As Hammers Fall. Mark Svendsen
he knew it would detract from his triumph.
But that look in her eyes. Her hair. Her dress. Her smile.
‘As long as you three play it. I’m tired.’
All of them nodded.
‘Right-oh,’ Mick ordered. Get on with you, Tomas!’
Tomfool jumped like a scalded cat, flying across the road, he ran helter-skelter, pulling his trouser pockets out as he fled.
‘Help!’ he yelled. ‘Help, I’ve been robbed!’ he wailed. His voice was truly desperate, close to tears. Pedestrians stopped to gawk. A woman, out for an afternoon stroll with her bloke, crossed the street. The crowd from near the pub followed. Tomfool ran on until he stood on the footpath in front of the building beyond the pub. He pulled at his turned out pockets like they were rabbits’ ears, all the while wailing at the top of his lungs,
‘I’ve been robbed!’ Tears of real distress stained his cheeks.
‘Righto!’ Mick nodded. They all ran across the street to join the crowd, tut-tutting and fretting over Tomas. Mick jumped up onto the stairs of the building.
‘That’s right ladies and gentlemen, he’s been robbed,’ Mick yelled. Tomfool smiled slyly. With all the crowd’s attention drawn to the new speaker he slowly withdrew to stand at the back with Molly and Joe.
‘But so have I!’ Mick turned out his own pockets. ‘And so have you. We’ve all been robbed, my friends. We’ve been robbed by the Capitalist system that turns us into slaves.’ The faces in the crowd turned from concern, to puzzlement, to laughter or, in a couple of cases, anger, as they twigged to what was going on. Mick hustled them along.
‘The Capitalists take our toil and turn it into huge profit and what do we get in return? A pittance. Ladies and Gentleman as the fat pigs …’
A burly bloke in a navvie’s singlet, the sort who at first glance you would expect to be a member of the Movement, stood unsteadily.
‘What would you know, you white-anting whelp? You’re still wet behind the ears. Join the Army and fight for your bloody King. That’ll make a man out of you!’
But Mick was not to be undone.
‘That’s just what the bosses want you to think,’ he began, but again the burly bloke interjected.
‘You know buggar-all about nothing! My brother…’ he yelled at Mick, his words slurred, spittle flying like shrapnel. But he was too much for Molly.
‘Well, you know buggar-all about anything so that makes you even,’ she retorted.
The bear of a man turned, focussing all his attention on her. Joe reached for Molly’s hand and they quick-stepped together back down the street. Mick jumped down the stairs to place himself between the bear and Molly. But Mick was backpedalling too.
The crowd had seen it all before and mostly started thinking of dinner, all except one fellow who walked up to the big bloke and clapped a hand on his shoulder. The bear whirled around, unsteady, stopping as he recognised the uniform and the voice.
‘Sarge?’ he said.
‘Show’s over, eh, Jack. Time to go home.’ The big bloke cast an uncertain glance at his tormentors.
‘They don’t know, Sarge. They got no bloody idea how Caleb copped it.’
‘No.’ The sergeant spoke softly. ‘But these jokers are going home right now, aren’t you?’ he asked.
Joe, Molly and Mick nodded in unison. Surreptitiously Joe let go of Molly’s hand.
‘I reckon you should too.’
The sergeant waved them away, steering the big bloke up the street.
‘Maureen’ll have a nice stew for tea, I’ll bet,’ he encouraged.
The singletted bear cast them one final glare before, sheep-like, he followed. They all breathed easier. Not quite what they’d hoped. Took the edge off the fun, though secretly, Joe was glad.
‘I’d have gone a round with him!’ Mick skited.
‘Wouldn’t have lasted a half,’ Joe answered. ‘One belt from that bloke would knock you to the other side of Christmas.’
‘Well,’ Molly breathed. She turned, tripped on her heel and, for the second time in a quarter of an hour, landed with a surprised yelp, flat on her bottom.
‘You all right, Miss?’ called a soldier from an open window at the front of the Land’s Office Hotel. It was the lodger. His enquiring face pale, yet friendly. He seemed older than his looks belied, in his early twenties, but his dark hair was beginning to grey, as was his well-groomed moustache. Molly guessed he had honest eyes, though she hadn’t fully decided yet.
‘I’ll be for takin’ a quick sit down’s all, thanking you,’ she replied curtly. Molly took Mick’s hands as he helped her up. She patted down her dress while Joe scooped up her fallen floppy cotton hat.
‘Can’t help a maiden in distress? Pity!’ the soldier winked and raised a half-empty beer glass in salute. Mick scowled as the fellow drained it and picked up another from the three on the table in front of him.
‘Sounds like we’re in for a bit of fun tonight, Miss?’ the soldier continued amiably, nodding down the street towards the sounds still issuing from the Domain.
‘Bloody red-raggers! Ought to be ashamed.’
‘Ashamed of what?’ Mick demanded as he strode between Molly and the Digger at the window.
‘Ignore it, Mick,’ Joe whispered. But his mate was stoked-up hotter than the boiler on the Ipswich Express.
‘Ashamed for their disloyalty to King and Country, that’s what,’ the soldier continued. ‘There’s thousands of us Loyalists fighting in Europe while at home these damned Socialists white-ant the war effort.’ He stopped a moment to drink.
‘And what would you know about Socialism?’
Joe tried to divert the fire away from Mick. The soldier finally noticed the rosettes fluttering on each of the three chests stuck out before him.
‘Pah!’ He spat dismissively, not wanting to ruin his last drinks arguing with hardheads. He took a long swig of beer and ventured nothing further.
But Mick was primed to go on with it whether Joe, or this bloke, wanted to or not.
‘You’re such a slave you think getting killed for the bloody bosses is striking a blow for freedom! What’s freedom if you’re dead? You’d be better taking a leaf out of the Irish book. The bosses won’t give you freedom any more than the English’ll give freedom to the Irish – we have to take it!’
‘The Irish!’ The soldier spluttered beer froth over the table.
‘They deserve the same we give all traitors! The firing squad’s too good for ‘em!’
Mick puffed out his chest like a rooster about to crow.
‘I’ll be Patrick Doyle,’ he enunciated every word clearly. ‘That is an Irish name. And this,’ he said pointing over his shoulder at Molly. ‘Is my sweetheart, Molly Pearce. That’ll be another Irish name. And these colours,’ he continued pointing at the rosette on his chest, ‘are the colours of the Irish. And you,’ he yelled in the Loyalist’s face, ‘can bloody well take that back right now or by the sweet lovin’ Jesus … !’
Mick raised his fists.
It was for Molly’s sake the Digger backed down. He’d faced death enough times to know if a threat was worth the effort. This half-smart guttersnipe didn’t worry him one iota. But there was a lady present, one he recognized from the boarding house, and he didn’t need any trouble there. He composed himself.
‘Now look, son, I didn’t