Tiger Men (29 page)

Their conversation had proceeded no further at that stage. But afterwards, lolling around unashamedly naked, he’d told her about the charity ball. Normally it was she who imparted the gossip while he watched with delight as she acted out her stories. He was no longer jealous about or even irritated by those that related to her benefactor, of whom she always spoke mockingly, always with scorn. What was the point of being jealous? Her benefactor was no more than a client, just like those at Trafalgar.

The relationship between Mick and Eileen had progressed immeasurably. The sexual act had ceased to be a battle. She no longer brought him to his climax like a whore doing her job: she made love to him like a woman who wanted to please and be pleased, clearly enjoying the sensuality of their union. They took no risks, always parting at the crucial moment, but Mick would keep himself in check for as long as possible in the hope that she might achieve her ultimate pleasure. She never did, and he wondered whether perhaps she was incapable of experiencing sexual release. Perhaps she had practised control for so long that she simply could not let herself go. Whatever the reason, he suspected that their relationship might well be the closest thing to love Eileen Hilditch had ever known. And for once it was not his ego dictating. For once, Mick was quite right.

‘I met the governor at the ball,’ he’d boasted as they’d sprawled wantonly on the bed. ‘I met Sir Henry Young himself.’

‘Really?’ She’d pretended to be most impressed.

‘Oh yes,’ he’d added airily, ‘and his wife, and any number of other hugely important people. We talked about the Viennese waltzes.’

‘Did you indeed?’

‘Well no,’ he’d admitted with a grin, ‘I didn’t talk about them at all.
They
talked about them.
I
danced them. Every single one! Oh I tell you, Eileen, it was the grandest night. It was the grandest night ever.’

‘I’m sure it was; it’s been the talk of the town for the past fortnight. I’ve no doubt I’ll be hearing about it for the whole of next week.’

‘Oh.’ Her abruptness jarred, instantly robbing him of all enthusiasm. Of course, he thought, she mingles with the rich and the powerful on a nightly basis at Trafalgar, why should she be impressed by anything I can tell her?

‘But I’d much rather hear about it from you, Mick.’ She’d meant no harm by her remark and, sitting up on the bed, she smiled kittenishly and traced a playful finger down his chest. ‘You tell me everything you’ve been up to, you wicked, wicked boy,’ she’d said.

And he had. She could hurt him and heal him in the blink of an eye and, enthusiasm restored, everything had tumbled out.

He’d told her of his involvement with the Philanthropic Society. ‘Charity is the way to break through boundaries, I’ve discovered,’ he’d said excitedly, ‘that’s how I was invited to the ball.’ And he’d told her of his plan to marry money. ‘I intend to marry a rich man’s daughter, Eileen,’ he’d said, carried away in his eagerness to impress, ‘and when I do you’ll have no need of Trafalgar, nor of any other benefactor but me. I’ll buy you a house, I’ll set you up –’

She’d interrupted, more amused than anything. ‘And do you have any particular young lady in mind, Mick?’ she’d asked. ‘Now that you’ve successfully broken into society exactly whose money is it you have in your sights?’

‘Silas Stanford’s,’ he’d announced. ‘I intend to marry his daughter, Amy.’

The reaction had been instantaneous. She’d dropped her playful manner. ‘You’re serious,’ she’d said as if she’d only just realised this was no jest.

‘Yes. And I believe I have grounds for hope. I know Amy is fond of me – she has agreed I may call upon her. I accompanied her to church today and we had morning tea together.’

‘All of which is most promising.’ Her eyes had lost their kittenish gleam. They were cat-like and wary and he’d wondered why. ‘Take care, Mick,’ she’d warned. ‘These pillars of society with whom you’re mingling are ruthless men. If our relationship were to become known to them, you could endanger us both.’

He’d realised in that instant that she was not referring to her clients at Trafalgar, most of whom would joke about the whores they knew and even compare notes. She was referring to her benefactor. Then the thought had struck him.

‘It’s Silas Stanford, isn’t it?’ She’d not deigned to reply, and he’d taken her silence as meaningful. ‘Silas Stanford is your benefactor.’

‘Well now, that would be the final irony wouldn’t it?’ she’d said with an enigmatic smile.’ She’d laughed and kissed him. ‘I wish you well with your endeavours, Mick. I hope you’re successful for both our sakes. I’d like you to take care of me.’ Then she’d stood, pulling on her shift and he’d known then and there she would never admit the truth to him. ‘Just practise caution, that’s all I’m saying.’

Throughout the whole of the following week Mick had pondered the subject. The identity of Eileen’s benefactor had ceased to be of interest to him once he’d discounted the man as competition for her affection, but now the possibility that it could be Silas Stanford had rekindled a desperate need to know. And the more he thought about it, the more everything fell into place. With the Stanford home in Macquarie Street and the location of Eileen’s cottage in Battery Point, how very convenient it would be for Silas Stanford to simply walk up the hill to his mistress’s house.

So thoroughly convinced was Mick that he didn’t even consider spying upon the cottage. What would be the point? Silas Stanford was in Sydney. He would have to wait until the man’s return to discover the truth.

As it turned out, he did not need to wait that long at all.

‘If it isn’t Casanova.’

This Sunday began as a repeat of the previous one. Eileen made fun of him upon his arrival and in the bedroom she again flung his top hat over the bedpost. ‘I shall demand a full report in due course,’ she said as she started to undress him, ‘but first things first.’

Then afterwards, glowing from their exertions, she opened the conversation with her typical mixture of mockery and affection.

‘So come along, Mick, I’m dying to know: how fares the courtship of Miss Stanford? It’s been two whole Sundays. Are you engaged to be married yet?’

‘I’ve hit a bit of a snag I’m afraid.’

‘Oh dear, poor thing, what’s happened? Has she decided you’re not good enough after all?’

‘No, no, not for a minute, but I fear her so-called “guardians” are going to prove a problem.’

‘And who are her so-called guardians?’

‘Phyllis and Geoffrey Lyttleton.’

There was no need for explanation. Everyone in Hobart Town knew of the Lyttletons, just as everyone knew of the Stanfords.

‘I see,’ she said, ‘and the Lyttletons are presenting a problem, are they? In what way?’

‘Phyllis has taken umbrage at my audacity in courting Amy. She’s bound to elicit her husband’s support, and between them they’ll turn Stanford against me.’

‘What a pity,’ she said, ‘what a terrible pity,’ and she left it at that, the subject no longer appearing of any great interest.

But casually as she played the scene, she was not casual enough. He had seen the involuntary flicker in her eyes. Upon the very second he’d uttered the name, Mick had known the truth. Silas Stanford was not Eileen’s benefactor. Geoffrey Lyttleton was. And the knowledge opened up a whole new realm of possibility. How extraordinarily fortuitous, he thought.

‘Yes, it is a pity,’ he said, ‘but I do not intend to give up easily. Not with half the battle won.’

‘Which particular half would that be?’

‘Amy. I do believe she is falling in love with me.’

‘Of course she is. What woman wouldn’t?’ Eileen smiled. ‘And are you falling in love with her?’ she asked lightly.

‘I believe I am a little.’ He ran his fingers over her breasts. ‘Which would make life very pleasant all round.’

He intended no confrontation. She would make no admission anyway, and he did not wish her to know of the plan already forming in his mind.

Mick wisely decided to seek stronger evidence than the flicker of recognition he’d seen in Eileen’s eyes and, after giving some thought to his subject, he caught Geoffrey Lyttleton out with remarkable ease.

There was no need to lie in wait for hours spying on the cottage. The stylish trap Geoffrey drove into town from his stately home in the foothills of Mount Wellington was instantly recognisable. Mick discovered that, as a rule, the horse and vehicle were accommodated at the coach house in Liverpool Street just a block up the road from the offices of Lyttleton Holdings & Investment. But when Geoffrey visited Battery Point to call upon his shipping agent, or to conduct his ongoing crusade for the completion of St George’s Church, or indeed to confer with Jefferson Powell upon some charitable concern for the society, the horse and trap were housed at the stables of McLagan Road Transport.

It was simple to pop into McLagan’s intermittently throughout the day and check on the bay gelding and trap. And it was simple, upon discovering them there on the afternoon of the very second day, to set himself up in a secure spot a good distance from Eileen’s house and wait, knowing exactly from which direction the man would appear.

How clever of Geoffrey Lyttleton to become so openly involved in the neighbourhood, Mick thought as he watched the familiar figure stride down Hampden Road. Geoffrey had any number of reasons to be in Battery Point, and each was a front, particularly St George’s. He didn’t even appear furtive as he turned into the track that led to Eileen’s back door, and indeed why should he? He could well have been canvassing support amongst the parishioners in his fervent campaign for the completion of the Mariners’ Church.

Mick put his plan into action the very next day.

The very next day happened to be Christmas Eve, a fact that proved to his advantage, or so he thought at the time. Upon visiting Geoffrey Lyttleton’s offices at ten o’clock, he was told by the clerk at the front desk that Mr Lyttleton would not be coming in until the late afternoon, after which he would work through into the evening hours.

‘We close for three full working days over Christmas,’ young Frederick said, ‘and Mr Lyttleton likes to ensure all is in order. Everyone else gets to leave at four,’ he added waspishly on the assumption his complaint was finding a sympathetic ear, ‘but I am required to attend the front desk and lock up the premises when he leaves.’

‘Thank you,’ Mick replied briskly, ‘I shall call back later.’ How very convenient, he thought, the place will be virtually deserted.

‘Of course, sir.’ Frederick was suddenly nervous. He’d presumed that, being roughly the same age, the young man was an underling like himself, a fellow overworked clerk on an errand for his employer, but such a confident manner signified he might perhaps be a personal acquaintance of Mr Lyttleton’s. ‘May I make an appointment for you, Mr . . .?’ He left the query hanging.

‘No, no,’ Mick replied airily, ‘it’s nothing of great importance – just a bit of business for the Philanthropic Society.’

‘Ah yes, of course,’ Frederick said with a smile that he hoped would ingratiate, ‘Mr Lyttleton is untiring in his commitment to the society. I shall tell him you called, Mr . . .?’

But Mick simply smiled and gave a wave as he walked off. ‘Do, do,’ he said and the bell tinkled as he closed the door behind him.

Now, strolling up Harrington Street in the heat of the afternoon, Mick slowed to an amble. It was not yet quite four and he didn’t wish to arrive at the offices before the staff had left, or indeed before Geoffrey had arrived.

He halted altogether at the corner of Macquarie Street where a group was gathered outside St Joseph’s Church singing Christmas carols. Other passers-by, too, had stopped to listen, many putting a coin in the poor-box proffered by the priest, and Mick added a coin of his own in the hope that a kindly action might lend him good luck for what lay ahead.

‘
God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay
. . .’

He stayed for a good fifteen minutes enjoying the familiar carols. He recalled Christmases past when as a small child he’d stood up to his knees in snow singing with his older brothers and sisters at the doors of the rich. But here in this dusty street, on this hot afternoon, under this still merciless sun and this cloudless sky, the songs, familiar as they were, had become foreign. They were songs of the north, songs of a different hemisphere, a different climate, a different habitat altogether. Mick looked around at the crowd that had slowly gathered. Had any of them adjusted to this strangeness yet? No, of course they haven’t, he thought, as he watched women fanning their faces and men wiping away the sweat that poured from their brows. Would any of them
ever
adjust? It was impossible to imagine that they could. Apart from its obvious religious significance, Christmas was destined to remain an anomaly in this upside-down land.

He walked on, crossing over Collins Street. People were bustling busily about, making last-minute purchases, greeting each other and exchanging season’s greetings. There was an air of festive expectancy that Mick found just a little desperate.

Turning right into Liverpool Street, he headed directly for Lyttleton Holdings & Investment, where he bounded up the stone steps and made a bold entrance, closing the door firmly behind him, its bell still tinkling as he crossed to the front desk.

‘Good afternoon, sir.’ The clerk greeted him. ‘I told Mr Lyttleton that a gentleman called on society business, and –’

‘Mr O’Callaghan,’ Mick said. ‘Tell him Mr O’Callaghan is here to see him.’

‘Of course, sir.’

The clerk left through the door to the side that led to the offices, re-appearing only seconds later.

‘Mr Lyttleton says he will –’ But he didn’t get any further as Geoffrey Lyttleton himself emerged.

‘Mr O’Callaghan, what a pleasant surprise.’ Geoffrey smiled a welcome and offered his hand, but Mick could tell by the steely glint in his eyes that he did not consider the surprise pleasant at all.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Lyttleton,’ he said as they shook, ‘I just popped in to discuss some business on behalf of the society.’

‘Yes, yes, so Frederick here told me, although as you left no name I couldn’t for the life of me think to whom he might be referring.’ The cheeky young upstart, Geoffrey thought,
pop in
indeed! How dare he presume such intimacy, and what business could he possibly have to discuss on behalf of the society. But still, he might have been sent by Jefferson Powell. ‘Do come in, Mr O’Callaghan.’