A Tattooed Heart (20 page)

‘I bet it will be. I mean, you're not bothered by rats, cockroaches and spiders the size of cats, are you?' Friday said at the top of her voice, causing heads to turn.

Matthew winced as Aria fixed Friday with a warning glare. Just then, a man in a smart black coat, lavishly embroidered waistcoat and black silk top hat approached the lectern and struck it theatrically with a gavel. The chatter died away and everyone turned in his direction.

The auctioneer cleared his throat and boomed, ‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen of Sydney, and a very cordial welcome to today's auction of this sturdy, four-room sandstone and shingle cottage on, as you can see with your own eyes, a cleared, fenced and partially cultivated plot amounting to a
very
generous one third of an acre situated in the absolute
heart
of this fair town.' He leant forwards, one elbow on the lectern, as if about to share a confidence. ‘Now, I do need to advise that the vendor
has
set a reserve on the property, and I have to say, it is
not
the lowest of reserves I've seen in recent times. How
ever
, I'm sure that the winning bidder will have no hesitation
whatsoever
delving deep into his purse to secure such a fine freehold asset for himself.' Suddenly, he threw up his hands, palms out, drawing a few tiny gasps of consternation from the crowd. ‘Yes, I know, you could very well be saying to yourselves, “Mr Dickson, why should I risk paying over the odds for this sweet cottage —” and let's face it, ladies and gentlemen, it most certainly
will
make one of you a
very
charming new home “— when Governor Bourke is practically giving away plots of land?”'

For God's sake, Matthew thought, growing more and more nervous by the second, bloody well get on with it, will you?

He saw but barely noticed Harrie and Charlotte joining the back of the crowd.

‘Well, ladies and gentlemen of Sydney,' Mr Dickson blarneyed on, ‘I'll tell you. Those plots of land are almost as far away as
the Blue Mountains, or they're miles up the Hunter Valley, or in places you and I have never even heard of! That's why they're being practically given away! And do you think they've been cleared? No, they have not. Do you think they come with a nice little sandstone cottage?
No
, they do not. And
that's
why this very tidy little property behind me — only minutes from emporiums, banks, hotels, parks, the harbour and all the marvellous trappings of civilisation — has a reserve. Think about
that
, ladies and gentlemen. Now, do I hear an opening bid?'

‘Ten pounds!' Friday shouted.

Glowering at her, Mr Dickson declared snottily, ‘I'm afraid you're rather wide of the mark, madam.'

‘Friday, shut up!' Matthew hissed. ‘You're not buying it, I am!'

‘Sorry. Got carried away.'

Really quite annoyed, Matthew snapped, ‘Got drunk, you mean. Aria, can you keep her quiet?'

‘Probably not.' But Aria grasped Friday's arm and, spotting Harrie, led her to the edge of the crowd.

No bids were forthcoming.

‘Come on, ladies and gentlemen,' Mr Dickson encouraged. ‘Don't let this marvellous opportunity slip through your fingers.'

‘What do I do?' Matthew asked James.

‘Make a bid, I suppose.'

Mr Cowley appeared at Matthew's elbow. ‘I suggest you open the bidding, Mr Cutler. They're all just waiting for someone to start.'

All? How many other bidders are there? Apprehension surged through Matthew like a high tide before a storm. Suddenly, buying this house had become the most important thing in the world.

‘Fifty pounds!' he blurted.

One of Mr Dickson's heavy eyebrows went up. ‘Fifty, I have fifty. Any advance on fifty?'

Someone bid fifty-five. Matthew bid sixty. A new bidder came in with sixty-five. Matthew bid seventy.

‘Steady on,' James said. ‘Can you afford it?'

Matthew nodded. ‘I want it.'

Mr Dickson beamed. ‘Marvellous news, ladies and gentlemen, the reserve has now been met. This charming property is now for sale.'

A counter bid at seventy-five.

‘I have seventy-five, ladies and gentlemen, do I hear eighty?'

Matthew raised his hand.

‘Ker-
ist
!'

Matthew wished Friday would just bugger off.

‘Any advance on eighty pounds?' Nothing. Mr Dickson let the silence stretch out, then said, ‘I'll take two-fifty.'

A hand went up.

You bastard! Matthew tried not to glare at the bidder.

‘Eighty-two pounds and fifty! Do I hear eighty-five?'

‘Ninety!' Matthew shouted. ‘Ninety pounds!'

Everyone turned to stare at him.

James said, ‘Er . . .'

‘Ninety. Any advance on ninety?' Mr Dickson called. Nothing. ‘Do I hear ninety-two fifty?' Still nothing. ‘Ninety-one?'

Will you shut the fuck up? Matthew thought desperately.

Still nothing.

Mr Dickson lifted his gavel so slowly it seemed barely to move. It hung suspended in the air. ‘Going once. Going . . . twice. Ninety-one, anyone? No? Going . . . three times.'
Bang
went the gavel.
‘Sold!
Congratulations, young sir. A fine investment.'

Matthew felt like he might faint but didn't actually have time or the space to do it because suddenly he was surrounded: James clapping him on the back, Harrie kissing his cheek, Charlotte squealing with excitement, Friday hanging around his neck, whooping and breathing gin in his face, and Aria shaking his hand. His first home — he'd just bought his first home. His mother would be pleased when he wrote and told her, and he knew exactly
what she'd say: ‘Now all you need is a nice wife to put in it, dear.' And she would be right.

He couldn't wait to show the cottage to Lucy.

While Matthew was buying his house, Robbie was sitting on the low stone wall outside his own new home on Hunter Street throwing stones at a pair of crows and wondering if he'd made the biggest mistake of his life coming to New South Wales, though it was pretty bloody good seeing Harrie again. Being a convict was obviously working out well for her. If he'd known life was this easy here, he might have got the girls transported ages ago.

Sophie and Anna liked it here, but he didn't. Not really. He missed his mates, and his job on the barrows at Covent Garden, and all the rackets he'd had going there. He just missed, well, London. It was so big and noisy and busy, whereas Sydney was a poxy little town. He'd been someone in London. Here, he was forever hanging about, doing bugger all because nothing ever happened.

Walter was a decent cove, and so was Jimmy Johnson, but even though Walter'd come out of hiding — and why he'd had his head down at Matthew's crib in the first place, who the bloody hell knew? — he was spending all his time with that old bastard Leo, and Jimmy was
always
shovelling horse shit, so neither was free to lark about. As for Lucy, she was all right, but he didn't want to learn to read and write. He didn't need to. He was already smart without having to know what was inside books, or how to write a letter.
He'd
made nearly all the money that had kept them going in London.
He'd
done the deals that had kept a roof over their heads and got Sophie that sewing job, and
he'd
looked out for her and Anna so neither of them'd had to go on the streets. What good would books be to him?

He threw another stone and hit one of the crows right on the head. It squawked and they both flapped off in a huff.

What Harrie saw in James Downey, though, he didn't have the faintest. Yes, he had pots of money, but Harrie wasn't like that. She didn't care about money and fancy houses and carriages — she never had. Downey was old and a stick in the mud, with endless stupid rules. No swearing, no smoking in the house, no drinking, do your lessons, go to bed by eleven. Anyone would think he was a child! Well, he wasn't. He was bloody well twelve years old, pretty well a man, and he'd been doing a man's job keeping his family together ever since Harrie had gone and his mother had died. No one was going to tell him what to do, especially not some cove he didn't even know, just because his sister had married him. Bugger that.

And what
really
got up his nose was Downey pretending he actually gave a toss about him, because obviously he didn't. Why would he? Sometimes when he, Robbie, was out on the verandah with his pipe, Downey would sit down next to him — but not too close — and talk to him. He'd ask him how he was getting on, and what things he was interested in (spreading the broads, playing shove ha'penny, making money — especially making money — and doing the odd bit of burglary, but he definitely wasn't admitting to any of that) and how was he finding Sydney, and he never knew how to answer.

And then Downey would always say something like, ‘You know, Robbie, you don't have to worry about Sophie and Anna any more. Harrie and I can take care of them now,' and it annoyed the shit out of him. He
wanted
to worry about Sophie and Anna. It was his job.

The crows were back, scuffling away at something in a pile of leaf litter under a bush. He selected a few more stones. They made good marks, crows, because they were cunning enough to dodge occasionally. Not like pigeons; they just stood there, then fell over if you got them a really good one.

‘Morning, son.'

Squinting into the sun, he looked up. A man leant on the gate, his hands in his pockets, battered hat pulled down low.

‘Who the hell are you?' Robbie asked.

‘Acquaintance of your sister's. She home?'

‘Harrie?'

The man nodded.

‘Gone out.'

‘Just you in, then? Robbie, isn't it?'

Robbie still couldn't see the man's face, so he stood up and moved back, so he wasn't looking directly into the sun. He wondered if the cove had stood there on purpose. And how did he know his name?

‘Why?' he said, to give the man's black silhouette time to fade from his vision.

‘Just wondering. D'you know when she'll be back?'

‘No.'

The man sat on the stone wall and took out his pipe fixings. ‘Have a seat, son. Take the weight off.'

Cheeky bastard, Robbie thought, this is my wall. I'll do the inviting, not you.

But he sat down anyway.

‘I know your stepfather, too.'

Robbie stared at him. ‘I haven't got a stepfather.'

‘James Downey.'

‘He's not me stepfather. He's me brother-in-law.'

The man stared back. He was a hard-looking cove. Dark narrowed eyes, a nose you could sharpen a blade on, and a couple of days' worth of stubble. Not someone he thought either Harrie or James Downey would particularly want to know.

The man laughed. ‘I suppose you're right, if Harrie's your sister. Anyway,' he said, tamping tobacco into his pipe, ‘it were you I wanted to talk to.' Raising the pipe to his mouth, lighting the tobacco and drawing hard, he regarded Robbie thoughtfully. ‘You don't like him, do you, James Downey?'

‘I'm not saying another bloody word till you tell me your name.'

‘Me name?' The cove waved his pipe hand dismissively. ‘Names don't matter.'

‘They do. What is it?' Robbie demanded, trying to sound braver than he felt. He didn't like this man and his shifty manner, and Christ knew he was used to dealing with shifty types.

The cove leant forwards. ‘Look, if we can come to an agreement, and I think we can,
then
I'll tell you. How's that?'

‘An agreement about what?'

‘Me daughter.'

‘Eh?'

‘That kiddie your sister's toting about night and day's me daughter, and I want her back.'

‘Charlotte?' Robbie was shocked.

The cove nodded. ‘The love of me life, that little girl is.'

‘No, that's not right.' Robbie was adamant: Harrie didn't tell lies. ‘Harrie knew her mother but she died so Harrie adopted her from the orphanage. She hasn't got a mother or a father.'

‘That's as may be, son, but you know how these things work. Every kiddie has a father, and I'm Charlotte's. I were never consulted, and every time I've tried to get her back James Downey's denied me. Easy for him, with all his money and influence.'

Even more shocked, Robbie couldn't remember Harrie saying anything about any of that.

‘I've spent two years trying to reclaim me own flesh and blood,' the cove went on. ‘This is me last chance.'

‘What is?'

‘You are, son.
You're
me last chance. All I'm asking you to do is bring the little girl out here by the gate on Sunday at, shall we say, five o'clock in the afternoon? I'll be here to collect her and then we'll be gone.'

‘Why Sunday? And why five o'clock?'

‘Because that's when it suits me. You do that and we'll all come out on top. I'll have me daughter back, she'll be with her natural and rightful father, and
you'll
have twenty quid in your pocket. Think of that, son.'

Twenty
quid! Shit! For a moment Robbie gawped at the man, then, disconcerted by the cove's steady gaze — it was as though he could see right into Robbie's head — he turned away and looked instead at the crows still pecking industriously away in the dirt. Twenty pounds was a hell of a lot of money.

Harrie swept into the kitchen, Charlotte in her arms, grinning her head off.

‘House!' Charlotte crowed. ‘Maffew got a house!'

‘He did?' Daisy glanced up from the fire. ‘Oh, I'm so pleased.'

‘Not
exactly
at a bargain price,' Harrie said, ‘but not too bad. He's very pleased with himself. Where are the girls?'

‘Sophie's upstairs practising her writing and Anna and Angus are helping Elsa hang out the washing.'