Tiger Men

by Judy Nunn

  Having proved his value as a worker, the next step in Mick’s plan was to ingratiate himself on a personal level, which proved a remarkably simple exercise. In skippering the ship-to-shore boat that was housed at Battery Point, he did not work out of Waterman’s Dock like the other men, and it was easy to call by the house in Napoleon Street under some pretext or another. When he did he was always made welcome, for Jefferson enjoyed his company, although more often than not the American wasn’t there. Jefferson was usually at the shipyards or at the McLagan stables further up the hill, where the horses and drays were housed. His absence suited Mick’s purposes to perfection as Doris would invariably ask him in for a cup of tea, and it was Doris whose favour he most wished to court.

  ‘Dour Doris’, as he’d mentally nicknamed her, remained a mystery to Mick. He couldn’t tell whether she liked him or not. But she certainly liked the relationship he was building with her children, particularly with little Martha.

  ‘She’s totally enamoured of you; it’s quite extraordinary,’ Doris said as Martha dived past her and out onto the front verandah, where she stood beaming her radiant smile up at Mick. He automatically grinned back like an idiot.

  ‘The feeling’s mutual,’ he replied.

  ‘Jefferson isn’t here, I’m afraid. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘I wouldn’t wish to impose.’

  ‘It’s no imposition, Mr O’Callaghan. The children love to see you.’

  The ritual was always the same.

  He took off his boots, leaving them on the front verandah, and entered in his stockinged feet, Martha skipping on ahead of him.

  Doris was now so accustomed to his visits that she led the way directly through to the kitchen where George was waiting, pretending nonchalance, having heard the Irishman at the front door.

  ‘Hello, George,’ Mick said.

  ‘Hello, Michael.’

  They shook hands man to man.

  For the next fifteen minutes, Mick gave his full attention to the children. He tried desperately not to display favouritism, but his heart was lost every time Martha smiled at him. For some strange reason, the smile appeared quite a lot today. She seems excited about something, he thought.

  George produced the model ship that he was building out of light pinewood. For a boy of seven, he was clearly gifted. He placed the model upon the kitchen table as he always did in order for Mick to admire its latest progress. George was very serious about his work. He intended to be a shipwright when he grew up.

  ‘I shall not hire ship builders like Pa,’ he had proudly announced, ‘I shall build my own ships.’

  ‘Excellent work, George,’ Mick said as he sat on the bench and closely inspected the model. ‘She’s coming along a real treat. She’s a clipper isn’t she? Do you have a name for her yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How about the Maid of Canton?’ He waited as the boy deliberated upon the idea, then he added, ‘you can call her the Maid for short.’

  That clinched things for George. ‘The Maid she is,’ he said.

  Martha, who had been patiently biding her time, decided that it was her turn. She climbed up on the bench and sat beside Mick.

  ‘Michael,’ she said. Her little currant eyes were deadly serious. She had an important announcement to make.

  ‘Yes, Martha?’

  ‘It is my birthday on Sunday.’

  ‘Really? And how old will you be?’

  She held up the splayed fingers of her right hand.

  ‘My goodness me, a whole handful of years – that’s a mighty age.’

  ‘I will be five,’ she corrected him. It was obvious he had misunderstood her so she spelt the facts out as clearly as possible. ‘I will be five years old.’

  ‘And that’s a grand age, to be sure.’

  As Doris placed Mick’s cup of tea on the table, Martha looked up at her mother with breathless anticipation.

  ‘Now?’ she whispered. ‘May I ask him now?’

  ‘Yes. You may.’

  ‘Will you come to afternoon tea on Sunday, Michael?’ Martha rattled the words out, and in order to prevent any possible refusal, she quickly added the major attraction, ‘Mother is making a very, very big birthday cake, and there will be candles.’

  Mick glanced at Doris.

  ‘She’s been dying to ask you,’ Doris said. ‘Please do come.’

  He nodded to Doris, but directed his reply to Martha. ‘I would be delighted to come to tea on your birthday, Martha. Thank you very much for inviting me.’ He was rewarded with a sea of dimples.

  Mick never lingered over the cup of tea Doris made him: he knew better than to overstay his welcome. Once the tea was poured, he scoffed it as quickly as etiquette allowed and then left. The principal purpose of his visits was, after all, the contact he had with the children, which he knew delighted their mother. He always had some business pretext for calling should Jefferson be at home, but he no longer bothered to proffer any form of excuse to Doris.

  She accompanied him to the front door, instructing the children to remain in the kitchen, which disappointed Martha, who always liked to wave goodbye. But Doris wanted to have a private word with Mick.

  ‘Thank you kindly for the tea, Mrs Powell,’ he said as he knelt and put on his boots.

  ‘The pleasure was mine, Mr O’Callaghan,’ she said, observing the customary ritual. But when he stood and was about to take his departure, Doris varied the routine.

  ‘As you have so captured my daughter’s heart, Mr O’Callaghan,’ she said, ‘would you mind if I called you Michael?’

  ‘I would be honoured.’

  ‘And you, of course, must call me Doris.’ She offered her hand and they shook. ‘I look forward to seeing you on Sunday then, Michael. We’ll have tea a little earlier than usual – shall we say three o’clock?’

  ‘Three o’clock it is, Doris. See you on Sunday.’

  Mick congratulated himself on his success. He was well on the way to conquering dour Doris. In fact things were going splendidly all round. He was making inroads and enjoying himself at the same time. He actually looked forward to Sunday.

  Sunday indeed proved a triumph.

  The rag doll, a clown with yellow hair, a red nose, and big red smiling lips, which Mick had gone to great pains to purchase, was an unmitigated success. Martha decided, for some mysterious reason known only to herself, to call it Ben.

  ‘Why Ben?’ he asked.

  ‘Because Ben is short for Benjamin,’ she explained. He didn’t enquire any further.

  They gorged themselves on the feast Doris had prepared, lit the candles on the cake and, once Martha had blown them out and her mother had cut everyone a slice, they gorged themselves further. Finally, the children went outside to play in the late afternoon summer sun and the adults were left to talk.

  They adjourned to the front sitting room where Jefferson poured a Scotch whisky for himself and Mick, and Doris opted for another cup of tea.

  ‘The last of my father-in-law’s supply,’ he said, referring to the bottle. ‘I enjoy a glass now and then.’ He didn’t really. Jefferson rarely drank hard liquor, even of the finest variety, but today being a special occasion he wished to encourage a sense of camaraderie. The men toasted each other with their cut crystal tumblers – Hamish McLagan had drunk his Scotch out of nothing but the best – and Jefferson sat back, appraising the young Irishman.

  ‘Well, well, Michael,’ he said, ‘I had no idea you were so very popular with my children.’

  Mick inwardly froze. Dear God, he thought, have I overstepped the mark? Did Jefferson find him presumptuous? If so, his plans had gone quite awry.

  ‘The fact that George named his model the Maid of Canton was something of a giveaway, I must admit,’ Jefferson said with a smile. He was not at all offended, but he was certainly intrigued. And of course Doris has told me of Martha’s great fondness for you. But now to see with my own eyes the bond that has been established.’ He shook his head admiringly. ‘
It is obvious you have an extraordinary gift with children.’

  Mick breathed a sigh of relief. ‘It is the children who offered me the gift of their friendship, Jefferson,’ he said. ‘I do not know why little Martha chose to adopt me as she did, but I think it was her example that led George to vie for my attention. I do not believe any credit is due to me.’ Mick realised all of a sudden that he was actually telling the truth. ‘I must say I envy you your family.’ He glanced at Doris, who was paying avid attention. He wasn’t sure that he envied Jefferson a wife like Doris, but he certainly envied the man his children.

  The conversation had provided the perfect opener and Mick embarked upon his planned course of action. ‘It is my intention in the near future to start a family of my own, Jefferson,’ he said. ‘In fact I am currently seeking a wife.’

  ‘An excellent plan,’ the American nodded his approval, ‘you’re strong and fit and of a good age to marry. Don’t you agree, Doris?’

  ‘I most certainly do.’ Doris sounded surprisingly adamant.

  ‘Yes, I very much wish to settle down,’ Mick said, ‘and the sooner the better, I must say.’

  Having sown the seeds for a future conversation with Jefferson when they were alone, Mick intended going no further, but things suddenly took a turn he could not possibly have anticipated.

  ‘Forgive my asking, Michael,’ Doris said in her customary blunt fashion, ‘but my husband told me some time ago you are an educated man. Is this so?’

  ‘It is, Doris, yes.’

  She turned to Jefferson. ‘Perhaps, my dear, you should give some thought to employing Michael as your new ferry service manager.’

  Both men stared at her blankly, Jefferson surprised by his wife’s suggestion and Mick dumbstruck by his good fortune.

  ‘I take it you would be interested in such a position, Michael?’ she queried.

  ‘Well, yes . . .’ Mick tried not to appear too eager.

  ‘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 ha
ppy 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.