by Judy Nunn
Mick had become quite a popular figure at Farrington’s, with his quick wit and personable nature, but just the previous week he’d varied his routine, forgoing the club to attend a performance at the Royal Victoria Theatre. Established by the well-known entrepreneur and founder of the Cascade Brewery, Peter Degraves, the Royal Victoria Theatre was the cultural pride and joy of Hobart Town, and Mick had viewed his outing as a further opportunity to observe and learn while he mingled with the upper classes. Having never been to a real theatre before, he had naturally presumed that, unlike the bawdy burlesque halls back home, such a venue would be the exclusive domain of the gentry as was the case in the west end of London. He’d arrived top-hatted and suitably attired prepared to socialise with the best of them, and he’d bought his ticket for a whole two shillings. There’d been four-shilling and even six-shilling tickets on sale for seats in the upstairs gallery and the boxes, but that had seemed an altogether ridiculous amount to fork out just to see a play!
I certainly learnt a lesson that night, he thought as he gazed out the window of the Union Hotel at the people scurrying by, fleeing the cold. He remembered how he’d stood among the riffraff in the pit – rough men swilling from tankards and spitting gobs of phlegm, sailors and tarts virtually rutting before his eyes – and how he’d stared up at the gentry in their boxes, the ladies all flounces and feathers, the men in tailored suits of the finest weave. Never had there been a clearer demarcation of commoners and privileged, he’d thought. He’d been bewildered that commoners should see fit to pay a whole two shillings for such an experience though. He couldn’t even remember the play himself. It was presumably funny, judging by the hoots from the surrounding buffoons, but he couldn’t be sure for he’d left barely ten minutes after it had started. He couldn’t wait to get out of the place before someone spat on his brand new satin-lapelled coat with quilted lining.
Mick took a sip of his barely touched ale. He would go back to the theatre one day. Perhaps, if he found the experience enjoyable, he may even become a regular theatre-goer. But never again would he stand in the pit with the hoi polloi. He would sit in a box like the gentleman God intended him to be. The only problem with such a plan of course, was money.
It was time to return to the baker’s shop. He stood, leaving his tankard nearly full on the bar: he hadn’t wanted a drink anyway. Money had been on his mind quite a bit since that night in the theatre, he realised, but it had taken the girl with the fox eyes to make him aware of the necessity for action, and the sooner the better. Although what particular action he should take remained at this stage a mystery.
After collecting the scones, he hurried back to the Hunter’s Rest as fast as he could, intending to deliver them still piping hot to Ma. He’d had the baker wrap them in several extra sheets of brown paper.
Bounding up the stairs three at a time, he gave his special knock on her door – two sharp taps, a pause, and then another two sharp taps.
‘Come in, Mick,’ she called in a loud bronchial croak that was followed by a hacking cough delivered with gusto. Ma never suffered in silence.
‘Prepare yourself, Ma!’ He made a showy entrance, taking care at the same time to close the door firmly behind him, as was the rule. For discretionary purposes when clients passed by, and also as a mark of respect for Ma herself, the door to her quarters remained closed at all times. ‘A special treat for my special girl,’ he said crossing to where she sat in her customary armchair beside the table, the corner desk chair pulled up beside it, presumably awaiting his arrival. She wore a thick woollen shawl, despite the fact that the room was warm and close, a fire crackling in the small grate beneath the mantelpiece.
‘Hot scones,’ he announced and, producing the paper-wrapped bundle with a flourish, he was about to place it ceremoniously in front of her when he noticed the plate on the table. It bore two lone scones, an abundance of crumbs, and beside it sat a half-finished bowl of butter.
‘You’re a bit late, I’m afraid,’ Ma said.
It was only then Mick saw the girl from the bakery. She’d been standing motionless by the window, staring down at the lane below, and now she turned. She no longer wore the poke bonnet, which dangled abandoned over the arm of a chair, and her flaming red hair hung in careless disarray to her shoulders. She’d divested herself also of the velvet pelisse, and had even removed her gloves, which Mick found most unusual, for he’d noted that ladies kept their gloves on at all times. The blouse she wore was high-necked, long-sleeved and demure in style, but the way it displayed her shape, tucking neatly in at the waist as it did, only seemed to accentuate the promise of what lay beneath the voluminous skirt. It’s as if she’s half naked, Mick thought. He was fascinated not only by the woman’s magnificence, but by the sheer impropriety of her state of undress. Fascinating too was her audacity, for she showed not a hint of embarrassment, but stood coolly observing him with her fox-like eyes.
Ma registered the direction of his gaze. ‘Oh, you haven’t met Red, have you, Mick?’ she said. Then she called over her shoulder to the window, ‘Red this is –’
‘Michael Patrick O’Callaghan,’ the woman said. ‘Yes, Ma, we’ve met.’ She crossed to join them, her hand extended in the most forthright manner. ‘Good to see you again, Mr O’Callaghan.’
They shook like men, and Mick was aware of the silky softness of her skin. A gentleman would rarely get the chance to shake hands with a gloveless lady, he knew. But then this was no lady. He’d been right.
‘Mick,’ he said. ‘Mick’ll do just fine.’
‘Eileen Hilditch.’ She looked down at Ma and the two shared a smile, ‘but as you’re a friend of Ma’s you can call me Red.’
‘Thank you, I’m honoured.’ Mick wondered briefly what Red’s connection with Ma could be. She was not the gentlewoman her appearance had first suggested, certainly, but she wasn’t a working girl. Eileen Hilditch was way out of Ma’s class.
‘Sorry I bested you with the scones,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t to know.’
‘Of course you weren’t.’
‘That’s funny, that is.’ Ma gave a cackle of laughter. ‘Red hasn’t been to see me for the best part of a year, but on the very day she chooses, you both turn up with scones. I think that’s real funny.’ She gave another cackle that quickly turned into a cough, which went on for some time, after which she produced a hefty gob of material that she unashamedly hawked into a cloth on the table.
Mick and Eileen said nothing throughout the performance, but stood boldly surveying each other, neither prepared to be the first to look away.
Ma finally drew breath and, glancing up, her shrewd eyes darted from one to the other.
‘Put your clothes on, Red,’ she said, ‘you’ll catch your death in that blouse.’
Red obeyed in an instant. Crossing wordlessly to the chair by the window, she took up the velvet pelisse and eased it over her shoulders, gently feeding her right arm, then her left, through the drapes of its sleeves, playing out every step with slow grace. She fastened the cloak’s collar and did up each of its front buttons with meticulous care, and her eyes remained on Mick all the while. Then picking up her right glove, she started teasing her fingers into it, delicately, sensuously.
‘I must be going now anyway,’ she said, her words addressed to Ma, but her eyes still on Mick.
He stared back, mesmerised. It’s like watching a woman strip in reverse, he thought. Every action was extraordinarily provocative. Had she been this seductive taking off her outer garments? he wondered.
Red had not been seductive in divesting herself of her outer garments, but she had indeed stripped with a purpose. In fact she’d put on quite a show for Ma as the old lady had scoffed back her scones.
‘So what do you think, Ma? Am I the goods or am I not?’ she’d said and she’d twirled about the room, pulling off her gloves and caressing her garments with her bare fingers. ‘Feel that for velvet.’ She’d hoisted her skirt up over Ma’s lap, heedless of the crumbs which nestled
there. ‘And how’s that for petticoats, now?’ she’d said ruffling the many layers of ruched cotton beneath.
‘That’s fine fabric all right,’ Ma had said, stroking the velvet reverently with the back of her hand, careful not to touch it with her buttery fingers, ‘that’s fine fabric indeed.’
‘And the bonnet, Ma, just look at the bonnet.’ Releasing the ribbon at her throat, Red had pulled off the bonnet. Her hair tumbled to her shoulders, for the bonnet was all that had been holding it in place – she never cared much for combs and pins. ‘Take a peek at the lace in that brim.’
‘Easy girl, easy,’ Ma had scolded as the bonnet was plonked on her lap. ‘A thing like this should be treated with care,’ and she’d wiped her hands with the cloth on the table before touching the fine ruffled lace.
But Red wasn’t listening. Hauling off her cloak, she’d thrown it around Ma’s shoulders. ‘And try that for warmth,’ she’d said, ‘that’ll beat your old shawl any day.’
‘My old shawl will do me just fine, thank you, Eileen,’ Ma had said, her tone now one of distinct reprimand, and she’d taken the pelisse from her shoulders, folding it carefully. She never addressed Red as Eileen unless they were alone, and then only when she had a point to make, which she now did. ‘You show some respect for fine clothes like these, girl,’ she’d said, ‘they’re worth a tidy sum, and you never know when a tidy sum might come in right handy. Now you put them over there on the chair by the window before they get covered in butter.’
‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Ma.’ Red’s shrug had been dismissive, ‘I can get clothes like these whenever I want –’
‘There’ll come a day when you won’t be able to say that, Eileen,’ Ma had said ominously. ‘The good times don’t last forever. Now put your fine clothes on that chair.’
Red had done as she was told, albeit a little sulkily, but she’d quickly perked up when Ma had poured them both a rum and they’d settled down to talk.
‘Right,’ Ma had said, starting on her fourth scone. ‘How’s it all going at Trafalgar? You tell me everything you’ve been up to, Red.’ And Red had.
Both gloves were now in place, and Mick continued to watch spellbound as Red raised her arms and slowly drew her mane of hair back from her face. It was an action so uninhibited he felt he was peeping through a keyhole observing a lady at her toilette.
Then in one swift movement she deftly twisted her tresses into a knot at the back of her head and turned to Ma. ‘I won’t leave it so long between visits next time, Ma,’ she said. The sensual act for his benefit was obviously over. ‘I can’t promise when I’ll be back though.’ Pinioning her hair with one hand, she picked up her bonnet with the other. ‘I don’t get out the way I used to these days.’
‘So I’ve gathered,’ Ma replied drily, and Mick could only wonder at her meaning.
Having anchored her hair with the bonnet, Red tended to the ribbon and, within only seconds (despite the impediment of gloves) a perfect bow rested at the left side of her throat. ‘It’s been grand meeting you, Mick,’ she said with a smile, ‘particularly grand, you being a fellow countryman and all.’
She offered her hand and they shook.
‘Yes,’ Mick said, ‘it’s been grand indeed.’ He was lost in admiration. With not a hair out of place she was once again the impeccably attired young lady he’d bumped into at the baker’s shop.
‘I’ll see you when I can, Ma.’ Red kissed Ma on the cheek and, with a wave to them both, she was gone.
‘My, my, but she’s a flirt, that one.’ Ma stared affectionately at the closed door before turning to flash him a yellow-toothed grin. ‘She had you going there, didn’t she, Mick? You fancied her something rotten and don’t you try denying it.’
‘Oh I certainly did, Ma, I’ll not deny it for a moment.’
‘Mind you,’ Ma said in all fairness, for Mick’s honesty won her over every time, ‘Red took a bit of a fancy to you too, I could sense it.’
‘Did she really, Ma?’ Of course she did, Mick thought. God in heaven, a blind man could have sensed it. ‘Do you think so indeed?’
‘Oh yes, she wouldn’t have flirted with you like she did if she hadn’t found you fanciable. She wouldn’t have wasted her energy.’
‘So you think I’m in with a chance, do you Ma?’
His smile was roguishly confident and his question light-hearted, but Ma recognised the underlying seriousness of his intent, and the answer that came back at Mick was totally unexpected.
‘Not for one minute. You don’t stand a chance in hell.’ Knowing her brutal response had come as something of a surprise, Ma patted the chair beside her. She’d wanted to have a personal chat with him for some time, but she’d been wondering how to broach the subject. Red now seemed to have provided the perfect opening. ‘Sit down, lad,’ she said. ‘Come on, sit down and have a drink with me.’
He sat and she poured him a tot of rum in the mug Red had used then topped up her own.
‘You won’t score a win with that one, Mick,’ she said, ‘you won’t even score a place. You need money for a woman like Red. She’s way out of your price range.’
Mick didn’t like being talked down to by the likes of Ma Tebbutt. ‘There are other ways to win women, Ma,’ he scoffed. ‘I’ve not needed money to find favour in the past, and I’m not about to start paying for the privilege now.’
Ma, in turn, did not like being scorned. Oh, she thought, so I’ve punctured his ego – poor young buck’s pride is wounded – well, too fucking bad. ‘I’m telling you here and now, boy, if you don’t have the money, you won’t make it with that one, so don’t bother bleedin’ well trying.’ She knocked back her rum in one hit. Damn his hide, she’d only been offering a word of advice.
Realising that his pride had got the better of him and that the old woman actually did know what she was talking about, Mick tried to make amends.
‘Will you tell me why then, Ma?’ He appealed to her with all the boyish earnestness he knew charmed her, but with a genuine desire for the answer ‘Will you tell me why, if Red had no interest in me, why on God’s earth she flirted with me in such a way?’
‘She was having a bit of fun, that’s all.’ Ma’s tone was still short: she wasn’t about to be mollified that easily. ‘There’s business and there’s fun. You’re no good for business, so she flirted with you for fun. But Red doesn’t fuck for fun, I can tell you that here and now.’
Mick was taken aback. ‘So she’s a whore then?’ He didn’t know why, but the notion came as a mild shock. He’d gathered that Red was no gentlewoman, but he’d thought perhaps she was a wealthy man’s mistress or . . . Or what? he wondered. Upon reflection, he realised he hadn’t actually thought what Red might be at all: he’d been far too intrigued by the woman herself.
‘Course she is.’ Ma’s attitude softened. Sharp as young Mick was, he could be downright naive at times. ‘Not your run-of-the-mill whore though. Our Red’s for select use only. She works at Trafalgar.’
Of course, Mick thought. That explained everything. Trafalgar would be right up Red’s alley.
‘Trafalgar’ was an impressive two-storey stone townhouse in Barrack Street. Built as a personal residence for a rich English merchant who had since returned to Britain, it had been purchased by a fast-thinking entrepreneur who had retained the name of the building but not its residential status. Now a haven for the wealthy, Trafalgar was a gentlemen’s club where the term ‘exclusive’ had genuine meaning. Catering to the rich and powerful, the club boasted a fine bill of fare, a plush lounge and bar, and the requisite green-felt gaming room. Indeed, Trafalgar offered everything an elite gentlemen’s club was expected to offer, and something else besides. The exotic hostesses who entertained the members as they dined and drank were known for their beauty and also for the fact they could be bought. Should a club member wish, he could, for a substantial price, be provided with further entertainment upstairs in one of the well-appointed apartments, and he could do so without fear of da
mage to his reputation, for at Trafalgar ‘exclusive’ was another term for discreet.
‘I take it you’ve heard of Trafalgar.’ Ma’s remark was heavily laced with irony, but Mick didn’t pick up on it.
‘Yes, I’ve heard the place mentioned.’ Of course he had. Several of the men at Farrington’s spoke of little else. They’d been trying to inveigle him into joining them for some time, but he was not interested in the offerings of a high-class bordello, and the club as a facility was beyond his means.
‘I thought you might,’ Ma said, ‘given the circles you move in.’
This time he registered an innuendo, although its meaning escaped him.
‘I see a lot from up here, Mick.’ Ma gestured to the window that looked down over the laneway. ‘I see you leaving all decked out in your finery. And what I don’t see the girls report to me anyway. I see and hear everything. Nothing escapes me. I know what you’re about, lad.’
‘Oh, is that so? And what is it I’m about?’ There had been no accusation in Ma’s words, but Mick felt a surge of anger. How dare they spy on him? How dare they talk about him behind his back? ‘I like fine clothes, is that a crime? I’ve never hidden the fact. And what exactly is wrong with fine clothes, may I ask?’
‘Nothing, nothing at all; no-one’s saying there is. The girls love seeing you in your fancy clobber. They think you look downright handsome and they can’t wait to tell me. Don’t get yourself wound up over nothing, Mick.’ She picked up his mug and held it out as a peace offering. ‘Here, have a swig of rum and calm down; no offence was intended.’
Mick knew he’d overreacted, and he felt rather stupid. The girls always gave him whistles and cat-calls when they saw him dressed up – of course they would talk about him to Ma. He accepted the mug and sipped his rum.