by Judy Nunn
‘I have a bonnet, Phyllis,’ Amy said with a smile, ‘I am well protected from the sun, I assure you.’ She ignored the disapproving glance Phyllis cast at her white gloves, which were now looking decidedly soiled. Phyllis was a good woman, but obsessed with appearances and decidedly fussy. ‘May I introduce Mr O’Callaghan? He too has kindly offered to lend his assistance,’ Amy said, and she turned to Mick. ‘Mr O’Callaghan, this is Mr and Mrs Lyttleton.’
‘Delighted to meet you, Mr O’Callaghan,’ Geoffrey grasped Mick’s hand and shook it effusively. ‘On behalf of the society I offer my sincerest thanks. The charity ball is a massive undertaking and we deeply appreciate our volunteer helpers.’
‘I am happy to serve such a worthy cause, Mr Lyttleton,’ Mick said and he nodded respectfully to Phyllis, who rewarded him with the warmest of smiles.
Once again, Mick was struck by the way in which a commitment to charity appeared to eliminate social barriers. Under normal circumstances he would never even get to meet the Lyttletons, let alone be greeted with such enthusiasm. Geoffrey Lyttleton was an extremely wealthy man. A banker and investor known for his good works, he had been one of the founding members of the Hobart Town Businessmen’s Philanthropic Society and his contribution to the colony had been inestimable for a good decade or more. The Lyttletons moved in circles that would normally be well and truly closed to the likes of Mick O’Callaghan.
Here was a doorway into society that I’d not contemplated, Mick thought. He must offer his services to charity more often, although he wondered just how binding such a connection would prove. Geoffrey Lyttleton’s bonhomie may well be a fleeting thing. Perhaps when volunteer helpers had served their purpose both they and their input were forgotten. He wondered whether this might apply to Amy Stanford. Would her gratitude be fleeting? Would he be discarded from her acquaintance when his services were no longer required?
The Lyttletons did not stay long. They circulated, thanking those present for their commitment to the cause, and then they climbed back into their trap. Geoffrey took up the reins and as they were about to drive off Phyllis cautioned Amy to beware of the sun and reminded her they would collect her in the carriage for church at half-past nine the following morning.
‘I shall be ready. Thank you, Phyllis.’ Amy waved goodbye as the trap bowled off down the drive. ‘Oh dear,’ she murmured, ‘I would far rather walk.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Mick, who was standing beside her, thought she was talking to him.
‘Sorry,’ she said lightly, ‘just thinking out loud. Phyllis is being overzealous, that’s all. I would far rather walk to church than go by carriage. St George’s is only twenty minutes from our house and Father and I always walk: we enjoy the constitutional.’
‘Oh?’ He pretended puzzlement for he was not supposed to know Silas Stanford was away, but he sensed that a God-given opportunity was about to present itself.
‘Father is in Sydney,’ Amy explained, ‘and the Lyttletons have been elected my guardians, so to speak. It is a duty dear Phyllis is taking far too seriously,’ she added with a wry moue. ‘She still sees me as sixteen, when in fact I shall shortly be twenty-two. I am more than capable of looking after myself.’
Mick found the dismissive way she spoke of Phyllis Lyttleton, who was considered by many to be something akin to colonial royalty, a little outrageous and also highly attractive. He was beginning to realise there was a distinctly non-conformist side to Amy Stanford.
‘I would consider it an honour, Miss Stanford,’ he said, ‘if you would allow me to walk you to church tomorrow morning.’
‘Oh good heavens above, I can just imagine what Phyllis would say to that.’ Amy openly laughed, relishing the thought. ‘Thank you so much for your offer, Mr O’Callaghan,’ she said, ‘but with the greatest of regret I’m afraid I must refuse. In the meantime, however, as we have been toiling together under a hot sun for nearly two hours, and as we will be working for the cause over the next fortnight, I do wish you would call me Amy. That is, if I may call you Michael in return?’
‘I insist that you do, Amy,’ he said and they shared a smile.
She liked him, he could tell, and he certainly liked her. In fact, he found her delightful. She was candid, unpretentious and, when she was animated as she now was, she was really rather pretty. He would very much enjoy getting to know Amy Stanford.
The next day, when he visited the white weatherboard house in Hampden Road, Mick made no mention to Eileen of the week’s events. To voice his hopes might be to court disaster. But he could not help fantasising about the possibilities they presented. What if he had the wealth to become Eileen’s benefactor? He pictured what it would be like if she belonged to no other man but him. No longer would her beauty be his for just this one afternoon a week. No longer would they need to cram their lovemaking and laughter, and even their battles, into several short hours on a Sunday. She’d be his exclusive property to call upon whenever he wished. He knew that she wanted the same thing herself. She’d said as much only the previous week.
‘We’re made for each other, Mick,’ she’d said, ‘what a shame you’ll never be rich. If you could set me up properly I could be yours, but there’s not much hope of that is there?’ She hadn’t been teasing and she hadn’t been goading, she’d actually appeared regretful. ‘Oh well,’ she’d shrugged. ‘Sundays will just have to do.’
Amy Stanford and a lady from the charity ball committee called in to the transport yards the following Thursday to check on the progress of the dance floor. It was late in the afternoon and at first Mick thought Amy might have orchestrated the visit to coincide with the time he was there – until he realised this was also the time she finished work at the charity school. In any event, he set out to use her visit for the further advancement of his cause.
‘Jefferson tells me you will be teaching at the Ragged School next year,’ he said.
He’d taken a break from his work and they were standing by the open stable doors looking out over the main yard, a dusty dirty place, particularly in the height of midsummer, smelling of dung and harness leather, but she didn’t seem to mind at all. He liked her for that.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Conditions at the Ragged School will be basic, but anything would be an improvement upon the present situation, which is quite untenable. The warehouse that currently serves as a schoolroom for the poor is disgraceful. Little wonder attendance is so low.’
‘And you think improved conditions will raise the attendance levels?’ From his tone he clearly believed otherwise.
‘Yes I do,’ she said adamantly. ‘Given the right teachers and given the policy of the British Ragged School system, which we intend to adopt, I believe we will be able to convince our pupils of the important role education will play in the rest of their lives.’
The way she spoke reminded him of Jefferson: she was clearly an idealist. ‘I hope you’re right, Amy,’ he said. ‘I know the people of Wapping – I lived there myself and became very much one of them.’ Honesty was undoubtedly the best policy with Amy Stanford, he’d decided. ‘They deserve the right to an education.’ And of course the only way to attract an idealist was to sound like one.
‘They certainly do,’ she agreed. ‘Education is not exclusively the entitlement of the rich. The Ragged School aims to further the prospects of disadvantaged children so that those among them with the talent and desire might go on to higher levels of scholarship. It is their God-given right to be granted this opportunity.’
Mick supposed that he should admire her passion, but her noble sentiments were starting to grate. Amy Stanford did not come from a disadvantaged background. He felt a sudden and intense desire to challenge her.
‘Some children are required to go to work in order to support their families,’ he said. ‘Opportunity is a luxury they cannot afford.’
‘I am fully aware of this,’ she replied.
‘I was fortunate in being able to remain at school until I was fourteen.’ He rath
er shocked himself saying so: he hadn’t intended to be quite this honest. ‘And the only reason I was able to do so was because my brothers and sisters went to work at the age of twelve,’ he declared with an air of defiance.
‘Then you are one of the lucky ones, aren’t you, Michael? And you’ve done very well for yourself, I must say. I would be extremely proud to see pupils of mine achieve as you have.’
Dear God, he thought, what a fortunate turn of events. He had not shocked her at all – far from it in fact. He had won her respect. He could see it in her eyes.
Mick’s hopes were raised even higher upon the very day of the ball.
It was mid-afternoon and the volunteers had completed their work. The giant marquee was erected and the rows of white-clothed trestle tables set up beneath it. The dance floor was laid out in the open air and the bandstand constructed beside it. All that remained now was the rigging of the lamps that would light up the scene as dusk fell.
‘You are coming tonight, aren’t you?’ Amy asked as she and Mick stood in the shade of the marquee sipping lemonade from tin cups. Throughout the day, the ladies of the parish committee had been offering cool lemonade to the workers, and even damp cloths to wipe perspiring brows as the afternoon had grown progressively hotter.
‘No,’ he said.
‘Why ever not?’ she demanded.
‘I did not purchase a ticket because I was not invited to do so, and I believe the attendance is by invitation only.’
‘Oh.’ She was taken aback. ‘That is a definite oversight on behalf of the charity ball committee. Those who volunteer their services should automatically be invited, and free of charge I might add. Father always issued such instruction to the ladies of the committee. Were he here now you would most certainly be on the list, have no doubt about that.’
‘Ah, well.’ He shrugged. He had not expected an invitation. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It matters a great deal.’ Amy took umbrage at what she saw as far more than a mere oversight. She was outraged. This confirmed her suspicion that the wealthy wives on the committee considered their duties an extension of their social lives – they were inviting only those they deemed personally acceptable. ‘I shall have a word with Phyllis and the committee ladies about this,’ she said, tight-lipped, ‘and you will come as my guest, Michael. I insist that you do.’
‘You insist?’ He raised a cheeky eyebrow at the archness of her tone.
‘I absolutely insist!’
‘Oh well,’ he agreed, ‘if you absolutely insist.’
‘I do. And furthermore we will dance every second dance, you and I.’
‘That will shock Phyllis and the committee ladies,’ he said with a roguish grin.
‘I hope so.’ She relaxed and the smile she returned him was equally roguish. ‘I certainly do hope so.’
In the light cast by the many lamps that were strung about the marquee and among the trees and from the stone walls of its castle backdrop, the grounds of the Hutchins School had metamorphosed into a fairyland.
The Hobart Town Brass Band was in fine form, Mr Truscott leading the musicians in military marches and quadrilles, while people milled about socialising, the women resplendent in their full-skirted ballgowns. The dance music would follow a little later when all the guests had arrived and the evening was well underway.
Mick entered the marquee and made for the table where the parish ladies were serving fruit punch, intent upon fetching Amy a glass. He had left her with Phyllis Lyttleton, who had greeted him most pleasantly upon his arrival.
‘I’m so glad you could come, Mr O’Callaghan,’ she’d said. ‘Amy has pointed out to me the committee’s oversight, for which I humbly apologise. You are most warmly welcome.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Lyttleton.’
‘We must circulate, my dear,’ Phyllis said, linking her arm through Amy’s, ‘there are so very many people who need to be thanked.’
‘Of course,’ Amy agreed, ‘one must do one’s duty.’ She was not about to let Phyllis dictate the rules, however. Michael O’Callaghan was her guest for the evening and she intended to make that fact obvious. ‘Would you mind awfully fetching me a glass of fruit punch, Michael,’ she said, ‘I’m quite parched.’
Mick was fully aware of the statement being made. ‘Of course,’ he replied, ‘it would be my pleasure.’
‘Thank you so much.’ She waved a gloved hand about airily. ‘I’ll be mingling somewhere.’
‘Have no fear, Amy,’ he said with a smile. ‘I shall find you.’
And he’d wandered off to the marquee, aware of Phyllis’s slightly frozen reaction to their easy familiarity and the bandying about of Christian names.
He made his way through the crowds to the punch table where one of the ladies from the parish poured him two glasses and, as he turned to leave, he literally bumped into Jefferson and Doris.
‘Hello, Michael.’ Doris was delighted to see him. ‘So we finally get to meet her, do we?’ she said, gesturing at the glasses he was carrying.
‘Who?’
‘Your young lady.’
‘Oh.’ He looked caught out and glanced self-consciously at Jefferson. ‘I’m afraid not,’ he said. ‘There has been a parting of the ways, I’m sorry to say.’
‘Oh dear.’ Doris appeared most concerned. ‘That is sad news indeed.’
‘Yes. It happened some time ago now. She was very dear to me, and I have had little success in finding a young lady to take her place. I didn’t have the nerve to tell you both.’ He looked from one to the other, embarrassed. ‘I suppose I didn’t wish to admit failure. Please do forgive me.’
‘Good heavens, man, there’s no need to apologise.’ Jefferson clapped him sympathetically on the shoulder and cast a glance at his wife that said they should mind their own business. ‘I trust you’ll join me for a glass of ale a little later in the evening?’
‘I’d love to, Jefferson, thank you.’ Mick gave a salute with one of the glasses and made his way out into the grounds where the band was now playing ‘Pride of the Regiment’.
Upon his arrival, Amy excused herself from Phyllis Lyttleton with the promise that she would continue on her rounds and thank all those who had been of such help to the society. In her father’s absence it was her duty, she said.
‘Michael will accompany me, won’t you, Michael?’
‘Delighted,’ Mick replied. Offering Amy his arm, he bowed courteously to Phyllis.
‘How kind.’ Phyllis, powerless to object, was equally courteous in her response, but as the two of them walked away she was left quite nonplussed. How had this come to pass? she wondered.
Mick did not feel in the least out of his depth as he circulated among the guests, Amy introducing him to all and sundry. On the contrary, he felt very much at home. He bowed chivalrously to the ladies and shared a comradely handshake with the men. Here is where I belong, he thought. Amy Stanford was the perfect ticket into society. She knew absolutely everyone including, as it turned out, the governor himself.
Sir Henry Young and his wife, Augusta, were chatting with several other guests, one of whom was Geoffrey Lyttleton. As they approached the group, Mick wasn’t sure what sort of reception he might expect from Geoffrey, given Phyllis’s rather frosty reaction.
‘Good to see you, Mr O’Callaghan.’
Geoffrey Lyttleton however proved most cordial. So cordial indeed that he took over the formalities, introducing Mick not only to Sir Henry and Lady Young, but to the shipping magnate Alexander McGregor and his wife, Harriet, and also the prominent politician Lieutenant William Champ, formerly of the 63rd Regiment and currently Colonial Secretary of Van Diemen’s Land. Mick played the scene with his customary panache, although if the truth be known he was just a little in awe of such august company.
‘Sir Henry,’ Amy said, ‘I know my father would wish me to personally thank you for agreeing to speak on the society’s behalf. We so appreciate you lending the time.’
‘It is the least o
ne can do, Miss Stanford, given the good works the society undertakes.’ Sir Henry beamed about at the crowd like an amiable, be-whiskered grandparent proud of his children. ‘Excellent turn-up, what? Great pity your father isn’t here to share in the triumph. I know the tireless effort he puts into these fundraising events.’
‘Yes, he was most disappointed when business called him away to Sydney.’
‘I must say, Miss Stanford,’ Augusta Young commented, ‘how very much we are all looking forward to the special orchestra. The Viennese waltzes are quite glorious.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ William Champ said, ‘very innovative of the society to come up with the idea, an absolute coup in fact.’
‘I’m afraid the bandmaster must take all the credit for that,’ Amy said with a smile. ‘Mr Truscott has worked night and day.’
After a brief conference about the evening’s running order, during which it was agreed Geoffrey would introduce Sir Henry following the band’s current military bracket, Amy took her leave.
Mick bowed formally to Lady Young and Harriet McGregor, and nodded to each of the men. ‘Your excellency,’ he said to the Governor.
What exalted circles I’m mingling in, to be sure, he thought as Amy took his arm and they moved off on their rounds.
Surprisingly enough, there were a number of people present whom he knew, or at least recognised. Ruby Jack Clanton was there, regaling a group of men with his wild stories as they stood, glasses of ale in hand, under a conifer. Ruby Jack fitted in anywhere and everywhere it seemed. And there were various nodding acquaintances from Farrington’s Gentleman’s Club, men of questionable background, probably ex-convicts and possibly with a pedigree no better than his own, but with the money to purchase respectability. It gave a great boost to his confidence. And of course, there were the Dimbleby brothers.
‘Well blow me down, Mick, what on earth are you doing here?’
The use of his nickname did not bother Mick in the least, but Gerald’s tone was a definite insult.
‘Hello, Gerald,’ he said. ‘Hello, Charles.’
