The Potato Factory

Chapter Twenty-nine

Hannah received her ticket of leave in early November 1835, with the proviso that she be restricted to the district of New Norfolk, a small country town on the banks of the Derwent River, some twenty-five miles upstream from Hobart Town. Her behaviour as a convict had proved troublesome for the authorities and they wished to remove her from the boisterous atmosphere and temptations of Hobart.

Hannah had objected strongly to this assignment as she was of a good mind to enter her old profession. Hobart was host to the American whaling ships during the season, as well as to sealers and convict transports, and to this itinerant population was added a large underclass of criminals and society's dregs well suited to Hannah's style of bawdy house.

She had pleaded her case to remain in Hobart because of her children, which was not an untruthful assertion. She asked for custody of Sarah and Mark from the orphanage, and begged that they might all be allowed to live with David and Ann, who now resided in the tiny cottage which had once been Ikey's tobacconist shop.

The chief magistrate finally agreed to a compromise. Ann was now fourteen and David sixteen and they were considered adults who no longer required the ministrations of a mother. But as Sarah had only just turned twelve and Mark was ten years old, they were allowed to accompany their mother to New Norfolk.

Being a practical woman Hannah soon enough adapted, taking up with a certain George Madden, an emancipist who had become a wealthy grain merchant, and also acted as a district constable.

Hannah was happy enough to swap bed for bread in preference to finding employment as a servant in the small town and Madden, who had a reputation as an energetic though often difficult man, also felt himself well served. He had gained the services of a skilful concubine in exchange for two children accustomed to life in an orphanage, who knew to stay well away from irascible adults.

Living with Madden allowed for a lazy life and Hannah was content to lord it over most of the locals as a grand lady on the arm of a wealthy and handsome man. That there was a good deal of gossip from the country folk regarding her lewd behaviour troubled her not at all. The people of New Norfolk were of no consequence to Hannah. They were emancipists who had served their sentences on Norfolk Island and later settled New Norfolk, and in the peculiar pecking order of the Van Diemen's Land convict, they were considered below the station of a main islander.

As for the few free settlers in the town, Hannah knew that no amount of airs and graces or playing at the grande dame could persuade them to include her in their society. So she made no attempt to enter it. Besides, New Norfolk was only a temporary expedient forced upon her, and Madden a most convenient happen-stance. She dreamed of securing the fortune which lay waiting for her in the safe in Whitechapel and moving to Hobart Town, or perhaps even the mainland. There her wealth would soon secure good marriages for her two pretty daughters and sound careers for her two remaining sons.

Hannah also knew that sooner or later she would be confronted by the irksome presence of Ikey Solomon. But she comforted herself with the fact that he would need to serve at least seven years before he could expect his ticket of leave. This left her two years to contemplate her future, and to put into place several plans in order to defeat Ikey in that singular purpose which would preoccupy their lives the moment he was released.

Ikey must somehow be lulled into giving her his part of the combination. Hannah knew he would only do this if he felt completely confident about their shared future, and controlled their joint fortune. To accomplish the task of gaining Ikey's complete confidence, she needed to gather her family together and win back the affection of David and Ann, her two elder children. In particular David, who would play an important part in the plan to undermine her husband.

However, there was another reason why Hannah wished to regain the esteem and love of the two elder children still in Van Diemen's Land. She was determined to destroy any affection they might feel for Mary Abacus. Hannah was convinced that Mary had sought revenge for being transported. She felt certain that Ikey's scar-faced goyem shiksa whore had deliberately set out to steal the hearts and minds of her children, and turn them against their own flesh and blood.

Of course, this was entirely untrue. Mary was not even aware that Hannah had been the cause of her downfall. But no amount of persuasion would have convinced Hannah this was so. She had brooded on the matter too long, and what she had imagined in the dark recesses of her own vengeful mind had become an unshakable truth. Hannah had also concluded that Ikey and Mary were the collective cause of her demise, and it was a matter of personal honour to regain the love of David and Ann. She vowed to live long enough to punish Mary for plotting against her, and stealing her children's love.

Hannah intended to persuade David to win the complete trust of his father, while secretly maintaining his loyalty to her. After contriving a reconciliation with Ikey and convincing him that they should serve out their old age together, Hannah presumed David would logically be chosen to return to London, open the safe, and bring the contents back to Van Diemen's Land.

To this end Hannah needed David and his sister to settle in New Norfolk. She planned that they would take up a separate residence there so that when Ikey obtained his ticket of leave she would appear to leave Madden out of loyalty and affection for her real husband, and welcome Ikey back into the bosom of a loving and united family.

Hannah immediately set about cultivating the affection of her two elder children, who were frequently invited upriver to New Norfolk. This had not been a difficult thing to achieve. Ann had acted as a mother to young Mark and had always cared for her younger sister, and when Hannah had removed them from the orphanage Ann had been broken-hearted. She persuaded David that they should take the boat to New Norfolk and pay their respects to their mother, so that they might visit Sarah and Mark.

The first visit had been highly successful and was followed at regular intervals by others. Hannah was always sure to pay their two and sixpenny each-way ticket on the boat, and to furnish their return to Hobart with a handsome hamper, its crowning glory being a large fruit cake with sugar icing. She knew this to be a special favourite with David, who craved sweet things.

George Madden, too, seemed taken with Hannah's elder son. Hannah was pleasantly surprised when he offered David a position as a clerk in his grain business. Ann, most anxious to be close to her siblings, had pleaded with David to accept the offer. David, who was too bright for the dullards who were his superiors at the Hobart Water Works, and flattered by Madden's interest, accepted the position with alacrity. David rented the cottage in Liverpool Street, and brother and sister moved to New Norfolk.

Hannah had achieved her initial purpose with a minimum of fuss. There now remained plenty of time for her to win David's loyalty and affection before revealing her grand plan to sabotage Ikey.

But Ikey, as usual, was unpredictable, and he was released not five months after Hannah, rescued from servitude by a high-ranking government official who wished to remain anonymous. The official offered surety for Ikey and the government accepted his bond, whereupon Ikey left Port Arthur where he had served the past year of his sentence. He appealed to the reviewing magistrate to allow him to serve the first three years of his ticket of leave in New Norfolk.

'To live peaceably with my dear wife and children in New Norfolk, your honour. So that we may regain the lost years and grow old in love and kindness to each other.'

The magistrate who had signed Ikey's ticket of leave papers, a man known for his brusque manner, was quick to reply.

'There is much in your record of arrest of this kind of mawkish pronouncement, but very little demonstration of its successful consequence! I trust that on this occasion your high-blown rhetoric means more than the empty words of sentimental balderdash they have been in the past.'

For a moment Ikey's courage returned to him and he begged leave to make a statement. With an expression of deep hurt he offered the following pious testament.

'Your worship, I must beg to defend myself. My record will show that I escaped from custody in England to the safe and welcoming shores of America where no rules of extradition applied to send me back to England. Here I was immediately successful in matters of business but so missed the company of my dear wife and children that I risked all to walk back into the jaws of the English lion in order that we might be reunited.'

'A most fortunate circumstance for justice, but nonetheless a very foolish decision,' the magistrate interrupted.

Ikey continued. 'A decision of the heart, your worship. A decision made by a husband and father who could not bear to be parted from his loving wife and six children. I have suffered much for what your worship calls my mawkish sentimentality, but I would do it again if it should put me even a mile nearer to my loved ones!'

'Methinks you might have made an excellent barrister, Mr Solomon,' the magistrate replied, then added, 'Neither fish, nor flesh, nor good red herring!' He looked sternly at the prisoner. 'Hear me well now, Isaac Solomon, I should advise you not to return to this court. My patience is well nigh worn through!'

The Colonial Times reported Ikey's little oration and many a tear was shed by every class of woman in the colony. Ikey's testament was held up as the epitome of a husband's love for his wife and children. Officers of the court were never popular, even with the free settlers, and the acerbic tongue of the reviewing magistrate served only to enhance the heroic nature of Ikey's charming speech. Despite his notoriety, there were those in the colony who would forever remain most kindly disposed to a man who could sacrifice his own freedom and welfare for the love of his family.

It was this same reportage in the Colonial Times that alerted Hannah to Ikey's imminent return. She scarcely had time to extricate herself and her two youngest children from the home of George Madden and take up residence with David and Ann before Ikey appeared on the doorstep.

Whatever may have happened to Ikey and Hannah in the six years they had been parted, their low regard for each other had changed little. After the initial euphoria of homecoming, much pretended by both, the curmudgeonly Ikey and the vociferous, sharp-tongued Hannah were soon back to their old ways.

Hannah denied Ikey her bed either as a place for rest or recreation. This did not unduly upset Ikey, whose libido had not increased any during his captivity. He was forced to sleep in a corner of their tiny bedroom on a narrow horsehair mattress not much better than the one he'd recently vacated in Port Arthur. When their relationship had settled back into their customary mutual dislike, Hannah had forced him from this space as well. Ikey's adenoidal snoring kept Hannah awake at night, so he was banished to a tiny compartment in the sloping roof where his nocturnal melodies had the advantage of rising heavenwards.

Several months went by, though there was not a day among them that was not fired with vitriol from one or both partners. Ikey had somewhere picked up the habit of drinking, without learning the knack of holding his drink. A mere tipple would send him home cantankerous, with the inevitable result of a dreadful fight with Hannah.

The four children kept their own counsel. They were reared as orphans and knew when to keep out of the way. Nevertheless, David and Ann did not take easily to Ikey treating them like children and, what's more, in a rude and imperious manner. Ikey failed to grasp this; as a child of eight he had been on the streets selling oranges and lemons and his father had beaten him severely if he held back a single penny earned. Now he demanded only that David give him a half portion of his salary. He expected Ann, who had obtained work as a shop assistant, to hand over her entire wage.

They found Ikey smelly and dirty and, as he seldom addressed them by their names, they had little reason to feel he cared for them. In fact, for the most part, he seemed to forget who they were, frequently referring to the nearest child as, 'You, c'mere!' The two younger children were terrified of him and fled at his approach.

Hannah had taken David aside when Ikey first arrived and carefully explained the reason why he should always appear to side with his father. David immediately understood the future advantage to him so he readily agreed. He capitulated to Ikey's demands for money, and dutifully took Ikey's side in his parents' frequent arguments.

But Ikey was not an easy friend to make, and he considered his son a fool to be exploited and humiliated. The young man's patience was growing increasingly thin. He had never liked Ikey, but now he found that he loathed him. David warned his mother that, whatever the reward, he could not take much more.

Hannah, aware that time was running out, decided to broach the subject of the Whitechapel safe with Ikey. She cooked him a mutton stew well flavoured with rosemary, and followed it with fresh curds. She then joined him at the kitchen table after he had pronounced the meal much to his liking.

'Ikey, it's six months we've been together.' Hannah smiled brightly and spread her hands. 'And,' she sighed, '

'ere we still are!'

Ikey let out a loud burp. 'So?'

'Well, we should begin to, you know, make plans, don't you think?'

'Plan? What plans?'

'The safe?'

Ikey picked at his teeth with the sharp nail of his pinkie, retrieved a tiny morsel of meat, glanced at it briefly, then placed his finger back into his mouth and sucked the sliver from it. 'We can't do nothing until I have a full pardon, my dear. It would be too great a risk if we were to be seen to come into a great fortune while we are both still ticket o' leave lags.'

'We could send David to England. 'E could return with the money and purchase property on the stum and to yer instructions,' Hannah suggested.

'And just 'ow would we send 'im?' Ikey asked, a fair degree of sarcasm in his voice. Then he shrugged. 'We are penniless, my dear, stony broke and without a brass razoo!'

'The cottage in Hobart – we could sell it. That would be sufficient with some to spare.'

'And 'ow do we know we may trust him?' Ikey asked.

'But 'e's our son!' Hannah protested.

'So?'

'E's our own flesh and blood, and a fine young man what we should be proud to call our own!'

'Is that so, my dear? 'E were a boy when 'e went into the orphanage, and 'e came out a man. But what sort of man, eh? We don't know, we ain't been there to watch 'im grow. What sort of boys do you think come from orphanages then? I know boys well, very well! Let me tell you somethin' for nothin', boys what has been in an orphanage are good for bloody nothin' and not to be trusted under any circumstances.'

'David be a lovely boy, Ikey! 'Ard working and most clever with numbers!'

'I don't like 'im, too clever for 'is own good, and there is much of the weasel in 'im.' Ikey paused. 'It be 'is smile, all friendly like, but it comes with eyes 'ard as agate stones. Orphanage boys be all the same, dead sneaky and not to be trusted at all and under no circumstances whatsoever!'

'Well then, what about John or Moses?' Hannah asked. Her two sons in Sydney had always been a part of her contingency plan. 'They could leave from Sydney, nobody'd know, come back, invest the money like ya say they should, and when we gets our pardon it's happily ever after fer us, ain't that right, lovey?'

'Those two useless buggers!' Ikey exploded. 'Soon as we were nicked they scarpered, gorn, back to Sydney! No stickin' around to bring comfort, or to see if you or I could be assigned to them as servants. They simply sells up the shop,' Ikey thumped his chest several times, 'what yours bloody truly bought for ' em in Hobart and buggers off with the money, leaving us to fend for ourselves!'

'That's not fair, Ikey!' Hannah exclaimed. 'They tried to get me assigned, but the magistrate wouldn't 'ave no bar of it. John first, then Moses later, both tried.'

'Bullshit! They didn't try 'ard enough. What about me? They didn't try to get me assigned to them, did they? Not a letter, not a morsel o' concern these six years!'

'Ikey, you was road gang! You couldn't be assigned to nobody now could ya?'

'They could 'ave tried, anyway,' Ikey growled. 'They're no bloody good, spoilt by their mother they was! I wouldn't trust 'em further than I could blow me snot!'

'What then?' Hannah said exasperated. '

'Ow are we gunna get the stuff out o' the peter if we can't trust our own kind to fetch it? You tell me.'

'I got a plan. You give me your set o' numbers and I'll take care of it,' Ikey said morosely, though suddenly his heart started to beat faster.

'What's ya take me for, meshugannah or summink?' Hannah asked, astonished. 'What plan? Let me hear yer plan, Ikey Solomon.'

'I can't tell you, it involves someone what has agreed to co-operate and what must remain a secret.'

'Secret, is it?' Hannah stood up abruptly from the table, her chair scooting off behind her. 'Some person what's secret? You've told some person what's secret 'bout the bloody safe, 'ave ya?' She paused, her nostrils dilating as her temper rose. But when she spoke again her voice, though menacing, remained even. 'It's 'er, ain't it?'

Ikey looked up at his wife in surprise. '

'Er? What do you mean, 'er?'

'It's 'er, it's Mary bloody Abacus, ain't it!' Hannah leaned forward, pressing her palms down flat on the table, her shoulders hunched directly over the seated Ikey.

'Of course not! Whatever gave you such a peculiar notion, my dear?' Ikey tried to keep his voice calm, though Hannah's presence so near to him was unsettling.

Hannah's eyes narrowed and her face, now pulled into a furious expression, almost matched her flame-coloured hair.

'You bastard! Ya want me fuckin' numbers to give to that goyim slut, don't ya? That fuckin' dog's breath was gunna be the one to knap the ding!'

Hannah looked about her for something with which to strike Ikey, and he, sensing it was time to escape, fled from the room and out into the street.

'You bastard, you'll get nuffink from me, ya 'ear!' Hannah screamed after him, shaking her small fist at Ikey's rapidly diminishing back.

Ikey made for the nearest public house, ordered a double brandy and found a corner to himself. He had never been a drinking man and a double of brandy was usually more than enough to put him on his ear. But this time the liquor seemed to act in a benign way, bringing back into focus that glorious time when he was a leading member of London's criminal class. 'Practically the Lord Mayor o' thieves and villains. Prince o' Fences!' he mumbled pitifully to himself. It had a grand ring to it. Though now, on this miserable little island, it all seemed to be spun from the gossamer of an excitable imagination.

As the brandy worked its way through Ikey's bloodstream he began to imagine that it had been another life altogether. A primary existence, lived before this one of endless misery and despair, where his money had bought him respect and the royal title of thieves. Men had touched the brim of their cloth caps and mumbled a respectful greeting as he passed by or stood beside the ratting ring. Now he was reduced to human vermin, dirt, scum, the dregs of society, less even than the crud that clung to the hairy arses of the settlers who had the nerve to call themselves gentlemen.

And then the fiery liquid began to dance in his veins and Ikey cast his mind back seven years to when, in a flush of foolish sentiment, he had sent money and his Waterloo medal to Mary in Newgate. He'd all but forgotten Mary's existence, and Hannah's reminder had come as a shock. Occasionally, when he had first worked in the road gang, and especially when Billygonequeer had been with him, he would think of Mary with a sense of longing. But it was always in the past tense, as though she was dead, used up in his life. Ikey never thought that they might meet again, and after a while Mary had simply come closest to the words 'To my one and only blue dove,' which were inscribed about the circle of roses surrounding two blue doves tattooed on his scrawny upper arm. The brandy in Ikey's blood settled into a mellow fluidity, and he grew sentimental, imagining what it might be like if he should find Mary again.

But at this point he made the fatal error of ordering a second glass of the fiery grape. The moment of sentimentality soon passed, and was replaced with an unreasoning rage. Stumbling home Ikey proceeded to yell violent obscenities until Hannah, David, Ann and Sarah collectively surrounded him. But after four years on a road gang cart, the former weakling was greatly increased in strength and each of them received several bony blows from Ikey's elbows before he was finally subdued.

Young Mark took off with great speed and shortly afterwards returned with George Madden who, acting in his capacity as a constable, arrested Ikey and locked him in the gaol house. Here Ikey shouted and screamed all night, cursing the perfidy of his family, with particular reference to the sexual prowess of 'the grand whore to whom I have the misfortune to be married'.

The police lock-up stood only a few yards from a public house. Ikey's boisterous remarks carried clearly into the street and quickly attracted the drinkers inside. Soon a fair crowd had gathered. By morning the small town of New Norfolk was agog with the whispered tales of Ikey's night in gaol. Ikey's family had finally had enough, and David caused him to be brought before the deputy police magistrate, where he was charged with drunkenness and violent conduct.

The case must have seemed clear enough to blind Freddy. But such is the nature of small towns, and so deep was the resentment held by the good burghers over Hannah's adultery with George Madden and, perhaps more precisely, her subsequent snooty behaviour towards all, that the charges were dismissed. The deputy police magistrate ruled that equal blame was attached to both parties. He warned both husband and wife that should such disorderly proceedings be repeated they would be returned to prison. Then, to the chagrin of some, and great amusement of most, he charged the assistant district constable, George Madden, to keep an eye on both husband and wife.

With the protection of George Madden, Hannah and David could do more or less as they wished and they lost no time in reducing Ikey to a most perilous state. He was unable to obtain work of any sort, though in this endeavour he did not seem to try very hard, and a word from the wealthy and influential Madden put a stop to any employer hiring him. David had also spread the word around that Ikey cheated at cribbage, which was true enough, so that there were none who would play with him, and this dried up Ikey's traditional source of drinking money.

Finally a desperate Ikey was provoked into prosecuting his wife. The deputy district magistrate, not at all pleased with the return of the miscreant couple to his court, to the delight of the townsfolk, brought in a verdict that the charge of disorderly conduct and the use of obscene language was proved. He ordered that Hannah be returned to the Female Factory for a period of three months.

After many such disputes, the authorities became thoroughly disenchanted with 'The tribe of Solomon' as the chief probationary officer was wont to call Ikey's family. After some interdepartmental discussion, the authorities made one final ruling. The family should attempt a reconciliation in New Norfolk. But, if this should not come about, either husband or wife, but not both, must move to Hobart Town, with or without the remainder of the family. Having moved, they would not be permitted to return to New Norfolk until they received a conditional pardon. The authorities saw this as a clause so onerous that the quarrelsome couple would make every possible effort to reconcile their differences.

But, of course, no such thing happened. At first Hannah tried to persuade George Madden to move to Hobart, but he refused. He had obtained a five-year contract from Peter Degraves of the Cascade Brewery for the excellent barley grown in the area which would allow him to build his own mill. Hannah, faced with this logic, was forced to capitulate. Somehow she must force Ikey to move to Hobart, and in this endeavour she received the full co-operation of her family.

With no recourse to the law, Ikey was a doomed man. Hannah ordered him out of the house first thing each morning and he was not allowed to enter it again until curfew in the evening. His only sustenance was a small plate of boiled potatoes, and no member of the family would deign to talk to him.

Each day Ikey became more of the vagabond. His bald pate went unprotected from the sun and the unkempt hair either side of it now fell to his shoulders. Somewhere he had acquired a great coat which he tied about his waist with coarse string. This ragged garment served him in appearance as his splendid bespoke great coat had once served him in England. But whereas a glance at the greasy original would have revealed the quality of the wool and sound workmanship beneath the dirt, this equally dirty coat was poorly made and threadbare. Ikey's yellow London boots now became his prison shoes, scuffed and broken away at the toe.

Ikey Solomon, Prince of Fences, the most celebrated criminal of his time, was brought to his knees, not by the vicissitudes of a prisoner's life, but by the unforgiving judgements of his wife and children.

Hannah was now frequently seen in the company of George Madden, though she had not yet moved back into his spacious home. She waited until Ikey had reached a point of abject despair and then offered him an ultimatum; he must give her the combination and also sell the cottage in Hobart so that David might use the money to go to England to open the Whitechapel safe. But to this she added a new clause. Ikey would not receive half of their shared fortune, but only one-eighth.

Hannah had decided that the entire fortune was to be divided equally between the two of them and their six children. She knew that a one-eighth share of the contents of the safe was still sufficient for Ikey to live in comparative luxury for the remainder of his life in Van Diemen's Land. With seven-eighths of their combined fortune under her direct control, Hannah told herself she was willing to sacrifice an estimated fifty thousand pounds, 'for being well rid of the mangy bastard'.

If he did not agree to these conditions, Hannah told him, he could go to hell. She would live with George Madden and wait for Ikey to die. Whereupon she would send her sons to England to remove the safe and bring it to Van Diemen's Land, where they would eventually find some way to open it. Ikey knew this threat to be idle, the safe having been fixed into a block of mortar too large to lift and, besides, it was fitted with a German combination lock of the same type used by the Bank of England, and no cracksman in Britain could ever hope to open it. But he was possessed of a morbid foreboding of his own death, and Hannah's willingness to wait until it occurred meant that he might die a pauper, a useless old lag, never able to enjoy the revenge of his wealth.

Ikey knew he should leave New Norfolk and move to Hobart. But he could not bring himself to do so for he lacked the necessary courage to cut himself off from his family. Ikey, the rich loner with a family for whom he cared not at all, was a far cry from Ikey, the poor loner with no future prospects, who lacked the internal fortitude and even the energy to begin again in the chancy business of crime.

Ikey tried to convince himself that Hobart was too small for a fence of his reputation, but he knew this to be only an excuse. His bones ached and the yellow teeth rattled in his head, and he saw death in every sunset. Ikey knew he would not survive another sentence. Fear gripped at his bowels and sucked the marrow of resolve from his bones, until it was better to get drunk than to think at all.

Sometimes, when the sun shone brightly and warmed his creaking bones, Ikey would consider his prospects in a more sober frame of mind. He could go kosher, that is to say, above board and respectable, a small businessman, perhaps a return to his tobacco shop. The sale of the cottage would supply the capital needed. But he knew in his heart that this was simply a quicker and quieter way to die.

Ikey loved the nocturnal life, the whispers and the knowing looks of criminal intrigue, the hard-eyed bargaining, the joy of a deal well struck and the satisfaction of a neatly laid-out ledger which marked in numbers the progress of his private war against those who would bring him undone. He thought of himself as the enemy, and expected to be taken seriously by the rich and mighty. He was the destructive element in a world carefully constructed to benefit the self-serving better classes. Ikey had beaten the law dozens of times in a system that thought nothing of hanging a boy for stealing twopence. And now the same system had beaten him, not with imprisonment, but by stealing his courage. Ikey knew that, without courage, there is no luck and no hope. He who dares, wins. For him to become a respectable small businessman on an island steeped in the blood and sorrow of the outrageous system against which he had always pitted his cunning and his wits would be the greatest defeat of all.

Ikey needed the fortune which lay in the Whitechapel safe to publicly proclaim the victory of his salvaged wealth. He knew he had been defeated. But the money he had stolen would at least allow him to flaunt his pyrrhic victory and so hide the immensity of that defeat, whereas meek respectability would forever emphasise his complete destruction.

This was the state of Ikey Solomon in October 1837 when he sat alone on the banks of the Derwent River watching a cormorant on a rock some distance off, its wet wings opened wide to the heat of the late morning sun.

'Mr Solomon?' The voice of a small boy came from behind him.

Ikey turned to see an urchin of about twelve standing a few feet to his left. The Ikey of old would have long since sensed the approach.

'Mr Ikey Solomon?' the boy repeated.

'You knows it's me, boy, so why does you ask?' Ikey said gruffly.

'I was told I must,' the boy replied.

'Told was you? And who might it be what told you?'

'I runs errands, sir,'

'Runs errands?' Ikey's voice changed to a more friendly tone. 'A working boy, a respectable boy, a boy what's not footloose and up to no good!' Ikey held a dirty hand out in the direction of the boy. 'Ah, I don't believe we 'as been introduced, my dear.'

'I knows who you is,' the urchin said, not taking Ikey's hand and seeing no reason to proffer his own or give Ikey his name.

'Ha! So you knows who I is. But you asks who I is. Is that not a curious thing to do? Askin' and knowin'?' Ikey returned his hand to his side.

'Them what give me the letter said I must ask first.'

Ikey's eyebrows arched in surprise. 'A letter! You 'as a letter for Ikey Solomon? I don't recall as I've 'ad a letter recently. Would you 'ave it in mind to tell me who gave you this precious letter?'

'Why?' the boy asked. Ikey immediately marked him as intelligent, a rare enough occurrence among the dull-brained urchins who roamed the streets of New Norfolk throwing stones at dogs and chickens.

'A very good question, my dear! An excellent and most perspicacious question! You see, my dear, there are some letters you will receive in life what are not to your advantage, a letter, for instance, what might contain a summons or a warrant. A letter is not always best opened or even received, if you takes my meaning.'

'I've never 'ad a letter,' the boy replied, unimpressed by this first cautionary lesson in life.

'That's a bloomin' shame, boy!'

'Not if you can't read, it ain't,' the urchin shot back.

What a waste of a boy! Ikey thought. How well this one would have done at the Academy of Light Fingers.

'Who? Who was it gave you the letter what I might take, or I might not? Being as I might be Mr Isaac Solomon, and yet I might decide not to be!'

'It come off a boat from 'Obart. The cap'n. 'E asks if I knows you and when I does 'e give me an 'apenny and…' the boy dug into the interior of his shirt and produced an envelope, '… 'e give me this 'ere letter.'

'What does it say on the envelope?' Ikey asked.

The boy shrugged. 'I already told you, I don't do no readin'.' He took two steps closer to the seated Ikey and proffered the envelope.

'Well that be another shame, boy, a bright lad like you what can't read? Tut, tut, must learn to read, boy. There are no prospects for a lad what can't read, no prospects whatsoever, and never to be 'eard of!' He glanced up at the urchin. 'Do you hear me, boy?'

'Don't you want your letter?' the urchin said and then added, 'I ain't no toff what needs to learn to read.'

Ikey still refrained from taking the letter. 'Can you count, boy?' It had been several days since he had sustained any sort of conversation, and the bright morning sun had ironed out some of his aches and pains, and it was like old times talking to the urchin standing beside him.

'Yessir, I can count real good.'

'Pennies in a shilling?'

'Twelve!' the boy snapped back.

'Shillings in a pound?'

'Twenty,' the boy said with alacrity, then added spontaneously, 'Four farving in a penny and two 'a'pennies, a guinea be a pound and one shillin' and I can count good to one 'undred and poss'bly even a thousand, but I ain't tried yet!'

'Bravo!' Ikey exclaimed and clapped in applause. 'Bravo! Methinks you should still learn to read, but you've got the right idea.' Ikey smiled at the boy. 'I'm sorry, lad, but I 'aven't got a ha'penny nor even a farthing to give you for this splendid delivery of yours.' Ikey now finally took the letter from the boy's hand.

'That's orright, sir,' the boy replied. Then he cocked his head to one side and squinted down at Ikey. 'You ain't got even a farving, eh?' he asked somewhat incredulously.

Ikey shook his head, ashamed. 'Nothing, lad… I'm sorry. Next time I sees you I might 'ave one, or even a penny and you shall 'ave it!'

The boy dug into his trouser pocket and produced a sixpence which he rested on his thumb and forefinger and then flipped high into the air. The sunlight caught the bright silver coin as it spun, arched and descended and the boy slapped it onto the back of his hand and glanced down at it.

'It's 'eads! You lose!' he proclaimed happily. Then pocketing the coin he squinted at Ikey again. 'I suppose you is now gunna tell me you earned your present fortune 'cos you was so good at readin'?'

'Cheeky bugger!' Ikey shouted and made as if to rise. But the boy had already turned on his heels and was running up the steep bank of the river, his bare feet sending small pebbles and clods of red earth rolling into the water below. 'You'll go far, lad, that I'll vouch!' Ikey called after him, laughing.

'Cheer'o, mister,' the boy shouted back. 'See you in the library, then!'

Ikey looked down at the envelope in his hand. Mr. Isaac Solomon Esq., was all it said, in an annoyingly familiar copperplate script. Ikey opened it very slowly, as though it might explode in his hands, and carefully unfolded the note. To his surprise it contained two one pound notes. He held each note in turn up to the sunlight to ascertain that they were genuine, then he began to read.

Hobart Town.

25th October 1837

Dear Mr Solomon,

I have need of a good clerk who can keep an accurate ledger. If such a position should interest you, I urge you to come to Hobart and to make yourself known to the undersigned. I enclose the sum of two pounds to defray any expenses involved.

I remain, yours sincerely,

Mary Abacus. (Miss).