by Peter Watt
Daniel stole a glance at the sketch Michael had shaded with a soft graphite pencil. It was a landscape sketch of the flora that covered Sydney harbour’s foreshores; spear-like stems rising up from squat tussocks, the spiky cone-like flowers of the banksia bush.
‘I thought you might sketch the harbour,’ he said in a bored voice. ‘The plants here aren’t exactly an artist’s delight.’ Daniel would have preferred to be promenading on the Manly Corso appreciating the pretty young ladies who walked in pairs coyly pretending not to notice the admiring stares of the young men who watched them. Michael glanced up from his sketch at his cousin who stood at his elbow with his coat slung over his shoulder.
‘Ahh . . . But there is beauty in the bush, Danny boy,’ he drawled. ‘You have to understand that this is not Europe. The beauty here is unique.’
‘How would you know that, Mick? You haven’t been to Europe.’
Michael nodded. ‘Well . . . That may it be,’ he replied with a frown, ‘but I have seen paintings of European landscapes. And it’s obvious they have different light and shadow. The Europeans have a certain dullness about their landscapes. We have a contrast in the vitality I can bring to my paintings with the brilliant light and colour we have here,’ he explained.
Daniel shook his head and smiled. His cousin was himself a strange contrast of light and dark; a powerful physical entity and yet, a gentle and intelligent spirit. ‘Yes, well, speaking about light, I think we are about to lose ours. If that storm catches us up here.’ Daniel noted the heavy clouds gathering as an ominous billowing wall of boiling purple-black over the stunted scrub of the distant headland that was Sydney’s harbour gateway.
Michael marvelled at the depth of hues of the storm rolling in from the south. But his cousin was right, Sydney’s summer storms were welcome, so long as you were not caught in the open. They brought cool relief to the city, washing away the refuse of the streets that harboured the seasonal epidemics of cholera and yellow fever, cleaning the air of the sickening smells of tanneries, and blowing off the coal smog of the factories for a short and pleasant time. He slipped his sketchbook into the satchel and slung the strap over his shoulder as he stood and wiped the dry moss from his trousers.
They made their way to a track leading down to Manly Village which had established its popularity as the place for day trippers to escape the rapidly expanding urban sprawl of Sydney. To reach Manly from the southern shore entailed a ferry trip which was all part of the holiday experience of visiting the pretty village which bordered both the majestic Pacific Ocean and the waters of the tranquil harbour. The steam ferry crossed the harbour from south to north and when the passengers reached Manly they could promenade along The Corso, take in a picnic in the nearby bush, pick succulent oysters from the rocks or walk on the yellow sand beaches that were buffeted by the Pacific’s majestic breakers.
By the time the two young men had reached The Corso, the storm was a low and black blanket stretched over Sydney. Michael was tempted to stop at the Steyne Hotel for a shot of rum but his less impulsive cousin warned him that the ferry would depart at 5.45 p.m. from the wharf. If they missed the ferry, they would be late getting back to the Erin Hotel and have to answer to Francis Duffy for their tardiness.
This was not a comforting thought to either as Sunday was the only day both men had away from work and they did not want to lose their day of rest by disobeying Daniel’s father. Frank Duffy had set the rules on when they should be home. His wife, Bridget, would serve a roast dinner late that evening and all were expected to be at the table when grace was said.
They walked the short distance to the jetty which was crowded with day trippers eager to catch the ferry before the storm broke. Men dressed in tight-fitting trousers, waistcoats and tall stovepipe hats carried picnic baskets for the ladies whom they escorted. The ladies wore their best crinoline dresses, wide colourful headwear and carried parasols.
The storm rolling in from the south added another dimension to the end of the day. The excited and nervous laughter of the ladies, the deeper and raucous voices of men who had imbibed port, claret or sherry on the picnic added to the festive feeling of the late afternoon. Couples and families, single men and chaperoned ladies waited with an underlying tension for the imminent fury of the Southerly Buster to unleash itself over a parched city.
The thunder and lightning were almost simultaneous, promising that the heavy and pelting rains were not far away and the waiting day trippers cast nervous glances to the south. A deep and violent boom of thunder overhead caused the jetty to vibrate as if it had been hit with a giant sledge-hammer and Michael suddenly felt his biceps gripped with such a force that he had a fleeting thought that he had been hit by lightning!
‘Oh!’ The gasp that accompanied the pain in his arm was not his and he turned to see the profile of a very beautiful and pale face with mouth agape revealing a perfect set of ivory white teeth. The beautiful young woman stared up at the boiling sky, which was lashed by jagged tridents of light, and when she turned her head her eyes, wide with fright, looked directly into his. They were emerald green and a faint memory of Ireland’s grassy fields on a summer’s day flashed through Michael’s mind. They were the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen. In stark contrast to her milky white complexion was her long raven hair which was pulled down and tightly parted. Although she was a head shorter than he, this made her tall by most standards for a woman.
‘May the angels protect you,’ he said softly to her as he gazed into her eyes with an exploring frankness. He did not know why he had used the phrase he had so often heard his Aunt Bridget utter. It just seemed appropriate for the situation.
‘Oh . . . I am sorry. I must have hurt you.’ The young woman apologised as she released her grip on his arm and he wished she had not.
‘You didn’t hurt me,’ he lied. ‘I was rather flattered that you chose my arm in your moment of distress.’ He continued to gaze into her eyes and she blushed with a giddiness when she looked into the gentle grey eyes of the stranger.
There was a strange contrast of savagery and gentleness in the rugged features and she had a momentary remembrance of how hard his muscled arm had been under the pressure of her fingers. She was also acutely aware that his presence seemed to cause an exquisite tingling in her stomach. Or was the exquisite, tingling feeling wickedly lower?
‘Fi, are you feeling well?’ A young woman’s voice broke the spell between them.
‘Yes, Penelope . . . I . . . I was just frightened by the thunder,’ she answered, without taking her eyes from his face. Michael resented the intrusion of the second woman although she was equally as beautiful and around the same age as the girl with the raven hair.
Fiona realised self-consciously that she was standing very close to the tall young man and stepped away from him. Side by side the two women were a striking contrast; Penelope had hair the colour of spun gold and a smattering of freckles over her nose. Her large eyes were a deep sapphire blue set against high cheekbones and she exuded a noticeable blatant sensuality. He could see that both young women were dressed in the finest of flowing muslin.
His appraisal was met with a frank expression from Penelope reflecting an unabashed exposition of sexual attraction. ‘If you would like I can stay with you,’ he said in a lame attempt to engage the company of Fiona for just a while longer. ‘Until the ferry arrives.’ She smiled in a way that he could see that she wanted to accept his invitation.
‘Your offer is very courteous but I think I should be with my cousin,’ she replied hesitantly. ‘But thank you for the offer, Mister . . . ?’
‘My name is Michael. Michael Duffy, Miss . . . ?’
‘. . . Macintosh. Fiona Macintosh. And this is my cousin, Miss Penelope White,’ she answered formally. Penelope smiled and nodded her head slightly as recognition of the introduction then turned her attention to Fiona.
‘Fi, we must join Granville. He is waiting for us at the end of the pier.’ She turned to the young Irishm
an. ‘If you will excuse us, Mister Duffy. I must say, however, that I am grateful for the assistance you rendered my cousin.’ With a parting and polite smile, Penelope took Fiona’s elbow and guided her through the crowd.
Michael watched them walk side by side down the jetty. They were certainly a striking pair of young ladies, he thought without taking his eyes off Fiona and was rewarded to see her turn once and glance back at him. He flashed her a beaming smile and felt a little foolish. Maybe he was leering more than smiling, he thought. Like the drunken patrons of the Erin at the voluptuous barmaids Frank Duffy tended to employ.
Daniel had observed the exchange between Michael and Fiona and although it had been fleeting, he was perceptive enough to notice their mutual attraction. Michael had been so enamoured by the beautiful young woman that he had failed to introduce him to the young ladies and Daniel felt a little annoyed at his cousin’s oversight.
‘She must be the most beautiful girl in the whole world, Dan,’ Michael said with a boyish tone of awe in his voice.
‘Shut your mouth, Mick. Or you will drown when the rain comes,’ his cousin growled lightly. ‘Beautiful she is,’ he mused as he watched the two young women walking together, ‘but I think she is not in our class. From the look of her I would say she is one of those ladies born to wealth. Probably the daughter of some big Sydney merchant or landowner.’
‘How do you know that, Danny boy?’ Michael challenged quietly. ‘She might be the child of a publican . . . Or working people like ourselves.’
Daniel pulled a pained expression at his naive optimism. ‘You only have to look at the way she is dressed, her accent. Her whole appearance says gentry,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘That’s how I know. Best you forget her.’
But Michael was not convinced that the beautiful young woman was unobtainable. So she might be high born but she was still a woman and he knew she had been attracted as much to him as he was to her. ‘Some day I am going to marry her, Daniel,’ he said quietly. ‘You watch and see.’
Daniel groaned and rolled his eyes to the sky. ‘Michael, Michael, Michael . . . It cannot happen.’
‘Yes it can, Daniel. You just watch,’ he answered with quiet determination and his grey eyes were set with the hardness of gun metal. It would not be easy! But he was sure that he and the girl with the green eyes would meet again. And how would this happen? He had already formulated a plan.
Fiona giggled as she walked away. Although it was a childish thing to do, the tension of the moment needed release. ‘Isn’t he magnificent, Penny,’ she said. ‘He is like a Greek god.’
Penelope had to agree, but she did not want to encourage her cousin in her admiration for the handsome young man. ‘He certainly is handsome, in a rough sort of Irish way. I grant you that,’ she grudgingly admitted. But there was no future in allowing one’s feelings to be drawn by such a man, Penelope thought, as her cousin prattled on with the deep sigh of a young woman in love for the very first time.
‘Oh . . . You should have seen those eyes of his,’ Fiona sighed. ‘So gentle.’ Penelope had seen those eyes, the broad shoulders and the slim waist and was duly impressed. Yes, she thought. He was like a Greek god. And she found herself imagining his hard body pressed against her own naked flesh in a sweating carnal and erotic embrace.
The thought caused her to shudder with a sensual fantasy. But she felt lust where Fiona imagined a romantic interlude. Penelope had no illusions about a man like Michael Duffy. He was extremely dangerous to women and, from his slightly scarred face, dangerous to men. Yes, she would have given much to have him naked in her bed and at her mercy. But that was unlikely as the young Irishman was not a man of their social circles. He was just another handsome Paddy from the wrong side of Sydney.
‘I feared that I may have lost you two ladies,’ Granville White said as he took Fiona’s elbow and guided her to the end of the jetty. Granville’s attention to Fiona was more than attentive. It had a touch of possessiveness about it. He held a cane picnic basket and spoke with an unmistakable educated English accent which was not surprising as he had lived all but two years of his life in England, managing the considerable family estates there. He was three years older than his sister, Penelope, and had the physical appearance of being ‘aristocratic’; pale, with a thin face and delicate hands. His eyes were blue like those of his sister and his prematurely thinning hair was a brown colour.
Ladies in the upper circles of Sydney’s gentry found him very attractive, not only for his wealth, but also for his genteel style. He had impeccable social manners and was what was termed a ‘true gentleman’ in colonial society.
‘I was frightened by the thunder,’ Fiona said. ‘But a gentleman came to my assistance to save me.’ Granville considered her explanation rather extravagant.
‘And who was this gentleman who saved you?’ he asked sarcastically. ‘Someone we know?’ He was peeved at the way she had lavished the praise on her ‘saviour’. A gentleman did not show his emotions which were the property of the common working-class Irish.
‘No, he is no one we have met before. It was that young gentleman standing over there,’ she said, turning her head to glance in Michael’s direction, and Granville followed her gaze to where a tall and broad-shouldered man stood. It was obvious that he was the one she referred to as he was intently watching her. Michael flashed her a smile when she caught his eye and she looked away shyly.
‘I am afraid the man is no gentleman by his appearances,’ Granville sniffed dismissively. ‘Probably one of those uncouth Irish navvies.’
‘He is certainly Irish,’ Penelope said with a hint of mischief in her voice. ‘But he is not uncouth. In fact, he is rather charming from what I have briefly known of him. I would even dare to say, a very attractive man.’ Granville glowered at his sister as he did not expect her to contradict his views. But it was obvious that the stranger had a certain charm about him that had infatuated both women.
‘The Irish are a brutish people loyal only to their church,’ he said with just an edge of anger. ‘You only have to read about their drunken brawling on their Saint Patrick’s Days to see how low their intelligence levels are. They are like those savage apes from Africa.’ His obvious bias against the Irish was fuelled by his desire to put down a man whom the two women found attractive. It was not natural that women born to a higher social class should be attracted by something almost animal-like in a man. Genteel ladies did not harbour carnal desires as men naturally did.
‘I think you should keep your voice down, dear brother,’ Penelope said, mocking him. ‘Or that Irish brute might hear you and give you a thrashing.’ He bristled, but did not reply to his sister’s taunt. Instead he turned to glare at the Irishman and both men locked eyes.
Michael wondered who the elegantly dressed man with Fiona was. There was no mistaking the murderous look he was giving him. He sized him up and dismissed him as no threat.
The storm broke as a rumbling growl followed by the hiss of cold raindrops on the hot surface of the jetty. The Phantom steamed into view around Middle Head and its timely arrival promised salvation from the pelting rain.
The rain lashed the usually placid blue waters into a sheet of cold grey. When the ferry steered into the main channel, it rolled and rose in the heavy swell that rushed in from the Pacific Ocean through the twin heads that guarded the harbour against the full might of the ocean’s power.
Under the canopy stretched over the ferry’s main deck, Michael and Daniel stood watching the foreshore of Manly disappear as the ferry rounded Middle Harbour and both men shivered when the wind blew a fine mist of spray under the canopy. They had been drenched to the skin waiting to board the ferry and the temperature had dropped dramatically with the arrival of the rain.
Further under the shelter, Michael propped himself against a support pole to sketch in his art book, and when he had completed the drawing he shoved his way through the close-packed passengers. Daniel had an idea where he was going. He rolled his eyes
and groaned. He was up to some crazy scheme of his own making and was only going to make a fool of himself.
‘Miss Macintosh, I have something for you.’
Fiona was startled by the voice at her shoulder and felt her heart seeming to miss a beat. ‘Oh! Mister Duffy – it’s you!’ she exclaimed.
‘I thought you might like this as a memory of today’s outing,’ Michael said, as he pressed the sketch into her hand. ‘But I’m afraid it does not capture the beauty which is naturally yours.’ There were some wrinkles in the paper where water had splashed on it but the sketch remained reasonably intact. She glanced down and caught her breath with an audible sigh. It was a remarkable portrait of herself before the rain had drenched her and, in the sketch, fluttered tiny angels and the words, ‘May the Angels Protect You – Forever.’ She considered the Irishman’s gesture as the most romantic thing that had ever happened to her in all her seventeen years and gazed up into the face of the big man standing close enough for her to feel his body heat.
‘Penny! Look at what Mister Duffy has drawn,’ she said and her cousin could not help but admire the portraiture.
‘It’s very good, Mister Duffy. Are you an artist?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘I wish I were . . . But I have a lot to learn,’ he answered modestly. ‘I hope one day to go to Europe and be enrolled in one of the great art schools.’
‘I think they might learn from you . . . if this is any example of what you can do,’ Penelope said graciously and was now very impressed by Michael Duffy who, she had originally presumed, was merely just another handsome young working-class man. But she had noted that he had an educated lilt in his voice, and the sketch Fiona clasped in her hands demonstrated his creative talent. Penelope sensed that he was an interesting juxtaposition of the creative and destructive.
‘What do you think of Mister Duffy’s portrait of Fiona?’ Penelope said, turning with a wicked smile to her brother and added, ‘Very good for someone as you previously described to us.’ Granville shifted uncomfortably at his sister’s dangerous reference to his inflammatory opinions of the Irish race and fervently prayed that she would not go further.