Beneath the Southern Cross (17 page)

As time passed, however, the bets grew bigger and the risks grew greater and the money slowly dwindled. So he raised the rental on the cottage—without telling Dotty of course—and that helped for awhile, but the inevitable day came when the tin box was close to empty. No need to panic, he told himself, he'd win it back. One day you're up, the next you're down, life's like that.

Credit with the bookies was easy. Paddy was known to them as a heavy gambler, and he had property as a guarantee. Sometimes he won and paid off a debt. More often he lost, and borrowed from one source to pay back another, until eventually he owed money everywhere. And then came the run of bad luck. Not a horse, not a poker hand, not even a friendly wager seemed to go his way, and the bookies began to get demanding.

It was late one Friday night when Cocky Shaw approached him at the bar of the Lord Nelson. The pub was crowded, but most of Paddy's mates had left an hour or so previously to take their pay
packets home to their families. He knew he should leave too, but he was staving off the moment. It was the second week in a row he would have to go home without a pay packet. On a number of occasions, when he'd had only a few pounds to give Dotty, he'd told her work had been slow that week. He'd stood in a queue with the others, for hours and hours, he swore, then they'd all said what the hell and gone to the pub for an ale. It had happened three days in a row, he said, but he hadn't had the heart to tell her.

‘Never mind, love,' Dotty had said, ‘there's the rent from the cottage, we'll manage, we're better off than most.'

Thank God, Paddy thought, that he'd never touched the money from the cottage. He'd been tempted at times, but religiously he'd stuck to his Saturday routine. Perhaps he could tell her he'd lost his pay packet, but that was the excuse he'd used in the bad old days and she'd know for sure he was lying.

‘Paddy me old mate.' It was Cocky Shaw in his trademark derby hat.

‘Evening, Cocky.'

‘Got a little job for you. Interested?'

‘I might be, Cocky, yes, I might be.' Paddy's spirits lifted. Cocky paid good money.

‘Good lad.' Cocky winked and jabbed a thumb in the direction of the door at the side of the bar. ‘Let's go out the back, eh? Bit crowded in 'ere.' Cocky never discussed business in public.

Cocky Shaw was a well-known figure around Sydney, with a finger in every pie. A middle man for many a shady deal, no-one ever knew who hisemployers were, which was why he was in such constant demand. They paid for his discretion.

Paddy followed the cockney through the back room of the pub. A stroke of luck this was, he told himself. Saved in the nick of time. He wondered briefly what the job was, not that it mattered of course, when a man was as desperate as he was. He followed Cocky into the lane at the back. Whatever it was he'd do it, so long as it wasn't violent of course. Paddy wouldn't be in any of that standover business.

Agiant fist smashed into his face and he felt the sickening crunch of broken cartilage. Simultaneously, two men, one on either side, pinioned his arms behind him.

Paddy roared and fought back, swinging his shoulders from side
to side with such force that the men were thrown off balance.

‘That's enough, Paddy me lad. We don't want you hurting yourself.'

There was a knife at his throat. Paddy could feel the point of the blade tucked tightly under hischin. He could feel the gentle trickle of blood as it wound its way down his neck. He stopped struggling and peered through the gloom at his attackers.

He didn't think he knew the big man who held the knife, although even at this close range, through the darkness and his already swelling eyes, it was difficult to tell. And he daren't turn his head to look at the others who held him—one move and his throat would be slit. But he could easily make out Cocky Shaw, arms folded, legs astride, silhouetted against the hazy light of the gas lampwhich reached them from the end of the lane.

‘That's better,' Cocky said when Paddy stopped struggling. ‘Now you mustn't take this personally, me old mate. There'll be many a timewe'll do business again, I'm sure. Once you've cleared up your present predicament, that is. But you've got yourself in a bit of strife at the moment, and I'm here to remind you that there are people who need to be paid. You understand me, don't you?'

With a blink of his eyes Paddy acknowledged that he did.

‘That's good, that's good,' Cocky nodded approvingly, ‘we understand each other. My instructions, however, are to ensure that you understand fully the seriousness of your situation. So that's what the boys are here for. Nothing personal, you understand.' He gestured to the man with the knife. ‘Nothing personal at all, Paddy me old mate.'

The knife disappeared and in the same instant a fist of iron rammed itself into Paddy's solar plexus. His breath exploded and with a rasping grunt he crumpled to his knees, the two men dropping beside him, keeping his armspinned behind.

As he gasped through aching lungs, his head bowed to the ground, all Paddy could think of was the force of the blow. No fist was built like that, there was metal around those knuckles. Then the knife was back in position, forcing his head up.

‘Now, these people who need to be paid,' the cockney waited a few seconds for Paddy to regain his breath, ‘they want their money, with interest, and they want it now. You understand me?'

The knife was again drawing blood, and Paddy didn't dare nod, but again he blinked.

‘Good, that's good. These people are aware that you have property, and they are willing to wait until you sell that property, but they expect you to sell that property immediately. And if these people find that that property is not on the market first thing Monday morning, then it won't be just a little lesson like this you'll be copping, do you get mydrift?'

Paddy blinked again.

‘Good, good, that's good. Well, we'll leave you with another little reminder.' He nodded to the men before assuring Paddy, ‘Just my instructions, Paddy, you understand, nothing personal.' Then to the men: ‘Leave him enough strength to get home, boys. We don't want him lying in the street all night.'

The knife disappeared once again and the metal fist slammed into hisribs. The men released his arms and Paddy fell on his side. Then the boots came in. Dozens it seemed, raining merciless blows from every direction. Paddy didn't even attempt to fight; he covered his head and curled into a ball, and that was all he remembered.

It was nearly dawn when he regained consciousness. He staggered down the laneway and into the street. The sparrow starvers were at work already, and the market gardeners were arriving to set up their kerbside stalls, but no-one took any notice of Paddy. Casualties of drunken brawls were commonplace in the Rocks, even at this hour of the morning.

The ten-minute walk to Woolloomooloo seemed to take forever but finally he was home. Dotty was in her nightdress, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea. She hadn't been able to sleep for worry. Not once had she felt anger, not once had it occurred to her that Paddy might be out on the drink, scoffing back his wages. Paddy didn't do that any more. But when he staggered through the door that was the first thing she thought—Paddy'son the rum again—and her heart sank. Then she saw his face.

‘Oh dear God!' She sat him at the table and fetched a bowl of warm water, a cloth and the disinfectant.

‘I'm sorry, Dotty,' he mumbled, ‘I'm sorry, I'm sorry …'

‘Don't talk,' she said as she bathed his face. ‘Don't talk, you can tell me about it later.'

He did. That same day, after he'd slept, lying on the bed, his cracked ribs aching, he told her everything. And then he waited for the diatribe. There was no holding Dotty back when she was angry.

But Dottie was strangely quiet. Eventually she said, ‘Well, you'll have to sell the cottage.' When he shook his head, she felt a surge of irritation. ‘Of course you'll sell the cottage, Paddy,' she snapped. ‘Either that or you'll be dead, and a dead husband's no good to me.'

Dotty was irritated but she was not angry. She was weary, weary with disappointment. These last years of blissful, unquestioning happiness had been a lie. Every single day he had lied to her. She would have liked to have cried, that would have been a relief, but she couldn't, she was too disappointed to cry.

Paddy sold the cottage. There was no trouble in getting a buyer, it was snapped up on the very first day. The real estate man said he'd got a good price too, which was a relief to Paddy who wouldn't have had a clue as to the value of the property.

He did everything else that Dotty instructed him to do. After he'd paid back the bookies, he deposited the two hundred pounds left over from the sale in the Standard Bank of Australia. Then he gave her the deposit book. Between the bank and Dotty's governing hand, their future would be secure. The money was never to be touched, she said, it was to remain in the bank, their nest egg, to be called upon only in a case of dire emergency.

Meekly, Paddy agreed to everything. Time and again he told Dotty he was sorry. And he was. He felt sick with contrition. Something had gone from their marriage and it was all his fault. He would give anything to see the trust once more in her eyes and to hear her say, ‘It's all right, love, we'll manage, we're better off than most.' But she didn't.

 

Charles Kendle was pleased with his latest acquisition. Not because the cottage in Windmill Street had once belonged to his great-grandfather—he couldn't have cared less about that—but because Paddy O'Shea had been taught a lesson, and a long-overdue lesson it was, in Charles's opinion. He'd seen Paddy from time to time, strutting about in his vulgar new clothes, and the sight of the man's cockiness and new-found affluence had been irksome.

Upon the discovery, through Cocky Shaw, that Paddy O'Shea was deeply in debt with the bookies, it had been simple enough to make use of the cockney's services. Charles had had a number of dealings with Cocky over the years. An unpleasant little man, but a useful one.

Charles had wondered why the bookies hadn't called their debts in earlier, but Cocky had assured him that they were prepared to let Paddy get in a bit deeper, knowing that his cottage was worth atidy sum.

In his opinion, Charles, by employing Cocky and his heavies, had done a favour for a number of people, all of whom should be grateful to him. The bookies had received their payment; the real estate agent, in doubling his percentage at Charles's suggestion, had made a very good deal; and Charles himself had acquired a nice little property at far less than its market value. The most pleasing part of the exercise, of course, was the blow dealt to Paddy O'Shea; the only disappointment being that the man didn't know by whom, though it was probably safer that way.

Having told the real estate agent to put the cottage up for rent, Charles promptly forgot he owned the place. But one Saturday morning, when he was alone in the breakfast room, his sister Anne tentatively approached him about it.

‘I believe you have purchased Hannah's cottage, Charles,' she said.

‘How did you know that?' Charles was irritated. He didn't like anyone knowing his business.

‘Amy told me.'

His irritation turned to anger. He would have to have words with his wife. Her loose tongue had caused trouble in the past. ‘So what of it, Anne? Of what interest is it to you?'

‘She says you are going to lease the cottage.'

‘It is in the hands of the agent, yes.'

She could sense his annoyance and it made her nervous. Nevertheless she soldiered on. ‘I should very much like to apply for tenancy.'

Charles was shocked. Deeply shocked. Though he tried not to show it. ‘I see.' He rose and crossed to the servery where he poured himself a cup of tea from the large silver teapot. ‘You wish to
renounce my care and support,' he said, his back to her, ‘after all these years.'

‘It is not that I am ungrateful, Charles,' she insisted. ‘Believe me, Iam fully aware of how deeply indebted I am to you and I shall always be thankful for your generosity.'

He returned to his seat at the head of the breakfast table, but did not invite her to join him.

Anne steeled herself to continue. ‘In six months time I shall be fifty years of age, and I wish for some solitude in my declining years.'

He sat, cup and saucer in hand, sipping his tea in silence.

‘Your children have been grown up for a number of years now; indeed, little Susan is to be married in six months, so she certainly has no further need of me. I feel I serve no purpose here, Charles, and I should like to have a house of my own.' There. She had said her piece.

Charles looked her up and down. Feet tidily together, the toes of her highly polished shoes pointed neatly from beneath the hem of her long-sleeved brown dress with its high chokered collar. Anne was always dressed insome shade of brown. A deep brown, or a tan, or a mustardy beige, but always brown, the colours of the earth, as if she wanted to sink into the ground and disappear completely. It was a pity really, Charles thought. In her quiet way, with a little added colour here and there, his sister could have been an attractive woman.

‘Sit down, Anne,' he said. ‘Sit down, please.' His voice was kindly enough and she did as she was told. ‘You are wrong, my dear, very wrong. You are much needed in this house. What would Father do without you? For the past five years, James Kendle, now in his dotage, had lived at Kendle Lodge. His body frail, his mind wandering, James was completely dependent upon his son, rarely leaving his upstairs rooms.

It was the argument Anne had known her brother would present, and she was ready for it. ‘I have spoken at length with Father and he is in agreement. Besides, he knows I will visithim here daily.'

The old fool, Charles thought. James Kendle's mind was so addled he'd agree to anything. ‘I see,' he said thoughtfully. ‘And why the cottage in Windmill Street?'