Tiger Men

by Judy Nunn

  Mick felt the tip of the blade trace a path across his forehead.

  ‘The letter T, what do you say? T for traitor . . .’

  As the blade’s razor-sharp tip continued to play across his eyelids and over his face, Mick remained deathly still, too frightened to move.

  ‘Or maybe a T on each cheek might be better, what do you think? That way it would be clearly visible from either side,’ the stiletto was now drawing a pinprick of blood here and there, ‘and you’d be able to see it twofold every time you looked in the mirror. But then, with scars like that you probably wouldn’t look in a mirror very often, would you?’

  From her position on the floor, Eileen watched breathlessly, waiting for the moment when the blade would cut deep into Mick’s face.

  ‘But what’s the point?’ Jamie said finally, withdrawing the stiletto. ‘You’re not going to live long enough for the scars to heal and become a badge, are you? And to tell you the truth, Mick Kelly, you’re not worth the recognition of being branded a traitor. Why should we let it be known you were once accepted as one of us?’ He returned the blade to its sheath and glanced down at Eileen. ‘You’ve got a brave wife, though, I’ll give you that much,’ he said. Then he turned on his heel and left.

  Eileen picked herself up from the floor. She sat on the bed and, with the hem of her apron, dabbed at the spots of blood that bubbled from the nicks in his face. She was about to speak, but Mick got in first.

  ‘So there you have it,’ he said, trying for a touch of the old nonchalance, trying to sound as if he didn’t care in the least, ‘now you know the coward you married.’

  ‘I married a man just like any other,’ she replied in her practical fashion. ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself, Mick. You’re no demon – believe me there are far worse in this world. I’ll get a damp cloth and I’ll bring you your cup of tea.’

  She went off to the kitchen and Mick felt at that moment that he could not possibly have loved her more.

  Col made it home in the nick of time, or so it seemed to Eileen, for Mick was fading fast. He arrived in the second week of November, and he brought a surprise with him.

  ‘This is your grandson, Oscar,’ he said as with one hand he grabbed the arm of his beefy little three-year-old and hauled him up onto the bed like a sack of potatoes, ‘and this is your new granddaughter, Caitlin,’ he added, referring to the child of barely twelve months who was cradled against his chest.

  ‘Granddaughter?’ Mick cast a befuddled glance at Eileen as she rescued him from Oscar, who’d started leaping about on the bed. Had he missed something?

  ‘No, you’ve missed nothing,’ she said, reading his mind. She put the boy down and he scampered off to explore the rest of the house. ‘Col didn’t say anything about Caitie in his letter.’

  ‘I wanted to surprise you,’ Col said with the familiar grin that gladdened Mick’s heart. It had been sixteen years since he’d seen his son, but Col was the same cheeky charmer he’d always been. If anything he’s more devilishly handsome than ever, Mick thought with pride. The lad who’d left Hobart had returned a strong and impressively fit-looking man.

  He waved a frail hand at the little girl. ‘Just look at that for hair, Eileen –’ Caitie had a thatch of fiery red hair ‘– she’s Shauna all over again.’

  ‘She is that,’ Eileen agreed, marvelling at the change Col’s arrival had wrought. For the past several days Mick had been barely lucid, but now his eyes were bright and focused.

  ‘Where’s your woman?’ Mick peered about as if expecting her to jump out from wherever she was hiding. ‘Where’s Fiona?’

  ‘Back in Kal,’ Col gave a careless shrug, ‘she didn’t fancy coming to Hobart so I left her behind.’

  ‘You broke up your family to come and see me?’ Mick asked incredulously.

  ‘Well, no not exactly,’ Col admitted, catching his mother’s glance. ‘The truth is she left me, Da. The fool of a woman ran off with another man,’ he said light-heartedly, ‘can you believe that?’

  ‘But the children . . .’ Mick was confused. ‘What about the children?’

  ‘She left them too, apparently,’ Eileen said drily. She’d been confused herself when Col had told her. She hadn’t believed him at first.

  ‘No mother leaves her children like that,’ she’d said.

  ‘Not all women take to motherhood like you did, Ma. Fiona certainly didn’t; she was just after a good time.’

  ‘But to run off with another man and desert your children, it’s not natural.’

  ‘It is when the other man’s struck gold. She’ll be living the high life now. If I’d had a strike like Bobbo, she’d still be with me.’ Col’s bitterness was obvious, but its direction was unclear. He didn’t know who he hated most, Fiona for leaving him or Bobbo for striking it lucky. ‘That’s life on the goldfields for you, Ma.’

  ‘Col’s better off without her, Mick,’ Eileen now said, taking the little girl from her son, ‘and so are the children. They’ll have a far better home right here with me.’ She cradled Caitie in her arms, the child gurgling happily. As far as Eileen was concerned Fiona had ceased to exist.

  Over the next several days, Col’s presence seemed to breathe new life into Mick. They all commented on it, Mara and her children who regularly visited and also Kathleen who’d made another trip down from Launceston, this time on her own.

  ‘It’s a miracle, Col,’ Kathleen said. ‘I’d thought I wouldn’t see him again after the last trip.’ Kathleen had brought her three children down just the previous month in order that they might say goodbye to their grandfather. ‘You’re certainly doing him the world of good.’

  On the eighteenth of November, barely a week after his arrival, Col planned a special treat for his father. A big night was in store for Hobart and, determined that Mick would be a part of it, he went out to Dimbleby’s Emporium that very morning and purchased a wicker wheelchair.

  It was lunchtime when he returned. Eileen was sitting at the kitchen table feeding Caitie and trying to control an unruly Oscar.

  ‘What are you thinking of?’ she said when he wheeled the chair in and announced his plan. ‘Are you mad? You can’t charge your father around the streets in that thing: you’ll kill him.’

  ‘But he has to be a part of it, Ma, he has to see it for himself. You can’t deprive him of the experience of a lifetime, that’s not fair.’

  ‘Experience of a lifetime,’ Eileen gave a humourless laugh, ‘the death of him more like.’

  ‘The man surely has the right to decide for himself,’ Col said rebelliously. ‘You might at least let me ask him.’

  ‘Very well, ask him,’ Eileen said, thin-lipped. ‘The decision is his, but it’s a lunatic idea and I shall tell him so. Put that down, Oscar.’ She smacked the little boy’s hand as he picked a knife up from the table, then she went back to feeding Caitie.

  Col sat on the edge of the bed and held Mick’s hand, as he often did when they talked. Mick took unashamed pleasure in the touch of his son.

  ‘How’d you like to see the electric street lights come on, Da?’

  ‘Oh, that’d be something now, wouldn’t it? Yes, that’d be something indeed.’

  ‘It’s happening tonight, you know.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The electric street lights. They’re coming on tonight.’

  ‘Are they really?’ Mick was hazy about what was happening these days. Someone had said something, but he’d forgotten what it was and who’d said it. He racked his brains trying to remember. Then it came to him. ‘Kathleen told me we’ve had electric street lights for years,’ he said, puzzled, ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘No, no, she was talking about Launceston, they’re three years ahead of us.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Mick nodded; he was having trouble keeping up.

  ‘Hobart’s turning on its electric street lights tonight, Da. They’re turning them on for the very first time.’

  ‘Well, well, that’ll be an exciting eve
nt, won’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it’ll be a very exciting event, and it’s one you’re going to see . . .’ Col sprinted from the room and Mick was left gazing at the open doorway, bewildered by his son’s abrupt departure. ‘. . . And you won’t be seeing it through a window, what’s more,’ Col said as he re-appeared with the wheelchair. ‘You’re going out tonight. You and me and half of Hobart I’ll bet. We’re going out to watch the electric lights come on.’

  Mick looked at the wheelchair with trepidation. He hadn’t been outside the house for the past three months. Dear God, he hadn’t even been outside the bedroom for weeks. Getting himself to the sitting room, where he’d liked to watch the world through the front window, was too painful an exercise these days.

  ‘Don’t be afraid, Da, I’ll look after you. This’ll be something to remember,’ Col urged; he was brimming over with enthusiasm. ‘This’ll be a once in a lifetime experience.’

  How can I possibly refuse? Mick thought. He would do it for Col, he decided. He’d do it for Col even if it killed him, which it very well might.

  ‘In that case I shall need to be suitably dressed,’ he said.

  Eileen, after voicing her strong disapproval, realised protestation was useless and decided to make it a family outing. They would all go, she said. They would take the children with them and watch the lights together.

  She helped Mick to bathe, holding the bowl and wringing out the flannel for him as she always did. She was allowed to bathe his feet, but he insisted upon washing the parts of himself he could reach, which principally meant his genitals. She chided him for it often.

  ‘A little late in the day for modesty,’ she’d say, ‘I’ve bathed you often enough in the past. You’re becoming very prudish in your old age, Mick.’

  When he was washed and in his underwear she called Col in and they sat him on the edge of the bed and dressed him. They worked as slowly and gently as they could. Any amount of movement was tiring and often painful.

  Mick had insisted upon formal wear. His striped trousers, he said, a high starched collar and tie, his dovegrey waistcoat, black frock coat, spats and, of course, his top hat. It took them twenty minutes to dress him and when they’d finished, his emaciated frame swam in the fine clothes. Even the top hat seemed too big.

  ‘You look very grand, Da,’ Col said.

  Mick had made no complaint throughout the exercise, but Eileen could tell that he was exhausted. ‘You don’t have to do this, you know,’ she said tartly.

  ‘Of course I do. I must.’ He tried to sound forceful. ‘I want to, Eileen.’

  ‘If you must you must, I suppose,’ she said with a shrug, ‘but lie down for now.’ She took off his top hat. ‘We won’t be leaving for at least half an hour. I have to get the children ready yet.’

  He lay back, allowing her to lift his feet up onto the bed. Within only minutes he’d dozed off.

  When they returned with the children, he appeared to be sound asleep.

  Col was about to wake him.

  ‘Don’t, son,’ Eileen said, and she shushed Oscar, whose hand she was holding. ‘Don’t wake him, leave him be. Even being dressed tired him out, you can see that . . .’

  But Mick’s sleep was no more than a light doze and the sound of her voice awakened him. He opened his eyes. ‘Are we ready now?’ He smiled at the sight of his family gathered before him. ‘Let’s be on our way then. I’m raring to go.’

  They sat him up and put on his shoes and spats.

  Mick doffed his top hat and held his hands out to his son for assistance, but as Col helped him stand his knees gave way and he sank back onto the bed.

  ‘Hold on to your topper, Da,’ Col said. Scooping his father up effortlessly in his arms he placed him with great care into the wheelchair.

  Eileen winced at the sight. Col had been as gentle as possible, but the suddenness of the action would have caused Mick considerable pain. To his credit he’d bravely hidden it and she admired his stoicism. She took the bottle of laudanum from the top drawer of the dresser and slipped it into the inner pocket of his frock coat.

  ‘You’ll need this,’ she said.

  Mick smiled gratefully. He would try and avoid the laudanum if possible, he wanted to keep his wits about him, but he was comforted by the knowledge that it was there.

  The afternoon was starting to fade as they left the house. When dusk set in it would do so quickly, it always did in Hobart, but there was still nearly an hour before the street lights were scheduled to come on.

  They set off along Hampden Road, Eileen carrying Caitie, and Oscar perched on Col’s shoulders in his customary manner, strong little legs wrapped around his father’s neck and fistfuls of thick black hair grasped firmly in his hands. Col always travelled hatless for the express purpose of accommodating Oscar. Ahead of them was Mick in the wheelchair all dressed up to the nines, Col doing his best to steer him clear of the bumps.

  ‘You’re leading the way, Da,’ Col announced as they headed for the city.

  Col had mapped out the route they would take that morning. They would not cut through the back streets and the wharf area as he would normally have done. The wheelchair would travel more smoothly if they stuck to the wider main roads, he’d decided.

  They were not the only ones making their way towards the central city blocks where the lighting would be at its most impressive. By the time they reached Davey Street they met up with dozens heading into the centre of town; and when they turned into Murray Street there were dozens more. Minutes later, upon reaching the corner of Macquarie Street, they looked down the broad avenue to discover the pavements on either side crowded with spectators, all waiting for the magical moment.

  Holding Oscar in place on his shoulders, Col leant down to Mick. ‘Like I said, Da, you and me and half of Hobart,’ he raised his voice above the general hubbub, ‘I told you this’d be something to remember.’

  ‘You did indeed, and so it is.’ Mick looked about, overwhelmed by the sight of the crowd and the sense of expectation that was palpable. He’d found the journey jarringly painful despite the care Col had taken, and he’d surreptitiously downed a hefty swig of laudanum, which had now taken effect. He’d presumed no-one had noticed him attack the laudanum bottle, but of course someone had.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Eileen asked. Having carried Caitie all the while, she was weary herself, and it would be a harder walk back, for much of it was uphill, but her main concern was for Mick.

  ‘I certainly am, girl.’ The laudanum had not only dulled the pain, it had heightened in Mick a dreamlike sense of unreality. Was this really happening? Was he really out of his little bedroom and here with these hundreds of people? He found it difficult to believe. He smiled up at his wife, his eyes bright with excitement. ‘This is something to remember all right, Eileen – you can feel it in the very air.’

  Col decided they might as well stay where they were. The other major streets would no doubt be just as crowded, and they’d walked far enough.

  ‘Make way, make way.’ Ignoring the odd disgruntled mutter, he manoeuvred the wheelchair through the onlookers to the edge of the pavement, positioning it where Mick could have a full view down Macquarie Street. He secured the chair’s brake. ‘Come on, Ma, take a seat,’ he said, patting the arm of the wheelchair, ‘make yourself comfortable.’

  Eileen sat thankfully, bouncing Caitie on her knee. The little girl, far from being sleepy, was taking an avid interest in her surrounds.

  Squatting beside his father, Col leant an elbow on the other arm of the wheelchair. Oscar, still perched on his shoulders, was gazing about as spellbound by the crowd as Mick was. Never in his short life had he seen so many people.

  ‘Not long to go now, Da,’ Col said.

  The family watched and waited in silence.

  As the afternoon light faded and the first shadows of dusk started to creep in, the crowd too grew silent. The babble of voices gradually faded and all the way down the street eyes looked up expectantly a
t the brand new lights overhead. The seconds ticked steadily by. And then . . .

  ‘Ten . . .’

  Three men standing nearby started the countdown. They were three very smartly dressed young businessmen and their eyes were not trained on the street lights, but rather on the fob watches they held in their hands. One of them was a Lyttleton – Nigel’s son, Walter. It was a Friday and twenty-two-year-old Walter and his friends had left work early to witness this very moment.

  ‘Nine . . . Eight . . .’

  With no idea whether or not the countdown was correct, others about them took up the chant.

  ‘Seven . . . Six . . .’ Col and Mick and Eileen joined in too, and then the whole crowd was chanting.

  ‘Five . . . Four . . .’

  It seemed all of Macquarie Street was giving voice, and perhaps it was the same in Elizabeth Street and Collins Street – perhaps the whole of Hobart was counting down the seconds.

  ‘Three . . . Two . . .’

  Then the moment they’d been waiting for. Who could possibly have doubted Walter? He was a Lyttleton after all, and meticulous to the letter. He and his friends’ fob watches were perfectly synchronised, both with each other and with Greenwich Mean Time.

  ‘One . . .’ the crowd chanted. And a second later the lights came on. They came on just like that, a startling sea of light. In an instant, the street was illuminated, and not by the gentle glow of gas lamps, but by lights far fiercer, far brighter, lights that cut through the gloom of approaching dusk with an edge not seen before. The crowd burst into applause.

  To Mick, already in a state of drug-induced unreality, it seemed incredible. He gazed about, awestruck.

  ‘Dear Mother of God,’ he murmured, shaking his head in wonderment, ‘who’d have thought it possible? You wouldn’t believe it if you hadn’t seen it with your own eyes now, would you?’

  ‘I was right, wasn’t I, Da?’ Col grinned, thrilled that his plan had proved such a success. ‘This is a once in a lifetime experience.’

  ‘It is indeed, son. Oh yes, indeed it is. We’re witnessing the birth of a new age, there’s no doubt about that.’ He turned to his wife. ‘And just to think, Eileen, I lived to see it.’