by Judy Nunn
‘However, I will make no outlay upon the marriage. There will be no dowry. No property or large sums of money will change hands, as you may have expected –’
‘Oh I assure you, sir, I had not –’ Mick was still unsure where it was all leading, but he knew he should object to the inference.
Silas ignored the interruption. ‘I would not deprive Amy of her inheritance, certainly,’ he continued. ‘She will be a wealthy woman upon my death, but that I’m afraid may be a long time coming.’ His smile was pleasant and his tone most reasonable. ‘As I am sure you will understand, Mr O’Callaghan, having a new wife gives a man new blood,’ he said. ‘I intend to live until a very ripe old age, and I also intend, God willing, to have a son. Should such an event occur who knows how it might affect Amy’s inheritance?’ Silas paused, allowing time for an objection.
Things were not going at all as Mick had hoped. What should I do? he wondered. The man is intimating in no uncertain terms that I am a fortune-seeker. Should I protest my innocence, and demand to marry Amy regardless? Silas Stanford was bluffing, surely. He wouldn’t allow his daughter to live in a fisherman’s cottage. Or would he? Mick was at a loss.
‘I have an alternative offer which may be of interest to you.’ There was an icy edge to Silas’s voice now. The lad had proved himself with his silence. ‘An offer which would grant more immediate gratification than a lifetime spent waiting for my death.’
Again Mick said nothing. There was nothing he could say. He was utterly exposed and he knew it.
‘Cease all pursuit of my daughter, never call upon her again, and I will lodge one thousand pounds in an account in your name with the English, Scottish & Australian Bank. Do you accept?’
Mick stared down at the adornment on the rug at his feet. It was a fine rug with an unusual pattern. ‘Yes,’ he said after a moment’s pause, ‘I accept.’ He looked up and met the contempt in Silas Stanford’s eyes. ‘Please believe me, Mr Stanford, I am fond of your daughter,’ he protested, ‘I am deeply, deeply fond of Amy.’ I am, he thought, I love Amy in my own way, and I would have made her a good husband. ‘I swear to you on my mother’s grave –’
‘Good day, Mr O’Callaghan.’
Amy kept her tears to herself. She would forgive her father one day, she knew it, but for now she blamed Silas for the pain she felt. She had secretly dreaded the thought that he might put temptation Michael’s way, for she had just as secretly suspected Michael might succumb.
‘I meant be kind to me, Father,’ she said coldly when he gave her the news. ‘Perhaps I did not wish to know he was after my money.’
‘I realise that, Amy, but in the long run it is kinder to be cruel, as they say. I could not have the man take such advantage of you.’
‘Perhaps I would rather have lived with my delusions,’ she said and she left before he could see the tears forming.
That night, as he lay with his young wife asleep in his arms, Silas refused to feel guilty, but his heart ached for his daughter.
Mick did not dwell upon his disappointment. The initial flush of shame he’d experienced quickly vanished and he convinced himself that it was he who had been wronged. What a pity Silas Stanford had misread my potential as a husband, he thought. He would have worked hard to make Amy happy. They would have had a family like the Powells, a fine serious-minded son like George and a dimple-faced daughter like Martha, and he would have been the best of fathers and the most caring of husbands. He and Amy would have had a good life together had Silas Stanford not deprived them of the opportunity.
It was clearly not to be, however, so he set about devising another plan.
The following week was a busy one for Mick. He visited his lawyers and the ES & A Bank, and on the Friday, assured that all was in order, he called into Lyttleton Holdings & Investment.
‘Good morning, Frederick,’ he said as the bell tinkled behind him.
‘Mr O’Callaghan.’ Frederick flushed with pleasure at the recognition afforded him and scuttled off to inform Mr Lyttleton that his friend was at the front desk. Two minutes later Mick was ushered into Geoffrey’s realm.
‘Sit down, Mr O’Callaghan, do.’
As the clerk left, closing the door behind him, Geoffrey gestured to the rosewood carver, but he did not bother rising from his throne behind the desk. He would play the game, certainly, given the power the scoundrel had over him, but playing the game did not require any particular show of respect.
‘I’ve heard your plan did not come to fruition,’ he said, trying to sound in some way sympathetic. ‘I was supportive of your cause as we agreed, but Mr Stanford was apparently not happy with the match.’ Under normal circumstances Geoffrey Lyttleton would have gloated. ‘Did you really believe trash like you would be accepted into one of the most respected families in Hobart Town?’ he would have crowed. But Geoffrey was far too concerned about his own predicament to revel in Mick’s defeat. He was inwardly cursing Silas Stanford. If only the old goat had accepted this handsome young stud as the perfect husband for his plain daughter then everyone would have been happy. God Almighty, now that O’Callaghan’s plans had gone awry there’d be no end to the blackmail demands.
‘Yes, I was disappointed in Mr Stanford’s reaction,’ Mick said, ‘which means, unfortunately, there is a change in plans.’
‘I suspected there might be.’ All Geoffrey could think of was the pistol in the top drawer and how he’d so love to blow the bastard’s brains out. ‘So I’m now to become your alternative source of income I take it?’
‘Actually, no,’ Mick said. ‘There is only one demand I wish to make, after which I shall disappear from your life, I swear. Blackmail is a dirty business and not my game.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ The Irishman was genuine. Geoffrey felt a rush of relief. One lump payment and it appeared he’d be able to put this whole sordid episode behind him. ‘And what is your demand?’
‘You are to sign the house in Hampden Road over to Red, deeds and all, so she owns it outright. Her name is Eileen Hilditch, by the way.’ Mick took an envelope from the inside pocket of his coat. ‘Her details are there, along with my name and the safe deposit box number at the ES & A Bank where you will lodge the paperwork, which I will collect next week. After that, I can promise you, you’ll never hear from me again.’
Geoffrey Lyttleton’s face drained of colour as the realisation struck home. ‘You are her lover,’ he said.
‘That’s right.’
‘For how long?’ Geoffrey was shattered. Why did the possibility not once occur to me? he wondered. He’d been so thoroughly convinced the Irishman had his sights set on Amy, so why should it? How dare the scum? Red was his personal property. The men who had her at Trafalgar were nothing – they rented her body for an hour at most. There was one man and one man only who owned the woman herself, and he was that man, not this piece of Irish trash. He was physically sickened by the thought that Red had given herself to O’Callaghan.
‘How long have you been her lover?’ he demanded. I’ll kill the bastard, he thought. I’ll kill them both. Better still, he’d have them both killed. He’d have the house burnt down before he’d sign it over to the bitch. She was his and she had betrayed him.
‘That is of no consequence,’ Mick replied. Lyttleton’s face was murderous and his rage palpable, but Mick had expected as much. Eileen had told him her benefactor was fiercely possessive. ‘There is another condition, which I’m sure I barely need mention,’ he continued. ‘You will never again call upon Red. As of this moment she will cease to be a part of your life.’
Mick knew he was treading on dangerous ground, but he’d come prepared. He took three more envelopes from his pocket and placed them side by side on the table facing Geoffrey, the addresses clearly visible.
‘Just a little reminder of our arrangement,’ he said. ‘Inside each of these envelopes is a letter: as you can see, one to your wife, one to the society and one to The Mercury. You will note upon reading them that they a
re written on carbonated paper, the originals having been lodged with my lawyers, Hadley & Edgerton. I have included a copy of my instructions, and you will also note the addition of Eileen Hilditch’s name. Should an untoward accident befall either Red or myself or indeed both of us, the letters will be posted, you can rest assured of that. I suggest after reading them you destroy these copies,’ he added drily, ‘the fewer around the better, wouldn’t you say?’
He stood. ‘I think our business is concluded. I shall expect the deeds to be deposited with the bank at your earliest convenience next week. I presume that suits?’ He paused briefly for a response, but there was none as Geoffrey stared up at him in impotent silence. ‘Excellent. Good day to you then.’
He was halfway to the door when he was halted by the words Geoffrey Lyttleton could not help blurting out.
‘Does she love you?’
‘Oh yes.’ Mick smiled, knowing this would be the greatest insult of all. ‘She loves me all right.’ Then he twisted the knife further with a lie. ‘In fact she goes wild when she’s with me, Geoffrey. Red loves me with a passion you would not believe.’ He paused long enough to relish the reaction and he was not disappointed. Geoffrey Lyttleton’s anger had turned to anguish. Mick closed the door behind him and left the man with the images that were destined to torment him forever.
Exactly one week later, in the mid-afternoon when he knew she’d be home, Mick turned the corner from Runnymede Street into Hampden Road and strode boldly up to Eileen’s front door. There’ll be no skulking down the track to the back door today, he thought as he rapped loudly with the brass knocker.
‘Good God, Mick, what are you about?’ she whispered when she opened the door to discover him standing there, a bulky envelope clutched to his chest.
‘I’m calling upon you, Eileen, that’s what I’m about.’
She looked up and down the street. There were several passers-by, none taking any notice of the white weatherboard house, but most importantly there was no familiar figure in sight. There hadn’t been for a full week now, and she was mystified. She was also nervous. With the exception of last week, Geoffrey had always visited on a Friday afternoon. There could be a tap at the back door any second, or he could come into view even as they were standing there on the front porch.
‘He won’t be calling on you any more, Eileen,’ Mick said. ‘You might as well ask me in.’
She was startled, but said nothing, standing meekly to one side as he entered. It was only when she’d closed the door behind him that she allowed her anxiety to show.
‘What have you done, Mick? Dear God in Heaven, what have you done?’
‘I’ve taken care of you just like I said I would,’ he announced. ‘I’ve bought you a house. Or rather Geoffrey Lyttleton has.’
She blanched at the mention of the name. ‘You’ve exposed him?’ Her voice held an element of panic.
‘No, only threatened to, and here is the result.’ He opened the bulky envelope and spilt its contents onto the sitting-room table. ‘You own this house, Eileen. This property is now yours and yours alone.’
She looked down at the papers and then back to him, her expression a mixture of fear and disbelief.
‘There’s no need to be afraid,’ he assured her. ‘Lyttleton will not dare seek retribution. Now get me a cup of tea, there’s a good girl, and I’ll tell you all that’s happened.’
He gathered up the papers and they went into the kitchen where she stoked the stove’s fire and, while they waited for the kettle to boil, he told her about the letters that he’d left with his lawyers. Then they sat at the table and examined the deeds to the house, Mick painstakingly reading every word out loud to her, for Eileen could neither read nor write. Throughout her childhood she had worked as a washerwoman with her mother and older sisters and had never been to school.
‘It’s mine,’ she said when he’d finished and the truth had finally sunk in. She looked around at the walls and up at the ceiling and down at the floor. ‘This is my house.’
‘It certainly is, every stick and stone of it.’
She stood and walked about the kitchen, running her hands over the plastered walls. ‘No-one in my family has ever owned a house.’
‘No-one in my family has either,’ he said. ‘You’ve moved up in the world, girl.’
She turned to him with the sauciest of smiles. ‘Well, I suppose as you’ve given me a house I can’t be too angry that you’ve cost me a rich benefactor now, can I?’
‘I have something that might make up for that.’ He stood and, taking a folded sheet of paper from the inner pocket of his jacket, he handed it to her.
She unfolded the paper and saw numbers. Eileen understood numbers. ‘This is money,’ she said. ‘This is a lot of money.’
‘It’s a bank statement,’ he explained. ‘I have one thousand pounds in an account, Silas Stanford’s pay-off for not marrying his daughter. I can buy you things, Eileen.’
She studied him calculatingly with her fox eyes. In blackmailing Geoffrey why had he insisted the house be signed over to her – why had he not demanded the property for himself? And now he was prepared to squander his newfound wealth on her. Why? There could be only one reason of course . . . but he’d got it all wrong.
She laughed. ‘If you’re offering yourself as my new benefactor, Mick, don’t you think it’s rather silly to give me my own house? I’d be far more in your power if you’d kept the place for yourself. A tenant always fears eviction.’
It was beyond Eileen’s comprehension that he might have acquired the house for her because he loved her, but then Mick himself hadn’t realised that either. He’d thought that he’d simply been out to impress her and that he’d acted upon the impulse of the moment. He suddenly knew better.
‘I’m not offering myself as your benefactor,’ he said.
‘Oh really?’ Her eyes told him she didn’t believe him.
‘No. I’m offering myself as your husband.’
The words took them both by surprise. Mick hadn’t planned to propose, but it was true he had been thinking about marriage quite a bit lately. He’d been thinking of Doris and Jefferson and their children, and he’d been thinking of the companionship and the family he might have had if he’d married Amy, and now it struck him that he wanted all these things, but he wanted them all with Eileen.
‘Marry me, Eileen,’ he said eagerly. ‘Stop working at Trafalgar and marry me. We’ll live here in this house – you love this house – and we’ll have a family. I have money now, I’ll look after you –’
‘Oh for Heaven’s sake, Mick.’ She tried to sound flippant, ‘One thousand pounds won’t last forever.’ She was desperately trying to buy time. This wasn’t the life she’d planned. But then what was? And how long before her beauty faded and men no longer wanted her – what then? Besides, she liked Mick. She liked Mick more than any man she’d ever known, with the possible exception of her father, who’d so gently initiated her into the world of sex at the age of ten. She would have done anything to please her father, but he’d let her down badly when her mother had kicked her out of the house at fifteen for leading him on. He’d said not one word in her defence.
‘We’ll worry about money when the thousand’s gone,’ Mick urged, sensing her weaken. ‘For now, we’re on easy street. Say yes, Eileen.’ He flashed his most endearing grin. ‘Come along, girl, you know you want to.’
As she looked at him she thought what a peacock of a man he was, a handsome rogue from the wrong side of the tracks, a male version of herself. We’re meant for each other, she thought, and when all was said and done, he is my best friend. No, she told herself wryly, he’s my only friend.
‘You don’t really want a cup of tea, do you?’ she said. On the wood stove the kettle was boiling away furiously. She took it off the plate. ‘Let’s go to bed.’
Their coupling was sensual, as it always was, the sharing of mutual pleasure, but as Mick approached his climax things took a different turn. This ti
me she did not pull away, nor did she allow him to withdraw. She held him inside her. He tried desperately to slow down, hoping even in his final moments that she might achieve her ultimate release, but she sought only his fulfilment not her own.
He held her close afterwards, moved by the fact that she had so placed her trust in him. Her response had hardly been the grand passion he’d lied about to Geoffrey Lyttleton, but Mick recognised it as a definite answer to his proposal. More than an answer, it was as much a declaration of love as Eileen ‘Red’ Hilditch was capable of making.
*
Ma Tebbutt was dying. She’d been dying for some time and had accepted the fact with great equanimity. For several months now, barely able to walk, she had insisted upon being helped from her bed into her sitting room and placed in her armchair. The exercise was a painful one, but she refused all persuasion to remain in the comfort of her bed.
‘You never know which day you’re going to die,’ she said. ‘It’s best to be prepared.’
In the final weeks, sensing the end was close, she had embraced religion, or at least she’d made the pretence of doing so. The local parish priest whom she’d ignored for years visited on a daily basis to say prayers and offer comfort. However she admitted to Mick, who popped in to see her several afternoons a week, that her conversion was more a safety measure than anything.
‘Best to cover all bets, isn’t it?’ she said as they shared a tot of rum. ‘Just in case there really is a Heaven and Hell. At least I don’t have to confess all my sins like your mob. Better to keep some things to yourself, I say.’
‘The good you’ve done would outweigh the bad, Ma,’ he assured her, ‘I’d bet my last shilling on that.’
Ma had also called in her lawyer. Always meticulous when it came to business, she had set her affairs in order well before her demise, although she told no-one of her plans until the very end. When she finally did unveil them it was not unsurprisingly to Mick, and only two days before her death.
‘I’ll be gone in the next day or so,’ she said.
