Tiger Men

by Judy Nunn

  ‘Meet Rupert Stanford,’ Evelyn said with a smile.

  He dragged his eyes from the feast of his son and looked at his wife. Her hair, normally held in a tight black bun, hung freely to her shoulders. It was freshly brushed, but still damp with the perspiration of her efforts and there were deep shadows of fatigue under her eyes. Reginald thought she had never looked lovelier.

  ‘My love,’ he said, ‘my dearest love,’ and, leaning forward, he kissed her gently on the lips.

  He has not called me his dearest love since the early days of our marriage, she thought. Not since those days when he’d shared his dreams with her, his dreams of the empire he would build for his sons to inherit.

  ‘There will be other sons, Reginald.’ Evelyn gave thanks to God. Her prayers had been answered. Her husband had come back to her. ‘There will be other sons, I promise.’

  AN EXTRACT FROM ‘A TIGER’S TALE’,

  A WORK IN PROGRESS BY HENRY FOTHERGILL

  HOBART, THE SIXTEENTH OF SEPTEMBER 1887

  The Customs House Hotel on the docks was just across the road from Parliament House and therefore a favourite watering hole for parliamentarians. On this pleasant spring evening, a group of ten or more men were gathered at the bar discussing the legislation passed just the previous night when the voice of a stranger politely intruded.

  ‘Excuse me, gentlemen, but may I enquire, have you ever seen one?’

  The speaker who addressed them was an Englishman, a tall, lean man with a weathered face, sporting a top hat and cane and wearing a cravat with a large gemstone attached.

  ‘Sorry?’ A short chubby man with an iron-grey beard queried.

  ‘Pardon the intrusion,’ the stranger said, ‘but I couldn’t help overhearing your discussion about the new bill placing a government bounty on the head of the thylacine.’

  ‘Ah yes?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been asking around ever since I arrived in Tasmania and no-one I’ve yet encountered has seen one. A thylacine that is, a native tiger.’

  ‘I’ve seen one,’ the chubby man replied, ‘I’ve seen several of them actually.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In Regents Park Zoo in London.’ There was an appreciative titter from his drinking companions. The chubby man was known as a bit of a wag.

  ‘Oh yes, I’ve seen those,’ the Englishman replied, ‘there are also specimens in the Paris and Berlin Zoos, but apparently they don’t last long in captivity. I meant have you encountered one in its natural habitat.’

  ‘Dear me, no,’ the chubby fellow said, ‘you wouldn’t catch me out there in the wild. Not my cup of tea at all.’ He glanced around at his companions, all of whom nodded.

  ‘If one is to believe Mr John Lyne and the other parliamentarians pushing the resolution through so vociferously last night,’ the Englishman said, ‘these animals are responsible for the deaths of between thirty and forty thousand sheep annually. Surely that is an exaggeration, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘It does seem like an inordinate amount.’ The chubby man smiled as if at some private joke. ‘Are you sure you heard correctly?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ The Englishman nodded. ‘I was in the public gallery. Mr Lyne went on to say that these “dingoes” run whole flocks of sheep down into gullies and maim more than they kill, and that they are the greatest pests the colony has.’

  ‘John Lyne is renowned for his fertile imagination and the sometimes outrageous claims he makes from the floor of the House,’ the chubby man said, again with a humorous twinkle in his eye. ‘Why only last month he claimed there were seven hundred thousand fewer sheep in the colony than there should be, primarily because of tigers.’

  ‘That is, indeed, a lot of sheep.’

  ‘I’m of a mind to agree with you, sir. Given that the total number of sheep in the entire colony is just over a million, one might be inclined to believe Mr Lyne’s mathematical skill leaves a lot to be desired.’ The last statement caused a roar of laughter from the group. ‘Forgive me, stranger,’ the chubby man said apologetically, ‘a little “in-House” joke you might say. Please allow me to introduce my dear friend, the Honourable member for Glamorgan, Mr John Lyne.’

  An old man, eighty or more years of age stepped forwards. ‘John Lyne,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘And whom do I have the honour of addressing?’

  ‘Charles Elliot,’ the Englishman replied, shaking Lyne’s hand, ‘formerly Captain Charles Elliot of Her Majesty’s 3rd Dragoon Guards and now a special correspondent for The Times of London.’

  ‘The Times, no less!’ Lyne cocked an eyebrow. ‘So Captain Elliot, you were in the gallery and witnessed last night’s debate. Will you be reporting the resolution to our home country cousins?’

  ‘Well, the sad plight of a little animal on the far side of the world is hardly front page news, Mr Lyne, but I must say there is concern among some Fellows of the Royal Society in London regarding the fate of this particular marsupial. Several are of the opinion that its very existence is threatened.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ John Lyne said dismissively. ‘The Tasmanian dingo is the scourge of the wool industry. The entire colony is awash with the things and the parliament has agreed they must be stamped out once and for all. If you were in the public gallery last night, you surely heard the decision. Practically unanimous it was!’

  ‘Twelve ayes and eleven nos is hardly unanimous.’

  ‘I said practically unanimous,’ Lyne replied, and he guffawed at his own wit, bringing another round of laughter from his cronies.

  Charles Elliot had up until now successfully contained his anger, but in truth he couldn’t decide which he found more unforgiveable: the man’s ignorance or his arrogance. Lyne had incorrectly referred to the thylacine as a dingo last night too, in parliament of all places, and the barefaced fabrication he and others had used to sway the vote had been nothing short of disgraceful.

  ‘Mr Lyne, I feel bound to tell you that the contempt for the democratic process I witnessed last night compels me to submit a report to The Times by telegram at the earliest possible opportunity –’

  I beg your pardon!’ Lyne blustered.

  ‘Your behaviour, and that of your accomplices, made a mockery of democracy –’

  ‘Damn you, sir!’

  ‘I shall tell my editor that you are not fit to hold public office –’

  ‘Oh will you just? Well let me tell you, sir,’ Lyne trumpeted triumphantly, ‘the editor of The Times, Thomas Chenery, is a very close and dear friend of mine and –’

  ‘If that is the case, sir,’ Elliot interrupted, ‘you will be deeply saddened to learn that Mr Thomas Chenery died three years ago. My editor is Mr George Buckle.’ In the silence that followed Charles took a deep breath. ‘Now, please excuse me,’ he said to the group in general. ‘I suddenly have the desire for fresh air and a ship to carry me far away from this hateful city as quickly as possible.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Reginald did not visit Shauna for a whole fortnight after the baby’s birth, which was most unusual: as a rule he called upon her at least twice a week. Far from berating him for his neglect, however, she greeted him with the warmest congratulations.

  ‘A son and heir,’ she said as she ushered him into the Molle Street cottage, ‘oh my dearest, how wonderful.’

  Shauna had heard the news from her sister Mara. In fact she had heard the news only the day after the birth. Mara had called around with the express purpose of telling her.

  ‘Evelyn Stanford gave birth yesterday,’ Mara had announced dramatically, ‘Archie told me. Reginald has been broadcasting the news to all his business acquaintances.’

  ‘Oh.’ Shauna had indeed been surprised. ‘A little premature, but I take it all went well?’

  ‘Exceedingly well,’ Mara had said with ominous overtones.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It was a son.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So do you still think he’ll welcome your bastard child
?’

  Shauna had told Mara of her pregnancy just the previous week, swearing her to the utmost secrecy, and Mara had been horrified. Shauna’s decision to have a child was, in Mara’s opinion, quite insane and now more so than ever.

  ‘He has a legitimate son and heir, Shauna, why would he want a bastard?’

  ‘Because he loves me.’

  Mara had given a snort of derision. ‘Reginald Stanford is incapable of love,’ she’d said.

  Shauna had refused to find the remark offensive, taking the lofty stance instead. ‘You really shouldn’t pass judgement upon a subject that is beyond your comprehension, Mara,’ she’d said. ‘You have never been in love, so how could you possibly know?’

  Mara’s misgivings had, however, aroused a vague uncertainty in Shauna. It would perhaps have been preferable if Evelyn’s child had been a girl, she thought.

  ‘I am so happy for you, Reginald,’ she now said. Despite any doubts her sister may have instilled in her she was happy for him. The anger had left him: she could see it in his eyes. ‘You are content, I can tell.’

  ‘Yes, my love, I am. And it is all your doing.’ Taking her hand in both of his, he turned it over and kissed her palm, a gesture of both affection and gratitude.

  She laughed. ‘I am hardly the one who just gave birth to your son, dearest.’

  ‘I believe without you it would never have happened,’ Reginald replied in all seriousness. ‘My anger lived like a poison in that house. Without your influence and the wisdom of your advice, I doubt Evelyn would ever have given birth. She feared me. She has told me so.’

  ‘I am glad she is now able to speak openly with you.’

  ‘So is she,’ he said with a smile. ‘We are closer than we have ever been, and all because of you, my love.’

  Any uncertainty Shauna may have felt disappeared as he kissed her. Reginald’s love was palpable.

  His desire too was strong and their lovemaking passionate.

  ‘God how I’ve missed you,’ he said when they lay sated, their bodies entwined and still damp with the sweat of their exertion.

  She sat and pulled the coverlet over them. It would soon be November, but the afternoon was unseasonably chilly. Then she lay on her side facing him to deliver her news.

  ‘I am carrying your child, Reginald.’

  He turned to look at her. He made no comment and his expression was unfathomable; he seemed to be waiting for her to go on.

  ‘I’ve wanted to tell you for the past fortnight or so, but I thought it wise to wait until after Evelyn had given birth.’

  ‘You have known for some time?’ Again his reaction was unreadable. He appeared puzzled more than anything.

  ‘I have suspected, yes, but I am now quite certain.’

  ‘You seem pleased.’

  ‘I am. I long to bear your child, Reginald.’ Shauna did not expect him to embrace the idea immediately, at least not until she had given him the full assurance he was owed. ‘I will ask nothing of you. I naturally will expect no recognition of the child, and I will need no further financial support – your current generosity will amply provide –’

  He interrupted. ‘You have very cleverly avoided conception for four years, Shauna. Is this pregnancy a deliberate act on your part?’

  She recognised the accusation in his tone, but decided nonetheless to answer honestly. ‘It was not a conscious act, I promise you, but perhaps in my heart of hearts I willed it to happen. I only know that when I suspected I was pregnant I welcomed the idea. I am thirty five years old, Reginald, and had thought never to experience motherhood. The prospect of bearing your child fills me with the greatest of joy –’

  ‘You will get rid of it.’ He threw back the coverlet, rose from the bed and started dressing.

  She sat up, her face a picture of dismay. ‘You surely do not mean that.’

  ‘Of course I mean it.’ He didn’t even deign to look at her as he pulled on his trousers. ‘What else did you expect me to say? You will get rid of the child. Those are my instructions.’

  ‘But Reginald, please reconsider, I beg you. I am asking nothing of you that you do not already give –’

  He spun about to face her. ‘You are asking the world of me, you foolish woman!’ In one split second his coldness had turned to black rage. ‘Did you seriously think I would threaten my reputation and that of my family by agreeing to sire a bastard? Did you seriously think I would do such a thing?’

  ‘But no-one would know, I swear.’ She had seen his black rages on many an occasion, although never once directed at her. ‘The child would be our secret, our bond. It would be the gift that we shared with each other.

  ‘And why would I share such a gift with you, Shauna,’ he spat the words out with contempt, ‘when the discovery of such a gift could bring about my downfall? Why would I do such a thing, tell me that!’

  ‘Because you love me, that’s why!’ She hurled it at him like an accusation.

  The black rage seemed to depart as quickly as it had appeared, and he studied her for a moment or so, openly admiring her naked beauty. ‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘I do love you.’

  She felt a surge of triumph. She knew it; she had always known it.

  ‘I love the way you look,’ he said. ‘I love the way you are in bed. I love the way you walk and talk and laugh, I love everything about you.’

  If this is a declaration of love, she thought, why is it made so coldly?

  ‘But I hardly love you enough to destroy myself. I will not have my standing in society compromised simply because you have a whim to give birth.’ He put on his jacket and crossed to the door. ‘You will get rid of this child, Shauna. You will get rid of it, or I will get rid of you. The choice is yours.’

  He left, closing the door quietly behind him.

  The choice is not mine at all, Shauna thought. He had made it for her in no uncertain terms. She could not bring up a child on her own without support, or if she could she had no desire to do so. But the choice he had made for her was not based upon practicalities in any event: it was far simpler. Him or the child, he’d said.

  Four days later, at the appointed hour of seven o’clock on Saturday night, Shauna opened the door to Eliza Godfrey. Eliza Godfrey was a midwife who doubled as an abortionist for those who had the extra cash to pay. She made discreet visits to people’s homes upon request and was known to be highly efficient.

  Shauna ushered her inside and locked the door.

  The gathering at the O’Callaghan house that Sunday was a very low-key affair. It was not one of the weekends Mara had chosen to visit with her children and for some strange reason Shauna was not there. No-one knew why she hadn’t turned up, for she never missed the family baked lunch, but with only her parents and brother present she was sorely missed. Shauna was the regular buffer between Mick and Bernie and, without her calming influence, Bernie became more obstreperous, Mick more abrasive, and Eileen lost her temper with them both.

  The following morning, Eileen called around to the cottage in Molle Street to check if everything was all right.

  She knocked several times on the front door; there was no answer so just by chance she tried the handle, although she did not for one moment expect the door to open. It did. How odd, she thought. Shauna never left the front door unlocked.

  She stepped inside. The sitting room was deserted.

  ‘Shauna?’ she called. No answer.

  She walked through to the kitchen, which was also deserted.

  ‘Shauna?’ she called again. Still no answer. Eileen was puzzled. Why would Shauna go out and leave the house unlocked? Then she walked through to the bedroom.

  ‘Oh God,’ she breathed, ‘oh dear God, no.’

  Shauna might have been asleep, lying on the bed in her nightdress as she was, her eyes closed, seemingly at rest. Except that her face was stark white and the bed and the nightgown were all drenched in her blood, as was the rolled-up towel she had placed between her legs to stem the flow.

&
nbsp; Eileen had seen such a sight on a number of occasions. Many a whore in the brothels where she’d worked had taken this dangerous path.

  She crossed to the bed and looked down at her daughter, reading the tell-tale signs, adding up in her mind the sequence of events. It was quite clear the abortion had not been self-induced. Shauna had hired an abortionist, who had completed the task and left presuming all had gone satisfactorily, which would explain why the door was unlocked. But after the abortionist had left, Shauna had started to bleed. Judging by the rolled up towel between her legs she may even have considered it a normal part of the process to start with. The scenario was a simple and age-old one. And so were the questions such a lonely death raised.

  How long had it taken, Eileen wondered. Had Shauna realised she was dying? Had she been terrified, watching her life’s blood ebb from her? Or had she lapsed into unconsciousness without knowing she was bleeding to death? Eileen decided upon the latter. Not only because it was of some comfort, but because Shauna did, after all, look at peace.

  She removed the towel, now stiff and matted with her daughter’s blood, and eased the nightdress down over Shauna’s legs. This is the price you pay, my darling, for becoming a rich man’s mistress. She wasn’t sure whether or not she said the words out loud. So many women had paid the same price, and so many women would continue to pay it. How very sad it all was.

  She sat on the blood-drenched bed, ignoring the still-moist congealed pools that rested in the linen’s folds, and she smoothed her daughter’s hair back from her white, white face.

  ‘Oh, my darling girl,’ she said, ‘oh my darling, darling girl.’ Then she leant down and, gathering her daughter in her arms, she rocked her as she would a baby and wept. Eileen O’Callaghan had wept only once before in her whole life. It had been the day her father had abandoned her and she’d been thrown out of her home. On that day she’d walked through the streets of Dublin swathed in tears. She had thought she would never cry again.