Tommo & Hawk (71 page)

Mary strings all these reasons together, like if she can find enough of them we'll be convinced. But she don't go down on her knees like she says. I don't reckon Mary would go down on her knees for the Almighty Himself. She might make Him Sunday dinner, second helpings and all, but that's about as far as she'd go. In me head, I hears her putting Him in His place.

'Help yourself, Gawd, plenty o' mutton left, gravy and onions. Here, have another tater. Bleedin' cold up the mountain, ain't it? Soon be warm in here, that's a red-gum log in the hearth since mornin'. Soon warm the cockles of your heart.'

Then God says we ought to give thanks for our blessings before we tucks in.

'Hang about!' says Mary. 'Thanks to who? Who done all the bleedin' cooking then?'

'Well, you did, my dear,' the Almighty says. 'And very nice too. Nobody does them little onions in gravy like you.'

'Well then,' says Mary with one of her sniffs, wiping her hands on her pinny. 'Anyone going to give blessings 'round here can bleeding well thank me. And I don't need no thanks neither, thank you very much! Go on, tuck in and don't be so high and mighty!'

'Quite right, m'dear,' says the Father of Heaven. 'Couldn't have put it better myself. Would another slice o' mutton be out o' the question, do you think? Splendid! Pass the gravy please, Tommo.'

Afterwards God always says thank you most polite to Mary, in case He don't get invited back.

Now here's Mary, who ain't afraid of God Himself, saying she'll go down on her knees for us to come back. She won't, but even for her to say it is quite something, for she's the proudest person I've ever known.

'Mama, I love you, we both love you,' Hawk says softly, glancing at me. 'But I will not come home without Tommo and Maggie, and I will not come on Sunday without her either.'

Mary sighs. 'All right, then. I'll set the table for four. Don't be late. I've spoke to the cook, leg o' mutton be ready one o'clock sharp!' Then she manages a smile. 'Where d'you reckon I'll get them little onions around here?'

*

Mary may have given in but our first family Sunday dinner looks like it ain't gunna be the most pleasant gathering ever. We're all in the saloon bar of the Hero. God's definitely missing, Mary's looking down her nose at Maggie and Maggie's scared to death about the whole thing. It all starts to come apart while we're still having our drinks before dinner. Mary's having a lemonade and Hawk a beer, me a Cape brandy and Maggie a double o' gin for Dutch courage. I've come to realise that Maggie ain't in fact a big drinker. She can nurse a single gin an hour or two and often she'll make it look like she's tippling by arranging with the bar for them to give her plain water instead.

Maggie's wearing a plain black dress made of what she calls bombasine, buttoned up to the neck. All the same, it's fitted tight to the waist and shows off what's hers to show up top. It's her hat what's the problem though. She's wearing a black bonnet - 'cept it's been fitted with a birdcage, like they sells down at the markets to keep your songbird or canary in. Maggie's got a young magpie in hers, and it's chirping and jumping and bumping against the wires, shitting everywhere. It clearly ain't too happy about it all.

Hawk, o' course, don't notice anything's wrong. He probably thinks his little magpie is very clever, but Maggie should've known better than to wear this trumped-up bonnet today of all days. It's all show, I reckons - she's frightened and this be her way of pretending she ain't. Maggie don't take no lip from no one but I reckon she were expecting a heap from Mary. She's done the magpie deliberate so's to get it all over with.

Now Maggie don't know it, but Mary has a special love for birds. She just about worships them green parakeets, and she can't abide birds being kept in cages. She once spent time in the dungeons of Newgate Gaol in a cage of whores, and she reckons that's exactly what a birdcage must be like for a little winged creature what's born to fly free.

'Stupid girl!' I hear Mary muttering under her breath when Maggie's back is turned. But she don't say no more and we goes into the dining room. Mary's already been into the pub kitchen to make sure the cook's done the leg o' mutton to her liking. Now she says that she don't trust him with the gravy and must make it herself. 'Them little pearly onions must be cooked just right - simmered in gravy made with the dripping from the roasting dish - just the way my boys like them.'

While she's away seeing to the gravy, Maggie downs another double o' gin. Hawk don't say nothing and I ain't game! By the time Mary returns, with the cook carrying in a monster leg of mutton and her behind him with a large gravy boat, Maggie's three sheets to the wind. During the dinner she giggles and snorts and whispers into Hawk's ear, making a terrible mess of her plate. There are drops of gravy splashed all over Mary's white tablecloth. Mama's forehead is as furrowed as a new-ploughed hill paddock and things definitely ain't going too good.

'Oops! Pardonnez-moi!' Maggie giggles in the Frenchy lingo as she spears at one o' the little gravy onions and it shoots off into Mary's lap. Mary stays stum and picks up the onion and puts it to the side of her plate. She's wearing white gloves to conceal her poor hands and now the finger and thumb's got a big, brown blotch on the tips.

But Maggie don't quieten down even at this. She's got the giggles again and stabs at the next onion on her plate. This time the whole plate wobbles, spilling more gravy. Two sprouts roll off and half a dozen little onions merrily follows across the tablecloth.

'Shit!' says Maggie, not speaking the French no more.

Hawk too is now scowling. Perhaps it's 'cause I'm anxious for him and Maggie but I'm pissing meself with laughter inside, and trying not to show it. A shame God ain't been invited. He'd get an almighty laugh from what's happening.

Maggie becomes aware there's silence all about her. 'What's wrong with yiz all?' she asks suddenly, jamming the handles of her knife and fork down on the table. 'It ain't my fault them stupid little onions ain't growed up yet! How's I supposed to eat them, the slippery little fuckers?'

I can't hold me laughter in no more and I bursts out and Maggie with me. She's shakin' her head up and down and the bloody magpie is chirping and fluttering and there's feathers floating down onto the table. Then the door to the cage flies open and out jumps the little magpie, straight into the gravy boat, landing in gravy up to its neck.

Out steps the birdy into the middle of the table and shakes itself like birds do after a bath. There's bloody gravy everywhere and Mary's face is spotted - it looks like she's got a bad case o' brown chickenpox! The bird tries to fly away, but it must have got gravy in its eyes or something, 'cause it's banging into everything. Maggie says, 'Oops! Pardonnez-moi!' again then gets the hiccups. We both goes after the flamin' magpie but we's laughing so much, we falls over each other, and the bird escapes our clutches. It's still flying about, leaving splotches o' gravy on the walls and everywhere. Finally I catches it, opens the window, and lets it go. Off it flies, dropping globs o' Mary's best gravy as it leaves. Maggie runs to the open window and yells after it, 'Come back, ya forgot the bloody onions!'

Then she turns and sees Hawk's face and her bottom lip begins to tremble. She reaches up and pulls off the bonnet with its empty cage and throws it to the floor. 'Oh, oh, oh!' she sobs and slides down, with her back against the wall. She starts to howl, her head between her knees.

Mary bangs her fist against the table so that everything rattles. 'She's a whore!' she screams at Hawk. Our mama ain't wiped the gravy from her face and it's gone pale with rage. The scar down her cheek be bright purple, and her beautiful green eyes is on fire.

There follows complete silence, 'cept for Maggie's crying. Slowly, Hawk gets up and walks over to Maggie. He takes her gently under her arms and lifts her to her feet. Then he swings her up so that she's got her arms about his neck and is sobbing into his chest. He turns to Mary. 'Perhaps she is, Mama,' he says quietly, 'but she's mine and I love her.' He carries Maggie out of the room, out of the pub, and down the street towards the Argyle Cut as I watches from the window.

Back in the room, Mary's still sitting like she's got the headmaster's cane stuck down the back of her black dress. I can't see her expression 'cause she's got her back turned to me.

'Mama,' I says, trembling in me boots as I does so, 'Maggie's a nice girl, truly. She don't drink much as a rule. She were scared, that's all, and took a drop too much.' I go to sit in my chair, though I feels like running away - scarpering out o' there like Hawk and Maggie. I looks up to meet Mary's eyes and, to me surprise, she's smiling!

'Hawk's got himself a good un, Tommo. Lots o' gumption, that Maggie, ain't scared o' life like most. Bit narrow in the hips though. Birthing won't be no picnic, but we'll get a good midwife to attend.' Mary's laughing now. 'Mr Harris says she's got a good head on her shoulders, owns her own chophouse and the building it's in.' She's laughing while she wipes the gravy from her face. 'A bit headstrong, mind, she'll need a bit o' straightening out, but I reckon she'll get there.'

'Mama, Maggie ain't easy to push around,' I say, starting to like Mary for the first time.

'Hmmph! I daresay we'll learn to live with her and her with us.' Mary dabs the napkin to her lips then folds it carefully and puts it on the table. Her eyes fill with tears as she looks at me. 'Tommo, please come back to Mama? Come home, lovey?'

'Mama, I ain't no good for you!'

'Oh no!' she protests. 'You're good enough for the likes o' me, son. I weren't an angel myself!' Her eyes glisten with tears though she tries to smile. 'Ha! Fancy me, Mary bleedin' Abacus, calling Hawk's Maggie a whore. Me what's been the very same. That's funny, that is, me the respectable one!' Then she stops and clears her throat.

'I know about the opium, Tommo,' she says, very quiet.

I'm shocked. 'Who told ya?' I asks, tryin' to look like I don't feel guilty.

'Hawk. He made it a condition.'

'Condition?'

'Well, a condition if you were going to come back. Him too. If ever you was to come back, I'd have to accept that you're . . .' she thinks a moment, trying to find another way to say it, but Mary can't not call a spade a bloody shovel, 'addicted to the poppy.' Then she adds quickly, 'He told me about your wound, I mean, how it gives you great pain and you need the opium.'

'Mama, I told you I was no good,' I says. 'But Hawk ain't got no right to be telling you about the opium!'

Mary sighs. 'Tommo, he had to tell me. He won't come back 'less you do, he's said that to me, time and again since I been here. He's told me that if you two was ever to come back it would have to be on your terms, you'd have to agree and me too.' Mary smoothes the tablecloth in front of her with both hands. 'Well I do, I agree.' She looks into me eyes.

'Mama, how long would it last? I can't work in the brewery, I ain't the type. I'm a gambler, cards is me life.'

Mary reaches over and pats me hand, then leaves her hand covering mine. I look at them together, mine all mangled from the wilderness, hers from the bad things what happened at the docks.

'Tommo, I ain't goin' to judge you,' she says, giving a bitter little laugh. 'Me, judge? I ain't got no bleedin' right, have I? I was addicted meself to the stuff once. Opium and a few other things what I don't care to talk about.' Her voice is very soft now. 'I love you for what you is, Tommo Solomon. What I done after you come back from the wilderness were wrong and I beg your forgiveness! But I never stopped loving you.' The tears are rolling down her cheek and I feel a lump in me own throat. 'Never for one moment, through all the dark years, did I ever stop loving you. "Tommo'll come back," I'd say to myself every morning as I woke and every night before I closed my eyes. And wherever you was, I'd always say, "Good night, Tommo. Mary loves you, darling."'

'Oh Mama!' I bursts into tears. I can't help it, it's like a dam in me's just burst and I can't hold back the flood. All the loneliness of the wilderness comes back - the cold, the beatings, what the timber getters done to me when I were a little brat. I blubs and blubs and Mary rises from her chair and comes t' hold me. Then she starts to cry and the pair of us is howling and hugging and I'm seven years old again and Mary's got me in her lap and I'm safe, Tommo's safe again.

Mary orders a bottle of Cape brandy for me and I has a drink as she begins to talk. It's like it's all been bottled up in her as well. We already knows from her letters that things were bad 'tween her and David and Hannah. But now Mary pours it all out like she wants me to hear it straight.

It seems old man Madden, what's now married Hannah, is stricken with the gout and crippled with arthritis, so he spends all his days in bed or in a bath chair. Hannah and David has took over his timber and wheat-milling business, with David proving a sharp businessman. It ain't long before he and Hannah sees their chance to make things difficult for mama by making it hard for her to get her supply o' brewing hops.

New Norfolk, where David and Hannah lives, be the best climate for the growing of hops and they buy up land and plant hops. They also purchase in advance, at guaranteed prices per bushel, the crops of all the other hop growers. They even gain control of all hops imported from New South Wales and Victoria. Soon Hannah and David have got a monopoly and Mary can't get her hops from nowhere 'less she imports 'em from England and sometimes from Cape Town, what's both unreliable and expensive.

Then David does nearly the same thing with Mary's supply o' glass by buying into the Tasmanian Bottle Co. Now Mama can only obtain her bottles from Melbourne, what adds greatly to their cost. He's even building his own brewery in Launceston to compete with her.

Mary tells me all this and shrugs. 'I've only got one pair of hands and none what I can trust or ask for advice 'cept Mr Emmett. I need my boys to come home. Hawk tells me you got a quick mind, Tommo.'

Well, o' course I'm pleased by this as well as worried for her. 'But Hawk says Mr Emmett's always helped you lots, Mama? Can't he keep an eye on David and Hannah? See what they's up to?'