by Judy Nunn
It is for this reason that I cannot come home, Da, not at the moment anyway, much as I would like to. Oscar is not yet one year old and too young to travel. When he is a little more robust, perhaps in another year or so, I shall bring him home, I promise, and you shall meet your grandson.
In the meantime, I share with you the burden of our family’s terrible loss. Tell Ma I shall say a prayer for Shauna and Bernie. Give her my love and hold her tight for me.
I remain forever your loving son, Col.
Although it was not the letter Mick had hoped to receive – one announcing the imminent arrival of his son – it provided the fillip that helped him through many a sleepless night. I have a grandson called Oscar O’Callaghan, he would tell himself as he stared up into the blackness. He already had three grandsons, one by Mara and two by Kathleen, but none of them bore the O’Callaghan name. And Oscar was Col’s son. It was certainly something in which to take comfort. There was now all the more reason to count the days until Col came home.
Eighteen months later, Col had still not returned, but something else happened to raise Mick’s spirits. In the autumn of 1897, he sold the Hunter’s Rest, and for a very tidy sum, in fact quite a deal more than the property’s market value. It was just as Ma Tebbutt had predicted all those years ago. ‘You can’t halt progress, Mick,’ she’d said – he could remember her very words: ‘. . . you’ll no doubt sell the pub one day to some big businessman or the government or whatever . . .’ He remembered too how she’d waved aside his protestations. Ma had known there would come a day when he’d receive an offer too good to refuse and as always Ma had been right.
Mick had honoured his promise to Ma. He’d long since closed the brothel in favour of the contraband liquor trade that was far more lucrative, but he’d kept the upstairs rooms in operation until the last of the girls was nearing ‘retirement age’, after which he’d employed them in the kitchen. Not one of Ma Tebbutt’s girls had ended up in the streets. And now the Hunter’s Rest was about to be transformed altogether, Mick thought, times are indeed changing.
The offer of purchase had come from none other than Henry Jones. Henry Jones had for some time been acquiring properties and expanding his IXL jam factory. Indeed the massive demolition and reconstruction undertaken by Jones in the expansion and modernisation of his factory’s facilities and warehouses had changed the face of Old Wharf and Wapping forever.
The Hunter’s Rest was the last property to be purchased for inclusion in the complex and as such its acquisition became headline news. Henry Jones and the modernisation of IXL were always a newsworthy topic and The Mercury wanted a picture of Henry and Mick standing outside the Hunter’s Rest for its front page. Henry, who never shunned publicity, was only too happy to oblige, and Mick found that overnight he’d become a celebrity.
‘THE HUNTER’S REST TEAMS UP WITH IXL’, the headline said, and beneath a picture of Henry and Mick shaking hands and smiling at the camera with the hotel in the background was the caption: Publican Mick O’Callaghan congratulates business mogul Henry Jones on his latest acquisition.
‘You look so handsome, Mick,’ Eileen said, ‘much more handsome than Henry Jones. Younger too, I might add.’
‘Get away with you, he’s got at least thirty years on me.’
‘Well, it doesn’t look that way in the picture.’ Eileen thought how good it was to see him smile again: she’d worried about him lately. He was not well. She was glad he’d sold the hotel. Their financial situation was now secure and Mick could retire. With the sale of the house in Molle Street and now the Hunter’s Rest, he need never work again. ‘I swear you look as handsome as you did the day I first met you,’ she said.
Mick cut the picture out and posted it to Col.
There were times when Reginald missed Shauna. His world was a lonelier one without her companionship. Shauna had known him as no other person ever had and there was no longer anyone in whom he could confide. He refused to agonise over her loss, however, castigating himself for his weakness instead. He should never have allowed himself to become so vulnerable. He would eschew personal relationships altogether in the future, he vowed. Keeping a mistress was far too dangerous. He’d behaved like a fool. But much as he’d continued to berate himself, it hadn’t stopped him missing Shauna.
He’d turned his mind to the home front, determined to concentrate upon his wife: it was imperative Evelyn remain happy. Indeed he could hear Shauna’s voice telling him so. Her advice remained with him, a constant reminder. ‘You must be kind, Reginald,’ he could hear her say, ‘it is difficult for a woman to conceive, I am sure, if she lives in fear of her husband.’
Shauna’s advice had once again proved sound. Evelyn, content in his love, had not only conceived with ease, she had carried the child without difficulty and now, barely one year after the birth of Rupert, she was just weeks away from delivering a second child.
Again it was Shauna’s voice that kept Reginald in line. ‘Be attentive and loving,’ he could hear her say. ‘Evelyn must avoid stress at all costs.’ He’d continued to follow Shauna’s advice throughout the pregnancy, although for the past two months he had found it exceedingly difficult.
‘I’ve been afraid that something like this might come to pass,’ Dr Harvey had said.
The doctor called in regularly to check on Evelyn. One visit, after he announced he was satisfied with her condition, she had asked him to examine Rupert. The child did not seem to be making the progress she had expected. He was a very contented baby, she told the doctor, in fact, she added, he was almost too contented. He very rarely cried or wailed to be fed, and he seemed to lack interest in his surroundings. Even her attempts to capture his attention failed. Nothing she did could hold his interest for more than a few seconds. Surely this was unusual for a child of twelve months.
‘Since Rupert’s birth I’ve been hoping this moment would not arrive,’ Dr Harvey had said after his examination, ‘but now it has and . . . well . . .’ he coughed uncomfortably. ‘I’m afraid Rupert may have suffered damage due to deprivation of oxygen during his birth,’ he said.
‘What sort of damage?’ Reginald hadn’t waited for Evelyn’s response. He’d leapt straight in demandingly.
‘I fear there may be some intellectual impairment, although at this stage –’
‘Are you telling me my son is a simpleton?’
Dr Harvey was not the only one startled by the hostility of Reginald’s sudden outburst. Evelyn’s look to her husband was fearful. This was the Reginald of old.
‘I am telling you, Mr Stanford,’ the doctor said in carefully measured tones, ‘that at this stage it is impossible to predict the degree of impairment. Only time will reveal that. Rupert may well grow up capable of leading a normal life. Meanwhile it would be to everyone’s advantage if you were to practise patience.’ He glanced meaningfully at Evelyn: he’d seen the look of fear in her eyes. ‘As time goes on your son will respond well to affection, and his progression will be speedier if he is in a peaceful environment.’
‘Of course, Dr Harvey, I quite understand.’ Reginald backed off immediately. ‘Just came as a bit of a shock, that’s all.’ He did not like being talked down to in such a manner, but he’d definitely got the message. He put a comforting arm around his wife. ‘We’ll keep little Rupert happy between us, won’t we, my love?’
‘We will indeed.’ Evelyn smiled, thankful that the storm had blown over.
‘He is a happy little boy, my darling,’ she said when the doctor had left. ‘Whatever happens he is the dearest child, so loving and sweet-natured –’
‘Yes, yes, of course he is.’ Reginald did not wish to discuss the subject.
‘And Dr Harvey said he may well grow up to lead a normal life –’
‘He did, my dear, he did. We shall just have to wait and see what happens, shan’t we?’
Since that day, Reginald had found it increasingly difficult to be attentive and loving towards his wife. He detested Evelyn for having giv
en him an imperfect son. Whether the boy grew up capable of leading a normal life or not, he was damaged goods and Reginald had no wish for a son who was damaged goods. Sometimes, when he looked at the two of them, the little boy seemingly normal and chortling happily as his mother bounced him on her knee, he would have to leave the room. He hated them both.
He managed to keep up the facade of affection, however, for it was essential Evelyn remain happy and healthy. Now more than ever he needed a second child, and now more than ever he needed that child to be a son.
Hugh Stanford was born at eleven o’clock on a spring morning in early September 1896. Although premature, the birth was uncomplicated and the baby was healthy. Reginald’s prayers had been answered.
‘Well done, my love.’ He kissed his wife with infinite tenderness. Evelyn’s place in his affections was fully restored. It was easy to be attentive and loving now. He would be able to ignore the simpleton now. In fact Rupert could cease to exist altogether now that he had his perfect son.
After the sale of the Hunter’s Rest Mick’s health deteriorated rapidly throughout the following year, and in the early spring of 1898 he took to his bed. At first he’d thought it was simply his ulcer playing up, but Eileen knew better: he’d lost so much weight so quickly, it had to be something more serious. It turned out it was. Apparently he didn’t have an ulcer at all. Apparently he’d never had an ulcer. The cancerous tumour that had been eating away at Mick for years was finally claiming him. The doctor said he would not see the year out.
Eileen wrote a note to Col. Or rather, she printed it. Mick had taught her to read and write many years before, but she had mastered only the basics, and never the art of copperplate. The note was simple. In her childlike hand it just read: Come home. Da is dying. He needs you, love Ma.
She received a brief reply within the fortnight. Col wrote that he was making his arrangements. He would be coming home as soon as possible, he promised, and he would be bringing his family with him.
‘He’s coming, Mick,’ she said. ‘Col’s coming home.’
‘Col’s coming home, you say?’ The news reached Mick through the laudanum cloud that fogged his brain and he smiled. ‘In that case I’d better hang on, hadn’t I?’
Several days later, in early November, a stranger appeared on their front doorstep.
‘I’m after Mick Kelly,’ he said when Eileen answered the knock on the door. He was a burly young man in his thirties, an Irishman judging by his brogue, and his manner was belligerent.
‘There’s no-one here by that name,’ she said coldly, but as she went to close the door he thrust his foot forwards and wedged it open with his boot.
‘Mick O’Callaghan then, he’ll do. The fellow in this picture,’ he thrust a newspaper cutting at her, ‘I’ve been told he lives here.’ It was the picture of Mick and Henry Jones that had appeared on the front page of The Mercury a whole year ago. It seemed Mick’s brush with fame may have backfired on him.
‘He’s not in.’ Eileen refused to be intimidated. ‘Now get your filthy great boot away, you’re trespassing.’ She tried to jam the door closed but was sent reeling as the stranger thrust it open and barged inside.
‘Get out,’ she screamed, ‘get out of my house!’
She followed him as he opened the door to the girls’ bedroom and peered inside, and she followed him into the kitchen.
‘Get out of my house,’ she screamed again.
Then she followed him as he strode off in the direction of the main bedroom, but not before she’d grabbed the carving knife from the kitchen bench.
Eileen stood in the doorway of the bedroom, the knife hidden behind her back, and she watched as the stranger approached the bed.
‘Leave him be,’ she said, ‘he’s dying.’
‘Yes indeed, I can see he’s not well.’ The stranger’s manner was mocking as he thrust the newspaper cutting in Mick’s face. ‘You’re a bit different from your picture in the paper, aren’t you now, Mick Kelly? Not quite such a handsome chappie these days.’
Mick was propped up in bed. He’d been waiting for Eileen to deliver his mid-morning cup of tea and had dozed off only to be aroused by her screaming. Now he looked in confusion at the stranger waving a piece of newspaper at him. What was going on? Had someone called him Mick Kelly? He hadn’t been called Mick Kelly for over forty years.
‘Some of the old boys from ’48, they live in Kalgoorlie now, on the goldfields, wouldn’t you know. Well, it seems they seen this picture and recognised you straight off, and being upset like they were, they sent a message home lettin’ the Brotherhood know you was alive and well. And you know the Brotherhood, Mick: they never forget.’ The voice ceased to mock and became openly threatening. ‘You have a debt to pay, Kelly, and I’ve been sent, all the way from Ireland, to see that you pay it.’
Behind her back, Eileen clenched the fingers of her right hand firmly around the knife, prepared to charge at any moment.
Mick tried desperately to clear the fog from his brain. ‘Do I know you?’ he asked, peering at the man.
‘No, you don’t know me, but you know of my family,’ the stranger said. ‘The name’s Jamie and I’m a Meagher if that rings any bells.’
It did. The names and the events of a lifetime ago had been ringing many bells in Mick’s mind lately. He’d been living more in the past than he had in the present as he’d drifted between the laudanum and the pain, his childhood and his youth much clearer than recent times that had become little more than a blur.
Meagher, he thought. Thomas Francis Meagher, leader of the Young Irelander Rebellion of 1848. The Battle of Ballingarry, in County Tipperary near the Kilkenny border. How could he ever forget that? Why he remembered the very date: the twenty-ninth of July.
‘You know who I’m talking about, don’t you?’ Jamie Meagher could see the recognition in his eyes.
Mick nodded. ‘The Young Irelanders,’ he said, his voice husky, but his words quite clear, ‘the rebellion at Ballingarry.’
‘And you know what you did that day, don’t you, Mick Kelly?’
Jamie Meagher sat casually on the bed as if he was making conversation with a sick friend, but his manner remained threatening.
Eileen steeled herself for the attack, watching and waiting for the first show of violence.
‘Yes, I know what I did.’ Mick met the man’s gaze, refusing to show fear, although he remembered how in his youth he had dreaded the thought of a confrontation such as this. ‘I ran away. I was sixteen years old and I was scared.’
‘You dare to offer youth as a defence?’ The remark clearly angered Jamie Meagher. ‘A soldier of the Brotherhood is a man at sixteen. We all know that, just as you knew it back then. You were a Young Irelander. You’d accepted a man’s job.’
‘I had, I had, you’re quite right. I was a coward, and that’s the truth.’
‘You were more than a coward, Kelly. You were a traitor. You betrayed your brothers.’
‘No, no, I didn’t.’ Mick tried to sound forceful, but his strength along with his bravado was starting to fail him. ‘I didn’t, I swear.’
‘You told the police where the leaders could be found, you bastard.’
‘I didn’t. I swear I didn’t.’
‘You might as well have led the raid yourself. It was because of you Meagher and O’Brien and the others were taken hostage –’
‘It wasn’t me, I swear it wasn’t.’ Mick was becoming agitated as he relived the fear and turmoil of that day. He’d been so young and so scared. He was no soldier like the others. He hadn’t cared tuppence for the nationalist movement. He’d joined the Young Irelanders for adventure, so that he could get to carry a gun and boast about his exploits. He’d been terrified when the police had caught him, and only too willing to strike a bargain.
‘We all knew where that house was,’ he said desperately. ‘Every one of the fighters knew where Meagher and the others were holed up.’ This was what he’d told himself at the time, he remem
bered, and he’d persuaded himself it was true. If he didn’t tell the police, then someone else would. The rebellion had been doomed from the start. Fighters were being captured all over the place. ‘It could have been any one of the others,’ he said.
‘But it wasn’t any one of the others, was it?’ Jamie Meagher sneered. ‘It was you. ’
Mick had exhausted himself. What was the point in protesting any longer? He didn’t have the strength anyway.
‘Why,’ he asked, ‘why are you doing this? Why are you pursuing me? The Young Irelander Movement is long dead and gone. Dear Mother of God, it was fifty years ago, you weren’t even born then.’
‘The Brotherhood never dies, Kelly. The Brotherhood lives on with each new generation. And the Brotherhood never forgets a traitor.’ Reaching his hand inside his open shirtsleeve, Jamie Meagher withdrew the stiletto blade from the sheath attached to his wrist. ‘I’ve been sent to teach you a lesson.’
At the sight of the blade, Eileen sprang into action, lunging forwards with the carving knife, bent on attacking the man who threatened her husband.
Jamie had known the woman was hiding a weapon behind her back. He’d been waiting for her to make a move and was on his feet in an instant. Whirling to meet her he grabbed her wrist and wrenched it painfully behind her back; the carving knife clattered to the floor. The woman followed suit, sprawling to the ground as he threw her effortlessly aside. He picked up the knife, tossed it onto the bed, and ignored her as he returned his attention to the man.
‘I’ve not been ordered to kill you, Mick Kelly,’ he said. ‘The Brotherhood doesn’t send one of its valuable soldiers on an assassination assignment for scum like you. You’re not worth it. No, I’m here to make an example of you so others may learn that no matter how far, or how long, they run, they’ll be hunted down, because the Brotherhood never forgives, or forgets.’ He waved the stiletto teasingly. ‘And maybe I’ll leave a scar or two of shame, for good measure.’