A Tattooed Heart (40 page)

Friday went to three pubs and drank herself witless. On the way home in the small hours, lurching along in the middle of the road, she blearily spied a figure she thought looked familiar sidling out of a pub on York Street.

‘Hoi!' she shouted.
‘Hoi!'

A shifty glance in her direction, then the cove faded into the darkness.

But it can't have been. Jonah Leary wouldn't dare show his ugly face back in Sydney. Would he?

Finally, she made it home to the Siren's Arms, all her money spent, her reticule lost, and with a badly grazed knee from falling over in the street. Climbing the stairs by hauling herself up by the handrail, she stumbled along the hallway, holding onto the wall for balance.

Her bedroom door was locked. She banged on it then sank to her knees, waiting for Aria to let her in.

Nothing happened. The hallway was as quiet as a graveyard, the pair of wall lamps — turned right down to save oil — flickering gently in some unseen but insistent breeze.

She banged again — hammered, this time. ‘'Ria! 'S me!'

The door one room along opened and Esmerelda stuck out her head, her hair done up in rags. ‘For Christ's sake, shut up, will you? Some folk are trying to sleep.' A glare, then she was gone.

‘Lemme in,' Friday whimpered.

Still nothing. She lay on the floor, her head on her arms, and let her eyes close.

An hour and a half later she woke, still utterly swattled, but desperate for a wee and thoroughly confused about where she was. In her room? She felt around for the po, couldn't find it, hoisted her skirts and pissed on the carpet. Then she crawled away, curled up against the wall and passed out again.

She opened her eyes the merest crack and winced as stilettos of light stabbed through her head, then flinched as nearby a door banged shut. Painfully, she rolled over. Why was she in the hall? On the floor?

Aria towered above her. ‘I am moving out of your room.'

Friday started to speak but nothing came out, her mouth as dry as chaff. She sluiced up some spit and tried again. ‘No, Aria, don't,' she croaked. ‘Please. I —'

‘It is over, Friday. I cannot be with you any more.'

Friday made a grab for her skirt. ‘Please.'

‘No!' Aria stepped back. ‘And do not grovel. It does not become you.'

She stared down at Friday a moment longer, then turned and walked away.

November 1832, Sydney Town

‘I do not know what to do,' Aria said. ‘I am not happy at all.'

Elizabeth sighed. ‘Of course you're not. You love her. Believe me, dear, I know exactly how you feel.'

‘But I cannot go back to her. Not while she is the way she is.'

‘Have you spoken to her?'

‘I have hardly said anything at all and it has been a week.'

‘You know she couldn't even come to work for two days?'

Aria nodded.

‘Bloody nuisance it was, too. I had to turn all her customers away.'

‘Will you fire her?'

‘Oh God.' Elizabeth rubbed her temples. ‘I've told her I will, but no, probably not. Not until the customers really start complaining. Then I'll have to. I'll have no choice.'

Aria said, ‘I think she has been avoiding me.'

‘And me. Ashamed, most likely. And so she bloody well should be. You're happy with your new room?'

Elizabeth had given Aria a guest room at the Siren's Arms until she'd decided what she wanted to do.

‘Yes, thank you.' Aria took a guinea from her pocket and placed
it on the desk. ‘For the first week of board, though I will have to leave soon. I am short of funds. Friday paid for everything.'

‘Oh, don't be silly. I don't want your money!' Elizabeth looked at Aria thoughtfully. ‘How short of funds?'

‘I have three pounds, five shillings and sixpence.'

‘Are you any good with numbers? Adding and subtracting, I mean.'

‘I did well at the missionary school.'

‘Because I could really do with some help with my ledgers. Are you interested? I'll pay you, of course.'

A smile lit Aria's face. ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Hislop. Yes, I am interested and I am most grateful.'

Elizabeth waved away her thanks. ‘It's me who should be grateful. I'm glad for the help. There's a fair bit to learn, mind you. It's not just the books for the brothel, it's everything for the pub as well, though obviously I keep things separate.'

‘I would like to tell Friday,' Aria said sadly.

‘Then tell her. Stop acting like a pair of squabbling children.'

Aria bristled. ‘I am not acting like a squabbling child! I told her what would happen if she drank. She has not even apologised to me.'

‘Oh, get off your high horse. Talk to her.'

‘I will think about it,' Aria said after a moment.

Friday knocked on the door. She knew he was home: she could hear him inside, whistling, and felt a sharp stab of jealousy. It wasn't fair that other people had something to whistle about and she didn't. But then other people didn't go around deliberately ruining their lives the way she seemed to.

She knocked again. ‘Matthew! It's me.'

The whistling stopped. Maybe he'd seen her through the window and was pretending he was out. Really, she wouldn't blame him.

The door opened. Matthew was in his shirtsleeves and wielding a paintbrush dipped in white emulsion. ‘Friday. Come in.'

At least he hadn't whacked her in the face with it. ‘Is Lucy here?' she asked, following him inside.

‘She's gone up the street to get us a Sunday loaf. Why?'

‘Oh. Well, I've come to say sorry.'

‘For your performance last week? I must say it was spectacular.'

‘I really am sorry, Matthew. I ruined your dinner. And Lucy's. I'm such an arsehole.'

‘You are rather, aren't you?' he said benignly.

‘I didn't mean to.'

‘You never do.'

‘Was Lucy very upset?'

‘Not particularly. She said on the night that your behaviour's your concern, not ours, and she's right.'

Friday nodded.

‘So when are you going to do something about it?' Matthew asked.

Looking around the little house, Friday saw how much work he'd done. He must love Lucy very much to do all this for her, and build her a school. Lucky Lucy. Lucky Matthew. ‘I don't know,' she said.

‘I heard from Harrie that Aria's, er, forsaken you.'

‘Yes.' No point pretending she hadn't. And every time Friday thought about it, which was at least five times an hour, she felt as though Leo's tattoo needles were being driven straight through her heart.

Matthew said, ‘I really am sorry to hear that. I hope things come right.'

His face looked all soft with sympathy, and it made Friday feel like crying.

‘Me, too,' she said. ‘Tell Lucy I called.'

Friday thought about what Lucy had said all the way to Harrie's, where she was also meeting Sarah. She hadn't seen either of them since that awful night, and today was a day for saying sorry.

Sarah was already sitting in the sun on the back verandah with Harrie and Charlotte, though Charlotte was the only one to say hello when Friday took a seat at the little wicker table. Harrie seemed embarrassed, and Sarah, clearly, was still angry.

‘Look, Mama,' Charlotte said, confused by the silence. ‘Friday.'

‘Morning all,' Friday said.

Sarah grunted and Harrie said stiffly, ‘Good morning. Would you like tea?'

Friday sighed. ‘I really am sorry. I know I must have been a complete pig. I can't remember how I got drunk, but obviously I did, and I'm so sorry.'

‘Can you not remember any of it?' Sarah asked, disgusted.

‘Only snippets.'

‘Nippets!' Charlotte said.

‘You were incredibly rude to Lucy's boss.'

‘And you called my dinner pretentious,' Harrie said. ‘Well, you tried to.'

Rubbing her hand across her eyes, Friday said, ‘I'm sorry, Harrie, I really am. I didn't mean it.'

‘James was so angry with you.'

‘Is he home?'

‘He's in his study.'

Friday found him there, and knocked on the open door.

Glancing up from his desk, he said, ‘Oh, it's you.'

‘I'm very sorry about the other night, James.'

‘So you should be.'

Friday waited.

Turning his pen round and round between his fingers, he said, ‘It's high time you took yourself in hand, Friday. I've seen the state commit lesser cases than yours of habitual alcohol inebriation to the lunatic asylum, so have a care.'

‘I know.' And she did.

‘Now, if you don't mind, I'm busy.'

When she returned to the verandah, blinking as she emerged into the bright sunlight, there was a cup of tea and a slice of cake waiting for her.

Charlotte said, ‘Mama done you a tea.'

‘Wasn't that nice of her?' Friday said as she sat down. Of Harrie, she asked, ‘How did you know Aria's left me? Matthew said you'd told him.'

‘Mrs Hislop mentioned it.'

‘When?'

‘The day after your, um, episode. We came round.'

‘To make sure you were still alive,' Sarah said. ‘You were but you were dead to the world and your room smelt like sick, so we left you to it.'

Friday was almost overcome by a monumental wave of guilt, relief and grief, the latter mostly for herself. Tears burnt her eyes and she blinked hard.

Sarah added, ‘Don't bother thinking you're forgiven, though. We've had an absolute gutful of you and we don't blame Aria for leaving. It's your own fault and you deserve it.'

‘Naughty Friday,' Charlotte said, picking icing off her cake.

‘I am, love, very naughty,' Friday agreed. ‘She's still living at the Siren. Mrs H's given her a room. And a job.'

‘Doing what?' Harrie looked shocked. ‘Not as a prostitute?'

‘'Course not. Hazel said she's helping with the books. Something like that. I'm not sure.'

Frowning, Sarah said, ‘Hazel said? Why don't you just ask Aria?'

‘I don't want to talk to her.'

‘Oh, for God's sake, that's so childish. Ask Mrs Hislop, then.'

‘Not talking to her, either.'

‘Why not?' Harrie asked, wiping icing off Charlotte's face.

‘I just don't want to.'

‘Are you scared she'll fire you?'

‘No,' Friday said, though actually she was.

‘If she was going to give you the boot, she'd've done it by now,' Sarah pointed out. Sitting back in her chair and crossing her arms, she gazed at Friday. ‘You know, your life is an absolute mess.'

‘It isn't.' It was.

‘It is and you know it. What are you going to do about it?'

‘I don't know.'

‘You do so.'

To change the subject Friday rummaged around in her pocket. ‘Bella sent us this, on the day of Matthew and Lucy's dinner. I'd forgotten about it till I found it this morning.'

Harrie and Sarah read the letter.

‘Apologising doesn't change anything,' Sarah said flatly. ‘She's just giving her conscience a good old rinse. I didn't think she had one. Maybe she really is dying. That's reassuring to know.'

‘It does sound like she really is sorry about Rachel, though,' Harrie said.

‘You would say that,' Sarah said. ‘You're such an easy mark. She's not a Catholic, is she?'

Friday nodded.

‘God.'

‘God!' Charlotte shouted.

‘That's enough, sweetie,' Harrie cautioned, patting her chubby little arm.

Sarah said, ‘I hope she burns in hell.'

Harrie lifted Charlotte out of her chair, went to the door and called into the house, ‘Daisy!'

Once Charlotte had gone, Friday said, ‘I think she'll die pretty soon.'

‘Bloody good riddance,' Sarah muttered. ‘I'll be dancing on her grave.'

Harrie said, ‘I suppose she'll be buried with old Clarence, will she?'

Friday frowned. She'd forgotten about that little problem.

For the next ten days or so, Friday worked hard during her shifts, slept a lot during her time off, and drank just enough gin to avoid getting the shakes and a vicious headache, but couldn't quite summon the guts to stop altogether. One morning she walked along to the poor end of Cumberland Street and knocked on Biddy Doyle's door.

‘Morning, Mrs Doyle. We've not met but I'm Friday Woolfe. I think you know who I am?'

‘So I do. I heard from Mrs Hislop you had some trouble on your adventure, you poor thing. How's the noggin?'

‘Good.' Friday took off her hat, ducked her head and showed Biddy her scar.

‘That's impressive, dear. There's not many can say they've been shot in the head and lived to tell the tale.'

‘No, but we got Charlotte back, so all's well that ends well.'

‘So you did, and well done the lot of you. What can I do for you, love?'

‘I was wondering, do you know when the
Katipo
's due back in port?'

Biddy's face fell. ‘Mother of God, not flaming Mick again! May the devil swallow that bloody boy sideways!'

Friday nearly laughed as she shook her head. ‘If it was just that, I could sort it out myself. It's Pierre I wanted. He gave me something when I got seasick to stop me spewing, and I noticed it made me not want to drink. I have this Oh, why bother trying to dress it up? She shrugged. ‘I'm a drunkard. I was hoping he'd sell me the receipt.'

‘Had enough, have you?'

‘I can never have enough. That's the trouble.'

Biddy nodded sympathetically. ‘Well, I'm sorry, dear, but to my knowledge they won't be back for five or six months. Not that I'm ever sure about these things.'

‘Shite.'

‘And Pierre can be precious about his potions and what have you. Mind you, he is very partial to a pretty face.'

‘That's no use if he's halfway round the world, is it?'

‘'Tisn't, no.'

Friday stifled a disappointed sigh. ‘Thank you anyway, Mrs Doyle.'

‘You're welcome, dear. How's Harrie?'

‘She's well.'

‘That's good to hear. Best of luck, love,' Biddy said as she closed her door.

So that was that idea — that last shred of hope — down the privy. Friday supposed she would just have to somehow, one day (soon), stop drinking all by herself.

When she got back to the Siren Mrs Hislop sent Connie to tell her she was wanted in the office, and she wondered whether she was finally about to get the boot. She sat on her bed for several minutes, desperate for some Dutch courage, but decided against it; going to see Mrs H reeking of gin probably wouldn't help. But when she got across to the office, not a word was mentioned about the days she'd been too sick to work.

Instead Elizabeth said, ‘I've noticed you've had some very satisfied customers leaving the premises this week. That's what I like to see. Well done.'

‘Mmm,' Friday said warily, wondering what Mrs H was building up to.

‘I've also noted that you seem to be drinking a lot less. Am I right? Or have you stopped altogether?'

She looked so hopeful that Friday was tempted to lie and say yes. It'd be nice to have someone's wholehearted approval again. ‘Not quite. But I'm not drinking anywhere near as much as I was.'

It occurred to her then that if she was doing so well drinking only two or three nips a day, managing to work and look after
herself and keep out of trouble, then why not carry on having two or three nips? Why stop completely if she didn't need to?

‘Good girl. It shows,' Elizabeth said. ‘It's not enough, though, I'm afraid. You still have to stop.'

Fumbling her tobacco and spilling it on her skirt, Friday stared at Elizabeth. That wasn't fair, reading someone else's thoughts.

‘I'm sorry, love,' Elizabeth said. ‘Gil was the same. He'd think he had it under control — three or four whiskies a day — and he would, for a week or two. Everything would be fine. And then he'd erupt and go on a spree and there'd be hell to pay.'

‘What would set him off?'