by Judy Nunn
‘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 –’
‘Here’s Ben,’ the clown was thrust under Mick’s nose, ‘and that’s the eye that came off.’ Martha stabbed a finger at the black button that served as the rag doll’s left eye. She climbed up on the kitchen bench to join him. ‘You can’t really tell, can you?’
‘No, the surgery has been most successful: you can’t tell at all.’ Mick strained to hear more of the conversation in the sitting room, but he could gather only snippets as Martha chatted on. The Lyttletons featured again, together with something about St George’s. That’s handy, he thought. If Amy Stanford worshipped at St George’s Anglican Church, then a quick change of denomination on his part could easily find him bumping into her after a Sunday-morning service.
As young George arrived and placed the model on the table with great care, Mick put a finger to his lips and hushed Martha. She obeyed immediately, clamping her mouth tightly shut as if she hardly dared breathe, and silence reigned while Mick set about examining the Maid. George stood quietly to one side, bursting with pride at the respect being afforded his work.
The talk in the sitting room was still of St George’s Church.
‘What a pity,’ Doris was saying, ‘when that glorious tower was erected, that they neglected to add the porch. It’s quite shameful the way such a beautiful building has been left unfinished all these years.’
The completion of the long-awaited church tower eight years previously had indeed been welcomed by all, and for more reasons than one. Situated high on the hill of Battery Point, St George’s was known as the Mariners’ Church, and its Neo-Classical style tower had been deliberately designed to serve not only as a thing of beauty, but as a mark for shipping.
‘Ye
s, Geoffrey is determined this problem must be addressed,’ Amy replied. ‘As I said, he and Phyllis are great supporters of St George’s. He believes that the church’s completion is essential not only for the members of the congregation who worship there, but for the entire community of Battery Point. Being a landmark for sailors, he says it symbolises the area.’
The Lyttletons again, Mick thought. He knew who Geoffrey and Phyllis Lyttleton were. Everyone in Hobart Town did. And Amy Stanford was to be under their wing while her father was away. How very interesting.
‘You’ll have a fresh cup, won’t you?’ Doris asked.
‘Yes, thank you, that would be lovely. Then I really must be on my way.’
‘Children!’ Doris’s voice rang through to the kitchen loud and clear. ‘You’ve had your five minutes; I’m pouring Michael’s tea.’
‘Well done, George.’ Mick shook hands once again with the boy. ‘A work of art, there’s no doubt about it, and you’ve got the rigging just right.’ George beamed.
After giving Martha a hug and kissing Ben’s eye better, Mick returned to the sitting room.
For the next fifteen minutes discussion centred on the society’s forthcoming charity ball. The Hobart Town Brass Band was to perform on the night and, at the request of the society, the bandmaster had also gathered an eight-piece string and woodwind orchestra to perform Viennese waltz and polka music. This year’s Christmas Charity Ball was to be the most lavish yet and was already the talk of the town among the elite and the wealthy who would be in attendance.
‘A tremendous amount of work is involved,’ Amy said. ‘A marquee is to be erected and a bandstand and dance floor constructed.’ She turned to Mick. ‘Mr Powell has kindly agreed to construct the dance floor himself and to transport it in sections to where it will be laid out in the open air,’ she said with a grateful glance in Doris’s direction. ‘No mean feat, which I hope the society’s charity ball committee appreciates,’ she added drily. Amy had her occasional doubts about the wealthy wives who served on the committee, several of whom she believed were there purely for social purposes.
‘I am quite happy to offer my services should Jefferson require assistance.’ Mick addressed Doris rather than Amy Stanford, thinking protocol demanded he should. His offer might well be perceived as impertinent. The annual charity ball was strictly for the rich, and even those who volunteered their services were from the upper echelons of society. But Amy laughed.
‘Oh good heavens above, Mr O’Callaghan, please do lend assistance. We shall need all the help we can get, I assure you. The committee would be most obliged, I’m sure, and it is my personal opinion that the more able-bodied men we can recruit the better.’
Mick decided he liked Amy Stanford. She doesn’t appear in the least bit snobbish, he thought. To the contrary, she seemed very open-hearted and natural. And she was certainly making things easy for him.
‘In that case, Miss Stanford, I am yours to command,’ he said with a smile.
Ten minutes later they parted company, agreeing to meet mid-morning at the Hutchins School where Mick would assist Jefferson, measuring the grounds and lining up the position of the marquee and the dimensions of the dance floor.
How very convenient, he thought as he walked back down the hill to the cottage. He wouldn’t need to bump into her at church all dressed up in his finest. In fact he had the distinct feeling that the more honest he was with young Amy Stanford, the better – within limits of course.
The Hutchins School, established by the Anglican Church in 1846, was a private school for boys boasting the highest quality education. Its intention was to produce the leaders of the future in all fields of endeavour, and it was generally agreed that such a proud and noble purpose should be housed in a proud and noble building. Three years after the school’s inauguration, during which time it had functioned at Ingle Hall, a Georgian house in lower Macquarie Street, the Hutchins School moved several blocks up the road and into its brand new, architecturally designed, custom-built schoolhouse.
Mick stood in Macquarie Street and gazed at the massive two-storey stone edifice, which sat well back from the road amidst the splendour of its grounds. So this was where the rich sent their sons to be educated. He must have passed by the Hutchins School hundreds of times, but he’d never really considered its significance – or the vast rift between the rich and the poor that it symbolised. You won’t find any Wapping brats here, he thought. The building was handsome certainly, but with its central square tower looming three storeys high and its circular turret reaching even higher it looked more like a castle than a schoolhouse, to his mind.
‘Mr O’Callaghan.’
She was beyond the fence and obscured among the activity in the grounds of the schoolhouse: Mick hadn’t seen her. She strode purposefully up the drive to the large, open front gate and greeted him. ‘Thank you so much for coming along.’ She offered her gloved hand and he shook it. ‘I’m deeply grateful, I really am.’
‘My pleasure, Miss Stanford: glad to be of assistance.’
She was wearing a simple skirt and blouse. The skirt was not plumped out with layers of petticoats as was the fashion of the day, and the bonnet she wore was plain and unadorned. She had dressed practically for a morning’s work in the sun, and Mick, who had pondered upon what he should wear, was thankful that he too had opted for practicality.
‘Mr Powell is already here,’ she said leading the way into the grounds, and he couldn’t help noticing as he followed that she had a very neat figure.
Upon seeing Jefferson, Mick was doubly thankful that he’d dressed practically. Jefferson, as usual, could have passed for a peasant; he seemed completely careless of fashion.
‘Welcome, Michael,’ he said, pumping away at Mick’s hand. ‘Doris told me you’d offered to help. Good for you.’
Mick returned the handshake a little shamefaced. He hadn’t sought permission for time off from his work, and the man was his employer after all.
‘I hope you don’t mind, Jefferson,’ he said, trying to apologise without appearing subservient in Amy’s presence – a rather delicate balance. ‘I thought perhaps –’
‘Good God, man, why should I mind? We’re all here for the same purpose, are we not, to raise money for the society and its good works.’ Jefferson beamed from Mick to Amy and back again. ‘In fact, if you want to call up to the transport yards for an hour or so during the afternoons next week I’d be most obliged. You can give me a hand making up the dance floor. It’ll save one of my drivers having to take time off.’
‘I’d be more than happy to do so.’ Mick was thankful that Jefferson had treated him as an equal, but then Jefferson always did. In fact Jefferson seemed to treat all men as equals.
The American turned to Amy. ‘I believe the Hobart Town Ragged School Association is to be one of the major beneficiaries of this year’s fundraising ball, Amy, is that correct?’ Amy would shortly take up her teaching position with the Ragged School opening in Lower Collins Street early in the New Year, as Jefferson well knew.
‘Yes that is correct, Jefferson.’ She looked about at the lavish grounds and the massive castle-like structure that dominated them. ‘Which makes this particular venue a rather interesting choice, don’t you think?’ she added, sharing the irony of her comment with both men.
‘I do indeed,’ Jefferson said with a glance to Mick.
Mick nodded in agreement, thinking what a marvellous leveller charity work was. There seemed no class distinction at all between the three of them, and he wondered if, before the end of the day, he and Amy Stanton might be using one another’s first names.
They worked hard for the next hour and a half, Jefferson and Mick pacing out distances between trees and fences and stone walls, taking measurements here and there, Amy jotting down figures and drawing maps in her notebook. They conferred with others: the school’s caretaker; the supplier of the marquee, whose assistants were also taking measurements; Mr Truscott, the hard-working bandmaster of
the Hobart Town Brass Band; and several lady representatives of the parish committee, who would be supplying the evening’s refreshments.
They were nearly done when a trap, drawn by a stylish bay gelding and bearing an equally stylish middle-aged couple, appeared. The man drove the trap through the open gates and up the driveway, where he reined in the bay. As he alighted he nodded acknowledgement to the school caretaker, who stepped forward and held the animal’s bridle.
‘Thank you, William,’ he said. Then he turned to assist his wife who, parasol held high out of harm’s way, accepted her husband’s hand and stepped gracefully to the ground. The Lyttletons had arrived.
‘Amy, my dear,’ Geoffrey called out heartily; he gave her a wave. A handsome man in his fleshy mid-forties, his smooth-shaven chin offered a more youthful appearance than those of his contemporaries who opted for beards tending to grey, and his receding hairline was more than compensated for by a healthy moustache and a fine set of mutton-chops. His wife, straight-backed with a proud and matronly bosom, was of regal bearing and equally striking.
Leaving the trap in William’s care, Geoffrey and Phyllis crossed arm-in-arm to where Amy stood, Phyllis warmly greeting the parish ladies as they passed. She was head of the society’s charity ball committee and deeply appreciated the input of the parish and its helpers.
‘Thought we’d come and lend some moral support,’ Geoffrey said as they arrived beside Amy. ‘Hello, Jefferson, might have known I’d find you here. She’s roped you in too, has she?’ He gave Amy a wink.
‘She certainly has. I’m to construct the dance floor,’ Jefferson said as the two men shook.
‘Good for you, old man, the society’s much obliged.’
‘Good morning, Mrs Lyttleton,’ said Jefferson.
‘Good morning, Mr Powell.’ Phyllis acknowledged the greeting graciously but briefly, her attention more taken by Amy. ‘Amy, my dear,’ she said, ‘it is December, and you are out of doors with no parasol.’
