Tommo and Hawk

by Bryce Courtenay

  My course decided, I take another mouthful of the tea which I bought from the barrowman before Tommo left me. It is the first I have drunk with milk and sugar for many years, and it tastes strange. ‘Is the milk fresh?’ I ask the barrowman, who has been observing me with interest.

  ‘Struth, mate! Milked the bleedin’ cow meself this mornin’,’ he replies. ‘Orf a ship, is ya? Whaleman?’ I nod and he shakes his head and smiles. ‘Takes three or four cups before yer’s used to it with milk again. It’s always the same with whalemen, first cuppa after they been at sea couple o’ years, they always complains the bleedin’ milk’s sour.’ He points at the blue enamel jug. ‘That’s practically fresh cream, that is. Matter o’ fact I oughta charge more for it, Jersey cow an’ all.’

  I suddenly find this a most curious conversation. There is Tommo down the road wetting his daughter’s head with the first of what no doubt will be many Cape brandies, and here am I, discussing the qualities of a barrowman’s milk. ‘I’ll let you know about that when I have had the fourth cup,’ I say, and put the mug down beside the urn. ‘Can you recommend a chophouse, please?’

  The barrowman winks, then jerks his head towards the potato man. ‘Don’t fancy one o’ Lenny’s spuds then? Don’t blame ya. They’s last year’s crop, them taties, spent a long time in the cellar!’

  Lenny scowls. ‘You’re right to think the milk’s orf, mate. Alf’s missus pisses in it to make it go further.’

  But the first barrowman pretends he hasn’t heard and rubs his beard, as though he is thinking deeply. ‘Tell ya what, how d’ya fancy a pound o’ corned beef, thin-sliced and curled over, steamin’ ’ot with the mustard o’ yer choice?’

  I think sadly of Mary’s delicious meals, but at least this sounds an improvement on the food we were served aboard the Black Dog. ‘Corned beef will do me a treat.’

  ‘Good on ya, mate, yiz not chose wrong. Mr Smith’s above the Cut, now there’s an excellent eating-house and famous for mustard mixing. Can’t miss it, right next door to the Rose of Australia, an excellent pub what the said gentleman and his missus also owns.’

  Alf points back towards the direction from which Tommo and I have just come, explaining that the Argyle Cut is no more than a few minutes’ walk that away. I hesitate, for it will mean losing sight of The World Turned Upside Down pub, and Alf grasps my dilemma in a second. ‘Don’t get yer knackers in a knot about the lad, mate. I reckon the little bloke’ll still be there when ya gets back after yer feed, and more likely to come quietly besides. What’cha reckon, Len?’ The barrowmen laugh uproariously together.

  And so I put my fears aside and head up to the Cut, in the area known as the Rocks.

  Alf the barrowman’s recommendation proves an excellent one. At Mr Smith’s eating-house I partake of one and a half pounds of corned beef, though I cannot yet stomach the spicy mustards, and I wrap up another half a pound in a bandanna for Tommo. With half a dozen nice-sized potatoes under my belt, and two set aside for Tommo, I have polished off a delicious meal. I wash it down with three cups of tea and, by the end, discover that the milk no longer tastes rancid.

  I am feeling decidedly better and somewhat cheered. I reassure myself that the worst that can befall Tommo is another headache and a bout of vomiting, both of which he has experienced often enough over the past two weeks. I am about to go into the backyard to wash my face and hands when I hear a woman’s voice cry out in a tone of amazement.

  ‘Struth, will ya take a look at this!’

  I look up from my plate to see a young lady staring straight at me. She is dressed to the nines, in a satin gown of palest blue, the bodice cut low to display a most ample bosom. She is powdered and rouged, with her golden hair swept up into a great knot on the top of her head. She wears no bonnet, but several gay ribbons of different colours are threaded through her curls. What appears to be a small stuffed black-and-white magpie perches at the very centre of her bun, as though upon a comfy nest. She is dressed as though she is stepping out to a ball, yet it is not too many hours past midday.

  With this worldly creature staring at me, I am completely flummoxed. I quickly avert my eyes, and stare down into my empty tea mug. But I must act more manly! Collecting my scattered thoughts, I pick up my mug in both hands and pretend to drink quite casually from it. I gaze into the distance over its rim, so that she will think me not the least disturbed by her presence.

  ‘Well, well, well!’ the young lady says, standing with her hands on her hips. ‘If yiz ain’t the mostest nigger I’ve ever seen!’ Then she floats over to where I sit and tilts her head, forcing me to look at her.

  ‘Mind if I takes a pew, ‘andsome?’ Her lips, I notice, are ruby red.

  I jump to my feet like a schoolboy and in my haste send my chair flying backwards. I grab the back of the nearest chair and pull it out for her. ‘My, my, nice manners an’ all,’ she says smiling. ‘Ta muchly.’ As she sits, the silk of her gown pulls tight across, and I see that she has the nicest derrière to be imagined.

  I retrieve my chair from where it lies, several feet from the table, and sit down. What I intend to say is, ‘Would you allow me the pleasure of purchasing you a cup of tea, miss?’ But what comes out is, ‘Er, ah, tea, miss?’

  ‘I don’t mind if I do. Cuppa does ya the world, first thing, don’t it now?’

  I turn around and see the old woman who served me breakfast watching us. Too nervous to speak, I point to the empty mug and hold up two fingers. My mind is racing in circles, like a dog trying to scratch a flea bite on the tip of its tail. Once I penned love letters for other men to woo their sweethearts with, but now I am entirely lost for words.

  ‘Cat got your tongue then?’ my visitor asks. She looks me up and down, and I am suddenly conscious again of the fact that I am dressed in a whaleman’s canvas breeches and jacket, all in rags and none too clean. But if she notices my ragged state, she does not show it. Instead, she reaches over the table and puts her hand over mine. It is small and feels cool and clean. My heart jumps into my mouth.

  ‘We could begin by introducin’ ourselves. What’s ya name?’ she asks me.

  My breathing has stopped and I must swallow before answering, ‘Hawk…Hawk Solomon.’ My throat, with my heart still sitting in my mouth, feels as though the silver band of scars about it has been suddenly pulled tight.

  ‘Garn then, Hawk, give us a smile?’ she teases.

  I smile and she brings her hand up over her mouth and giggles. I see how very young and pretty she is.

  ‘Why do you laugh, miss?’ I ask.

  ‘You has such a stern face, but when ya smile, yiz beautiful!’

  I try to keep my face straight, but I am forced to laugh. ‘Men can’t be thought beautiful,’ I protest.

  ‘Most ain’t, but you is!’ She points a finger at my face and makes a little circle in the air. ‘Them whirls on yer face, you look like the prince o’ the cannibals!’ She laughs again and claps her hands. Then she tilts back her head and says suddenly, ‘Do you think I’m beautiful?’

  She has put me at my ease and now I look closely at her, noting her every feature. She is not beautiful but very pretty, with a small nose, big blue eyes and a mouth perhaps a trifle too big but which already I long to kiss. She returns my gaze with complete candour, not the least show of modesty in her scrutiny of me. There appears to be something resembling boot-blacking over her eyelids and she has darkened her lashes so that the colour of her eyes is intense. Her gaze is too direct for me to return and I am painfully aware of her abundant breasts at which I try not to stare. ‘Yes,’ I declare after a few moments. ‘You are very beautiful.’

  ‘Bull!’ she exclaims. ‘I’m pretty if I works bloody ‘ard at it, but I ain’t beautiful.’

  I am not sure what I’m expected to say next, but she speaks before I am able to gather my thoughts.

  ‘You could ask me name! A girl’s not supposed to introduce herself, it ain’t polite now, is it?’ At this moment, the old lady shuffles up to brin
g our tea. ‘Mornin’, Ma Smith,’ my companion says without looking up.

  ‘Morning,’ the old woman replies, and it is clear from her voice she does not approve of what’s going on. She places down a tin tray on which sits a china teapot, two cracked cups, a milk jug and a sugar bowl with a piece the size of my thumbnail missing from the side. Then she sniffs and leaves.

  The young lady arches one eyebrow at me. ‘Stupid old cow,’ she whispers, then giggles. ‘Garn then, Hawk, introduce us. I can’t hardly wait to make yer acquaintance proper.’

  I’m not too sure how I should go about this. So I rise from my chair and do a little bow. ‘I’d take it most kindly if you’d allow me to make your acquaintance, miss,’ I say politely, once again aware of my poor rags. I feel a little foolish acting as though I’m dressed in a black tail coat and silk hat, when I look like a drayman’s boy.

  ‘Well, it’s about bloody time, sir! I thought yiz was never goin’ to ask! Maggie Pye,’ she says, sticking out her dainty hand. ‘Pleased to meetcha, Hawk Solomon.’

  ‘Likewise, Maggie Pye,’ I answer. Somehow she has taken my shyness from me. Then she leans over, and with her bosom practically popping out of the top of her gown, so help me, she stretches up and kisses me on the cheek. ‘We’ll be friends, Hawk,’ she says. ‘Good friends. What ‘elps each other through thick an’ thin.’

  My heart leaps and bounces back up into my throat. It is as though my dream has come to life. A dainty, pretty girl is kissing me softly on the cheek. My shyness returns in a flood of embarrassment, and I blurt out the first thing that comes into my head. ‘But how could a pretty miss like you kiss a nigger?’

  Maggie Pye draws back and looks at me in mock-surprise. ‘Well I never! You ain’t a nigger, is ya?’ She reaches over and picks up the teapot and begins to pour. ‘I’m a whore and you’re a nigger—there’s a couple o’ known facts we don’t need to quarrel about no more. Now we can get on with what we don’t yet know about one another but ‘opes to find out.’

  ‘I’d never have believed you to be a…one of them,’ I stammer, unable to bring myself to say the word.

  ‘A whore?’ Maggie replies. ‘Jesus, Hawk, where’s ya been all ya life, under a flamin’ toadstool? It’s two o’clock in the afternoon, an’ me dressed like this. Who does ya think I am, Cinder-bleedin’-ella?’

  Since I’ve come in, the eating-house has begun to fill up with clerks and shop assistants, chatting and making a racket. Some have a pint of ale in front of them, which they’ve brought in from the tavern next door. From the sound of them, it isn’t the first they’ve had today. A few have turned to watch this exchange between Maggie and myself, and I hope none has heard me.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Maggie Pye,’ I say. ‘I should never have said what I did.’

  ‘What ever do ya mean?’

  ‘I should never have let it seem as though I should feel differently about you because of what you might be.’

  Maggie sighs and puts her elbows on the table, resting her chin on her cupped hands. ‘Look, ya silly, long-winded bugger, it don’t matter what I am. It’s who I am in me ‘eart what matters, don’t it?’ She reaches out and touches my hand again, giving me a crooked smile. ‘Besides, I ain’t a common whore. I’m Maggie Pye! Just like you ain’t a common nigger, you’re Hawk Solomon! Now ain’t that worth celebratin’?’

  I don’t dare ask her what she means by all this and she explains no further. But I can hear Ikey’s voice as plainly as if he were next to me. ‘Whores, my dear, don’t come with soft hearts. Whores only has charms when their patsy-mark’s got silver. They’re hard as granite and not to be trusted under any circumstances whatsoever! A good whore be one what’s robbed you of every penny you possess while you was sleeping but what ain’t took your breeches as well!’

  But then I think of Mary. Our own dear mama was once a whore—as was Sperm Whale Sally, without whom I would not be here to meet Maggie Pye! I decide that Ikey, who never had much luck with the fairer sex, might just this once be wrong in his advice.

  ‘I think I understand what you mean,’ I say to Maggie.

  ‘Nah, ya don’t, but ya will soon enough.’ She points to my cup. ‘You ain’t drunk none o’ ya tea.’

  ‘Nor have you,’ I say, grinning.

  ‘Why’s that, then? I love me tea. Maybe we’s in love, Hawk?’ Maggie tilts her head up at me again. ‘Have you ever been in love?’

  She asks this with such a serious demeanour that I don’t know what to think. I have secretly counted myself in love with Hinetitama, but that now seems like being in love with a beautiful ghost who was half made of moonlight. I can hardly count such pinings as love, can I? At any rate, it isn’t what I think Maggie would call love. Her notion of love, I’m guessing, would be loud and alive, with lots of laughter and sweetness in it. ‘No,’ I say slowly. ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Me neither,’ she says wistfully. ‘Many’s the time I’ve thought I were, but it always turns out the same. Men just wants to fuck ya and women just wants to love ya, and the two things don’t mix, do they?’ She seems to think for a moment, then adds quietly, ‘Well anyhow, if yiz a whore they don’t.’

  I’ve never before talked to a woman like this. But then I don’t suppose I’ve ever really talked to a woman at all, except Mary. That one night in Wiremu Kingi’s village when the moon was full and my manhood was taken or given, I didn’t do much talking. Maggie, who’s watching me carefully, can see that I am completely out of my depth.

  ‘You’ll need to visit the slop-shop,’ she announces now. ‘I can’t be seen with you lookin’ like Robinson bleedin’ Crusoe, now can I?’

  ‘Surely you mean Man Friday?’ I retort, pleased I’ve still got some wits about me.

  ‘That’s clever an’ all!’ she laughs. ‘O’ course, I’ve always been of the opinion that Robinson Crusoe and Man Friday were up to a bit o’ hanky-panky theirselves.’ She grins wickedly. ‘I mean, what else could ya do all alone on a bleedin’ desert island?’

  Most of what Maggie says seems to end in a question. Happily, I am slowly coming to realise that she doesn’t expect an answer from me each time.

  ‘Tommo will need to win at cards before I can hope for new clothes,’ I say. ‘And no slop-shop will have my size. It’s a dealer I need.’

  ‘Tommo? Who’s Tommo, then?’ she asks.

  ‘Tommo’s my twin,’ I reply, realising that I haven’t thought of Tommo in quite a while and that I must be getting back to Bridge Street to find him.

  ‘There’s two of ya?’ Maggie exclaims in astonishment. She points a finger at me. ‘Ya means to tell me there’s two niggers your size in town?’ She throws back her pretty head and laughs. ‘Crikey! And they say there ain’t no Gawd in heaven!’

  I explain about Tommo and Maggie’s face is a study in disappointment when I tell her that he is as little and as pale as she, and a gambling man.

  ‘There’s trouble!’ she comments. ‘Only one thing makes more trouble than men and whores and that’s men and cards. Even worse if it’s little men and cards!’

  ‘Don’t I know it!’ I say, looking heavenwards.

  ‘You a gamblin’ man too, Hawk?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘More I hear, the better it gets. Does ya fart in bed?’

  I’m shocked, but I also have to laugh. ‘Only in the fo’c’sle to kill the stink,’ I reply, using one of Tommo’s jokes for my own, amazed at my own boldness. I’m glad I’m black, otherwise my face would surely show as scarlet as a trooper’s jacket.

  Maggie grins. ‘You’ll keep,’ she says, and takes a small mirror from her purse. Pouting her lips, she examines herself carefully in it. Then she wets the tip of her forefinger on her pink tongue and runs it across her right eyebrow, before doing the same with the other. ‘Don’t I look a fright!’ she says, pulling a wry face.

  ‘Why, you look perfect, Maggie Pye,’ I say, trying my hand at being gallant, for Maggie Pye is much to my liking and I wish her to lik
e me too. But then I am troubled by a nasty thought. What if she only likes me as a customer?

  Maggie puts back the tiny mirror and smooths her hair with both hands, finally touching the tips of the magpie’s wings. ‘Time for me to attend to business, Hawk,’ she smiles, glancing up at me. To my surprise, she seems a trifle shy. A silence which seems to last forever stretches between us, and then I clear my throat and manage to blurt out, ‘Will I see you again, Maggie Pye?’

  ‘Christ, I thought ya were never goin’ to ask!’ she replies, her face lighting up. ‘Hero o’ Waterloo, six o’clock t’night.’

  I move to get up from my chair. ‘No, don’t,’ she instructs. ‘If ya gets up, ‘ow’s I gunna kiss ya?’ She rises from her chair and at her full height she’s only three inches taller than I am when seated. ‘Six o’clock, don’t be late, Maggie don’t like to wait even if she’s late herself, what’s more than likely, life being what it is, if you knows what I means?’ It all tumbles out in one breath. She gives me a kiss on the forehead. ‘Ta-ta then!’ she says loudly and turns and walks out, her derrière moving like it has a life of its own.

  As she saunters out, catcalls and whistles rise from the clerks and shop assistants and I am all at once angry. I rise from my seat. ‘Be silent!’ I shout, and bang the table with my fist so hard that the two cups of tea jump up and spill over, dribbling liquid to the floor. I see that Maggie’s left a florin beside her tea cup.

  As the sound of my protest dies away, the room is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Everyone has their eyes downcast, staring at their cup or plate or beer mug to avoid my gaze.

  Maggie Pye whirls around at the door and puts her hands on her hips. ‘You low bastards couldn’t afford to pay for what the nigger’s goin’ to get for free!’ she announces. She blows me a kiss. ‘Hawk Solomon, welcome to Sydney!’

  I have never felt so embarrassed in my whole life. The tea drips onto the floor and onto my boots while the clerks and shopkeepers all look up at me with their stupid grins.