Tiger Men (25 page)

‘I hardly think a young courting couple would welcome the company of two rowdy children, my dear.’ Jefferson insisted upon having the final say. ‘We look forward to meeting your young lady when you feel the time is right, Michael.’ He put an affectionate arm around his wife. ‘Meanwhile, Doris and I are very happy for you.’

‘We most certainly are,’ Doris agreed, aware that she may have sounded just a little bit bossy.

Mick had kept his excuse to the Powells as simple and as vague as possible. The young lady he’d met had family commitments, he’d told them, which allowed only Sunday afternoons for their courtship. Jefferson of course had been far too tasteful to enquire after any further detail.

Over the ensuing weeks, there were times when Mick wondered why he’d chosen to invent a courtship. He could have been visiting a sick friend on Sundays, or any number of fabrications that sprang to mind – he was a very adept liar. Why a courtship, of all things? Could it have been wishful thinking on his part? Did he perhaps secretly long to make Eileen Hilditch his wife? He could not for one minute envisage her living in the fisherman’s cottage, doing his housework and raising his children: such an outcome was unimaginable. But then he was finding life without Eileen equally unimaginable as the days between each Sunday became progressively more drab and tedious.

Mick was obsessed with Eileen and the challenge she presented. He told himself that it was simply a case of ego and that if he could conquer her sexually he’d be able to get her out of his system. But he wasn’t actually sure he wanted to get her out of his system. He didn’t know whether he loved her or not, but of one thing he was certain. He wanted her to love him, and he would not rest until she did.

There were times when he felt he was making definite progress. She no longer treated him as she would a client, and on occasions he could sense her relax and enjoy the sheer sensuality of their coupling. But always, as the final moment neared, she took control and it became a battle between them, a battle it seemed he could not win. Until the afternoon when for some strange reason he suddenly decided he’d had enough.

She was meeting his every thrust, urging him on to his climax and, as it approached, he knew any moment she would twist her body to one side and free herself. This time things would be different, he decided, and burying himself deep inside her he grasped her hips and locked her into position, allowing her no freedom of movement.

‘You bastard,’ she hissed, feeling herself pinioned beneath him. She struggled, but to no avail and seconds later he was spent.

‘Bastard,’ she said. She pushed him off her and rose from the bed. ‘Bastard,’ she said as she crossed to the dresser. She put the basin on the floor and filled it with water from the jug. ‘Bastard,’ she said as she squatted over the basin and started washing herself. ‘Bastard, bastard, bastard,’ she kept saying as she desperately tried to wash him out of her.

He felt guilty watching her frantic ministrations. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said inadequately.

‘You’re sorry! Oh well, that’s all right then, isn’t it?
You’re sorry
makes everything better.’ She kept washing, trying to force the water up inside her. ‘
You’re sorry
means I don’t have to worry about being landed with a bastard child.
You’re sorry
means I don’t have to have be butchered by some filthy old cow who might kill or maim me in the process. Thanks very much, Mick: I’m glad you’re sorry.’

‘I’d marry you if you were with child.’ As the words sprang out, Mick wondered whether perhaps that’s why he’d done what he’d done. He’d thought it had been the need for sexual domination, but perhaps there had been another force driving him. He of all men knew and respected a whore’s fears; he would not normally threaten a working girl’s existence in such a way.

Eileen was equally suspicious of his motives. ‘Is that why you did it?’

‘I don’t know. I really don’t know.’ It was possibly the most honest admission Mick O’Callaghan had ever made and something in Eileen recognised that fact.

She stood and pulled on her shift.

‘Whores always keep a close check on their monthly cycle,’ she said coldly. ‘I’m due in three weeks, give or take a few days.’ She picked up his clothes and flung them at him. ‘Come back in a month, Mick, and I’ll tell you whether or not you’ve ruined my life.’

*

As things turned out he was safe. They both were.

‘But don’t ever try it again,’ she warned him. ‘Don’t try it for whatever reason, Mick. It wouldn’t pay off anyway. I’d never settle with a poor man.’

He hadn’t thought of himself as a poor man. He’d thought of himself as a successful man, a man who made a good regular wage and had a job with a title. He was the Manager of the Powell Ferry-Boat Service no less. But that obviously meant nothing to a woman like Red, who was accustomed to the trappings of true wealth.

She’d joke about it at times. ‘What a pity you’re not rich, Mick,’ she’d say as she paraded before him in a new lace-trimmed bonnet or a gown of the latest fashion, which her benefactor had provided in order to keep her happy that particular week. ‘If you could offer me all this, I’d be yours. We’re a good pair, you and me.’

They
were
a good pair. She made him laugh with her wicked stories about Trafalgar and her clients. She’d act out scenarios, strutting peacock-like before him, puffing away at an imaginary cigar – she was very funny. The references to the men she slept with never bothered him, but mentions of her benefactor could become galling.

‘And that shite,’ he said gesturing at the pretty new gown with the wide pagoda sleeves that she was twirling at him, ‘that shite makes it worth being a prisoner, does it?’ Occasionally he bit back. ‘I’d take freedom before satin and lace myself.’

‘This
shite,’
she archly corrected him, ‘is a measure of my value. I’m the best whore in town, and this
shite
is proof of it.’

‘Why do you have to keep calling yourself a whore?’ he burst out, exasperated. Along with the comments about his so-called poverty, it was another ongoing allusion that annoyed him.

‘Because that’s what I am.’

‘Not with me. You’re Eileen with me, for God’s sake. When we’re together you’re Eileen, you’re not Red.’

‘Whatever the name, it doesn’t stop me being a whore.’ She remained unperturbed by his outburst. ‘I know exactly who and what I am, Mick. When it comes to a case of identity you’re the one with the problem. You really don’t know who you are or what you want to be, do you?’

This time she was intentionally goading him, and he could have fought back as he often did – theirs was a volatile relationship. But he didn’t bother because he knew she was right. The pride he’d taken in his position with the Powell Ferry-Boat Service was a thing of the past, and he no longer fantasised about a life of respectability and a wife and a family like Jefferson’s. She’s absolutely right, he thought, I don’t know who I am or what I want to be. But he knew what he wanted out of life, of that much he was certain. He wanted Eileen Hilditch, and he wanted her all to himself. And for that he needed money.

‘Amy, this is Michael O’Callaghan, the manager of our ferry-boat service.’ Doris made the introductions. ‘Michael, this is Miss Amy Stanford.’

‘How do you do, Mr O’Callaghan?’

‘A pleasure to meet you, Miss Stanford.’

He recognised her immediately. Amy Stanford was a well-known and well-loved figure around Wapping. Teacher to underprivileged children, distributer of goods to the poor, she’d been pointed out to him in the street on a number of occasions, as had her father, Silas. Mick had taken little notice of either at the time: they’re just do-gooders, he’d thought.

‘I’m a great admirer of your father and his good works,’ he said. ‘The society serves an immensely important purpose.’

There was no specific ulterior motive in Mick’s flattery. His behaviour was totally instinctive. He always sought to make a favourable impression upon those of a higher social status, and his charm automatically came into play when he was in the company of women.

‘Thank you,’ Amy replied, although she was a little puzzled. How could Michael O’Callaghan know of her father’s ‘good works’? Silas Stanford, unlike many prominent businessmen, did not make public his involvement with the Hobart Town Businessmen’s Philanthropic Society.

‘I am aware also of your own contribution to the underprivileged, Miss Stanford,’ he said. ‘I have many friends among the poor.’

‘I see.’ Amy wasn’t sure she did see actually. Was he identifying with the poor, or was he a fellow philanthropist? He seemed humble and grateful on the one hand, and yet on the other he was well-dressed, well-spoken and seemingly well-off. Whatever he was, she didn’t think she’d ever met a man quite as charming and quite as good-looking as Michael O’Callaghan, which made him a little suspect.

Strangely enough, it was Amy’s flicker of suspicion that alerted Mick to the opportunity she represented. Could Amy Stanford be the answer to my predicament? he suddenly wondered. Amy Stanford was young, single, not particularly pretty, and she had a very rich father. His mind started to whirl with the wildest imaginings. He heard the voice of the tiger man.
Don’t work for your money. Marry it.
He thought of Jefferson Powell. Jefferson had married above his station, hadn’t he? Dear God, Jefferson had been a convict when he’d met Doris. Admittedly, the McLagans were not in the league of the Stanfords, but there was surely no harm in trying.

‘Would you care to join us for a cup of tea, Michael?’ Doris asked.

‘No, no, Doris, please,’ he insisted, ‘I have no wish to intrude upon you ladies in Jefferson’s absence. You must have a great deal to talk about.’ Best to establish the first-name basis of his relationship with the Powells lest Amy Stanford should mistake him for a lowly employee.

‘You would not be intruding, I assure you,’ Doris said briskly, ‘Miss Stanford and I have concluded our business. Besides which, we do not gossip. Please join us. I’ll freshen up the pot and fetch another cup.’

Mick sat and, as Doris left with the teapot, he smiled apologetically at Amy.

‘I do beg your pardon, Miss Stanford. I intended no insult.’

Amy smiled. ‘She can be rather blunt, can’t she? Personally, I enjoy a good gossip now and then.’

Mick surreptitiously placed the ledger on the coffee table beside him. He was thankful it was the last Friday of November. Had he called on any other day, he would have been in his work clothes. He always dressed well when he arrived to present the ledger to Doris, however, as she invariably asked him to stay for afternoon tea.

‘Are the children here?’ he asked. He rather hoped they were. His relationship with George and Martha would create an excellent impression.

‘They were sent out to play while we discussed business,’ Amy said. In the pause that followed she felt the need to explain, particularly as he had professed an interest in the society. ‘McLagan Road Transport provides a dray free of charge for the society’s weekly delivery of provisions to the poor,’ she said.

‘Ah yes?’

‘And they have just agreed to help with the setting up of the Christmas Charity Ball, which is to be held in the grounds of the Hutchins School the week after next.’

‘How very generous of them.’

‘Yes indeed. The Powells are great supporters of the society.’

‘Michael!’ It was a child’s voice, a very excited child.

Martha launched herself at him while George followed, a little more circumspectly but also eager to see his old friend.

‘Hello, Martha.’ Mick scooped the little girl up in his arms. He was genuinely delighted to see the children, but he couldn’t help thinking how perfect the timing was. ‘Hello, George.’

‘Hello, Michael.’

He put Martha down, offered his hand to George and they shook man to man as they always did.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Doris had followed the children into the sitting room, ‘but when they heard you were here there was no stopping them.’ She placed the teapot and a fresh cup on the tray. ‘The tea will be a few minutes brewing,’ she said. ‘I made a fresh pot.’

‘Ben lost an eye,’ Martha said solemnly.

‘Oh dear, how terrible.’ Who was Ben?

‘But Mother sewed it back on.’

‘Well now, I’m sure he feels a whole lot better.’ The clown, of course.

‘Would you like to see the
Maid
?’ George asked. ‘She’s finished.’

‘May I?’ Mick looked a query to Doris.

‘Please do.’ She smiled warmly. ‘They’ve missed you.’

As the children led him from the room, Martha literally dragging him by the hand, they were followed by the voice of command.

‘Don’t keep Michael longer than five minutes, children, we don’t want his tea to get cold.’ Mick was gratified to hear Doris’s further comment to Amy Stanford: ‘He’s so good with the children. They absolutely adore him.’

He left the door to the kitchen wide open in the hope that he might overhear the women’s conversation in his absence, but Martha was too busy chattering about Ben’s eye, and George wanted him to come into the bedroom to look at the model ship.

‘Why don’t you bring the
Maid
out here?’ he suggested. ‘The light’s much better in the kitchen. And Martha, you go and fetch Ben. I’d like to have a look at that eye.’

They scampered off, and Mick sat at the kitchen table listening intently.

‘It will be a rather strange Christmas with Father away,’ Amy was saying. ‘We’ve followed such a routine for years, it will seem odd without him.’

‘You’re more than welcome to spend Christmas Day with us,’ Doris offered, ‘although I feel I should warn you, it may be a rather raucous affair. Jefferson intends to invite those of his employees without families to join us.’

Mick thought for one moment that the perfect opportunity was about to present itself. He would be invited to Christmas dinner along with Amy Stanford. But his hopes were instantly dashed.

‘How very kind of you,’ he heard Amy say, ‘but I’m well looked after, I can assure you. I’ll be spending Christmas Day with the Lyttletons.’ She laughed. ‘In fact I’ll probably be spending the whole of the next three months with the Lyttletons, they’ve been given strict orders to look after me while Father’s in Sydney –’