answering.
‘That’s right,’ she said, ‘the best husband a woman could ask for and that’s a fact. He died two years ago, more’s the pity. Things have never been the same since.’
Ma felt one of her maudlin turns coming on, as was quite often the case when she thought of Sid, although in reality she was mourning the loss of her old life rather than the loss of her old comrade in arms. Everything had gone wrong from the moment Sid had died. She’d turned sixty that very same week. The girls had thrown her a birthday party to cheer her up and, drunk as a lord, she’d fallen down the stairs fracturing bones she’d never known she had. That had been the beginning of the end. She’d healed after a fashion, but arthritis had set in and, unable to leave her upstairs rooms, her weight had ballooned, compounding the problem immeasurably. These days she put everything down to the loss of Sid.
‘He was a good man, my Sid,’ she said, gazing nostalgically into her pewter mug as if it were a magic crystal ball that could transport her to the past.
‘Was he a Londoner too?’ Mick asked. ‘Did you come out here together?’
Ma’s eyes snapped up, sharp and shrewd and beady-blue. Was the boy playing games? Was he mocking her? No-one in Wapping would dare make such an enquiry. But when her eyes met his, she saw only innocence there.
‘You really are new in town, aren’t you?’
‘I am indeed,’ Mick replied. ‘I arrived as a deckhand on the Maid of Canton ; she docked just this afternoon.’
‘Ah.’ Content with his answer, Ma poured herself another tot of rum. The lad was sharp, there was no doubt about that – he couldn’t have fought like he had without being canny as all hell – but he was new to the place and naive. He’d learn soon enough.
‘Yes, me and Sid took passage from London ten years ago.’ Sucking away at her pipe, she settled comfortably back in her chair. ‘We’d heard about the prospects that lay awaiting enterprising folk here in Van Diemen’s Land and we set out to start a new life for ourselves. We had such dreams, we did,’ her smile was beatific, ‘and they all come true, as you well can see. We bought up our very own pub, just the way we’d planned . . .’
Ma’s story was a tissue of lies. She’d been in Van Diemen’s Land for nearly forty years, the first seven of which had been spent at Port Arthur. Sid, a Yorkshireman who’d been transported in 1810, had served a fourteen-year term and the two had met in Hobart Town shortly after his release. They’d never wed, but they’d hired themselves out as a respectable married couple, accepting employment as housekeeper and overseer on a wealthy cattle property to the north. For fifteen long years, they’d pooled every penny of their hard-earned cash, and when they’d finally returned to Hobart Town they’d purchased the Hunter’s Rest, a rundown alehouse with cheap upstairs rooms, which they’d converted into a successful pub and brothel.
‘This pub meant everything to Sid and me,’ Ma said, puffing on her pipe and peering affectionately through the pall of smoke at the stone walls that surrounded her. ‘This was where we’d planned to live out the twilight of our days. The Hunter’s Rest meant the very world to us, it did.’
The latter part of her story at least was true. She and Sid may have fought like cat and dog, hating each other more often than not, but the Hunter’s Rest had been their mutual salvation. The pub was the unbreakable bond they’d shared, for it represented their freedom.
‘And now he’s gone,’ she said. ‘Dead and gone, and nothing’s the same.’ She shook off her mood with a businesslike shrug. ‘Ah well, that’s life, isn’t it? People come and people go, and you’ve got to get on with things, don’t you? You can’t just sit around and wait for it to be your turn.’ She skolled her rum and set the mug down on the table with an air of finality. ‘Not when you’ve
‘That’s right,’ she said, ‘the best husband a woman could ask for and that’s a fact. He died two years ago, more’s the pity. Things have never been the same since.’
Ma felt one of her maudlin turns coming on, as was quite often the case when she thought of Sid, although in reality she was mourning the loss of her old life rather than the loss of her old comrade in arms. Everything had gone wrong from the moment Sid had died. She’d turned sixty that very same week. The girls had thrown her a birthday party to cheer her up and, drunk as a lord, she’d fallen down the stairs fracturing bones she’d never known she had. That had been the beginning of the end. She’d healed after a fashion, but arthritis had set in and, unable to leave her upstairs rooms, her weight had ballooned, compounding the problem immeasurably. These days she put everything down to the loss of Sid.
‘He was a good man, my Sid,’ she said, gazing nostalgically into her pewter mug as if it were a magic crystal ball that could transport her to the past.
‘Was he a Londoner too?’ Mick asked. ‘Did you come out here together?’
Ma’s eyes snapped up, sharp and shrewd and beady-blue. Was the boy playing games? Was he mocking her? No-one in Wapping would dare make such an enquiry. But when her eyes met his, she saw only innocence there.
‘You really are new in town, aren’t you?’
‘I am indeed,’ Mick replied. ‘I arrived as a deckhand on the Maid of Canton ; she docked just this afternoon.’
‘Ah.’ Content with his answer, Ma poured herself another tot of rum. The lad was sharp, there was no doubt about that – he couldn’t have fought like he had without being canny as all hell – but he was new to the place and naive. He’d learn soon enough.
‘Yes, me and Sid took passage from London ten years ago.’ Sucking away at her pipe, she settled comfortably back in her chair. ‘We’d heard about the prospects that lay awaiting enterprising folk here in Van Diemen’s Land and we set out to start a new life for ourselves. We had such dreams, we did,’ her smile was beatific, ‘and they all come true, as you well can see. We bought up our very own pub, just the way we’d planned . . .’
Ma’s story was a tissue of lies. She’d been in Van Diemen’s Land for nearly forty years, the first seven of which had been spent at Port Arthur. Sid, a Yorkshireman who’d been transported in 1810, had served a fourteen-year term and the two had met in Hobart Town shortly after his release. They’d never wed, but they’d hired themselves out as a respectable married couple, accepting employment as housekeeper and overseer on a wealthy cattle property to the north. For fifteen long years, they’d pooled every penny of their hard-earned cash, and when they’d finally returned to Hobart Town they’d purchased the Hunter’s Rest, a rundown alehouse with cheap upstairs rooms, which they’d converted into a successful pub and brothel.
‘This pub meant everything to Sid and me,’ Ma said, puffing on her pipe and peering affectionately through the pall of smoke at the stone walls that surrounded her. ‘This was where we’d planned to live out the twilight of our days. The Hunter’s Rest meant the very world to us, it did.’
The latter part of her story at least was true. She and Sid may have fought like cat and dog, hating each other more often than not, but the Hunter’s Rest had been their mutual salvation. The pub was the unbreakable bond they’d shared, for it represented their freedom.
‘And now he’s gone,’ she said. ‘Dead and gone, and nothing’s the same.’ She shook off her mood with a businesslike shrug. ‘Ah well, that’s life, isn’t it? People come and people go, and you’ve got to get on with things, don’t you? You can’t just sit around and wait for it to be your turn.’ She skolled her rum and set the mug down on the table with an air of finality. ‘Not when you’ve
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