Cockney voice called from above, ‘the lad won without landing a single punch.’ Ma Tebbutt leant her considerable bulk out of the window and gave Mick another round of applause. ‘Come on up here, boy. Show him the way, Len, and you Billy,’ she gestured to the other man, ‘you see to Evie. She copped a blow that’d down a mule.’
Mick did as he was told. Shouldering his kitbag, he accompanied Len, a beefy, taciturn Englishman, back into the pub and up the narrow staircase, which led directly to Ma Tebbutt’s quarters.
She ushered him in, eyeing him up and down, apparently liking what she saw. ‘Thanks, Len,’ she said.
The Englishman closed the door and disappeared without having uttered a single word.
‘You handle yourself well, lad.’ Ma carefully lowered her body into her favourite armchair, which sat beside the table in the centre of the room.
‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Mick nodded amiably and looked about at his surrounds.
He was in a cosy sitting room that smelt of whale oil and pipe tobacco, which was not surprising as a clay pipe and tobacco pouch rested in a bowl next to the oil lamp on the table. There was a door to one side, which he presumed led to a bedroom, for the woman was clearly infirm and unlikely to travel up and down the steep staircase with ease. He further presumed, and correctly so, that the other rooms leading off from the passage outside were reserved for the girls and their clients.
As if in verification, there was the sudden clump of boots on the landing, followed shortly by a girlish giggle and the slam of a door further down the hall.
‘What’s your name?’
He quickly returned his attention to the woman who was studying him intently. He hoped he hadn’t appeared rude, but it was a habit of his to vet any new location, just in case he should need to beat a hasty retreat.
‘Michael Patrick O’Callaghan, ma’am,’ he said respectfully. ‘They call me Mick.’
Ma nodded and introduced herself. ‘Margaret May Tebbutt,’ she said with a welcoming salute of her arthritic right hand. It so galled Ma that she could no longer shake hands with the strength of a man as she once had that these days she refused to shake hands at all. ‘They call me Ma.’
‘Pleased to meet you, ma’am.’ Mick returned a salute of his own.
‘Ma,’ she corrected him.
‘Ma,’ he said with a smile.
Handsome bugger, she thought. ‘What do you do for a crust?’
‘Nothing yet. I just arrived in town.’
Ma did not ask ‘from where’. A person’s background was never queried in Wapping. But she couldn’t help making the wry observation that if the lad was fresh from the penal settlement at Port Arthur, then he’d certainly managed to outfit himself well. Mine not to question how or why though, she told herself.
‘If you’re after a spot of work, I could put some your way. Enough to tide you over until you get yourself settled. Not much money, mind, just expenses, but board and lodging, what do you say?’ As always, Ma got straight to the point.
‘I say yes.’ Mick grinned, unable to believe his good fortune. ‘I say yes, indeed.’
‘I rather thought you might,’ she replied drily. ‘The luck of the Irish, eh? You lot with your gift of the gab, you always land on your feet.’
He wiped the grin from his face – it seemed he was being chastised – but Ma was quick to reassure him otherwise.
‘No cause for alarm, son: I cater to the Paddies. Big drinkers, big womanisers – they’re my favourite clientele. Half my girls are Irish too. Fancy a tot of rum?’
Mick nodded. Ma Tebbutt’s disability was physical only; her mind moved with extraordinary agility.
‘The dresser over there, bring us the bottle and a couple of mugs, there’s a good lad.’
He dutifully fetched the earthenware bottle, pulled out its stopper and placed it on the table before her together with two pewter mugs.
‘Grab a seat.’ She indicated the hardback chair in the corner by the desk,
Mick did as he was told. Shouldering his kitbag, he accompanied Len, a beefy, taciturn Englishman, back into the pub and up the narrow staircase, which led directly to Ma Tebbutt’s quarters.
She ushered him in, eyeing him up and down, apparently liking what she saw. ‘Thanks, Len,’ she said.
The Englishman closed the door and disappeared without having uttered a single word.
‘You handle yourself well, lad.’ Ma carefully lowered her body into her favourite armchair, which sat beside the table in the centre of the room.
‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Mick nodded amiably and looked about at his surrounds.
He was in a cosy sitting room that smelt of whale oil and pipe tobacco, which was not surprising as a clay pipe and tobacco pouch rested in a bowl next to the oil lamp on the table. There was a door to one side, which he presumed led to a bedroom, for the woman was clearly infirm and unlikely to travel up and down the steep staircase with ease. He further presumed, and correctly so, that the other rooms leading off from the passage outside were reserved for the girls and their clients.
As if in verification, there was the sudden clump of boots on the landing, followed shortly by a girlish giggle and the slam of a door further down the hall.
‘What’s your name?’
He quickly returned his attention to the woman who was studying him intently. He hoped he hadn’t appeared rude, but it was a habit of his to vet any new location, just in case he should need to beat a hasty retreat.
‘Michael Patrick O’Callaghan, ma’am,’ he said respectfully. ‘They call me Mick.’
Ma nodded and introduced herself. ‘Margaret May Tebbutt,’ she said with a welcoming salute of her arthritic right hand. It so galled Ma that she could no longer shake hands with the strength of a man as she once had that these days she refused to shake hands at all. ‘They call me Ma.’
‘Pleased to meet you, ma’am.’ Mick returned a salute of his own.
‘Ma,’ she corrected him.
‘Ma,’ he said with a smile.
Handsome bugger, she thought. ‘What do you do for a crust?’
‘Nothing yet. I just arrived in town.’
Ma did not ask ‘from where’. A person’s background was never queried in Wapping. But she couldn’t help making the wry observation that if the lad was fresh from the penal settlement at Port Arthur, then he’d certainly managed to outfit himself well. Mine not to question how or why though, she told herself.
‘If you’re after a spot of work, I could put some your way. Enough to tide you over until you get yourself settled. Not much money, mind, just expenses, but board and lodging, what do you say?’ As always, Ma got straight to the point.
‘I say yes.’ Mick grinned, unable to believe his good fortune. ‘I say yes, indeed.’
‘I rather thought you might,’ she replied drily. ‘The luck of the Irish, eh? You lot with your gift of the gab, you always land on your feet.’
He wiped the grin from his face – it seemed he was being chastised – but Ma was quick to reassure him otherwise.
‘No cause for alarm, son: I cater to the Paddies. Big drinkers, big womanisers – they’re my favourite clientele. Half my girls are Irish too. Fancy a tot of rum?’
Mick nodded. Ma Tebbutt’s disability was physical only; her mind moved with extraordinary agility.
‘The dresser over there, bring us the bottle and a couple of mugs, there’s a good lad.’
He dutifully fetched the earthenware bottle, pulled out its stopper and placed it on the table before her together with two pewter mugs.
‘Grab a seat.’ She indicated the hardback chair in the corner by the desk,
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