Tiger Men

by Judy Nunn

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.’

  They were still holding hands; it seemed they’d forgotten to let go. He turned her to him and taking care not to frighten her he very slowly bent his face down to hers and, with the utmost tenderness, he kissed her.

  ‘We should go back now,’ he said as they parted. ‘We should go back to the others or they may worry.’

  ‘Yes, we must go back.’ Amy was amazed at her reaction. She did not feel in the least self-conscious, nor did she feel guilty. She just felt extraordinarily happy.

  The dawning of the New Year heralded the birth of a new era.

  On the first of January, 1856, Van Diemen’s Land became officially known as Tasmania. The island colony had finally been granted Responsible Self-Government with the right to elect its own representative parliament and with a new freedom and a new name came a new sense of pride. Eighteen fifty-six was a year of great importance for the citizens of Tasmania. At long last they could distance themselves from the shameful past of Van Diemen’s Land.

  There were those among them for whom 1856 was also a year of great personal significance.

  For Doris Powell, it was the year she discovered she was pregnant. Despite her prayers, she had failed to conceive for the past five years, and at the age of thirty-three she had thought her child-bearing days were over. Learning that they were not, she and Jefferson were overjoyed.

  For Amy Stanford, it was the year she discovered she was in love. She had tried very hard to be practical after the Christmas Day kiss. Michael O’Callaghan is handsome and charming, she told herself, but she must not overreact to one romantic moment. Marriage must be based on a far more solid foundation. But romance had blossomed nonetheless, and not surprisingly taken the place of common-sense.

  The year of 1856 was, however, especially significant for Silas Stanford. It was the year when, to the amazement of all who knew him, he arrived back in Hobart Town with a brand new wife.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Mathilda Lipscombe was twenty-six years old. The only daughter of Colonel Dr Cedric Lipscombe, she had known Silas Stanford since she was sixtee
n years of age, Silas and her father having become acquainted through their mutual philanthropic interests.

  Cedric Lipscombe, fondly referred to as ‘the Colonel’, was a man renowned for his charitable works. Formerly Surgeon in Charge of the British military hospital in Bombay, he had resigned his commission in 1840 and two years later had accepted an offer from the Colonial Government of New South Wales to work as senior surgeon at the Sydney Hospital. For well over a decade now, the Colonel had offered his services free of charge to those in need, particularly the children of the poor.

  Silas and Cedric had met directly through the Sydney Orphan Schools, an organisation with which Silas’s eldest daughter, Harriet, had worked a great deal since entering her order. The two men were the most unlikely of friends for they were the total antithesis of each other. Cedric was as loud and showy as Silas was quiet and reserved, but once they each recognised the true philanthropist in the other, their bond had been instant and over the years their friendship had grown unshakeable.

  Silas dined with the Lipscombes whenever he was in Sydney, always staying overnight, as they lived in Kirribilli on the northern side of the harbour and were reliant upon the private ferry service. He had become very fond of Cedric’s wife, Sarah. He had also become very fond of their young daughter Mathilda, as indeed she had of him. But until this recent trip he had not known just how fond. In fact he might well never have understood the depth of their mutual affection had it not been pointed out to him by Mathilda’s father, of all people.

  ‘Sarah and I were talking about you last night, Silas,’ the Colonel had said in his usual bombastic fashion over lunch at the Australian Club in Macquarie Street. Silas had dined at the family home just two nights previously – indeed the very day after his arrival in Sydney – and Cedric had suggested they meet for luncheon on Friday as was their custom when he was in town.

  ‘We both think you should marry again,’ he went on. ‘Young Amy’s bound to fly the nest before long and then you’ll be left all on your own.’ Cedric had met Amy on the several occasions when she’d accompanied her father to Sydney. ‘It’s not good for a man to be on his own,’ he said tucking vigorously into his roast lamb.

  ‘Yes, I dare say you’re right,’ Silas admitted, more to keep the peace than anything, ‘I probably should give the matter some thought.’

  ‘The obvious choice is right under your nose, old chap, and has been for some time.’ Upon registering his friend’s bemusement, Cedric gave a characteristically pig-like snort of laughter. ‘Mathilda! I’m talking about Mathilda, man! Good God, are you blind? The girl worships the very ground you walk on.’

  Silas flushed self-consciously and looked about the club dining room, embarrassed at the thought that others might have heard. ‘As a father figure, Cedric, as a father figure,’ he said in hushed tones. ‘Heavens above, I’m twice her age.’

  ‘You’ve just turned fifty, she’s twenty-six, you need a wife, she needs a husband,’ Cedric spelt everything out as if to a child, ‘and any fool can see you’re inordinately fond of each other. It’s the perfect set-up all round. Sarah is in absolute agreement.’ He took a swig of red wine. ‘Come to the house on Sunday and propose to the girl for God’s sake. I shan’t utter a word in the meantime, I promise,’ he said raising his glass in a salute, ‘but I’ll wager you won’t be disappointed.’

  Silas remained silent as he sipped from his water tumbler.

  Ten weeks later Silas Stanford and Mathilda Lipscombe were wed. And a week after that, in late February, Silas and his bride left Sydney bound for Hobart Town.

  Amy could barely believe the change in her father. The strain and fatigue had gone. He looked ten years younger than he had when he’d left. She was happy for him. She liked Mathilda, whom she’d met several times in Sydney. A strong-minded and capable young woman, Mathilda had trained as a nurse at Sydney Hospital and, following her own father’s example, was committed to charitable causes. She will make an excellent wife for a man like my father, Amy thought.

  Amy was only four years younger than her father’s new wife, but she felt not the slightest twinge of jealousy at the thought that her place in his affections may have been usurped. On the contrary, she blessed the arrival of Mathilda. The timing was perfect. Michael O’Callaghan had proposed.

  ‘He is a man of modest means, Father.’

  Silas found his daughter’s opening statement somewhat ominous. ‘A man of modest means’ could well be seeking to improve his circumstances through marriage.

  ‘He lives in a fisherman’s cottage at Battery Point,’ Amy continued, determined to paint the picture as honestly as possible, ‘a cottage which he does not own.’

  It is sounding worse by the minute, Silas thought. What on Earth is she thinking?

  ‘He has the cottage as part of his job – he works for Jefferson Powell. He is the manager of Jefferson’s ferry-boat service.’

  ‘Ah,’ Silas said, ‘he works for Jefferson, does he?’ Well, this puts a whole new complexion on things, he thought. Jefferson was a good man: he would not employ a rogue.

  ‘Yes.’ Amy had known that would impress. ‘Michael and the Powells are very close. He is like one of the family to them.’ She went on to tell her father about the wonderful relationship Michael had with the Powell children, and about the Christmas Day luncheon at the Powells’ and the workmen and the concertina and the carol singing . . .

  ‘I’m surprised Phyllis allowed you to attend,’ Silas said drily.

  ‘Yes, so was I,’ Amy agreed. ‘Phyllis was quite against Michael at the start, but she seems to accept him these days. In fact, the Lyttletons have made no objection at all to his courtship, which I must say I find most surprising.’

  The Lyttletons’ opinion, as Amy had correctly predicted, was of no great consequence to Silas, who considered Phyllis a rather shallow woman and her husband not much better. Geoffrey Lyttleton was one of those who, through his philanthropic works, sought to promote his business and further his personal reputation, a fact which did not in the least bother Silas so long as Lyttleton Holdings & Investment continued to offer its generous support. Indeed, he worked quite happily with Geoffrey, maintaining a friendship of sorts, but Silas did not particularly respect the man. Jefferson Powell was a different matter altogether.

  ‘I look forward to meeting your young man, Amy,’ he said.

  ‘I have told him you are a true egalitarian, Father.’

  There seemed something very meaningful in the way she made the remark, but Silas didn’t quite know what it was. ‘As indeed I believe I am, Amy.’

  ‘You will be kind, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course I will, my dear.’ He was mystified. She surely did not imagine he would stand in judgement of her suitor simply because he was a poor man. ‘Why would you presume for one minute that I would be unkind?’

  ‘Kindness is all I ask, Father,’ she repeated in the same enigmatic way. She said no more than that, and Silas was once again mystified. He remained mystified until the following day.

  ‘How do you do, sir?’

  ‘Good morning, Mr O’Callaghan.’ Silas rose and offered his hand across the desk to the young man Clara ushered into his study. So this is my daughter’s suitor, he thought. An unbelievably good-looking Irishman: how very suspect. ‘Do sit down, please.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  They sat, the desk between them, Mick feeling rather as though he were being interviewed for a position of employment.

  ‘I see a lot has been going on in my absence,’ Silas said pleasantly.

  ‘Both here and on the mainland,’ Mick replied with a smile.

  Silas did not return the smile: he did not appreciate the reference to his new wife. ‘You are employed by Jefferson Powell, I believe.’

  ‘That is correct, sir.’ Mick quickly wiped the smile from his face. He should have known charm was not the way to win Silas Stanford. Humility would far better suit. ‘I am a man of modest means –’ he started.r />
  ‘Yes, yes, so I’ve heard. Tell me all about your position, Mr O’Callaghan. Your duties, your salary, the cottage where you live. I want to hear everything.’

  Mick talked for the next fifteen minutes and Silas did not interrupt once.

  ‘A responsible position indeed,’ he said finally when the Irishman had concluded. ‘Mr Powell has placed his trust in you, I see.’

  ‘He certainly has, sir. Why, Jefferson and Doris have been like family to me.’ Mick was unable to resist the first names, which Silas found a little jarringly unnecessary.

  ‘My daughter certainly appears to be in love with you, Mr O’Callaghan.’

  ‘As I am with her, sir, I assure you.’ Mick wished like the devil that Stanford would stop calling him Mr O’Callaghan: it was making him most uncomfortable. Surely as a prospective son-in-law he should be addressed as Michael. But then Amy had warned him her father was an austere man. ‘It is only his manner, Michael,’ she’d said, ‘don’t be daunted. Stand up to him.’

  ‘I love your daughter very much, Mr Stanford,’ he said firmly. ‘I wish with all my heart to marry Amy and to prove myself everything she could want in a husband.’

  ‘That is all I need to know, Mr O’Callaghan,’ Silas said. So long as it is true, he thought. Why did he have his doubts? It was not right to judge the lad for being handsome and charming, but something didn’t seem quite right. Then he recalled his daughter’s mystifying remark. ‘You will be kind, won’t you?’ Did she have her own doubts? Did she not wish her suitor to be tested – was that what she had meant? If such was the case, Silas found he could not oblige.

  ‘I am quite happy for my daughter to marry the manager of a ferry-boat service, Mr O’Callaghan,’ he said with care, ‘and I am quite happy for her to live in a fisherman’s cottage upon the honest wage such a man would make, for I know that Amy would be happy with such a life. If this is the marriage you are offering, then you have my blessing.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ What is the man getting at? Mick wondered. He seemed to be saying yes and no at the same time.