Free Tiger Men by Judy Nunn

got a pub to run.’
    Ma no longer felt maudlin. She’d enjoyed telling her story. It had been some time since she’d had a stranger to tell it to. Everyone in Wapping had a story, which everyone else in Wapping pretended to believe: it was an understanding shared amongst neighbours. Some of the stories might even have been true, but no-one would ever know, because no-one would ever question them.
    ‘I got paperwork to do,’ she said, heaving herself up from the armchair. Mick jumped to his feet, aware he was being dismissed. ‘You head off downstairs,’ she instructed, ‘and tell Len he’s to set you up in the little room out the back –’
    He tried to thank her, but Ma paid him no heed.
    ‘Bring the chair over here,’ she said as she lumbered her way to the desk in the corner.
    He did as he was told, placing the chair for her, but she waved away any further attempt at assistance.
    ‘And introduce yourself to Freddie in the kitchen.’ She sat, glancing down at the clock on the desk. ‘You’ve missed out on the pub dinner, the stew finishes at nine, but he’ll find you something to tide you over.’
    ‘I’m grateful to you, Ma. I’ll be forever in your debt. What is there I can possibly say –?’
    ‘Nothing.’ She cut him off and glared up at him. ‘If all you can come up with is your Irish shite, then say nothing at all.’
    ‘It may well be Irish, but it isn’t shite, I can assure you.’ Mick stood his ground, deciding to call her bluff. She was starved for company and she liked him, he could tell. Surely she didn’t expect him to behave like a lackey. In any event, he had no wish to be bullied, even for free board and lodging. ‘It’s the way I talk, Ma, so you’d better get used to it.’
    Cheeky young bugger, she thought, but she didn’t say anything. She waited for him to go on.
    ‘You have welcomed me, a perfect stranger, into your home,’ he said with a dignity that dared her to make fun of him, ‘and I thank you from the very bottom of my heart.’ He took her hand in his, and Ma didn’t withdraw it as she would normally have done: she was too intrigued. ‘May God bless and protect you always.’ He bent and kissed her hand, then gently released it and stepped back. ‘There now, I’ve said my piece. Thank you for hearing me out.’
    Ma searched his eyes for the faintest sign of mischief, but she could find none. He appeared deadly serious. Was he playing a game or wasn’t he? It was impossible to tell.
    ‘Get yourself downstairs,’ she said, ‘and come back and see me tomorrow.’
    ‘Right you are then.’ He picked up his kitbag.
    ‘Not before noon. I don’t receive visitors until after noon. We’ll have another chat then, and in the early evening I’ll come downstairs and introduce you to the girls.’
    Mick nodded and strode to the door, unaware of the honour being bestowed upon him – Ma’s excursions downstairs were rare.
    ‘Oh and Mick.’ He halted, turning back as she called. ‘Welcome to the Hunter’s Rest. You’re going to fit in real well here, I can tell.’
    ‘I know I am, Ma.’ He grinned as he slung the kitbag over his shoulder. ‘I know I am.’
     
    A N EXTRACT FROM ‘A T IGER’S T ALE ’,
A WORK IN PROGRESS BY H ENRY F OTHERGILL
    C IRCULAR H EAD, FAR NORTH-WEST T ASMANIA , 1836
    The horse stomped its front hoof and snorted nervously.
    ‘Easy, old girl.’ Jim leant forwards in the saddle and patted the mare’s neck. He knew why the horse was nervous. There was a tiger in the vicinity. Or at least that’s what people had taken to calling the animal, probably because of the stripes across its back and hind quarters. Jim thought it more like a dog.
    Jim Daly was a boundary rider for the Van Diemen’s Land Company, a man whose job it was to wander the company holdings checking and repairing the fences and shepherding stock when necessary. He’d been riding all day from Woolnorth, the company’s far western sheep run, and now from up on