Tommo & Hawk (45 page)

'Tommo? Who's Tommo, then?' she asks.

'Tommo's my twin,' I reply, realising that I haven't thought of Tommo in quite a while and that I must be getting back to Bridge Street to find him.

'There's two of ya?' Maggie exclaims in astonishment. She points a finger at me. 'Ya means to tell me there's two niggers your size in town?' She throws back her pretty head and laughs. 'Crikey! And they say there ain't no Gawd in heaven!'

I explain about Tommo and Maggie's face is a study in disappointment when I tell her that he is as little and as pale as she, and a gambling man.

'There's trouble!' she comments. 'Only one thing makes more trouble than men and whores and that's men and cards. Even worse if it's little men and cards!'

'Don't I know it!' I say, looking heavenwards.

'You a gamblin' man too, Hawk?'

I shake my head.

'More I hear, the better it gets. Does ya fart in bed?'

I'm shocked, but I also have to laugh. 'Only in the fo'c'sle to kill the stink,' I reply, using one of Tommo's jokes for my own, amazed at my own boldness. I'm glad I'm black, otherwise my face would surely show as scarlet as a trooper's jacket.

Maggie grins. 'You'll keep,' she says, and takes a small mirror from her purse. Pouting her lips, she examines herself carefully in it. Then she wets the tip of her forefinger on her pink tongue and runs it across her right eyebrow, before doing the same with the other. 'Don't I look a fright!' she says, pulling a wry face.

'Why, you look perfect, Maggie Pye,' I say, trying my hand at being gallant, for Maggie Pye is much to my liking and I wish her to like me too. But then I am troubled by a nasty thought. What if she only likes me as a customer?

Maggie puts back the tiny mirror and smooths her hair with both hands, finally touching the tips of the magpie's wings. 'Time for me to attend to business, Hawk,' she smiles, glancing up at me. To my surprise, she seems a trifle shy. A silence which seems to last forever stretches between us, and then I clear my throat and manage to blurt out, 'Will I see you again, Maggie Pye?'

'Christ, I thought ya were never goin' to ask!' she replies, her face lighting up. 'Hero o' Waterloo, six o'clock t'night.'

I move to get up from my chair. 'No, don't,' she instructs. 'If ya gets up, 'ow's I gunna kiss ya?' She rises from her chair and at her full height she's only three inches taller than I am when seated. 'Six o'clock, don't be late, Maggie don't like to wait even if she's late herself, what's more than likely, life being what it is, if you knows what I means?' It all tumbles out in one breath. She gives me a kiss on the forehead. 'Tata then!' she says loudly and turns and walks out, her derriere moving like it has a life of its own.

As she saunters out, catcalls and whistles rise from the clerks and shop assistants and I am all at once angry. I rise from my seat. 'Be silent!' I shout, and bang the table with my fist so hard that the two cups of tea jump up and spill over, dribbling liquid to the floor. I see that Maggie's left a florin beside her tea cup.

As the sound of my protest dies away, the room is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Everyone has their eyes downcast, staring at their cup or plate or beer mug to avoid my gaze.

Maggie Pye whirls around at the door and puts her hands on her hips. 'You low bastards couldn't afford to pay for what the nigger's goin' to get for free!' she announces. She blows me a kiss. 'Hawk Solomon, welcome to Sydney!'

I have never felt so embarrassed in my whole life. The tea drips onto the floor and onto my boots while the clerks and shopkeepers all look up at me with their stupid grins.

Maggie swishes out of the door like a princess. I pick up her florin, and walk over to where Ma Smith is seated beside the kitchen door and pay her. 'Thank you, ma'am, the brisket was excellent and the potatoes amongst the best I've tasted,' I say softly.

'Humph!' she snorts, handing me my change. 'You'd do well to stay away from that one!' Her lips are stretched so thin I think they must snap. 'She'll take every penny you've got and more!' She looks up at me with her rheumy, red-rimmed eyes and cackles, 'Why d'ya think she's called Maggie Pye, eh? 'Cause she collects bright little valuables for her nest, that's why!'

I laugh and look down at my tattered coat and blouse, my breeches, frayed and torn at the knees, and my poor old boots. 'Thank you, ma'am, I'll take care that she doesn't diddle me out of my riches!' I bow slightly to the old crone and take my leave.

I'm feeling good as I walk out the door with all eyes upon me. It isn't natural for me to enjoy such attention and yet I do! Then the men commence to whistle and clap and laugh. 'Welcome to Sydney, Hawk Solomon!' someone shouts and I can't help grinning. I feel light-headed and wonder if at last this might be love. It seems not such a bad idea. Maggie Pye and Hawk, birds of a feather!

TOMMO

Sydney

July 1860

When Hawk asks me if I wants a cup o' tea that first morning it's the last straw. With me head hurtin' from the musket ball more than I'm willing to admit, I can think of only one way to kill the pain. I'm thirstin' for the black bottle, for half a pint of the most glorious grape, me Cape brandy, not a cup of friggin' tea!

Well, I've waited long enough for it, haven't I? Four bloody years! My tongue is hangin' out so far that my boots are fair tripping over it. So the moment I gets the chance I tells Hawk I'm off.

I walks down Bridge Street not even lookin' back to see if Hawk is following. If he tries to stop me, I swear I'll leave the bastard forever. But he lets me be and I stroll into The World Turned Upside Down pub. It's full with lunch-time drinkers from the docks and the markets. With me sore head, I'm in no humour to be among the yakking, 'baccy-smoking, beer-swilling mob. So I make me way into the saloon bar, what's nice and quiet, with only a couple of well-dressed coves having a bit of a natter in the corner.

I walk to the bar and gives the bell a good thump. Soon enough the barmaid comes through from the main bar. She ain't what you'd call young nor pretty and seems none too happy at the sight of me neither. 'Be 'appier next door, I should think?' she sniffs, indicating the main bar with a nod of her head.

'I'm fine right here, thank you, miss,' says I, then turns to the two men in the corner. 'Providin' these gentlemen don't mind?' A little bloke no bigger than me and a bit of a toff, though with the look of a weasel about him, nods friendly enough. The fat cove what's with him don't twitch an eyelid. 'Looks like I'll be stayin',' says I.

'Suit yerself,' says the snooty barmaid. 'What'cha want?'

'Brandy. A daffy o' Cape, thank you, miss.'

'A daffy?' she asks, one eyebrow raised most high and mighty.

'Fer goodness' sake, Doreen! Give the gent a nobbier of brandy and stop making trouble.' It's the little weasel bloke what speaks.

'Much obliged,' I says to him. 'Nobbier, is it?' Doreen turns on her heel and she's about to vanish into the main bar when I shouts after her, 'Nobbier of Cape, miss!'

She soon puts down a glass in front o' me. I pick it up and sniff, waiting for the smell o' the precious ambrosia to hit me nostrils. I sniff and then I sniff again. 'This ain't Cape,' I says, looking straight at her.

She shrugs her shoulders. 'It be better than Cape.'

'Thanks, miss, but it's Cape I asked for and Cape I'll have! You know, brandy what comes from the Cape o' Good Hope!' Me head feels like it's gunna explode and I push the brandy away. Next moment the little bloke's besides me. He picks up the glass and sniffs at it.

'This ain't brandy!' he exclaims and pours the glass o' spirits into the brass spittoon beside the door. 'Now get this gentleman a Cape brandy, or I'll call Mr Hodges!'

'It ain't right!' Doreen cries. 'I tries to keep the saloon bar nice for the better class o' person like you and ye friends.' She sniffs and looks directly at me. 'Mr Hodges don't like it when the hobbledehoys comes in the saloon bar!'

Christ Jesus, I thinks, what is this? Ain't I ever gunna get a drink? If I had my axe with me I'd know exactly what to do with Doreen's saloon bar.

Anyway off she flounces and the little cove pats me on the shoulder. 'You'll get your brandy now, matey.' Then he sticks out his hand. 'Art Sparrow.' I take his hand a bit reluctant-like, for I don't want no company. I catch sight of the ring he's wearin' what sports a diamond the size o' me pinkie nail. Then he withdraws his hand and there, 'tween forefinger and next, is a small white card. 'My card,' he smiles, bowing his head.

It's a neat piece o' palming, not difficult mind, but nicely done. I take the card and read it, thankful that Hawk made me take up learnin' again at sea. It's very fancy lookin'.

F. Artie Sparrow Esq.

Special Arrangements

of a Sporting Nature

The World Turned Upside Down

Bridge Street, Sydney

I dunno what makes me do what I do next, but I hold his card up, close me hand over it, and then open it again. Where his card was, I now holds the ace o' spades.

'Well I never!' he exclaims. 'Use the flats, then, does you?'

'Some,' I reply.

He glances down at the playing card then he sticks out his hand again. 'How do you do, Mr Ace O' Spades?'

I don't feel much like smiling but it's clever enough said, so I oblige. 'Pleased to meetcha, Mr Art Sparrow,' I says, though me greatest pleasure would be for him to go away and leave me in peace.

'My friends calls me Mr Sparrow, and me enemies . . .' he pauses a moment and points to his card. 'Well, I'll leave that to yer imagination!' I looks at his name on the card again, F. Artie Sparrow. 'Frederick Arthur Sparrow,' the little cove says. 'I most sincerely hopes we can be friends and you'll call me Mr Sparrow?'

'Thank you, Mr Sparrow,' I says, though it's hard now not to think of him as Fartie Sparrow. I know a mag artist when I see one. But I think it best to humour him a while. Otherwise, he might see that Doreen here, or even Mr Hodges, sends me on me way without a drink.

'I ain't given you my proper name yet, Mr Sparrow,' I says.

He throws up his hands in alarm. 'No, no, don't! Leave it be, my dear. Ace O' Spades is a grand name for a young Irishman who plays the flats.' He cocks his head. 'That is, if you can play sufficient well to earn it as ye handle?'

Before I can tell him I ain't Irish, Doreen brings in my brandy and I goes to pay her.

'No, no, my dear - my stand,' Mr Sparrow insists. 'Make that two more. We have to celebrate Mr Ace O' Spades arrival in Sydney!'

'Cape again?' Doreen asks him.

Mr Sparrow grins. 'Now don't you be cheeky, my dear. It's finest cognac for me and rum for Fat Fred over there as you know well enough.' He nods to the corner. 'Bring your poison, Mr Ace O' Spades, and come over and meet Mr Fred. Perhaps you fancy a hand or two of poker? What say we play fer drinks, eh?'

'Much obliged, Mr Sparrow, but if you don't mind I won't today.' I points to the brandy in front o' me. 'I come in here to get a few drinks in me, and that is what I intends to do.'

'A misfortune or a celebration, my dear?' he asks, not in the least put down by me knocking back his offer. 'Celebration or misfortune, which is it then?' he repeats.

My head is aching so much I can't hardly remember why it is I wants to get drunk. Is it to mourn me beloved Makareta or am I wetting the head of me new baby daughter? I don't even know where the poor little mite is. Perhaps it's about coming to Australia, or perhaps none o' them things?

'Sort o' both, I suppose,' I replies. 'I'm best left on me own at the moment.'

Doreen brings Mr Sparrow's brandy and takes the other tipple over to Fat Fred. He's a hugely fat man with a very red face what has several spare cheeks and a spirit drinker's knobbly nose. I reckon he's about forty years of age and Mr Sparrow near enough the same. Fat Fred has his elbows on the small table in front o' him and his chins cupped in his hands, so that the flesh spills out the side most handsome. When Doreen puts down his rum, he makes no sign he's seen her, his piggy-eyed expression of darkest gloom unchanged.

'Cheerio, then!' Mr Sparrow throws back his head and swallows his drink in one go. With nary a glance in his direction, Fat Fred in the corner does the same, to the exact second, so that they bang down their empty glasses with a single sound.

Meanwhile all I has done is lift me glass and bring it close under me nose. The sharp fumes rises to my nostrils like an ancient memory. I close my eyes a moment. Then I takes a sip and damn near faints. The Cape hits me like a red hot poker down me throat. 'Bloody hell!' I gasp.

'What's the matter, lad?' Mr Sparrow asks most concerned, thumping me back as I choke and splutter. 'Doreen!' he cries. 'What's she done to yer brandy then?'

My eyes is watering and I can't hardly speak. 'Nothing's been done!' I croak. 'It's bloody delicious! But it's been a long time between drinks.'

'Oh dearie me!' he laughs. 'Whaleman, are yer?'

'I was.' I knuckle the tears from me eyes. The brandy is warming my stomach something wonderful.

'Harrington Arms be the pub for whalemen,' says Doreen, who's popped up from nowhere. 'T'ain't far from 'ere!'

'Right,' I say, taking another small sip. 'But I ain't a whaleman no more and intends to be a gentleman, if that be all right with you then, miss?' All it takes is a single sip o' the glorious grape and Tommo is back to his old self.

'Course you aren't a whaleman no more, it's plain for all to see you're a gentleman,' Mr Sparrow glowers at Doreen.

'It is, is it?' I grins. 'Could've fooled me!'

Doreen gives a 'Hmmph!' and stamps off again.

Mr Sparrow smiles. 'I like a man with a nasty sense of humour. And it's good to see you enjoy your brandy!'

I take another sip o' the blessed Cape. 'I'll be fine now, thanks. It's been a pleasure to meet you, Mr Sparrow, but I'd best keep to meself.'

Mr Sparrow looks at me with sympathy. 'Naturally, after all yer time at sea, you'll want to fully savour yer drink.' Suddenly his voice grows hard. 'But may I remind you, sir, it's your turn to stand a round.' He's smiling, but this time it's different and I sees the weasel again. 'Wouldn't do to neglect your stand, now would it?'