Becoming Billy Dare (20 page)

‘Is it someone who can help me get a job in a theatre?'

Bridie looked away. ‘No, Billy, not the theatre. We're going to see a gentlemen who can help you make a career for yourself, a powerful man in the Colony. Sir Gilbert De Quincey.'

Paddy stirred his soup, and let his hair fall across his face. Why wouldn't she accept that he wanted to be an actor? He wished he'd never told her about St Columcille's.

They travelled by tram across the city and past the Botanical Gardens to Toorak. Sir Gilbert's home was a mansion, decorated with cast-iron lacework all along its balconies and verandahs. A long gravel driveway winding through a garden full of soft, dark trees and clipped bushes led to the front door.

A maid ushered them into Sir Gilbert's study. An old man was sitting by the window, an open book in his lap. He stood up to greet them, taking Bridie's hand in his and smiling down at her with a familiarity that Paddy found bewildering. Paddy couldn't think how Bridie would be friends with someone like this.

‘Mrs Whiteley's young protege, I presume,' said Sir Gilbert turning to Paddy.

‘Billy Smith, sir.'

Sir Gilbert nodded and ordered the maid to bring tea.

‘So you'd like a position as a clerk in a law office, I believe?' said Sir Gilbert.

Paddy frowned and shot a look at Bridie.

‘No sir, I'd like to be an actor.'

Sir Gilbert laughed and turned to Bridie. ‘Another young thespian, Mrs Whiteley. I thought you said this boy was different?'

‘He is different, Sir Gilbert. He has a fine hand, can read anything and has a quick mind.'

‘Mrs Whiteley and I once knew another Billy. Billy Dare by name. An Irish lad, perhaps a bit like you. A wild reckless type. Good at pretending to be other people,' said Sir Gilbert. ‘shot a bushranger, wasn't afraid of anything. You would have liked him.'

Bridie laughed, but Paddy could see she was annoyed. Paddy had that strange feeling, as if he was on the outside looking in at the old people, as if the air was heavy with memories.

‘I was thinking, Sir Gilbert, that this Billy could be a scholar, or a man of letters, given a chance.'

Sir Gilbert frowned. ‘You're too sentimental, Mrs Whiteley. It's the great failing of the Irish. Sentimentality. You thought that rascal Eddie was a fine figure of a boy too.'

‘Eddie never had any chances, Sir Gilbert. If you recall, he was obliged to leave school at fourteen. That was the year of the crash, the year that every penny of the small inheritance his father had left him was squandered by the Imperial Bank. The bank that you advised us to place our trust in.'

Sir Gilbert coloured and his blue eyes grew bright. ‘Bridie, that is not just. You know the De Quinceys lost a great deal in the crash. You, of all people, should know what a burden Degraves placed on us all with his land deals.'

Bridie folded her hands in her lap and grew very still. The silence hung heavily in the room, and Paddy could hear the mantel clock ticking loudly in the seconds that followed.

Finally, Sir Gilbert sighed. ‘We must be patient, Mrs Whiteley. The recovery has been slow but great things are afoot. I'm only recently returned from Adelaide. We approved a federal constitution. It is only a matter of time before the colonies unite. Do you have any idea what this could mean? A federal authority governing Australia!'

It was Bridie's turn to sigh. ‘A grand prospect, I'm sure. But this is a very small thing that I'm asking of you, Gilbert.'

‘I would dearly like to be able to assist this boy, but I cannot magic a position as a clerk out of thin air.'

‘Then you must try harder,' said Bridie.

Sir Gilbert threw up his hands. 'mrs Whiteley, does your stubborn persistence know no bounds?' He turned to Paddy. ‘do you have any experience of horses? We have need of a good stable boy.'

Bridie's face fell. ‘A stable hand?' she said.

‘It's all I can offer, for the moment.'

‘It's all right, Mum,' said Paddy. ‘I don't mind. I'm good with horses.'

‘I mind,' said Bridie.

There were forces at play in this argument that Paddy didn't understand. He wished the appointment was over and they were riding the tram back into the city.

Bridie stood up and curtseyed to Sir Gilbert and suddenly her voice was stiff and formal. ‘Billy and I will discuss your offer. I appreciate you taking the time to see us, Sir Gilbert.' She gestured to Paddy and he knew it was their cue to leave.

‘Bridie …' said Sir Gilbert, his expression full of apology.

But Paddy knew the interview was over.

27
The unexpected

Three days later, Paddy picked up the paper to read to Bridie as she worked.

‘Sir Gilbert's dead,' he said, in a voice that shook with disbelief.

All the colour drained out of Bridie's face. The costume she was working on slid from her lap.

‘Read it to me,' she said.

When he'd finished, Bridie bowed her head.

‘He shouldn't have died before me,' she sobbed.

In the following days, Bridie was caught in a daze of grief. In the mornings, the lodgers came downstairs to a cold dining room and quietly grumbled to themselves before going out to find breakfast elsewhere. She even forgot the birds that gathered on her bedroom windowsill, pecking expectantly at the glass. Messengers arrived at Charity House asking why hadn't costumes been delivered. Paddy and Eddie formed an uneasy truce, each trying to deal with the lodgers and the enquiries as best they could.

The funeral was held in the big Anglican cathedral, St Paul's. Bridie wouldn't set foot inside a Protestant church, so Paddy and Eddie stood with her in the street and watched the funeral cortege go by.

A week later there was a knock on the door. A young man, very smartly dressed in a stiff white collar and dark suit, stood on the doorstep. He had a wad of papers in his hand.

‘Mr Rupert Degraves to see Mrs Thomas Whiteley,' he said. Paddy knew, without even asking, that the young man was a bearer of bad tidings.

Ten minutes later, Paddy heard Eddie and the young man arguing fiercely in the hallway.

‘Get out, damn you,' shouted Eddie. ‘How dare you march in here with your legal claptrap and threaten a vulnerable old woman. Sir Gilbert meant for Mrs Whiteley to have a home here always. They had a clear understanding.'

‘There is no paperwork to show any such “ understanding” with Mrs Whiteley. Our family never condoned a relationship that implied illegal “understandings”.'

Threateningly, Eddie stepped in close to the visitor.

‘Are you trying to imply there was something improper about my stepmother's relationship with Sir Gilbert? Because if you are …'

Rupert Degraves put his hands up in the air. ‘I don't mean any such thing. I'm sure my uncle's motives were honourable. But our family often had cause to regret his soft-heartedness, and as to Charity House, my mother is anxious, now that the property is her own, to realise its value.'

‘You mean sell it out from under Mrs Whiteley! Turn the old lady out on the street, after all these years!'

‘This is not our intention! We are giving her notice. Thirty days, in fact. Most generous, given that she's never paid more than a peppercorn rent!'

‘I'll give you bloody notice!'

Eddie pulled the front door open and shoved Rupert Degraves down the steps.

‘This is outrageous,' yelled Degraves. ‘Who do you think you are?'

‘It doesn't matter who I am. But I know who you are. I know what a blaggard your father was, and you show yourself to be every inch your father's son.'

The young man looked even more incensed. ‘After all the generosity my family has shown Mrs Whiteley, we expect to be dealt with better than this!' He straightened his jacket. ‘You'll be hearing from our solicitors. If Mrs Whiteley and all her lodgers aren't off the premises in thirty days, the police will be here to evict the lot of you.'

Eddie slammed the door shut, and suddenly all the rage flooded out of him. He slumped against the wall and ran one hand through his hair.

‘You handled him well,' said Paddy, wrestling with the problem of having to actually congratulate Eddie. ‘What a bloody bugger, wanting to throw Mum Whiteley out!'

Eddie laughed, a dark and bitter laugh. ‘And he'll succeed, you can be sure of that. He and his mother own the place now. Sir Gilbert had a sister called Charity Degraves. That snake is her son. “Charity House” – be damned.'

That night, Paddy couldn't sleep. He half expected the police to arrive at any moment and haul them all out into the street. He remembered his mother's stories of the evictions in Ireland, of families on the roadside, of ropes tied to the lintels of the house and the whole structure torn down. He tossed restlessly in his bed.

The next morning, Eddie was in the dining room by ten o'clock.

‘I hear you auditioned for Pollard's Lilliputians last year,' he said.

‘What's it matter to you?' said Paddy, pretending to busy himself with his porridge.

‘Well, Baby Pollard, he's an old mate of mine. He reckoned you might make a good actor even if you were too old for the Lilliputians.'

‘What are you getting at?'

Eddie stroked his chin thoughtfully and then pulled up a chair.

‘Look, boy. Everyone's got to clear out of here. Mum is going to need some dosh to get her started somewhere new. I reckon you and me both owe her a few bob. Ted Bowman is looking for another player for his troupe. He's already agreed to take me on, and if I put a word in his ear, he'll sign you too. We're heading up to Ballarat tomorrow. You go and see him and tell him I sent you.'

Paddy was too stunned to reply. To have to accept a job from Eddie was sickening and if he won the job, he'd be stuck travelling with Eddie for months. But to be on the open road again, away from the smoke and grime of the city, and with a proper theatre troupe – it was what he'd longed for.

Before the morning was out, Paddy was riding the tram down to the Queen's Theatre. He found Ted Bowman backstage, packing up gear for the tour.

‘Now you know, boy, a touring production needs everyone to pitch in and work. It's not like being in town. I only want lads who are hard workers, willing to turn their hand to anything and everything.'

‘I've worked with a travelling circus. I think I can turn my hand to most tasks, and I'm good with the horses.'

‘But I need players who can turn themselves to most parts too. Eddie told me you can do a fair Irish accent, is that right?'

Paddy laughed. ‘Now, you'd best be believing it! I'm as Irish as a leprechaun!' he said in his broadest brogue.

‘You can speak like an Australian too, I hope,' said Ted Bowman.

‘Lord strike me fat! I can speak like a larrikin as good as the next bloke and I'm no gutless wonder, neither. Game as a piss-ant if anyone tries to poke borak,' said Paddy, pleased with himself that he could mimic Nugget Malloy so well.

Ted Bowman laughed. ‘Well, you won't need to play the larrikin but I do need someone to take the role of the Irish policeman in
Lightning Jack
. Tom Barrens, who played it for the Melbourne season, won't leave his family behind, so a boy like yourself is just the ticket.'

‘Do I need to audition? Do you want me to recite something?'

Ted looked him up and down appraisingly. ‘No, I don't think that will be necessary. I trust Eddie's recommendation.'

Paddy couldn't believe anyone would trust Eddie for anything but he wasn't about to argue.

‘I'll pay you five shillings a week plus your board. We leave tomorrow to play Bacchus Marsh on Saturday night and then to Ballarat. Then we'll show in Geelong and after that Colac before we take the road all the way to Portland. We'll be on tour for months. Are you prepared to be away from the city for that long?'

‘I'm looking forward to being back on the track.'

‘You organise your tack and be here tomorrow morning at ten a.m. sharp. Eddie has a copy of the script, so ask him to show you your lines. You can read, can't you?'

‘Of course I can,' said Paddy.

‘And see if you can make sure Eddie is on time. Damned if I'll hold the whole troupe up for his sake.'

Paddy didn't like the sound of having to be Eddie's nursemaid, but he wasn't going to worry about that now. Walking back along Bourke Street, he wanted to shout with happiness. He grinned at every passer-by, not caring that people frowned back, puzzled by his giddy delight.

Paddy was so wrapped up in thoughts of the future that he had almost forgotten about the trouble at home. But when he turned into Atherton Road, he stopped dead in his tracks. Sitting outside Charity House was an old horse and cart, and piled up high on the back were all Bridie's possessions. A crowd of showgirls and all the lodgers were fluttering around the cart, tying pots and pans in place and fussing over Bridie, who sat on a chair that someone had placed on the footpath. She was drinking from a cup of tea that Flash Bill had brought her. Despite the air of carnival, she looked tired and defeated.

Eddie came staggering down the steps with Bridie's clothes dummy in his arms.

‘What are you doing?' demanded Paddy.

‘Moving Mum,' said Eddie.

‘But we've fixed everything,' said Paddy. ‘We've both got jobs. We can pay Rupert Degraves rent and Mum can stay.'

‘I wouldn't give him the time of day, let alone cold hard cash. Anyway, you fool, don't you realise it wasn't about money? There's bad blood, and no amount of money can make up for that. I've found the old gal a room in the city. She won't have to run after this lot,' he said, gesturing towards all the other actors, ‘and she won't have to walk so far to the theatres.'

Bridie's new lodgings were on the third floor of a dilapidated old building in Exhibition Street. They consisted of a small bedroom and a parlour where she could work. There was no proper kitchen, just a tiny sink and bench in one corner of the parlour. Bridie's pots and pans sat piled up on the floor, strangely out of place.