Tiger Men (30 page)

Frederick held the door open for them and Mick followed Geoffrey. They crossed through a deserted secretarial office and into an opulent oak-panelled room that was Geoffrey Lyttleton’s private realm.

‘Take a seat.’ After closing the door, Geoffrey indicated a rosewood carver and circled his mahogany desk, which was deliberately and intimidatingly large. He sat in the Queen Anne walnut elbow chair that was his personal throne. ‘I presume you’re on an errand for Jefferson?’ He managed to sound pleasant while making Mick’s inferior status thoroughly understood.

Mick had contemplated standing as he conducted his business, but something about Lyttleton’s condescension now caused him to change his mind. He sat, refusing to be daunted, and leant back in his chair, languidly crossing his legs.

‘No, I’m not on an errand for Jefferson,’ he said, ‘I’m here with regard to a personal matter.’

‘Oh? And what
personal matter
could that possibly be?’ Geoffrey dropped any pretence of pleasantness. The cheek of the fellow!

‘The personal matter of my relationship with Amy Stanford.’

‘Well you’ve certainly incurred the wrath of my wife there,’ Geoffrey said scathingly. So this is the reason for such outrageous overfamiliarity, he thought. Having wormed his way into Amy’s affections, the young scoundrel presumed it gave him some claim to an acquaintanceship with her friends.

‘Yes, I have rather upset your wife, haven’t I?’ Mick agreed. ‘Which is why I’m here. I’d like you to call Phyllis off.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Geoffrey wasn’t quite sure he’d heard correctly.
Call Phyllis off?
What, call her off, like a dog? What on earth did the fellow mean?

‘I would like you to instruct your wife . . . No, no,’ Mick corrected himself, ‘I would like you to
order
your wife to cause no interference in my courtship of Amy –’

‘Why the deuce would I do that?’

‘– and I would like you to tell your wife,’ Mick continued, oblivious to Geoffrey’s outburst, ‘that your reason for issuing such an order is your thorough approval of my suit. In fact, I would be most obliged if you would also make your approval known to Silas Stanford upon his return.’

Geoffrey was flabbergasted. ‘What sort of lunatic are you, boy? You do realise, don’t you, that you’ve now thoroughly ruined your chances? I couldn’t have cared tuppence whether you married the girl or not: if she’s fool enough to give herself to a wastrel that’s her business.’ He stood. It was time to put an end to this idiocy. ‘You can rest assured, Mr O’Callaghan, that as of this very minute I shall join my wife in preventing your union with Miss Stanford.’

Mick also stood. ‘No you won’t.’

‘And why not, pray?’

‘Because if you do, your wife, and your son and your daughter and their children, and indeed all of Hobart Town will be informed that you keep a mistress in a house in Battery Point, and that you have done so for the past two years. Where will your fine reputation be then, Geoffrey, when the whole world knows about Red?’

Geoffrey Lyttleton sank back into his chair in a state of shock, his knees literally giving way beneath him, his face ashen: not for one minute had he anticipated this.

Mick was gratified by the reaction. He had been unsure of quite what to expect, but the utter dread he now saw in Geoffrey’s eyes told him he’d won. If the news of Red were made public the man would be unveiled for the hypocrite he was and thoroughly ruined, as he very well knew.

Following the initial shock, Geoffrey to his credit recovered very quickly.

‘So I presume this will be an ongoing form of blackmail?’ he queried icily after a moment’s pause. ‘I pay you a sum of money here and now, and then over time you keep coming back for more. That’s the way scum like you operate, isn’t it?’

‘Not at all,’ Mick replied, and he once again sat. ‘I want no more than your assistance in my courtship of Amy Stanford.’

‘I see.’ Geoffrey nodded. Another pause, and then he continued in a businesslike manner, rather as if he were conducting a board meeting. ‘Who else knows about Red?’

‘No-one knows but me. I swear it on my mother’s life.’

‘And how did you find out?’

Mick responded with his carefully prepared answer, aware that he must protect Eileen at all costs. ‘I’ve been following you ever since your wife threatened to ruin my chances,’ he said. ‘I’d hoped to find out something that might pressure you into calling her off.’ He shrugged, ‘perhaps a visit to a brothel or some such misdemeanour. Then I saw Red coming out of that house, and I knew I’d got lucky.’

‘How do you know Red?’

‘I don’t. But I’ve been to Trafalgar on the odd occasion, when I can afford it, after a good run at the card table. I recognised her.’

‘I see,’ Geoffrey said again. He appeared to accept the explanation, but his mind was obviously ticking over as he considered a course of action. ‘And you expect me to believe you when you say there will be no further demands, and that no-one else knows?’

‘Yes, you have my word in both instances . . .’ Eileen’s warning sounded a sudden alarm in Mick’s brain.
‘Take care, Mick. These pillars of society with whom you’re mingling are ruthless men.’

‘Although there is one precaution I’ve taken that I feel I must point out,’ he continued. ‘I have left a sealed envelope with my lawyer, which is to be opened should I meet with any unexpected accident.’

‘Have you really?’ Geoffrey’s smile was singularly unpleasant. This part of the story he did not believe for one minute. What lawyer? he thought scornfully. The little bastard is lying through his teeth. He doesn’t have a lawyer – his sort of scum never do.

It was at that moment that Geoffrey Lyttleton’s mind turned to the brand new Adams revolver which sat in the desk’s top drawer, its chambers fully loaded. How simple it would be, he thought. There was no-one around but young Frederick, and young Frederick was both gullible and obedient. The Irishman was out to rob me from the start, he’d say, and young Frederick would be bound to agree that he’d had no alternative but to shoot the felon.

‘In the event of my death under suspicious circumstances,’ Mick went on smoothly, ‘three letters will be posted.’ He was thinking on his feet – there was no envelope, no lawyer and no letters – but he could sense danger in Geoffrey Lyttleton. ‘One is addressed to your wife, one to the Hobart Town Businessmen’s Philanthropic Society, and one to
The Mercury
newspaper.’ He smiled confidently, the way he did when he held a poker hand worth nothing. ‘I thought that should just about cover things.’

Across the sea of mahogany they eyed one another like card players, each trying to read the other’s mind.

‘Well, well,’ Geoffrey said finally, ‘you have been busy.’ He knew, as they both did, that he dared not call the Irishman’s bluff.

‘I take it we have reached an agreement?’ Mick asked.

‘We have.’

‘Excellent. Then perhaps you will start by persuading your good wife that Amy be permitted to accompany me to the Powells’ home for Christmas luncheon tomorrow. She will of course be suitably chaperoned by Mrs Powell.’

‘As you wish.’ Geoffrey stood abruptly and without another word led the way back to the reception area where Frederick snapped to attention.

‘Thank you for your time, Mr Lyttleton,’ Mick said, ‘and may I take this opportunity to wish you and Mrs Lyttleton and the family a very merry Christmas?’

‘Season’s greetings indeed, Mr O’Callaghan.’

‘Merry Christmas, Frederick,’ Mick said to the clerk.

‘Why thank you, sir, and a merry Christmas to you too.’

As the door bell tinkled behind him, Mick told himself that he really must get a lawyer, and the sooner the better for safety’s sake.

Christmas luncheon at the Powells was just as Doris had predicted it would be – a raucous affair. Jefferson had invited those of his employees without families, a good dozen or so, and mostly young men. Indeed, apart from Doris, only two other women were expected to be present: Pauline, the young widow who took bookings at the office of McLagan Road Transport, and Ada, the girl who came in twice a week to mind the children while Doris did the shopping. As it eventuated, however, there was a fourth woman present – Amy Stanford.

Doris had been most surprised when Mick had dropped by on Christmas morning to ask if he might bring Amy with him.

‘I’d be delighted, Michael,’ she’d said, ‘but isn’t she dining with the Lyttletons? She told me nearly a month ago that she was.’

‘I think she would rather our company than theirs,’ he’d said with a smile, ‘and the Lyttletons have no objection.’

How extraordinary, Doris had thought, that the Lyttletons should openly acknowledge young Michael O’Callaghan as an acceptable suitor for their ward. She would have expected Phyllis in particular to object most strongly.

‘I would love Amy to be here, Michael,’ she’d said warmly. She felt very happy for him.

The day was a huge success. Doris had cooked up a veritable feast. With Ada’s help she’d been working for the past several days. There were eighteen people in all and the dining room was crammed, with barely enough space to move, Jefferson having added an extra table, and odd chairs and stools having been brought in from the sitting room. But the very closeness only added to the atmosphere as guests jostled one another, passing along the individual plates of turkey and ham Jefferson carved, and then handing around the bowls of vegetables and gravy boats with gay abandon. They were like one big rowdy family.

‘This reminds me of the old days at home,’ Mick said to Amy, raising his voice above the general chatter, ‘except we didn’t get to eat such fancy food.’

Amy laughed. ‘It reminds me of nothing I’ve ever known before,’ she said, raising her own voice in return.

Amy was enjoying herself immensely. Given Phyllis’s strong antipathy towards Michael, she’d expected to do battle when she’d accepted his invitation at such late notice, but to her utter astonishment, Phyllis had graciously released her from her obligation. Perhaps Phyllis believed the invitation had come from Doris Powell rather than Michael himself, but it was mystifying nonetheless. Now, gazing around at the workmen tucking into their food like healthy young animals, the thought of the horror on Phyllis’s face could she see them was both amusing and satisfying.

After demolishing copious bowls of plum pudding and brandy sauce, the men carried the chairs out from the dining room and the party adjourned to the front verandah. Doris served tea for those who wanted it, although most of the men continued to drink ale, Jefferson having ordered in a five-gallon keg from the victualler in Argyle Street.

Upon popular demand, one of the workmen had brought along his concertina. Albert was recognised by his workmates as the life of every party for there was apparently no popular song he couldn’t play. As it turned out, there was no Christmas carol he couldn’t play either.

‘
The holly and the ivy, when they are both full grown
. . .’

The crowd sang along to the concertina, carol after carol. Albert was indefatigable.

‘
When the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even
. . .’

‘Do you know,’ Amy mused to Mick when after the fifth carol Albert took a brief break to consume a glass of ale, ‘I have lived here since I was nine years old and it still amuses me that at Christmas and in the height of midsummer we sing so fervently of everything that is foreign to this land.’

‘I was thinking the very same thing just yesterday,’ Mick said, ‘as I passed by the carol singers outside St Joseph’s Church. I do not believe we will ever adjust.’

‘Perhaps not in our time,’ she agreed. ‘We still crave familiarity. But future generations might. They may even
embrace
the difference, who knows? Perhaps the children of our children will invent new songs.’

‘Perhaps they will.’

There was a moment’s pause and she laughed, selfconscious at having waxed philosophical, or perhaps it was simply the way he was looking at her.

‘At least the weather is not as hot here as it is in Sydney,’ she said. ‘I have accompanied Father on several of his trips in the past and the summers there are quite unbearable. Here at least in the middle of winter we can pretend we are at home, and sometimes there is even snow.’ Amy was aware she was chattering on unnecessarily, but she didn’t know why.

‘Shall we walk down to the water?’ he suggested.

‘Yes, that would be lovely.’ She did not hesitate for a moment.

They stood and he offered her his arm.

Doris watched as the couple walked down the verandah steps. She knew if they were going any distance from the house, she should really offer to accompany them, but Amy had not asked her to, so she decided not to interfere. Besides, she trusted Michael: he would not behave improperly. She watched as the front gate closed behind them and they disappeared out of sight. Dear me, she thought, how Phyllis Lyttleton would disapprove! But then Phyllis Lyttleton was the most awful snob, and what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. Doris picked up the teapot and offered Pauline another cup.

They walked down the hill to the water’s edge where there was barely a breath of breeze and not a soul in sight. The shipbuilding yards, normally a hive of industry, were deserted, and all was hushed. Even the mighty Derwent itself appeared lonely, devoid of activity, the boats at anchor sitting still and silent upon its ripple-less water.

‘How lovely,’ Amy said.

‘Let’s walk along a little further,’ he suggested, ‘there’s something I want to show you.’

As they made their way along the shoreline, he held her hand in order to steady her. The ground was dry and firm underfoot, but it was stony and she could trip.

Minutes later they rounded the point and came to a halt. Before them was the slipway and the jetty, and up ahead, sitting on the grassy slope fifty yards from the water’s edge, was the small sandstone cottage.

‘This is where I live,’ he said. He was aware that admitting to such a rudimentary existence was a bold move, but he could sense it was the right one, and he watched her reaction closely.

‘Oh Michael,’ she breathed, ‘how beautiful.’