Tommo and Hawk

by Bryce Courtenay

  When Hawk gets there he finds Ah Wong and his family sharing a filthy cellar room with eleven other men. The property belongs to an importing merchant what has a godown on the wharf. All these men works eighteen hours a day just for food and a corner of the room.

  Ever the bloomin’ mother, Hawk takes one look and immediately buys food, clothes and blankets as well as all sorts of oriental paraphernalia, like chopsticks, cooking woks and bamboo baskets. He buys a bolt o’ black cotton for clothes, boots for their feet and everything what’s needed to set up Ah Wong and his family. Then he rents them a room what’s only for them. After all this, when they’s safely moved into their new home, he gives Ah Wong the bag o’ gold to get him started out in life again.

  Two days later an uncle of Ah Wong’s family turns up at Tucker & Co. to see Hawk. He can’t speak no English, so it’s all busy hands and sign language between the two of ‘em. Hawk can’t make head nor tail of what the old man’s on about. Suddenly the Chinaman takes a step forward and brings the fingers of his right hand up into the top of Hawk’s throat and presses. Hawk feels the strength leak out of him and he sinks to his knees.

  So now, with Ah Wong’s uncle teaching Hawk the ancient celestial arts, we has our replacement for Ho Kwong Choi. And this time Tang Wing Hung and Mr Sparrow don’t know nothin’ about it. I begins to feel that perhaps Hawk can win the fight against the Bolt. It ain’t much of a chance, but it’s better than a kick in the arse.

  Meanwhile Maggie’s been going all out in the pubs and sporting houses. Anywhere people might listen she’s letting drop her rumours, where they spreads and spreads. Her latest story is that Hawk’s been running a hundred yards with a grown bullock across his shoulders, not even puffing at the end. Some o’ the likely lads even swears they’s seen it with their own eyes.

  Most of the stories we come up with are so wild and ridiculous, you’d reckon people’d die laughing. But the punters lap ’em up and clamour for more! There’s even tales what we didn’t invent spinning about, each one stranger than the next. Mr Sparrow is delighted. He offers most attractive odds on Hawk while keeping them short on the Bolt.

  The smart punters ain’t took in by the brouhaha, of course. Bell’s Life in Sydney still rates Hawk as no chance against the Irishman. They ain’t seen Hawk spar and so they concludes ’he is hiding the defects he plainly suffers as a fighter’. They reckons that he ain’t game to be named for the mismatch they feel sure this prize fight will be and, given all o’ this, rates me brother at forty to one.

  The views of Bell’s Life in Sydney don’t seem to matter, to the little punters anyways. The average bloke is all for Hawk and Mr Sparrow’s booking shop is taking a king’s ransom in bets what favour him. Fat Fred is now claiming to be Irish and has opened another booking shop in Parramatta Town, where the Irish bets their weekly wages on their own champion, the Bolt. Meantime Mr Sparrow has his betting agents in all the goldfields surrounding the district o’ Yass and forty miles beyond the Victorian border, where they’s doing a roaring trade.

  The Irishman is still taking on the local fighters to the tune of one a week. And each time he wins against the champions of the various colonies there’s trouble. Extra police is called out to control the Irish mob what comes from all about to celebrate. When the story come out about the Bolt drinking whiskey between rounds, Tucker and Co. trebled their regular sales of the liquor. That were on top o’ sales what were already doubled since the Irishman arrived in the colonies, and still the pubs has been drunk dry by midnight. The Bolt is the darlin’ of the publicans, what has named a new drink for him: ‘Irish Sunrise’. It’s Irish whiskey and crème de menthe in equal measure took straight. ‘The gold of the whiskey and the green of the crème de menthe be heaven’s golden light upon the green and pleasant land of Erin’, so I hears. I don’t know how much golden light a bloke’d enjoy in the gutter after a dozen of ‘em.

  Maggie’s been reporting back on all her doings to Mr Sparrow. She tells him most convincing that Hawk is at the point o’ complete despair. ‘He ain’t got the nature to be a fighter,’ she confides to me master. If our Maggie’s to be believed, Hawk hates to go into the ring for sparring and the two broken-down pugs what’s training him can hit him almost at will, for he’s too slow to parry their blows.

  Twice she has gone to Mr Sparrow seeming at the end of her tether. ‘Hawk wants t’ give it away,’ she wails the first time. ‘He don’t lack the courage, mind, it’s just he can’t learn the craft of it. He’s strong as a bull but just as clumsy. The Abo, what’s ‘arf his size, can put him down any time he likes and the Maori sits him on his arse a dozen times each sparring. He’s took to speaking to no one and he seems most down in spirits.’ Maggie brings tears to her eyes. ‘He don’t even want to take me to bed no more!’ she howls. ‘Mr Sparrow, honest, I don’t think he’s gunna hold up. What shall I do?’

  Maggie reckons that’s when Mr Sparrow started to tremble. ‘You keep him in the fight, Maggie, you hear!’ he shouts. He fumbles in his purse. ‘Ere!’ He hands her another pound. ‘I don’t care what it takes! You keep him matched up!’

  The second time Maggie goes to him with the same story ‘bout how Hawk wants to quit, Mr Sparrow don’t even waste time trying to bribe her. ‘You keep him in!’ he screams.

  ‘Don’t know that I can, Mr Sparrow, he’s that forlorn,’ Maggie says, her blue eyes wide and misty. ‘He don’t listen t’ me no more!’

  Mr Sparrow speaks very low and calm now. ‘Maggie, you keep the nigger in the fight. Don’t let me down now. You know I hold yer responsible!’

  ‘I’ll try, Mr Sparrow, but I can’t work no miracles, now can I?’

  ‘Maggie, let me tell yer something.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Sparrow?’

  ‘If the schwartzer goes, you go. Know what I means?’

  ‘No, Mr Sparrow.’

  ‘Then I’ll leave you to think about it, girlie.’ Mr Sparrow points his bony finger with its big diamond ring at her, before bringing it back and drawing it across his throat. ‘It ain’t no idle threat, neither,’ he warns.

  Maggie gets a real fright at this. ‘I ain’t done nuffink! I only done what you asked, Mr Sparrow! It ain’t fair!’

  ‘Life ain’t fair, Maggie. That’s my last word. Keep him in, or you’re done like a dinner!’

  Poor old Maggie, she ain’t having a great time of it. She don’t say much but I’d guess Hawk ain’t doing his duty by her in the bed chamber. He’s plain exhausted by the time he’s finished with his sparring and lugging o’ barrels. He’s still trying to do some clerking, even though Captain Tucker says it ain’t necessary ‘til after the fight. But Hawk’s dead proud of his books and he don’t want someone else messing up his ledgers, all marked up in his own beautiful hand.

  On Sunday, when he and Maggie are together, Hawk can hardly get himself out o’ bed to buy the roasts and take them to the bakery for the orphan brats at the Quay. He keeps falling asleep while he’s waiting in the line, much to the amusement o’ the housewives. Maggie’s took to carving the roast herself, in case Hawk cuts himself.

  Sunday be Maggie’s only day off and she treasures it, for it’s the only time she gets t’ see Hawk properly. When they’re through feeding the brats, they usually goes to The Cut Below. There they has themselves a late dinner before popping upstairs. But these days I reckon Hawk’d be asleep before he gets to the bedroom.

  And now, to add to Hawk’s load, our mama’s decided me and him should have our Sunday roast dinner with her every week. Mary has arranged with the publican, Mr Harris, for a special room to be made into a dining room for her on Sundays at the Hero o’ Waterloo. She’s even bought a snowy white tablecloth like the one from home, so’s we can have our white tablecloth Sunday dinners again, or so she hopes.

  This Sunday’ll be the first of the new set-up but Mary ain’t invited Maggie and Hawk says he ain’t coming if she don’t. The two of them, Mary and Hawk, are standing toe-to-toe and I can see Mary ain’t gunna g
ive in despite the fact her boy’s towering over her.

  ‘She’s a slut!’ Mary snaps at him.

  ‘Mama, don’t speak like that. I love Maggie.’

  ‘Humph!’ Mary snorts. ‘Love! My son loves a whore!’

  Quick as a flash Hawk replies, ‘You were a whore, Mama, and I love you!’

  I ain’t never seen Mary so taken aback. Her jaw drops and she sits down with a bang, then begins to weep. But deep down she ain’t upset—she’s pleased at what he said in a funny kind o’ way, pleased he loves her. Mary is still Mary, though, and underneath she’s made of steel. Soon as she stops crying, she says, ‘Hawk, don’t throw your life away. Come home, lovey, you and Tommo. There’s many a fine young lass in Tasmania what would be proud to call herself Mrs Hawk Solomon. Mrs Tommo Solomon too, I’ve no doubt! The both of you be most eligible young men.’

  Hawk says firmly, ‘Mama, I don’t want any of those fine young lasses. I want Maggie!’

  ‘And she wants your money!’ Mary retorts. ‘Mark my words, I know her sort. She’ll bleed you dry then leave you for some pimp with a celluloid collar and a set o’ gold teeth! That one ain’t done a day’s honest graft in her life.’

  ‘Mama, she ain’t like that,’ I says in Maggie’s defence.

  ‘Oh, what would you know!’ she snaps at me.

  ‘That’s not fair!’ Hawk says. ‘Tommo had his doubts about Maggie too, Mama.’

  ‘It’s true, Mama, but I’ve changed me mind. She’s a wonderful girl!’ I blush at meself when I says this, but it’s true, I reckon.

  As soon as she sees she can’t win this one, Mary changes tack and smiles up at Hawk. ‘Please, Hawk, just this one Sunday, just the three of us, Tommo and you and Mama, like old times? Look, I’ve even brought me big gravy boat from ‘ome.’

  ‘Is God coming too?’ I asks, trying to lighten the mood.

  But neither takes any notice of me quip. Hawk shakes his head slowly. ‘No, Mama, Maggie’s my betrothed. If you won’t have her at your table, then you won’t have me. Maggie comes on Sunday or I won’t!’

  Hawk is laying down the law and Mary can see he ain’t messing about. Still, she tries again. ‘Oh Hawk, I’ve missed me boys something terrible. It ain’t been easy on my own, with David and Hannah bloody Solomon on me back all the time. My arthritis is playing up something terrible. I don’t suppose I’ve too long left, and I ain’t seen much of you these last couple o’ weeks.’

  She looks at both of us with pleading eyes. ‘All I want is for me two boys to be home again. I don’t ask nothing more. I’ve got the brewery built to give you something in your life what’s your own. I done it for the both of you. I’ve had a hard life, and you two boys has been the only joy in it. Come home, I beg you! I’m beggin’ you on me knees.’

  Mary strings all these reasons together, like if she can find enough of them we’ll be convinced. But she don’t go down on her knees like she says. I don’t reckon Mary would go down on her knees for the Almighty Himself. She might make Him Sunday dinner, second helpings and all, but that’s about as far as she’d go. In me head, I hears her putting Him in His place.

  ‘Help yourself, Gawd, plenty o’ mutton left, gravy and onions. Here, have another tater. Bleedin’ cold up the mountain, ain’t it? Soon be warm in here, that’s a red-gum log in the hearth since mornin’. Soon warm the cockles of your heart.’

  Then God says we ought to give thanks for our blessings before we tucks in.

  ‘Hang about!’ says Mary. ‘Thanks to who? Who done all the bleedin’ cooking then?’

  ‘Well, you did, my dear,’ the Almighty says. ‘And very nice too. Nobody does them little onions in gravy like you.’

  ‘Well then,’ says Mary with one of her sniffs, wiping her hands on her pinny. ‘Anyone going to give blessings ‘round here can bleeding well thank me. And I don’t need no thanks neither, thank you very much! Go on, tuck in and don’t be so high and mighty!’

  ‘Quite right, m’dear,’ says the Father of Heaven. ‘Couldn’t have put it better myself. Would another slice o’ mutton be out o’ the question, do you think? Splendid! Pass the gravy please, Tommo.’

  Afterwards God always says thank you most polite to Mary, in case He don’t get invited back.

  Now here’s Mary, who ain’t afraid of God Himself, saying she’ll go down on her knees for us to come back. She won’t, but even for her to say it is quite something, for she’s the proudest person I’ve ever known.

  ‘Mama, I love you, we both love you,’ Hawk says softly, glancing at me. ‘But I will not come home without Tommo and Maggie, and I will not come on Sunday without her either.’

  Mary sighs. ‘All right, then. I’ll set the table for four. Don’t be late. I’ve spoke to the cook, leg o’ mutton be ready one o’clock sharp!’ Then she manages a smile. ‘Where d’you reckon I’ll get them little onions around here?’

  Mary may have given in but our first family Sunday dinner looks like it ain’t gunna be the most pleasant gathering ever. We’re all in the saloon bar of the Hero. God’s definitely missing, Mary’s looking down her nose at Maggie and Maggie’s scared to death about the whole thing. It all starts to come apart while we’re still having our drinks before dinner. Mary’s having a lemonade and Hawk a beer, me a Cape brandy and Maggie a double o’ gin for Dutch courage. I’ve come to realise that Maggie ain’t in fact a big drinker. She can nurse a single gin an hour or two and often she’ll make it look like she’s tippling by arranging with the bar for them to give her plain water instead.

  Maggie’s wearing a plain black dress made of what she calls bombasine, buttoned up to the neck. All the same, it’s fitted tight to the waist and shows off what’s hers to show up top. It’s her hat what’s the problem though. She’s wearing a black bonnet—‘cept it’s been fitted with a birdcage, like they sells down at the markets to keep your songbird or canary in. Maggie’s got a young magpie in hers, and it’s chirping and jumping and bumping against the wires, shitting everywhere. It clearly ain’t too happy about it all.

  Hawk, o’ course, don’t notice anything’s wrong. He probably thinks his little magpie is very clever, but Maggie should’ve known better than to wear this trumped-up bonnet today of all days. It’s all show, I reckons—she’s frightened and this be her way of pretending she ain’t. Maggie don’t take no lip from no one but I reckon she were expecting a heap from Mary. She’s done the magpie deliberate so’s to get it all over with.

  Now Maggie don’t know it, but Mary has a special love for birds. She just about worships them green parakeets, and she can’t abide birds being kept in cages. She once spent time in the dungeons of Newgate Gaol in a cage of whores, and she reckons that’s exactly what a birdcage must be like for a little winged creature what’s born to fly free.

  ‘Stupid girl!’ I hear Mary muttering under her breath when Maggie’s back is turned. But she don’t say no more and we goes into the dining room. Mary’s already been into the pub kitchen to make sure the cook’s done the leg o’ mutton to her liking. Now she says that she don’t trust him with the gravy and must make it herself. ‘Them little pearly onions must be cooked just right—simmered in gravy made with the dripping from the roasting dish—just the way my boys like them.’

  While she’s away seeing to the gravy, Maggie downs another double o’ gin. Hawk don’t say nothing and I ain’t game! By the time Mary returns, with the cook carrying in a monster leg of mutton and her behind him with a large gravy boat, Maggie’s three sheets to the wind. During the dinner she giggles and snorts and whispers into Hawk’s ear, making a terrible mess of her plate. There are drops of gravy splashed all over Mary’s white tablecloth. Mama’s forehead is as furrowed as a new-ploughed hill paddock and things definitely ain’t going too good.

  ‘Oops! Pardonnez-moi!’ Maggie giggles in the Frenchy lingo as she spears at one o’ the little gravy onions and it shoots off into Mary’s lap. Mary stays stum and picks up the onion and puts it to the side of her plate. She’s wearing
white gloves to conceal her poor hands and now the finger and thumb’s got a big, brown blotch on the tips.

  But Maggie don’t quieten down even at this. She’s got the giggles again and stabs at the next onion on her plate. This time the whole plate wobbles, spilling more gravy. Two sprouts roll off and half a dozen little onions merrily follows across the tablecloth.

  ‘Shit!’ says Maggie, not speaking the French no more.

  Hawk too is now scowling. Perhaps it’s ‘cause I’m anxious for him and Maggie but I’m pissing meself with laughter inside, and trying not to show it. A shame God ain’t been invited. He’d get an almighty laugh from what’s happening.

  Maggie becomes aware there’s silence all about her. ‘What’s wrong with yiz all?’ she asks suddenly, jamming the handles of her knife and fork down on the table. ‘It ain’t my fault them stupid little onions ain’t growed up yet! How’s I supposed to eat them, the slippery little fuckers?’

  I can’t hold me laughter in no more and I bursts out and Maggie with me. She’s shakin’ her head up and down and the bloody magpie is chirping and fluttering and there’s feathers floating down onto the table. Then the door to the cage flies open and out jumps the little magpie, straight into the gravy boat, landing in gravy up to its neck.

  Out steps the birdy into the middle of the table and shakes itself like birds do after a bath. There’s bloody gravy everywhere and Mary’s face is spotted—it looks like she’s got a bad case o’ brown chickenpox! The bird tries to fly away, but it must have got gravy in its eyes or something, ‘cause it’s banging into everything. Maggie says, ‘Oops! Pardonnez-moi!’ again then gets the hiccups. We both goes after the flamin’ magpie but we’s laughing so much, we falls over each other, and the bird escapes our clutches. It’s still flying about, leaving splotches o’ gravy on the walls and everywhere. Finally I catches it, opens the window, and lets it go. Off it flies, dropping globs o’ Mary’s best gravy as it leaves. Maggie runs to the open window and yells after it, ‘Come back, ya forgot the bloody onions!’