Tommo and Hawk

by Bryce Courtenay

  Mary and Maggie have Tang Wing Hung’s ring and sealed letter with its beautiful Chinese characters and F. Artie Sparrow Esq. written on the envelope. As the protesters slowly drift away, they prepare to confront the villains.

  Tommo and I wait downstairs in the saloon bar of the pub which has just this minute opened its doors once again. Tommo insists on wearing his axe in a shoulder holster under his jacket. These days the barmaid, Doreen, welcomes him like he’s an honoured guest, bringing him a Cape brandy without his even asking. I order a glass of best ale and she does a sort of curtsy. ‘Honoured ter serve ya, Mr Black Hawk,’ she says, all smiles. Mr Sparrow has clearly lost the sympathy of the staff here as well.

  At first the three Sydney lads guarding Mr Sparrow’s staircase won’t allow Maggie and Mary into the corridor that leads upstairs. Maggie kicks up a bit of a fuss and one of them goes leaping up the stairs. Soon he returns with a hulking lad in tow. This one has a runny nose and an ugly, festering scar down the length of his cheek. The newcomer sniffs and folds his arms across his chest.

  ‘What’s yiz want?’ he says to Mary, as Tommo and I wait at the ready in the saloon.

  ‘How’d you get yours?’ Mary asks.

  ‘Me what?’

  Mary runs her finger down the red line on her own face. ‘Your scar. Were you cut by a villain too, acid thrown in after?’

  The boy looks impressed. ‘Nah, just a fight. Weren’t nothin’ much.’ He begins to pick absently at the weeping scab.

  ‘Don’t pick at it, lad. Give it a chance to heal itself, won’t show so bad then,’ Mary advises gently.

  ‘Don’t much care if it do, missus,’ the lad grunts.

  ‘Hey, I knows ya!’ Maggie exclaims, pointing at him. ‘Johnny Terrible! Yiz got a brother and sister, both little uns, twins ain’t they?’

  Johnny Terrible nods.

  ‘They comes to our roast dinner on Sunday. One of ‘em, the little girl—Alice ain’t it?—once gimme sixpence for her dinner though we never asked. She said ya told her t’ give it t’ me!’

  Johnny Terrible gives a little half-smile, and Maggie can tell he’s pleased to be recognised. ‘Want ter see Mr Sparrer, does yer?’ he now asks.

  ‘The very same,’ Maggie grins.

  ‘What fer?’

  ‘Business that’s to his benefit. Tang Wing Hung’s sent us,’ Mary says.

  Johnny Terrible gives a deep sniff and wipes his hand under his nose. ‘Tang Wing Hung? What proof’s ya got yiz from him?’

  Mary shows him the ring and holds up the letter with the Chinese characters. The boy takes the ring and looks at it.

  ‘See what it says inside,’ Maggie urges, then recites from memory, ‘"To Tang Wing Hung in sincere friendship, F. Artie Sparrow".’

  ‘He won’t see yiz anyway. He’s in the wardrobe,’ Johnny Terrible says, handing Mary back the ring.

  ‘In the wardrobe? What’s you mean?’ Maggie asks.

  ‘It be the riots, he’s gorn panicky.’

  ‘Does he often go into the wardrobe?’ Mary enquires.

  ‘He’s took it up since the fight. Spent four days in there when he got back from Yass!’

  ‘What about Fat Fred?’ Maggie asks.

  ‘He’s drunk, shickered. Drinks a gallon of Portugee port ‘fore noon each day, cryin’ all the while that it weren’t his fault, and that he only done what he were told. He’ll be no good ter ya, Miss Pye.’

  ‘Call me Maggie, darlin’,’ Maggie smiles.

  ‘Well then, we’ll just have to see Mr Sparrow in his wardrobe,’ says Mary.

  ‘Easier said than done, missus.’ Johnny Terrible snorts deeply and makes a loud noise sucking the phlegm down his throat. ‘He’s got the lock put wrong way round so he’s got the key on the inside. Locks hisself in.’

  ‘Can he hear ya when ya talks?’ Maggie asks.

  ‘Depends if he wants ter. Don’t rate yer chances. Sometimes he hears but he don’t talk to no one ‘cept me. Reckon I’m the only one what can figure out what he’s sayin’. But yiz can try.’ Johnny Terrible brings two fingers to his lips and gives a sharp whistle. Three scruffy heads pop around the top of the banister. ‘Take the ladies to see Mr Sparrow,’ he orders.

  ‘Ta, muchly,’ Maggie says, giving Johnny Terrible a kiss on his dirty face. The three Sydney lads on guard laugh. ‘Shut yer gobs!’ Johnny Terrible snarls and they are immediately quiet.

  ‘Extra ‘elping comin’ to ya little brother and sister on Sunday, Johnny,’ Maggie promises. ‘Come down yerself and I’ll put some iodine on yer cut, do ya the world.’

  They are halfway up the stairs when Johnny Terrible shouts, ‘Eh, Maggie, is it true yiz gunna marry the nigger?’

  Maggie turns and looks down at him. ‘What if I am? What’s it to you, Johnny Terrible?’

  ‘Nuffink,’ he sniffs. ‘I think yiz done good. He be a great champion, the strongest man in the world.’

  ‘You don’t want t’ believe all ya hears,’ Maggie retorts. ‘I can beat him up anytime I likes!’

  What follows we hear from Maggie and Mary once we’re back at the Hero of Waterloo. The two young lads make a great fuss of unlocking the stout door that leads to Mr Sparrow’s lodgings, then ushers them into a parlour fitted with a red and blue carpet of Chinese design that covers most of the floor.

  The room has two tall windows facing onto the street—one of them with a broken pane. The windows are draped with maroon velvet curtains, somewhat dusty, with tassels tied at the centre. It’s clear that the drapes haven’t been drawn in a long time. Indeed the windows seem the only source of light in the room as there are no gas lights and only two empty lantern brackets on the wall. Against the wall opposite the windows is a large, double-winged cedar wardrobe. But what first catches Maggie and Mary’s eye is a long, horsehair leather settee, badly scuffed and worn in several places, that sits in the centre of the carpet.

  Laid out upon its leather upholstery, so that in some places its worn springs nearly touch the ground from the weight of him, lies Fat Fred. He is heaving and snorting, his great belly making rumbling noises like a small volcano preparing to blast its contents out into the firmament. Six boys aged between ten and twelve all sit cross-legged on the carpet before him, playing cribbage. They jump up when the two women enter.

  Mary and Maggie can’t tear their eyes away from the supine form of Fat Fred. Though it seems hardly possible, the man has grown even fatter in the weeks since the fight. Little bubbles of snot come out of his nostrils. He wears only a pair of black Chinese silk trousers which are very dirty, and his huge, hairy stomach dominates the room.

  Fat Fred’s stomach has, as they tell it, become a creature in its own right. It resembles nothing so much as a live container in which secret and dangerous chemical concoctions are being mixed with other equally dangerous substances—causing an amazing series of oleaginous gurgles, sighs, splats and small muffled explosions.

  Every few minutes the pressure within this amazing container builds up, resulting in an alarming tautness. Then the entire stomach holds dead still, but only for a moment as though it has reached a point where it might at any second split wide apart. At this point, it lets go a truly resounding fart so that the great belly wobbles and reverberates like jelly.

  Each eruption of gas makes the lads snigger behind cupped hands. They seem to know the precise moment it will come. Eventually Maggie too takes to giggling. Soon they are all having a merry laugh, and even Mary joins in, though her finger and thumb remain firmly pegged to her nose.

  With this intestinal factory commanding all their attention, it is some time before Mary and Maggie become aware of a series of soft and urgent whimperings emanating from the wardrobe. Later they realise it is Mr Sparrow asking, in his peculiar new way, who has come into the room.

  Just then, as Fat Fred lets go another of his great and glorious farts, Johnny Terrible walks in.

  ‘Play him, Johnny, garn, show the ladies!’ one of the lads shouts. ‘He’s ready tuned
, he’s bin doing lots o’ them big ones.’

  ‘Yeah, garn, Johnny!’ the others chorus. Whereupon a boy of about eleven rushes to pull up a Windsor chair, which he places in front of Fat Fred, as if before a pianoforte.

  Johnny Terrible’s face doesn’t move a muscle. He walks over and sits down, laying his hands upon the enormous stomach as though upon a truly great instrument. He appears to be lost in thought as though considering a repertoire in his head. And then, to the astonishment of Maggie and Mary, he draws a great breath and, with a flourish, commences to push his fingers down into Fat Fred’s belly.

  Sometimes he plays hard, sometimes soft, his fingers darting to various parts of the great expanse. Each time he prods or pats the monstrous organ, Fat Fred lets out a fart of a different timbre, tone and length of duration—a sort of musical note. Some are short and sharp, others prolonged. Some are deep-toned, others high and squeaky. Johnny Terrible uses his fists for some notes, his thumbs for others, and his prodding fingers go deep into the hairy flesh for yet more flatulent harmonies. His hands flash and plunge in a truly virtuoso performance—his head bouncing as he performs.

  ‘Can you hear it?’ one of the boys shouts over the din. ‘Can you hear it, missus? “Gawd Save the Queen", he’s playing, “Gawd Save the bleedin’ Queen"!’ Indeed, after some concentration, it becomes apparent that this is precisely what Johnny Terrible is playing on Fat Fred’s abdomen. It is a strange and discordant key, but the notes are accurate enough. A most positive and sustained trombone effect is created to honour the final strains of the anthem to Queen Victoria.

  At the end Johnny Terrible rises from his chair to the claps and cheers of his companions. He does not smile as he bows to Mary and Maggie. It is as if he regards himself a true concert artist, and is merely receiving the accolades due him from an appreciative audience.

  Then he turns to the boys in the room. ‘Orright then, bugger off the lot of yiz! The miss and the missus here got business with Mr Sparrow!’

  The six lads in the room troop out obediently. Johnny Terrible moves the chair from beside Fat Fred and carries it to one side of the wardrobe door. Then he fetches a second and places it to the other side of the door, before asking Mary and Maggie to be seated.

  ‘I’ll act as yer translator, Maggie,’ he says.

  ‘What’s wrong? Can’t he talk for himself?’ Mary asks bluntly.

  ‘He can, but he won’t. I’ll have to tell yiz what he’s sayin’. It’s his code what only I understands.’ He nods his head for Mary or Maggie to begin. Mary nods to Maggie.

  ‘Hullo, Mr Sparrow, it’s Maggie Pye here, come to visit yiz! How’s ya going, then?’ Maggie waits for a response from inside the wardrobe. There is complete silence for a minute, then a few high-pitched whimpers are heard.

  ‘He wants ter know what yer wants?’ Johnny Terrible interprets.

  Mary takes over now. ‘Now listen ‘ere, Sparrer Fart, it’s Mary Abacus. You might remember me from London! I come with a letter of demand from Tang Wing Hung for ten thousand pounds.’ Mary is shouting to make sure Mr Sparrow can hear every word through the oak panelling. But no sound, not even a whimper, is heard.

  ‘It be Tang Wing Hung what’s bought up all the celestials’ betting tickets from the fight and some from other folks as well,’ Maggie explains. But still there is no reply from inside the wardrobe.

  Maggie looks at Johnny Terrible as if to ask if she should speak again. He nods and she says, ‘Mr Sparrow, listen t’ me! Yiz got two days, today, tomorrer and the next mornin’ only—that be Friday mornin’! Forty-eight hours from now yiz got to come up with the readies, ten thousand quid! If ya don’t, well Tang Wing Hung ain’t gunna like it. He don’t want to be no business partners with you no more. He says to tell yiz! You know what that means don’tcha?’

  There is silence again and then a few muffled sounds which are followed by several knocks to the interior panelling. ‘He says how does he know yiz from Mr Tang Wing Hung?’ Johnny pronounces.

  ‘I have proof. Mr Tang Wing Hung’s ring that you gave him and a letter wrote in Chinese!’ Mary takes a deep breath, adding, ‘It be a death threat from the triad.’

  There is the sound of a key turning and the door of the wardrobe opens a crack. Mr Sparrow’s little hand with the diamond ring on its pinky comes out, the fingers twitching like spider’s legs.

  ‘Give him the letter an’ the ring,’ Johnny Terrible instructs.

  Mary hands Mr Sparrow the letter first and it’s snapped up and taken inside the wardrobe. A moment later the hand reappears in a cupped position and she drops the ring into it. Then there’s the sound of the lock turning again.

  ‘How can he see in there?’ Maggie asks.

  ‘He’s got a bull lamp.’

  Just then, the whimpering begins again. It’s fast and high, and makes no sense to the two women. Finally, there are several knocks on the panelling.

  ‘He wants seven days ter pay,’ says Johnny.

  ‘Forty-eight hours!’ Mary shouts. ‘That’s all and not a minute more! It’s what Mr Tang Wing Hung says—after forty-eight hours, your life won’t be safe a moment longer.’ She turns to Johnny Terrible. ‘You be me witness, Johnny Terrible, that I delivered Tang Wing Hung’s letter to Mr F. Artie Sparrow Esquire. I don’t want his death to come as a surprise!’ She takes out her purse and hands Johnny Terrible half a sovereign. He takes it, bites it to ascertain it’s gold, then flips it in the air, grabs it and puts it into his pocket. He nods silently to Mary’s request.

  Another of Fat Fred’s enormous farts resounds from the centre of the room, as if signalling that the interview with Mr Sparrow is over. Johnny leads them to the door. ‘Yiz’ll have ter go now,’ he says. ‘The Chinaman’s comin’ soon.’

  ‘What Chinaman?’ Maggie asks in alarm.

  ‘The old bloke, Ho Kwong Choi. He comes ter give Mr Sparrer his pipe.’

  ‘Opium?’ Mary asks, surprised.

  Johnny Terrible shrugs, his face blank as ever. ‘Yiz got ter go now,’ he repeats.

  Mary walks quickly back across the room and leans close to the wardrobe door. ‘Oh, and Tang Wing Hung says after forty-eight hours no more opium, ya hear? Your supply’ll be cut off unless o’ course you pays up! Don’t make much difference I suppose—except, instead of dying happy, you’ll die miserable with the shakes and pains!’

  Mary and Maggie follow Johnny Terrible down the stairs to where the three boys are still standing guard. ‘You was most harmonious on the stomach piano!’ Maggie says giggling. ‘Come Sunday to Semicircular Quay and I’ll fix yer cheek. That wound could turn nasty on ya. Iodine’s what’s called for. Burns like buggery, but it’ll fix yer cheek, ‘andsome!’

  Tommo and I roll with laughter when Mary and Maggie retell their story of the interview with Mr Sparrow. All of us imagine him crouching in the dark, hugging his bony knees. Maggie recounts the most of it and she tells it well. Even Mary is taken with a fit of laughter but then she stops.

  ‘Maggie, that Johnny Terrible, he were sociable enough and done what we asked and all, but did ya see his eyes?’ she asks abruptly.

  ‘Eyes? Can’t say I noticed. Brown, ain’t they?’

  ‘Yes, and dead. No light in them, no expression.’ Mary shivers suddenly. ‘I seen eyes like that before, on a man in the East End o’ London named Bob Marley!’ She runs her crooked finger down the scar on the side of her cheek. ‘It were him what cut me and marked me with the acid. One moment funny and most clever and sociable, the next gone cruel and crazy. But his eyes were always the same, just like that Johnny Terrible today—dead eyes!’

  I shudder, for Ikey had once told Tommo and me about Bob Marley, who would only work for gold sovereigns counted into his hand before a job. ‘Always in advance and then always done what was asked of him, no matter what.’

  Ikey had admired Bob Marley greatly. ‘A true professional, my dears, only once half-nabbed by the constabulary and then got off with a marvellous alibi he’d worked out beforeh
and! Twenty-five years a thief and no form whatsoever, remarkable!’

  But even as youngsters, we could tell that Bob Marley was also the only man who scared Ikey Solomon. ‘When you can’t reach a clever man with your wit or soften him with your tongue, then know him to be most dangerous!’ I recall him saying.

  Maggie, however, laughs at Mary’s fears. ‘Johnny Terrible? Nah! He’s just a bad lad brought up rough. Thousands like him, proper hooligan. Ain’t no real harm in him—he’ll steal, fight, be cheeky, rob old ladies. I grown up with his sort. They only murders if they ’as to!’

  Maggie now tells Tommo and me how Johnny Terrible played ‘God Save the Queen’ on Fat Fred’s stomach. We are soon roaring with laughter again as Maggie imitates with her lips the noises that came from Fat Fred.

  Suddenly I think that we’ve never been so happy since we were brats. Maggie’s made us a family again. Mary’s come alive—it’s something more than just being happy to be with her boys. She’s grown most fond of my Maggie, and it’s as if she’s found, in our upcoming nuptials, new hope and meaning in the future.

  I smile at this, then return to the conversation around me, hearing with surprise of Mr Sparrow’s addiction to opium. But Tommo just says quietly, ‘That’s how the bastard knows it can enslave others to his will.’

  Mary reaches over and takes his hand in hers, patting it. ‘You’ll be all right, my boy,’ she says, ‘you’ll be all right.’

  Chapter Twenty-six