by Judy Nunn
‘My goodness gracious, what brought all this on?’ Jefferson found himself wanting to laugh. She looked like a ferocious terrier.
‘I’m sorry.’ Doris calmed down, aware of his amusement and feeling rather foolish. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, please do forgive me.’ She smiled sheepishly. ‘I’m angry with myself really, not Michael,’ she said, gratified to see he no longer looked hurt, and thankful that her ridiculous outburst had at least proved a distraction. ‘I believe Michael cannot help who he is. That is probably his cross to bear and in a way I feel sorry for him. But I should have known better than to succumb to his charm.’
‘If your assumptions are correct, and it would appear they are, then I am indeed surprised,’ Jefferson admitted. ‘I am so easily deceived, as we both well know, but you, my dear have always been such an astute judge of character.’
She shook her head wryly. ‘Women with children are the most susceptible of all, Jefferson. Mothers are blind to any shortcomings in those whom their children choose to love.’
Jefferson laughed. ‘Then I suggest we lay the blame upon Martha and George.’
As if on cue, George swooped into the kitchen closely followed by Martha, both ready for dinner.
‘We will need to find a new manager now,’ Doris said as she stood, ‘and just when you are so busy –’ She drew breath and grasped the edge of the table to steady herself as the child in her belly kicked.
‘Is it kicking again?’ Martha froze, her little currant eyes trained upon her mother’s belly.
‘Yes,’ Doris answered.
‘May I listen?’
‘Of course you may.’
Martha climbed up onto the bench and placed her ear against her mother’s swollen stomach. She solemnly believed she could hear the child in the womb. Even when there was no movement, she swore she could hear it breathing.
Jefferson stood and both he and George placed their hands upon Doris’s belly. They all felt the baby as it kicked.
‘We will find a new manager tomorrow, my dear,’ Jefferson assured her, and Michael O’Callaghan disappeared into yesterday. ‘It has to be a boy,’ he said. ‘Kicking like this it just has to be a boy.’
*
Doris gave birth in June. They named the boy Quincy after John Quincy Adams, the man considered by Jefferson to be one of America’s greatest diplomats.
Nearly five months later, in the early days of summer, Eileen O’Callaghan gave birth to the first of her daughters. She and Mick called the little girl Mara.
It was two days after the birth of Mara O’Callaghan that Geoffrey Lyttleton committed suicide. He had been in mental torment for some time, although no-one knew why. As he left no note his family could only grieve and wonder.
AN EXTRACT FROM ‘A TIGER’S TALE’,
A WORK IN PROGRESS BY HENRY FOTHERGILL
OATLANDS, TASMANIA 1884
Mrs Violet Walcott, seamstress, had little time for the Sweeney boys. They were oafs, in her opinion. From her seat in front of the general store, she watched them gallop up High Street to the front of the inn where people were already gathering to watch. They were waving the heads of the wretched animals jammed on the ends of their wooden pikes and whooping and hollering like banshees. Violet detested tigers herself, but she didn’t think it proper to display their heads to the whole town as if they were those of murdering bushrangers. They were only dumb animals after all. Killers they may be, but they knew no better.
Arthur Sweeney followed his boys up the street in his dray and halted his weary nag in front of the inn. He was grinning from ear to ear as he pulled back the calico cover and displayed to the gathering throng the decapitated corpses of a dozen or more dead thylacines, several barely half grown.
‘I know Squire Jordan’ll pay me fine money for this here catch,’ he shouted to one and all. ‘He put up the reward notice on the front window of the bank, you all seen it, ten shillings for each tiger, and I just know he’ll honour that promise, for he’s a fine and trustworthy gentleman is the Squire.’
Violet Walcott snorted indignantly. Arthur Sweeney was a low-bred cur of a man who’d steal his mother’s funeral savings to satisfy his thirst for liquor. How dare he infer that Squire Jeremy Jordan, a good and Christian man of fine family, might not honour his offer to pay a bounty. And besides, Violet thought, Sweeney would have collected a handsome sum already. He would have sent his boys around to half the farms in the district displaying those heads on sticks. The sheep farmers were so obsessed with wiping tigers from the face of the earth that each and every one of them would have congratulated the lads and given them five shillings a piece.
‘He’s got a dozen or more of the foul creatures in that dray, Mrs Walcott,’ the Reverend Wilberforce said as he sat in the seat beside Violet’s. ‘The Squire will be most pleased. His flocks have been decimated in recent weeks. Fourteen or more lambs taken, or so I’ve heard say.’
Young Elspeth Pertwee, standing nearby, recalled how as a small child she’d played with the Latham children, whose family kept a tiger as a watchdog. She’d seen them frolic with the animal and stroke it affectionately and indeed she had patted the thing herself. The tiger had behaved no differently from the domestic house-dogs and Elspeth was not at all sure it was the vicious sheep-killer Mrs Walcott and most of the town’s people declared it to be. But she knew better than to say anything. She was apprenticed to Mrs Walcott and was lucky to have such a highly valued position.
‘It is indeed an intolerable situation, Reverend,’ Violet said. ‘The sheep farmers must unite and pressure the people in power to do something about the scourge before there are no sheep left to shear.’
‘Well,’ the Reverend leant in to murmur confidentially, ‘I’ve heard tell that might be in the wind in the not too distant future.’
‘Do tell.’ Violet Walcott loved the whispered word.
‘Mister John Lyne, a well-known and highly respected politician, is said to be lobbying even as we speak, raising support for a government bounty to be introduced on the cursed animals.’
‘He’ll be a hero around these parts if he does, Reverend,’ Violet nodded sagely, ‘for the tiger is the scourge of the farmers. If he brings about the creature’s downfall then all good to him, I say, and God bless him.’
‘Amen to that, Mrs Walcott, amen to that.’
BOOK TWO
CHAPTER TWELVE
HOBART, 1895
The second half of the nineteenth century was a turbulent period in the colonies of Australia. Economic boom and bust was the order of each decade. Men made and lost fortunes overnight, women sought equal opportunity and the right to vote, and immigrants arrived from all four corners seeking gold, freedom and the rights of man.
As a new century beckoned, the nation of Australia loomed large. A proposed constitution and amalgamation of the colonies was discussed at the Corowa Conference of 1893 held by Sir Henry Parkes, premier of New South Wales, and other notable colonists from across Australia. It marked the beginning of the march towards Federation.
The Industrial Revolution did not fail to change the smallest continent, buried though it is in the wilds of the Southern Ocean. The gramophone, the fountain pen, barbed wire, corrugated iron, the typewriter, the telephone and dynamite, the farmer’s friend, courtesy of Alfred Nobel, all reached the shores of the Antipodes.
Australians, despite periodic financial and environmental setbacks, lived comfortably on the sheep’s back and Tasmania in particular prospered. No more a penal colony Tasmania was now a sophisticated environment, its major cities leading the colonies into modernity. By 1893, Hobart, with a population in excess of fifty thousand, had established a fully electric tram service and, in 1895, Launceston introduced electric street lighting. Both were firsts for the Southern Hemisphere. But Tasmania, now known as ‘the Apple Isle’, was destined to lead the way on a far broader stage. Outstripping their inter-colonial competitors, a clique of Tasmania’s businessmen and entrepreneurs were making their mark up
on the international market. The Apple Isle was on its way to becoming the fruit bowl of Europe.
It was early spring, and the Powells were having a birthday party in the grounds of Quincy’s house overlooking the orchard. During the warmer months outdoor parties at the orchard were a favourite pastime for the brothers and their families, and had been for years. In the old days when his sons were little, George would row Emma and the boys across the river from his modest home and boat-building yard at Wattle Grove and up the Huon to Castle Forbes Bay, a distance of almost three miles. They would then walk the mile or so to the small cottage on the hill that overlooked the fledgling orchard, and there they would celebrate Christmas or New Year, or whoever’s birthday it was, with Quincy and Charlotte and their family, and then George would row back down the river.
Things were different these days. Powell Shipbuilding and Repairs, with a reputation for top-quality workmanship, was a thriving business. George no longer rowed his family up to Castle Forbes Bay. They sailed there in style aboard the Lady Margaret, a particularly pretty ketch which was kept for personal use and which Lincoln, the eldest son, had named after his wife. George, keen to father a dynasty, had promised twenty-three-year-old James that upon his marriage a vessel would be named after his wife too, but such an event appeared unlikely. James was very much a bachelor who enjoyed playing the field whenever the opportunity presented itself.
Quincy Powell and his wife Charlotte had also worked hard, their well-earned success born of sheer tenacity, and the family gatherings no longer took place at a small cottage overlooking a fledgling orchard. Charlotte Grove, as they had named their estate, had become one of the top fruit-producing properties in the Huon Valley, and where the cottage had once stood was now an elegant two-storey timber house with broad verandahs. A large upper balcony was complemented by ornate cast iron lacework and from the high, gabled roof of corrugated iron rose four chimneys for the all-important fireplaces that provided heat throughout the home during the bitter-cold winter months.
The circumstances of both families had changed dramatically over the two decades since they’d settled in the region, but one element remained constant – the parties at Quincy’s place. The surrounds were a little more spectacular, certainly, and the numbers present were greater, having burgeoned with each new arrival, but the Powell gatherings had always been a celebration of family, and today was no exception. Indeed today was a typical example of Powell solidarity, for with the Hobart contingent in attendance, the entire clan was there, including the matriarch herself, Doris.
Seventy-three-year-old Doris had travelled down from Hobart aboard the SS Emma Jane with her daughter, Martha, Martha’s husband, Simon Hawtrey, and their two almost-grown children. The journey had been no hardship for the indomitable Doris, who remained in fine physical health. She made the trip down the Derwent to the D’Entrecasteaux Channel and up the Huon River at least once a year – for Quincy’s Christmas party or for a special family occasion such as today – and she chose always to travel aboard her husband’s favourite vessel, the impressive SS Emma Jane, which did the regular run between Hobart and the Huon Valley, transporting both passengers and cargo.
Built of the finest Huon pine, the ninety-foot Emma Jane had been the first steamship commissioned by Powell Channel Transport. Jefferson Powell had converted several of his six barges to steam in the late seventies, but upon her completion in 1886, he had instantly declared the SS Emma Jane the pride of his fleet. Everyone in the family knew that Jefferson’s real pride had been in her creator, for the Emma Jane had also been the first steamer built by Powell Shipbuilding and Repairs and as such was a credit to the master shipwright who had designed her, George Brindsley Powell.
Jefferson and George had originally intended to name the vessel after the woman who had been an inspiration to them both. But Doris had flatly refused to accept the honour.
‘It is a tribute to you, my dear,’ Jefferson had urged.
‘The SS Doris May is a fine name, Mother,’ George had insisted.
‘Rubbish,’ she’d replied, ‘no ship should be called Doris. You must name her after your wife, George. Look to the future, not to the past.’ As always, Doris had had the last word, and the pride of the fleet had been named the SS Emma Jane. The solidarity of the Powells as a family had only served to strengthen their business alliance. Powell Channel Transport and Powell Shipbuilding and Repairs worked in close association – with, indeed, the orchard of Charlotte Grove as well, for it was Powell vessels that transported the crates of apples and pears to the jam factories of Hobart, and to the city wharves for shipment overseas.
Jefferson Powell had felt an inordinate sense of pride as he’d watched his sons prosper over the passing years. And as he’d watched the sons of his sons become men and take up their fathers’ mantle, he’d gained great satisfaction from the knowledge that he had founded a dynasty to be reckoned with.
Including the several infants, there were twenty gathered around the huge weathered table that George had built years before, specifically for Quincy’s outdoor parties, and either by blood or marriage seventeen of those gathered were Powells. The non-family members were the Müllers, Gustav and Heidi and their eleven-month-old daughter, Eugenia.
‘. . . Happy birthday David!’ Quincy declared.
It was baby David’s first birthday and everyone applauded boisterously as Charlotte arrived with the birthday cake, Quincy as always the loudest. Quincy had a robust tenor voice, played the piano accordion with gusto, and always led the troops when it came to a celebration. He was louder than ever today, and with just cause. The first birthday of a man’s first grandson was a momentous occasion.
The applause continued as, with great ceremony, Charlotte placed the giant cake on the table. The cake was large enough to amply feed all, with second serves for those of hearty appetite, making the one house candle that flickered in the middle particularly ludicrous, which was the intention.
Olivia Powell leant forward, her infant clutched to her breast, and as she blew out the candle a cheer went up.
Quincy winked at his daughter-in-law and started to sing. ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good fellow . . .’
They all joined in, singing at the tops of their voices while Quincy pumped away at his piano accordion.
‘Hip, hip . . .’ Then came the three cheers, by which time both babies, David and Eugenia, were crying from the sheer cacophony. Their discomfort did not halt the raucousness, however. Indeed the candle was re-lit and the whole process repeated for Eugenia’s sake.
It had been decided that as baby Jeanie would turn one in just four weeks, her first birthday would be celebrated along with David’s. The Müllers were like family to the Powells, and any family occasion called for celebration.
Finally, when the ‘hip hips’ were over and the last rousing cheer had died away, Olivia and Heidi were able to escape with their wailing infants to the grove of birch trees and the bench that overlooked the valley below.
Whether it was the reduction in noise or the distance from the crowd or simply the tranquillity of their surrounds no-one could say, but the babies quickly calmed down and within only minutes the women sat peacefully gazing out over the vast sea of blossom. It seemed the entire landscape was in flower. Below them, the main orchard was a blaze of white, while to the left stood the groves of cherry and plum trees in varying and vibrant shades of pink. Spring in the Huon was a colourful time.
Quincy Powell had only recently re-entered the berry and stone-fruit markets, the principal produce of Charlotte Grove being apples with a healthy sideline in pears. He had discovered in the early days that raspberries, strawberries, plums and cherries intended for jam production did not travel well. If the trip up the Channel proved rough, as it certainly could, the fruit was more often than not badly damaged and useless by the time it reached Hobart. But things had changed since H. Jones & Co. had built its new factory just up the road at Franklin. The fruit co
uld now be processed in the valley and transported as pulp, making berries and stone fruit a viable business.
A half-mile away to the right, beside the orchard and with access to the nearby road, were the outbuildings: the tractor shed and the barn, the stables and harness room, and the sprawling all-important packing shed, which during harvest time was a hive of activity. But most impressive of all, from up on the hill where the house stood, was the view beyond the outbuildings and beyond the road, for there just one mile away lay the broad highway of the Huon River, ambling its way down to the D’Entrecasteaux Channel. The Huon was more than a waterway of great beauty. Given the treacherous road over the hills to Hobart, the Huon was an essential means of transportation for the timber merchants and orchardists, and a lifeline for all those who lived in the region.
The two young women sat gazing out over the vista for a full five minutes before Heidi spoke.
‘I love that I sit here,’ she said in her quaint way, ‘it is such beauty.’ Heidi’s English pronunciation was excellent, but her syntax dreadful. She’d been twelve years old when her parents had emigrated from Breisach in the Black Forest region of Germany. Her father had pursued his trade as a timberman, and the family had led a remote existence. The Knopfs senior had seen little reason to educate either themselves or their daughter in any more than the basic requirements of communication, which were exercised only when they left their log cabin to visit the timber mill or to buy supplies in the township. Heidi’s English had been virtually incomprehensible until she’d met Gustav Müller, who was the foreman at the timber mill in nearby Geeveston. It had improved immeasurably during the several years of their marriage, for Gus had been born in the colony and spoke like a local; indeed, despite his German heritage Gus Müller considered himself a true Tasmanian. His wife’s linguistic idiosyncrasies had, however, become so firmly entrenched that there was little Gus could do to change them, and he didn’t want to anyway. He liked the way Heidi simply could not put words in the right order.
