Tiger Men (20 page)

‘Workers are becoming hard to find in these gold rush days, Jefferson,’ Doris said to her husband, who clearly remained sceptical about the idea. ‘Labourers and skilled workers both.’ She looked interrogatively at Mick. ‘You have not been tempted to join the rush for gold yourself, Michael.’

‘Not once, no, no.’ He shook his head vehemently. It was true. Far too many of his countrymen had become infected by the fever. He’d heard that Bendigo and Ballarat were awash with the Irish. God only knew who he’d bump into on the goldfields of Victoria.

‘There you are; you see, dear?’ Turning once more to her husband Doris presented the fait accompli. ‘In Michael you have loyalty, experience and education. What more could you wish?’

‘But as you well know, Doris, I had planned for a couple to take over the cottage,’ Jefferson protested, ‘a couple to whom I could offer a fine opportunity –’

‘A couple
would
be taking over the cottage,’ Doris countered. ‘Michael is seeking a wife, dear. And what finer opportunity could you offer a young man who plans to settle down and start a family than the very opportunity we ourselves were given?’

They exchanged a fond glance, their eyes reflecting shared memories. How vividly they recalled those early years when Jefferson had first taken over the ferry service and they had lived in the fisherman’s cottage.

‘I see your reasoning, my dear,’ he said. ‘It might even be a case of history repeating itself, might it not?’

‘I pray it should prove so.’ Doris turned to the Irishman and smiled warmly. ‘I pray that one day you may be as fortunate as we were, Michael. I truly wish you such happiness.’

Mick was caught out. Her sincerity had an instant and profound impact upon him. Her words and her smile came so directly from the heart that he didn’t know what to say.

‘Thank you.’ He couldn’t think of anything else.

‘Well, I suppose that’s settled then.’ Jefferson gave a good-humoured shrug, still somewhat bemused by the swift turn of events.

‘Yes it is,’ Doris agreed briskly. ‘Now all we need to do,’ she added, ‘is to find Michael a wife.’

‘I think, Doris, that is something he can do on his own,’ Jefferson said.

Two weeks later Mick shifted into the cottage, and his life changed radically. From Wapping to Battery Point just like that, he thought. And no poky little room out the back either, but a cottage all to himself: by God but he’d moved up a notch in life. He was a man with a title now, the manager of the Powell Ferry-Boat Service, no less. My, that sounded grand.

Along with his improved status and a healthy increase in salary, came an easier physical workload – but more complex duties. Each morning he delivered the log books to the teams at Waterman’s Dock, and at the end of each work day he collected them, together with the takings. The other watermen were not resentful of his elevated status, for they were uneducated men who knew the position could never have been theirs. In the early evenings Mick tallied up the amounts and entered them into the ledger, which was to be presented on a monthly basis to Doris, who handled the bookkeeping for all the various Powell enterprises. He paid the weekly wages and was responsible for the upkeep of the boats, slipping them when necessary and doing the general maintenance work. He also recruited new watermen when required and personally trained each new apprentice. Mick’s was a position of some authority.

He settled into a comfortable routine, spending more and more time with the Powells, who had adopted him as one of the family. Afternoon tea on Sundays became a ritual. Mick loved his Sundays.

But as the months passed, Sundays with the family started to have a curiously unsettling effect. His lie was becoming a reality. I
do
want a wife, he thought, as he watched Doris pour Jefferson’s tea, adding milk and sugar just the way she knew he liked it. Mick no longer saw Doris as dour. He no longer even saw her as plain. He saw her as the perfect wife and mother. I want a woman just like Doris, he thought. He wanted a loyal wife who would love him like Doris loved Jefferson, and he wanted a fine son like George and a ridiculously adorable daughter like Martha. He wanted a family like Jefferson’s.

‘How I do envy you, Jefferson,’ he would say time and again.

‘Keep searching, Michael,’ the American would reply encouragingly, ‘you’ll find the right wife. It’s only a matter of time.’

But Mick had not been seriously seeking a wife. When he was with the Powells, he longed for the loving family existence they shared, but away from them, restlessness crept in. During his days as a hard-working waterman, his nights had remained much the same, filled with the raucousness of the Hunter’s Rest. He’d continued to protect the girls from troublemakers, and there’d been the occasional tryst with pretty Molly Bates in the little back room. The cottage, on the other hand, was a lonely place.

Occasionally he dressed in his finest and visited Farrington’s, where he played cards, smoked cigars, drank brandy and discussed politics. The good life still beckoned. And Saturday nights remained as they always had. Saturday nights saw him back at the Hunter’s Rest, no longer on duty, but carousing with the gang. Much as Mick enjoyed his newfound status, he missed the old days.

He always popped upstairs to see Ma before joining in the fun at the bar. He’d share a nip of rum with her, and tell her all his news.

‘Ah, Mick,’ she’d say, ‘I miss you sorely, and that’s a fact, but the best thing I ever done was point you Jefferson’s way. He’s the making of you, lad; he’s your future, he is.’ Ma Tebbutt was as proud of her boy as any mother could be.

Ma was not well these days. Her bronchial condition had become chronic and her visits downstairs, rare as they had been, were now a thing of the past. She remained in the confines of her room, Evie serving as her personal maid, collecting the chamber pot twice daily and delivering the food and the wood for the small fire in winter.

‘This is where I’ll die,’ she’d say, ‘right here in this very room, in this very chair, beside this very table.’ It was not a complaint, but a simple statement. Ma seemed quite happy about the fact.

Tonight, Mick picked his way through the streets of Wapping with care, cursing the mud and the slime that threatened to ruin his good boots. He’d heard that the rivulet had flooded. Damn it, he thought, I should have worn galoshes.

Following heavy rain, the Hobart Town Rivulet had flooded two days previously, causing chaos as it always did when it spewed out over its banks and into the homes of Wapping. The children, as usual, had loved every minute of it. They’d stood on the bridge watching the torrent charge beneath them, carrying with it the abattoirs’ rotting remnants alongside once-prized possessions from people’s inundated houses, and they’d splashed about in the streets and lanes that had become giant swimming pools. A flood was fun for the children of Wapping.

Now, two days later, the residential areas around Campbell and Sackville Streets and Lower Collins were still awash with two feet of floodwater. People had either moved up or out. Those in two-storey dwellings had moved upstairs and those in single-storey houses had moved out to stay with friends in nearby streets that were not so devastated. There they would bide their time until the water had subsided. Wapping looked after its own and coping with a rivulet flood was simply a matter of course.

Mick avoided the worst affected streets and arrived at the Hunter’s Rest relatively unscathed, although his good boots would need a thorough clean the following morning.

The pub was several blocks from the rivulet and had not received the full deluge of floodwater, but like the whole of Wapping it reeked of damp, and the floors were thick with the mud that had been walked through its doors for the past two days.

None of which helped Ma’s chest condition, for the damp and the mud and the mould had all made their way upstairs.

‘You could have wiped your boots,’ she said accusingly. She was in one of her crotchety moods and it was obvious she was already well into the rum.

‘Wiped them on what? There’s mud everywhere, Ma, you can’t escape it.’

She was about to berate him further, but the breath she took to give voice brought on a coughing fit.

The fit lasted for some time and Mick held the bowl for her while she hawked gobs of phlegm into it. He noticed a little blood there. That surely isn’t a good sign, he thought. Finally it was over and she sat back, weakened by her efforts.

‘This fucking damp will be the end of me,’ she said. ‘Pour us another rum, Mick, and fetch a mug for yourself.’

They had a tot each. She’d obviously forgiven him his muddy boots, but she was in a general ill-humour, which didn’t make her much fun, and the Irish fiddle downstairs was calling to Mick.

‘No thanks, Ma,’ he said as she offered him a second tot, ‘I’ll pop down and say hello to the girls before business picks up.’ He stood.

‘All right, run off and leave me, see if I care.’ She poured herself another rum. ‘Make yourself useful while you’re down there. Teach that dumb bastard how to do his job. Len told me there was trouble again last night.’

Ma was constantly whinging about the man she’d hired in his stead, a giant of a fellow called Thomas, whom the girls had nicknamed Tiny. Tiny’s appearance was a deterrent to the average troublemaker it was true, but he was not very bright. ‘All brawn no brains,’ she’d say. ‘Can’t sense when trouble’s brewing.’

‘Right you are, Ma, right you are,’ Mick said, just to keep her happy. ‘I’ll have a word with Tiny, I promise.’

I won’t, he thought as he went downstairs. What would be the point? Besides, he wasn’t here to instruct the hired help, he was here to have a good time.

‘Hello, Tiny,’ he called above the fiddle and the general din of the room, ‘how’re things going then?’

‘Oh, hello Mick,’ Tiny called back and he gave his amiable grin. ‘Things are good. Going to be a busy night, I’d say.’

He was a nice young man, but Ma was right, he wasn’t bright. Mind you, Mick thought, looking around the room, his remark is spot on. The girls were in for a busy night.

The fiddler always got things going and, although it was not yet nine o’clock, the room was lively. Already men were shifting benches and tables to make space as Maeve started her wild Irish dance. Some who were eating their bowls of stew refused to budge, and took no notice of Maeve, or of the girls who were urging her on. But as others stamped their boots to the fiddle, mud splattering on breeches, and as cries of encouragement went up with each fresh exposure of Maeve’s bare legs, it promised to be a lusty Saturday night.

Mick popped into the kitchen where Freddie was doling out the last of the stew.

‘Do you want some?’ Evie asked. ‘You’re just in time.’

‘No thank you, my lovely.’

He kissed her and fondled her breasts as she passed by. With a bowl of stew in each hand she was unable to put up any resistance, not that she would have anyway, and she laughed before disappearing into the main room.

Mick chatted with Freddie for a while then returned to the main room himself, stepping up to the bar and leaning over to talk to Billy, who was busily pouring tankards of ale. Then, his own tankard in hand, he turned to watch the proceedings. He always propped at the bar. On a slightly higher level than the main floor, it offered the best vantage point.

Sheer force of habit found Mick observing the room with a sharp eye. He noted that Len had already positioned himself beside the door to the stairs, although it was a little early for sex to take priority with the customers. As a rule, men liked to drink themselves into a lustful state. Len too clearly believed it was going to be a busy night.

He glanced at Tiny, who was standing beside the main doors, checking out new arrivals, his eyes sweeping the room now and then, but obviously taking in little. Over in the far corner a big man with a massive ginger beard had Peg up against the wall and was all but fucking her. Tiny should be breaking that up, Mick thought. He would certainly have done so himself. ‘Excuse me, sir, but would you like to take the lady upstairs?’ he would have said very politely; and if the man had refused he’d have shown him the door, with the pistol if necessary. That’s what Tiny should be doing. But Mick couldn’t be bothered teaching Tiny his job, and he refused to do it for him. Besides, he’d recognised Ginger Beard. The man drank at the pub regularly, and on the occasions he had a woman he invariably chose Peg. She’d get him upstairs before long. Peg could look after herself.

Maeve had set the mood and as the fiddler started up again the girls enticed men to dance with them. Mick’s toe was tapping. He was of a mind to dance, but he wouldn’t dance with one of the girls – he would leave them for the clients. The kitchen now being closed he was about to fetch Evie when he noticed the man who’d just entered. Every time there was a new arrival his eyes flickered to the main doors, pure habit.

Tiny had given the man no more than a cursory glance, but Mick sensed something disturbing about the newcomer. Unprepossessing in appearance, he was not a big man, nor was he young. He’d be close to fifty, Mick guessed, wiry of build and unkempt, his hair long and his beard scraggy. There were many such men roaming the streets of Hobart Town, lost souls for the most part with minds that wandered. But this one is not lost, Mick thought. Nor was his mind wandering: this one was bent on a purpose.

The man glanced keenly about as he edged through the crowd. He’s looking for someone, Mick thought. He didn’t appear to be searching among the drinkers though, his eyes were darting from woman to woman. Then, upon spying the couple in the corner, he headed directly for them. It’s Peg he’s after, Mick thought. This could mean trouble. He glanced over at Tiny, who was still blissfully unaware of any potential problem. Oh well, he told himself, it isn’t my place to interfere, and he sipped at his ale watching with interest for what would happen next.

Above the fiddle and the general hubbub, Mick couldn’t hear the men’s altercation, but he didn’t need to. Their dispute was not one that would be solved with words anyway. The newcomer pulled Peg away from the big man and started with her towards the door that led upstairs, but he didn’t get more than a pace or so before the big man grabbed Peg’s arm and hauled her back to him, protesting angrily. The newcomer, however, remained persistent. The woman was coming upstairs with him.