Tiger Men by Judy Nunn

had countered good-naturedly, amused by what he saw as Mick’s youthful flair for the melodramatic. ‘The Maid ’s in port for a week. We’ll surely be seeing each other.’
    ‘Yes indeed, we surely will.’
    We won’t, Mick had thought as he’d left the pub. He would avoid the Sailor’s Return and the crew of the Maid, and most particularly Seamus. When starting a new life, one needed to adopt new friends.
    Now, having walked away from the docks and into the narrow streets of Wapping, he heard something that made his heart leap. From a nearby pub came the sound of a fiddle belting out a wild Irish reel. It was a sound that, for some time, had sent him in the opposite direction. In London and Liverpool, he’d kept well clear of the haunts of the Irish. But this was Van Diemen’s Land, he told himself. He had no need to fear his countrymen here. Turning the corner he strode boldly through the front doors of the Hunter’s Rest.
    Mick felt at home the moment he entered the pub. The golden glow of its lamp-light was warm and inviting, and he was greeted by the sound of Irish voices and the music of his homeland.
    As he looked, a bold girl picked up her skirts and started dancing to the fiddle. Men made space for her in the centre of the room, pulling aside wooden benches, clapping along as the fiddler quickened the pace, cheering as her bosom bounced and her bare legs flashed. The other women present, a good half dozen or so, were even more vocal than the men. ‘Show ’em your stuff, Maevy,’ one bawdy wench yelled, ‘give ’em a good look,’ and as the dancer’s skirts reached crotch level a huge cheer went up.
    Mick was intoxicated by the atmosphere. In the closeness of the pub, the smell of human sweat mingled with the odour of the whale oil that fuelled the lamps and he found the mixture heady and erotic.
    The dance came to an end and one of the men claimed the girl. He was a big man, strongly built and clearly known to many of the drinkers, and no-one disputed his claim. The girl laughed as she clutched at the coins he fed between her breasts and, after a brief negotiation with the beefy man who stood guard at the door near the bar, the pair disappeared up the narrow stairway to the rooms overhead.
    Mick bought himself a mug of ale, careful not to reveal his stash as he paid the barman. Along with the wages he’d collected from the Maid , he was carrying quite a sizeable amount of cash from his Liverpool jobs and some smart new clothes he’d purchased before sailing. Seamus’s presumption that he’d ‘dressed up special’ had been incorrect. Mick always dressed stylishly. He considered clothes and grooming of the utmost importance. But in a place like this, it was not wise to be conspicuous about the valuables one carried, and he kept his kitbag tucked firmly under his arm.
    ‘Hello, handsome. Fancy a bit of fun?’ The wench who’d yelled out to the dancer had sidled up to him and was resting her breasts invitingly on the bar. They spilled from her low-cut bodice, full and milky-white and obviously her calling card.
    ‘You’re very enticing, my lovely,’ he said, his eyes and his smile telling her she was. ‘The fact is, though, I’ve just arrived and I’m drinking in the atmosphere.’ Enticing as the woman’s breasts were, she had to be at least thirty and he felt not the remotest desire for her, but Mick was never rude to a woman. ‘Perhaps a little later – that is if you’re available. I imagine they’re queuing up.’ With breasts like that they probably are, he thought, and with a few ales under his belt, he might well want her, but for now he just wished to drink in the night. Having a woman was not his major priority anyway. He’d been lying to Seamus simply to rid himself of the man’s company.
    ‘The name’s Peg,’ she said. By God, but I’d give this one a poke for nothing, she thought. He was as handsome as the devil himself. ‘You only have to ask; they all know me