surprisingly dismissive. ‘Father is not one for appearances as Phyllis is. He sees people for who they are, not for where they stand in society. Despite his old-fashioned manner, Father is a modern man at heart. Indeed,’ she said proudly, ‘Father is a true egalitarian.’

‘How fortunate.’ During the past week, Mick had developed some views of his own about Silas Stanford, but they were hardly views he could share with the man’s daughter. ‘Thank you, Clara.’ He smiled at the housekeeper as he accepted his cup of tea. ‘There wouldn’t be any of that marvellous lemon cake left from last week, would there?’

‘There would indeed, sir,’ Clara said. ‘I was just about to fetch them.’

Clara liked Michael O’Callaghan. So what if he isn’t of the class Phyllis Lyttleton would have preferred, she thought. Who is? This isn’t the Old Country. There was no blue blood around these parts. Hobart Town society was comprised of middle-class poseurs and riffraff who’d made money. Michael O’Callaghan was a good deal more well-mannered than most and dashingly handsome. Clara was delighted Miss Amy had found herself such an exciting beau.

‘Cream and jam, sir?’ she asked.

‘Oh yes please.’ Mick flashed another winning smile. ‘You certainly know the way to a man’s heart, Clara.’

Clara beamed delightedly and left.

Amy laughed. ‘You are thoroughly shameless, Michael,’ she said.

‘In what way?’

‘You have poor Clara completely under your spell.’

‘It is the other way around, I assure you. Any man is under the spell of any woman who can cook like Clara.’

If only I had Phyllis Lyttleton under my spell, Mick thought as he sipped his tea. He did not at all share Amy’s trust in her father’s egalitarianism. Phyllis Lyttleton, to Mick’s mind, presented a serious problem.

An hour later, he left the Stanford house and walked back up the hill towards Battery Point, retracing the route he and Amy had taken from St George’s Church. But he did not turn off Hampden Road into De Witt Street. He continued on in the direction of Eileen’s cottage, just as he had the preceding week.

Eileen had made fun of him when he’d arrived last Sunday in his best attire.

‘Well just look at you, a real toff if ever I saw one,’ she’d said after she’d whisked him in the back door. They’d gone straight through to the bedroom as usual, and she’d taken off his top hat and flung it over the bedpost. ‘What tricks are you playing at now, Mick, you naughty lad,’ she’d said teasingly as she started to undress him. ‘You’re up to no good, I’ll wager. Who is it you’re out to impress?’

He’d joined in the game. ‘What a terrible thing, Eileen, to make fun of a man’s Sunday best, and when he’s come fresh from church at that.’ She’d laughed. ‘It’s true, I swear,’ he’d said, although by now her hands were on his trousers and he was becoming distracted. ‘I warn you, woman: it is a sin to mock a man when he is in a state of grace.’