6
AUDACIOUS CHERRY PIE
My grandfather often took me with him around Wolfftown when he was making business calls. Having recently lost both parents no liberty could be deemed too great and my schooling was neglected in favour of visits to public houses, horse race meetings, wine shops and various other businesses. In our town there were eleven public houses apart from Grandpa’s House of Blazes: the Phoenix, the Riff, the Brown Bear, the Jolly Hatters, the Cock and Bottle, the Water Rat, the Tub of Blood, the Sailors’ Return, the Hammer in Hand, the City of London Arms and the Provincial Tavern. Grandpa owned three of them and had stakes in two others but he’d avoided buying into Wolfftown’s most notorious pubs.
‘I’ve got enough bloody trouble going on at the House of Blazes without getting saddled with those places of ill repute. Murder, mayhem and grief. Fuck, I need that like a hole in the head.’
Instead he cannily invested in premium town and rural properties and in doing so became one of the wealthiest men in Tasmania.
The Riff and The Tub of Blood were the most notorious. The Riff was known as the place to go if you were spoiling for a brawl. Men were permitted to fight to near death and there were no limits to quantity of drink or sexual practices. Grandpa liked to visit The Riff to take a break from his own pubs. ‘It’s always interesting to observe Homo sapiens in the wild. Sometimes I think the only reason the gods put us here on earth was to keep them amused.’
Tim told me, ‘It’s not uncommon at the Riff to see crapulous sailors playing duets on the piano with their penises. But the constabulary wisely keep their distance and Ma O’Brien maintains order among the chaos.’
‘How?’
‘If a brawl is getting out of control Nora chucks bar stools at them and yells, “I’m gunna give the stab to the next fucker out of line.” And I’ve seen her do it too. She’s a tough sheila all right, she keeps a vicious flick knife tucked in her stocking garter.’
‘But aren’t the drinkers armed too?’
‘Hell no, Nora’s customers have to leave their weapons on a shelf behind the bar and she only allows bare-knuckle fighting on the premises.’
Nora O’Brien had become the Riff’s publican when her husband left town to seek his fortune. Apparently Ma O’Brien’s shady past as a pavement angel was no impediment to her gaining a publican’s licence. Namely because in the late 1700s, Sarah Bird – Australia’s first female licensee – had been officially granted her publican’s licence, despite the well-known fact she’d been a convicted criminal.
Grandpa said, ‘Old man O’Brien was a surly alcoholic. His idea of a good time on a Saturday night was to beat his young missus senseless. It’s no secret Nora was glad to see the back of that pusbag. Having restored The Riff, she set about making more loot than her husband ever did gold panning. Word eventually came back that O’Brien had drunk himself to death on the Queensland goldfields. They found his decomposed corpse at Mount Morgan and the whole of Wolfftown reckoned it was good riddance to bad rubbish.’
Old man O’Brien had been a cigar man and Nora O’Brien really hated the smell of cigar smoke. She’d installed a sign over the bar: NO CIGAR SMOKING ALLOWED. Which was interesting because she wasn’t fussed about the stench of pipes, cigarillos, Turkish cigarettes, hashish or opium.
Grandpa and I were at The Riff for lunch on the day that Mayor Wolff’s son, Wilbert, known to local courtesans as Wee Willy, ignored three polite requests from the barmaid to butt out his cigar.
The front bar was packed and noisy but we all fell silent when Ma O’Brien appeared and shoved the barmaid out of the way. She leant right over the bar and pointed her Colt 41-calibre revolver at Wilbert’s balls. ‘Willy, I’m going to give you a choice. Either you eat that fucking cigar or your wedding tackle gets it.’
Wee Willy Wolff ate the whole cigar.
There were always sailors and their consorts lounging around The Riff. Nora O’Brien exuded control and nothing escaped old snake eyes. Hunkering down on her bar stool she’d upbraid Grandpa, ‘You’re paying your barmaids too much, Brendan. And you’re making it damned difficult for the rest of us publicans.’
‘Bullshit, darling. If they’re hardworking and stay off the sauce they’re worth every penny. And I know you can afford it too. This joint is a bloody goldmine.’
While they were talking business I would slip away to gaze down at the busy port. I loved the sense of excitement on the docks, the sight of foreign faces, hearing foreign languages and the different smells emanating from overseas ships and cargo. There was an atmosphere of abundance and confusion. Ships and boats of all sizes jostled for prime position. A rotting man o’ war elbowed for space with merchant ships, wool steamers, whalers, schooners, fishing boats, yachts and cutters. Virtually every nationality was represented amongst the sailors who made port. Flash young rent boys loitered around or drank themselves comatose in the illegal booze shacks down the back alleys.
The port was a seething mass of male activity. Stripped to their waists, brawny sailors and dockers hauled massive weights of cargo as testimony to their manhoods. Many of the town’s maidens dressed themselves up to the nines and visited the docks. I’d see them twirling their parasols and pretending they were taking the sea air, while surreptitiously admiring the physiques of shirtless blokes going about their business. No doubt seeing such splendid specimens semi-naked gave me an early appreciation for the working class man. I adore those young men who do manual labour and get their hands dirty, as opposed to gentlemen in suits, who sit around counting their pennies and pounds.
If I was lucky I could watch animals being unloaded from the ships. Pigs snorting, geese honking and cows mooing. Horse racing was all the rage and many horses were imported. Race horses were fitted with canvas harnesses and hauled over the side of ships. I was always surprised to see them so passive in transit, with their legs and heads hanging down, waiting to reach solid ground again. Men would effortlessly glide past with heavy furniture on their heads. I once saw a whole line of thirty-two red tub armchairs wending its way down a gangplank. Amid the bustle were local girls selling seafood, rotgut booze or themselves. We have a lot of entrepreneurial young women in Wolfftown.
As soon as Ma O’Brien and Brendan Kane had concluded their business we’d move on to the more important matters of the day. After a lengthy discussion about the lunch menu Grandpa would address Ma O’Brien as though discussing serious matters of state. ‘Sasha has decided on the Shearer’s Lunch. So let’s make it for two. We like it heavy on the chutneys, horseradish and cheeses but skip the vegetable matter. As for pudding, we shall tuck into your audacious cherry pie with clotted cream.’
Nora would rise to the occasion. ‘No worries, Brendan. Fancy a spot of me homemade mulberry wine to wash it all down with? It’s guaranteed to put tits on a Sydney bull.’
‘Ah, Nora, I live in keen anticipation of your bacchanalian offerings. So while you’re at it, pour a wee tot for young Sasha here. She’s a recent addition to the Kane clan, and I think it’s imperative that she begins her education in fine wine with you.’
I could always tell when Ma O’Brien was chuffed. ‘Brendan Kane, still the ladies’ man, aren’t you?’ She reached for a bottle secreted under the bar. ‘Now don’t you be drinking it down too quick, Miss Sasha. We don’t want you passing out like the proverbial sailor’s whore, now do we?’
‘No, Madam.’
Ma O’Brien poured me a tot and glanced up at Brendan Kane flirtatiously. Nudging seventy, she was considerably older than Grandpa, but her face belied her essential toughness and she’d retained her foxy good looks.
When visitors commented favourably on her youthful appearance, Ma O’Brien would lean in close, as though she was about to share a secret, and she’d whisper, ‘Well it’s like this, luv. Wolfftown’s air is the most restorative, purifying air in the whole goddamn world. And every breath you take makes you younger.’ She’d then randomly select one of the eighteen-year-old drinkers. ‘See
that good-looking bloke over there? He’s already seen sixty-seven summers.’
Then she’d burst out laughing. Her laugh could have cut Chicago steel.
When we left The Riff I was as drunk as the proverbial sailor and his whore.
I had the best time. My afternoon was made complete when two wharf doxies had an altercation over a cashed up Norwegian sailor and started throwing punches at each other. The object of their affections promptly scarpered.
Grandpa didn’t intercede, he just quickly scooped me up and dropped me through the kitchen food hatch. ‘Stay in there, Sasha. This will get nasty.’
‘Grandpa, do something!’
‘No. I don’t like to get between fighting women. They don’t fight cleanly or squarely like men do.’
I hovered at the food hatch but even when I stood on my toes I could barely glimpse the front bar. The cook downed tools and lifted me up onto a sack of flour to ensure I got a ring-side seat.
Drinkers congregated in eager anticipation. Sailors of various nationalities took sides and cheered their favourite while mocking her enemy. I noticed that all the blokes stood well back from the action.
‘Bonne chance, mademoiselle! ’
‘Go to it, Vera, give her another pasting, luv.’
‘Blimey, look at the biceps on that one, eh?’
‘Come on, Susie, you can do better than that.’
‘Yar not giving it yar best shot, lassie. Whack her again!’
‘You’re fighting like a lady, Vera. Put your bloody back into it, me girl.’
It was carnage on an unpredictable scale. The two women crashed over chairs and gouged, clawed and bit each other. It was horrific yet thrilling.
Grandpa only intervened when Vera seized a bottle, smashed it on a table and advanced with the jagged glass on her cornered prey. Grandpa grabbed Vera, spun her round and pinned her to the wall in one easy motion. She tried to gore him in the face with the broken bottle but he grabbed her wrists.
Ma O’Brien seized the bottle and snarled, ‘I’ve got a no-weapons rule, as you well know. Try that again, lassie, and you’ll be banned from the Riff for the rest of your natural life.’
Grandpa kept Vera pinned until she stopped struggling. She hollered, ‘Let go of me ya bastard! I ain’t finished yet. That slapper ain’t gunna pinch blokes on my turf. Youse sons of flyblown sheep –’
‘All right, Vera. Enough already. I’m sure she fully understands your rights of dominion. Don’t you, Susie?’
‘Guess so, you cocksucker. Why did you have to take her side eh?’
‘Two-faced bitch, let me at her!’
‘Ladies, please. Let’s have some fucking decorum. Sit your money-makers down and have a drink on me, eh?’
He bought drinks for the whole bar and sent the cellar boy out to find some musicians to entertain the rowdy clientele. Everybody had a fine old time. When we left Susie and Vera had their arms around each other, tunelessly singing a bawdy song. I learnt a lot that day.
When I arrived home, I gargled with eau de Cologne to get rid of the smell of mulberry wine. I told Nanny we’d had eel pie and raisin pudding at the Brixton Tea Rooms. I further informed her that the custard had been lumpy. I was becoming quite the accomplished liar.
Several months after Alain Torte’s funeral, and shortly before my thirteenth birthday, things changed dramatically. One afternoon I heard carriage wheels. It looked like visitors were expected. Grandpa and all our staff were in attendance. Something was up. Everyone had scrubbed up and they were preening in the self-conscious way that grown-ups do when they want to create a good impression. Tim stepped forward grinning like a maniac and gallantly wrestled the carriage door off its hinges. Only one passenger alighted. Under a black veil I glimpsed my mother’s savage red hair as she extended her leather-gloved hands towards him. Tim seemed to clasp her hands longer than necessary and I felt betrayed. The unspeakable had happened and once again I’d be stuck in a life of uncertainty, retribution and punishment. So before Rose glimpsed me, I shrank back into the darkness of the entrance hall.
Misery pooled deep in my stomach and I ran upstairs to my old hiding place in the attic. Amidst the dust I took refuge in the large wooden crate that I used to call the Magic Flying Apple. It was the first time in months that I’d felt a need to hide from the world. When I was about seven I’d painted the crate a bilious green colour and fitted it out with cushions and numerous air holes. Now the box was thick with dust and I couldn’t stop sneezing. But even though I was now older and more worldly, hiding in the dark crate gave me a feeling of great security. I felt contained and safe from the vagaries of fortune.
Too late. There were light footsteps on the stairs. I thought I recognised my mother’s low murmur and Nanny’s voice. ‘This is the last place I can think of, Ma’am. Sasha used to hide up here to escape Mr Torte when he was in his cups.’
The lid of the crate was ripped open. It wasn’t my mother standing there but someone who closely resembled her.
Nanny was flustered. ‘I’ve been searching for you everywhere, Sasha.’
The red-haired woman seemed more amused than cross. ‘Good afternoon, Sasha. I’m your Aunt Lily.’
‘Stop gawking, child. Come out and speak properly to your aunt. Anyone would think you’ve got no manners. I’m sorry, Miss Kane, she’s a wild untamed creature but quite loving. Your father spoils her rotten and treats her like a lad. But Sasha’s not usually rude.’
Physically Lily was my mother’s twin, yet she was unmistakably different in manner and deportment. Lily’s pale green dress was cut simply but elegantly and lacked the heavy padding and fringing so common in our town. Her dress fabric was similar to the type of silky cloth usually made into nightclothes by Wolfftown’s dressmakers. When Lily walked, she didn’t have to contend with excessive yards of heavy brocade skirting. According to the fashion gazettes, such garments were all the rage in Paris. Her hair was styled simply, without the extra-heavy plaits and curls deemed mandatory by Tasmanian ladies. Lily represented something new and wonderful. She even smelt foreign, reminiscent of oriental spices and heady musks. She had a very different scent from Rose, who’d always smelt of opium tincture and cloying floral perfumes. In retrospect I realise that the key difference between the Kane sisters was that while Rose had been all brooding dark narcissism, Lily was intelligent, feisty and abundant in good nature.
Aunt Lily examined the crate with great interest; prodding the dusty cushions and wiggling her fingers in the air holes. I knew her smile was genuine because it reached her eyes. ‘This is very inventive, Sasha. But doesn’t it get stuffy in there?’
‘Yes, but it used to be cosy in winter.’
Lily held out her hand and smiled. ‘Come.’
We strolled the orchards, just the two of us. When there was a silence, she just let it be. Lily’s exquisite satin boots got grass stains on them but she didn’t care. She seemed alarmed by the sight of all the mangled, decapitated and blackened apple trees. ‘Good grief. Is this what Alain did?’
‘Yes. But he had a lot of help from his pub mates.’
Lily’s face was sad as she touched the charred trunk of an old apple tree. ‘Brendan briefly mentioned what happened. Was Alain inebriated?’
‘For sure. He got ossified after the law came looking for Rose. They told him she was under suspicion of murder and had gone missing. Nanny reckons that initially Papa refused to believe Rose had taken a lover. But the Hobart detectives told him things that changed his mind.’
Lily nodded. ‘I’m not surprised Alain didn’t believe it initially. He and Rose were the most gossiped about couple in town. Most of the time it was just mean-spirited envy. But you know, I had no idea the damage was so great.’
‘Grandpa had a fit when he saw the orchards.’
Lily studied the horizon in silence for a bit. Then she said, ‘For months your grandfather and I searched for Rose. No expense was spared and we employed professionals for the job, right around the g
lobe. Most possibilities have been exhausted but we’re still looking.’ She dropped her head and nudged a dandelion with her boot. ‘We hope she’s still alive but we’ve got no proof either way. You probably know Brendan is your legal guardian but I’ll be helping him make decisions about your future.’ She turned away and seemed fascinated by a fence post. ‘Brendan wants my womanly touch. But it’s important that you understand I won’t be replacing your mother.’
When she turned and looked at me I saw the tears in her eyes. I remained silent while she composed herself. I already liked Lily and sensed she was trustworthy.
She studied me at length. I got the impression she could see right into my brain. ‘Sasha, she wasn’t always like that you know. When Rose was younger she was . . . how can I put it? She was so embracing of life. Rose wanted to experience everything and everyone. She had razor-sharp intelligence and a wonderful sense of the ridiculous. I wish you’d known her before she became Mrs Alain Torte.’
I didn’t want to think about my mother the alleged murderess. ‘How long can you stay? Will you be living here with us?’
She smiled and her face cleared. ‘Yes. I’ll stay at Appletorte until we remedy the situation, probably for about two or three years. Then I’ll go back to Europe. You’re too grown up for a nanny now and she’s keen to retire. But don’t fret because she’ll still be in our lives. Brendan’s going to gift Nanny a lovely cottage overlooking the wharf and you’ll be able to visit her.’
I was pleased because I’d always suspected that I was the reason Nanny had delayed her retirement.
Lily lifted the latch on the paddock gate. ‘Sasha, one of the things I want to remedy is your education.’ She gazed across at the mountains. ‘I’ve been talking to Nanny and she reckons you’ve lost all interest in learning. Is that a fair comment?’
The Scandalous Life of Sasha Torte Page 8