A Tattooed Heart

by Deborah Challinor

  ‘Why does it annoy you?’ she asked, knowing it’d be far wiser to leave the matter alone but she just had to pick away at it. And she already knew the answer; what annoyed Aria would be what annoyed Sarah and Harrie and everyone else she cared about.

  ‘Because it makes you behave unpleasantly. You are rude and aggressive and unreliable.’

  ‘And you know this after us only being together a couple of weeks?’

  ‘That is right.’

  ‘But I’m like that when I’m sober. And you’re rude and aggressive, too.’

  ‘You are rude, loud, funny and delightful when you are sober. And we are not talking about me, we are talking about you.’

  ‘Are you telling me to stop drinking?’

  ‘I am telling you that you should go inside and apologise.’

  ‘Why?’ Friday asked, then winced. She sounded like Hannah.

  ‘Because what you said and did was undignified. You are more worthy than that.’

  ‘I’m not.’ A silence descended. Without taking her gaze from Aria’s, Friday took a deliberate swig from the bottle, hiccupped and let out a meaty burp. Then she sighed, knocked the ash out of her pipe and stood. ‘All right then, I will, if it’ll make you happy.’

  While Friday had been outside, Lawrence and Eloise Chandler had gone home, but not before Lawrence had recommended to Lucy a reputable women’s boarding house on Castlereagh Street, and Eloise had promised to speak to a friend who ran a school for privileged and talented girls.

  ‘Talented in what way, Mrs Chandler?’ Lucy had asked.

  ‘Do you know, dear, I’m not sure, but I believe they do more than the usual needlework and painting and how to plan a dinner party for thirty. In fact, I believe they actually learn Latin. Or is it French? And read the Classics. My friend Mrs Armitage has very modern ideas. But nothing too intellectually strenuous, I’m sure. It would be wasted on girls.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Eloise patted Lucy’s arm. ‘But I’ll certainly talk to her. She may have need of an extra tutor.’

  Nora, George and their children were also leaving, baby Lewis asleep and draped over Abigail’s shoulder. Hannah was looking bilious, having eaten nine pastries, but she quite cordially — for her — accepted Anna’s invitation to visit in a couple of days, though she was unable to resist saying, ‘Though I come here all the time, to see Harrie,’ earning a yank on her plait from Nora.

  Friday waited until they’d gone before she approached Lucy and Matthew. ‘Look, Lucy, sorry about what I said. I was just joking. Matthew’s really not like that. Sorry, Matthew.’

  ‘No need to apologise to me,’ Matthew muttered. ‘I’m used to it.’

  Lucy smiled. ‘Thank you, Friday. Now, perhaps we can start again?’

  She offered a hand; Friday took it and they shook. James and Harrie exchanged happy glances. Friday taking against Lucy would have spoilt things considerably.

  Harrie nudged Sarah and whispered, ‘We’ve got plans for Matthew and Lucy.’

  ‘Have you now?’

  Then Lucy gave a jaw-cracking yawn, which she barely covered with her hand. ‘Oh dear, pardon me. It’s been a lovely and, er, quite eventful party, but I’m absolutely exhausted. Does anyone mind if I retire?’

  ‘Actually, I think it’s bedtime for quite a few people,’ Harrie said, looking pointedly at Anna, who was nodding off on the sofa.

  Once Sophie, Anna and Robbie had been sent upstairs — Robbie grumbling all the way — and James had been dispatched to read Charlotte a bedtime story, that left in the parlour only those who knew about Walter’s predicament.

  ‘Well,’ Sarah said to Leo, ‘have you had the other half of your idea yet?’

  ‘Not quite,’ Leo said, scratching his head.

  ‘You do realise the first place she’ll look for him will be at your house?’

  Walter sat bleak-faced with Clifford on his lap. Leo settled a hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t talk about the lad as if he’s not here. And, aye, I do realise that. Of course I do.’

  ‘Well, he’ll have to go somewhere else, won’t he?’ Friday said. She, Sarah and Harrie looked at one another. ‘But not with us. Sorry, Walter. Bella knows you’re mixed up with us. She’ll know where to look.’

  Serafina said, ‘He could come and —’

  ‘No, he couldn’t,’ Leo interrupted sharply. ‘I’m not having you dragged into this. It was bad enough with bloody Jonah Leary.’

  ‘Mrs H’s cellar again?’ Friday suggested.

  ‘Not ideal,’ Leo said.

  ‘There’s room in my quarters at the Vincents’,’ Matthew said.

  ‘But that’s on Princes Street,’ Friday protested, ‘just along from Bella’s brothel.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean she knows I live there. Why would she? I’m in the annex now above the carriage house. It’s private and there’s a day bed. You could stay with me for a week or two, Walter, until we work out something better. How would that suit you? You’d have to be very quiet, though. I’m fairly sure Mrs Vincent wouldn’t be too happy about having an extra lodger.’

  Walter shrugged.

  ‘You could show a bit of gratitude, lad,’ Leo said.

  ‘I wanted to stay at your house.’ Walter stroked Clifford. ‘And what about her? Can she come?’

  Leo said, ‘You can’t stay with me, not until things have been sorted out. And no, you can’t take the dog.’

  ‘Not going, then.’

  ‘You are,’ Leo declared flatly. ‘Thank you, Matthew. That’s a very kind offer. I’ll pay for the lad’s food, of course, and any other costs.’

  It was a good thing that Walter did have somewhere else to go, because when he and Leo returned home that night they discovered that the lock on the door had been forced open. Nothing was missing, but someone had definitely been inside, poking about. So Walter packed his bits and pieces into his sea bag, said a tearful goodbye to Clifford and went with Leo to Princes Street to be smuggled into Matthew’s quarters.

  Chapter Seven

  Matthew sat down to breakfast at the Vincents’ dining table, surreptitiously examining their faces — as he did every morning — for signs that they were aware something was amiss. Walter had been hidden in his quarters for the past week with strict instructions to stay inside, be quiet, and keep away from the windows. It was a tall order for a boy accustomed to being outside and doing as he pleased, and Matthew knew Walter wasn’t at all happy, but so far they appeared to be getting away with it.

  However, Jonathan Vincent seemed his usual pleasant, imperturbable self, and his wife Madeline was busy cheerfully ordering about the four children, all under the age of ten, as she always did. She was a decent woman, but she had Rules with a capital R for everything, and rather rigid opinions, which Matthew had discovered to his discomfort when he’d first moved in.

  For the first month of his stay he’d sat at this very table shovelling sugar into his tea with abandon, forgetting how pricey it was by the time it had travelled all the way to Australia, and Mrs Vincent hadn’t said a word. She’d simply watched him like a falcon preparing to swoop on a mouse. Matthew had thought she was observing his table manners, and had taken no end of care to not clatter his spoon or spill a drop.

  Eventually, Jonathan Vincent had taken him aside and said, ‘Go easy on the sugar, old man. The wife objects to having to pay the earth for it and she’s rationed us all to one small lump per hot drink.’

  Matthew had nearly fainted from embarrassment, and had learnt since that there were myriad other ‘correct ways’ of doing things in the Vincent household, but overall it was a pleasant environment in which to live. The children were fun and the Vincents’ housegirl, Dolly, nice enough, although he was uncomfortably aware that she harboured an infatuation for him, which she believed entitled her to take small liberties such as calling him Matthew instead of Mr Cutler when they were alone. Though he didn’t want to encourage this, he felt he couldn’t say anything to her in c
ase she took it badly and retaliated by doing something mischievous like telling the Vincents about his lion and peony tattoo, of which he knew Mrs Vincent most certainly would not approve. Also, Dolly really hadn’t liked Sally Minto, but then neither had Mrs Vincent, and both had been inordinately pleased when Sally had refused his offer of marriage. Mrs Vincent, however, continued somewhat embarrassingly to raise the subject of him finding a suitable wife, and frequently professed that she simply could not understand why a nice young man such as himself had not yet married. Dolly never did, though, not that it was her place to comment, or any of her business. Matthew strongly suspected that she was happy he was still a bachelor, and perhaps even secretly fancied herself as Mrs Matthew Cutler, which was never, ever going to happen.

  This morning, Madeline Vincent said conversationally, ‘I happened to see Mrs Chandler in the street yesterday — Dr Chandler’s wife? — and she was telling me you were getting on rather well with a very attractive young lady at the soirée you attended at Dr Downey’s home last Sunday. Do tell me that’s true, Matthew.’

  There was a clatter as Dolly dropped a serving spoon.

  ‘Not on your apron, Dolly!’ Mrs Vincent scolded. ‘Fetch another one.’

  Matthew felt himself go pink. ‘Er, yes, I suppose I was.’

  Dolly took a clean serving spoon from the sideboard drawer and set it in the egg dish.

  ‘Mrs Chandler mentioned that Miss Christian is a teacher. I must say, that’s a little more illustrious-sounding than a baker’s assistant, isn’t it? Elbows off the table, please, Florence.’

  Florence, aged nine, stuck out her tongue at her smirking younger brothers and straightened in her seat.

  ‘She hasn’t found a teaching position here yet, though,’ Matthew said.

  Mrs Vincent waved a hand. ‘Oh, Eloise Chandler will soon see to that. She’s very good friends with Gertrude Armitage. She runs a school, you know. Not that Miss Christian will be needing an income for long as she’s bound to be snapped up by some suitor, a pretty and educated girl like that. Any aspirations along those lines yourself, Matthew?’

  ‘Er . . .’

  Dolly stamped out of the dining room.

  ‘Leave the poor man alone, Madeline,’ Jonathan Vincent muttered from behind the Sydney Gazette. ‘You’ll put him off his eggs.’

  Ignoring her husband, Madeline Vincent said, ‘If so, I wouldn’t dally. According to Mrs Chandler, Miss Christian has taken a room in the Acacia Boarding Establishment for Ladies. I’m sure the girls are chaperoned there, but away from the stabilising influence of Dr Downey and his wife . . .’ She let the sentence hang.

  On her way to the kitchen, Dolly stepped out onto the back porch and, in a fit of temper, hurled the dirty serving spoon as far down the yard as she could, which annoyed her even more as she would only have to go and fetch it later. It had been bad enough when Matthew was moping after Harrie Clarke, and then he was going to marry that scrag-end Sally Minto from the bakery, but what chance would she — a housegirl — have, now that a pretty little teacher with all her letters and numbers and probably a different dress and hat for every day of the week had taken his fancy? None, that’s how much.

  The kettle screeched: she wrapped a cloth around her hand, snatched the kettle off the grate so violently that water sloshed onto the fire in a hissing billow of steam, and dumped it next to the tea tray. It wasn’t fair, and after everything she’d done for him. For over three years she’d cleaned his room, washed his linen, scrubbed his underthings, ironed his clothes, cooked food she knew he liked — not easy when Mrs Vincent was so pernickety about menus — and generally looked after him. She might as well be his wife already!

  She spooned tea leaves into the pot, then added the water. If he did marry this Lucy Christian, he’d move out of the Vincents’ and she might never see him again! Overwhelmed with panic, she dug her fingers into the sugar bowl, crammed seven lumps into her mouth and stood there crunching them and wondering what to do. What could she do? It just wasn’t fair.

  Wiping sugar crumbs off her lips with her sleeve, she picked up the tea tray and carried it into the dining room.

  But Matthew was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Where’s Mr Cutler?’

  ‘Gone to his office early.’ Mr Vincent folded the paper and pushed his chair back from the table. ‘Which is where I must be myself. I’m afraid I don’t have time for tea now.’

  ‘Well, I certainly do,’ Mrs Vincent said, ‘if you would be so kind as to set the tea tray down, Dolly. Do stop daydreaming. What is the matter with you this morning? Shouldn’t you be getting on with the laundry?’

  Dolly set the tray on the table, gathered up an armful of dirty breakfast dishes and trudged back out to the kitchen. She filled the laundry copper with water and lit the fire beneath it, then washed and dried the dishes while it heated. First she stripped the children’s beds, then Mr and Mrs Vincent’s, then she went out to the carriage house and climbed the stairs to Matthew’s quarters. The week before he’d told her he was happy to tidy his room himself from then on, and bring down his laundry on Monday mornings so she wouldn’t have to traipse up and down the stairs with piles of linen, etc, but he’d obviously forgotten about it this morning. No matter, she had a key. She wasn’t supposed to have it but she did, and had used it in the past to sneak up to his quarters when he wasn’t in and have a good look around and read his letters from his mother and sniff his clothes, which she was entitled to do as a potential wife. Today she was only going to collect his dirty bed sheets, though sometimes even they were interesting.

  She slipped the key into the lock, opened the door and let out a squawk of fright. On Matthew’s unmade bed reclined a barefoot, scruffy-haired boy, naked from the waist up, arms comfortably above his head, lying there as if he owned the place.

  Gored by disappointment, then moments later righteous anger and a sense of having been deliberately and unreservedly cheated, things suddenly began to make sense to Dolly.

  When Matthew arrived home from work that night, it was to find his travelling trunk sitting outside the carriage house. Inside were all his clothes, books and smaller possessions. What on earth was going on? Trotting up the stairs, he opened the door: the bed had been stripped, the few illustrations he’d bought had been taken off the walls, and there was no sign of Walter.

  Outside again, Jonathan Vincent waved at him from the back verandah of the house. Matthew approached him.

  ‘What’s going on? My trunk . . . I don’t understand.’

  ‘Come into the parlour, will you?’ Jonathan said. No greeting, no smile, nothing.

  Matthew followed him inside, utterly mystified. In the parlour Madeline Vincent sat on the sofa as straight-backed and grim-faced as if she had a fire iron up her backside. Dolly stood behind her, a smirk escaping the tight corners of her mouth.

  Jonathan didn’t invite him to sit, and didn’t take a seat himself. He cleared his throat. ‘Er, look, Matthew, this is a delicate subject and there’s no easy way for me to broach it, so I’ll just come out and say it. Dolly found a young boy in your room this morning. We really can’t —’

  Matthew nodded. ‘That’s right, he’s —’

  Jonathan’s hand shot up. ‘Please do me the courtesy of allowing me to finish, and I don’t care who he is. We really can’t tolerate that sort of behaviour under our roof, so I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.’

  Appalled, Matthew stared at him. That sort of behaviour? ‘No, you don’t understand. We weren’t . . . He’s not . . . I mean, I’m not —’

  Madeline said tersely, ‘We don’t want to hear your excuses, Mr Cutler. Please just leave. Immediately. If you send word, we’ll have your things sent on.’

  Matthew noticed detachedly that her lips had almost completely disappeared. This couldn’t be happening, surely? ‘Where’s Walter now? What have you done with him?’

  ‘If you mean the boy,’ Jonathan replied, ‘Madeline told him to leave as soon as Dolly discovere
d him. And he did.’

  ‘Bugger,’ Matthew said, envisioning Walter being dragged off the street and into Bella’s midnight-blue curricle. ‘Bugger, bugger, bugger.’

  Madeline’s hands flew to her ears.

  ‘And Matthew’s got a tattoo!’ Dolly blurted gleefully. ‘On his arm. A huge one. I’ve seen it!’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Dolly,’ Matthew said. ‘Look, Jonathan, I’ll go but I’m sorry it’s come to this. I’m not what you obviously think I am, and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed lodging here. Thank you for having me.’ He offered his hand, which Jonathan refused. Matthew shrugged. ‘Thank you, too, Mrs Vincent. Please say goodbye to the children for me. And Dolly? I really do hope you eventually get the husband you deserve.’

  As Matthew left the house, he didn’t look back. There wasn’t any point. In a way it would almost be funny if he wasn’t so worried about what might have happened to Walter. He walked down Argyle and turned onto George Street, hurrying along until he came to the little alleyway next to the Sailor’s Grave Hotel where Leo had his tattoo shop. The CLOSED sign was on the door at this hour but he banged loudly anyway.

  When Leo answered he said without preamble, ‘Is Walter here?’

  ‘Aye, he is, thank Christ. Turned up this morning.’

  Matthew heaved a very large sigh of relief. ‘I had visions of him being snatched off the streets.’

  Walter appeared, Clifford in his arms. ‘Sorry. That servant girl just come barging in. Didn’t have time to hide. Then that other lady, the bossy one, chucked me out.’ He reddened. ‘I think they thought I were a renter.’

  ‘Bit of a performance, was it,’ Leo asked, ‘when you got home from work?’

  ‘Actually, I don’t have a home any more.’

  ‘Shite.’ Leo scratched at his beard.

  Walter said sorry for the second time.

  Opening the door wider, Leo said, ‘You’re welcome to stay here.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll think of something.’

  ‘Aye, I’ll have to as well,’ Leo agreed, frowning. ‘We’re back to where we started, aren’t we?’