Deepwater

By Suzie Louis

The first book in the Deepwater series, an Australian historical saga set in early 20th century Australia where the Sydney docks were a place of poverty, bigotry and ignorance. The Catholic Church and the appearance of respectability ruled the lives of ordinary people. The men worked on the docks for little, while the women had babies and worked as well, doing what they could to make ends meet. Women eked out the housekeeping to last until their man's next payday. Children went barefoot to school and wore patched up dresses and shorts to Sunday school while the parents went to Church where priests delivered sermons on chastity and obedience to the Church. While being treated as an unpaid servant by her mother, Louise, the daughter of a boarding house keeper, becomes pregnant. She and her lover Harry want to marry but are prevented by her parents' bigotry for Harry is an orphan, born illegitimate and to Louise's hypocritical parents, a social pariah. They attack and berate him while hiding their own secrets. From a young child Harry raised himself on the streets and now lives by his fists, collecting debts for a bookie. He's good at his job and has a reputation for being a thug. He does what's necessary and has little sympathy for the customers who drink and gamble away money that should be supporting their wives and children. After their baby's birth Harry and Louise manage to obtain her parents' consent to their marriage with help from Louise's uncle who sees his sister, Louise's mother for what she is. The tension between what is acceptable behaviour and what is right escalates and results in tragedy that affects Louise and threatens her fragile respectability. She finds that transforming a life takes more than a ceremony. The violence Harry metes out comes back to haunt him and instils fear in Louise as she faces the reality of how Harry provides for them. Although she's young, inexperienced and completely dependant she loves Harry and is under the spell of their passion which leaves her blind to the experience of other women who live with husbands who abuse not only them, but their children. The kindness and generosity of their neighbour, Prudence, who suffers more than most, opens the way to another life for Harry and Louise. The story moves from Sydney to Deepwater in the New England Tablelands where the grass is deep and the sheep are nearly as fat as the wool cheques. Here life is very different but violence pursues all of them to their and it is Harry's choice in the face of a threat that will define him as a man. A cast of original characters move through the streets of a Sydney since lost where SP bookies like Harry's boss Snow plied their trade, cops were on the take, priests drank whiskey with their tea and children played cricket in the street before bedtime. The contrast between the slums and life on the New England couldn't be more starkly highlighted as Louise and Harry see the possibility of a new world. Includes an extract from Book II in the series, Prue.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Suzie Louis
• Release date: Mar 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476256412

Suzie Louis

It's strange what you eventually come up with when you write for other people: some elements of your own experience emerge as well as fresh, new stories that seem to come from nowhere. This has been my experience since I began to write for pleasure. I initially used my professional and personal life to produce Deepwater, the Litigation Junkie and Diary of a Novice Market Organiser but also found a stream of fantasy that became the Archie the Royal Hot Water Bottle series. I continue to find the creative writing process interesting as I work on a new novel and hope you enjoy the results so far.

Book preview

Deepwater

Suzie Louis

Published by Suzie Louis at Smashwords 2012

© 2012 Suzie Louis

© Revised and extended edition 2017

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. All rights reserved. It remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorised retailer. Thank you for your support.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, whether living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Cover design by the author

Images - Wikimedia Commons

Other works by Suzie Louis at Smashwords

Archie the Royal Hot Water Bottle

A Mere Pawn

The Litigation Junkie

How I Became a Bestseller

Mimosa, Big Mamma of the Caterpillar Throne

Chapter 1

If one of the uninitiated asked Harry what he did he was likely to say, 'not much, just odd jobs for Snow,' which was misleading because although Harry did work for the bookie, he had only one job and that was collecting debts. Because he did it very well his reputation as a thug stood him in good stead and unlucky punters were likely to cough up what they owed the second he arrived. If they didn't, he didn't hold back on the rough stuff and many a man went home with a black eye on payday courtesy of Harry.

Whether being a thug would be what defined Harry as a man remained to be seen.

Harry had come to Snow Smith, a successful SP bookie with hair as white as his name, as a half starved kid of fourteen, living on the streets, scrounging to feed himself. He'd learnt the art of survival early, which included coming up swinging if someone woke him up. With a quickness to learn and gratitude for having enough to eat and a roof over his head, Harry quickly made himself useful to Snow. Now he lived in one of Snow's flats in the Rocks and had money in his pocket. He had no illusions about what he did, 'But it's a living,' he often said to himself.

On this particular late afternoon Chicka and Spud were waiting for him at the tram stop. He didn't need them but Snow had other ideas. 'This bloke, Jacko, owes me five quid. That's a lot of money, Harry and I want it, no excuses. He's a sneaky little bastard. I know he drinks up at Reilly's in Darlinghurst. That place is a blood bin. Anything could happen if you go in there after him. Take them along as insurance.'

Rock round my neck more like it, Harry thought. Although Spud could be useful in a brawl, Chicka's only skill was to count the money. He could just about do that blindfolded.

Reilly's was an Irish pub, patronized by homesick sailors and local blokes who worked in the factories out in South Sydney. As a drinking hole it wasn't too bad so long as a bloke didn't mind it being packed three deep at the bar most of the time, or having to fend off the odd brawl. There were quieter places to drink than Reilly's, but Harry knew it was a good place to be if you wanted to blend into the scenery. A lot of Snow's customers tried to do that when they could or wouldn't pay then they knew Harry was likely to be on the job, collecting.

He didn't have long to find his man. It was only an hour until closing at six o'clock. Harry surveyed the room with a practised eye, but his man didn't seem to be there. Not for the first time Harry thought how amazing it was that a bloke who knew you were looking for him could spot you as you came in the door and just disappear. He suspected that's what had happened because Snow had said Jacko wasn't just a regular - he was a fixture at this pub - he sat in a corner near the back door, drinking middies until closing every day. He bought Chicka and Spud a beer and waited, just in case. The glass had hardly reached his lips before a familiar voice sounded in his ear.

'Harry me old mate, how are you?' Harry knew the voice, Neville O'Reilly, the publican - a mountain of a man with an Irish temper to go with what remained of his once flaming red hair. The slap Neville gave him on the back nearly knocked Harry flat.

'Nev, how's tricks?'

'Good mate, good, but I'm wondering, what brings you up east?'

'Nothing, Nev. We're just having a beer.'

'Yeah and I'm a Chinaman. Listen Harry, if there's going be trouble, take it outside. I don't want a brawl in here.' Neville gave him a look that left no doubt he meant what he said and walked away towards the back bar.

Spud dug Harry in the ribs and nodded towards the back door. Jacko, a small, pale man with wisps of long hair pasted to a bare scalp that was both oily and crusty, was coming in from the back lane.

Been out to the bog, Harry thought. Harry glided through the crowd like an apparition and had Jacko's arm twisted up his back and his man back out the door before he knew what hit him

'Quiet now Jacko,' he hissed into his ear, 'I don't want any trouble.'

'Let go of me you bastard, I'll have ya.'

'That'll be the day you manage that, Jacko. Now listen, I'll let go when you hand over the five quid you owe Snow.'

'I don't owe that thieving bastard nothin, I called off the bet, ask him.'

'That's not what I hear, Jacko. I heard you've been putting on bets regular for the last month and haven't taken a trick. It's time to settle up.'

'I ain't got that kind of money. Will ya let go of me arm? I reckon you've cut off the circulation! Oh, Christ, Harry. Let go, ya bastard!'

Harry applied enough pressure to Jacko's arm to assure him that it would break if he didn't shut up. Jacko knew the score and contented himself with a low moan.

Two blokes came out the back door. 'What's going on?' the bigger of the two said, quickly sizing up to Spud who just stood there like some sort of hairy mammoth.

Spud wouldn't move until Harry told him to. 'Piss off you blokes, Jacko here's an old mate, ain't ya Jacko?'

Harry pushed the arm a little more and Jacko squeaked out, 'Yeah.'

'Let's go have another beer, it's only Jacko,' the bigger of the two said.

Harry gave Jacko's arm another push for good measure.

Jacko looked even more pained as Harry said, 'This is how it's gonna be, Jacko, I'll be back Friday night and you have the money, otherwise things could get ugly. Don't make it any worse. Right?' Harry let him go. One look in those icy eyes and Jacko scarpered, down the lane and around the corner. Harry watched him go. 'Come on, let's go, he'll pay up. They always do.'

~

Smoke hovered in the air. The men had been smoking roll-your-owns, sending up a thick fug that drifted across the room towards her, caught by a small draught from the open window. The smoke swirled in front of her face, making her eyes water and her head ache as it slowly passed and went out through the door where, for a moment, it joined the moths that flew in pointless circles in the light that spilled onto the broad black step. As it passed her the smell was familiar and, in a way, comforting.

She looked around the room. She liked it. It had become familiar. Like an old friend it protected her from outside. Where they lived was at the back of the house and, after the small tiled porch, overlooked the patch of buffalo lawn and shrubs that passed for a garden. Of an evening it was lit by the late western light. In the winter the late sun warmed it, removing the chill that pervaded for most of the day. But now it was summer and the room was hot and airless.

The ceiling was high and white, coffered in heavy plaster relief. Lyrebirds were suspended in the corners, clustered in pairs, their heads turned toward each other as though they were listening for each other's calls. The birds were elegant, frozen in the ceiling's white symmetry.

A lumpy old lounge stood under the window. Its cover of once rosy apples made her smile even though they'd faded to a dull red. She supposed it was their massed exuberance that cheered her. Her chair was in the corner near the door, large and deep with a brown velvet cover. Some past occupant had gouged a hole in the arm. She'd explored the hole one day with a small slim finger and pulled out a penny. Some child's hiding place perhaps - the penny put there and then forgotten. A large round table stood in the centre of the room under the gaslight. It seemed to be in constant use. She worked at it during the day now, sewing with Prue. She and Harry ate there when he came in at tea-time. Then Harry used it at night when he was in, playing cards with his friends or the men just sat there, talking about whatever it was they did.

Tonight it was cards. There was Harry with his dark hair and blue eyes that occasionally rested on her in that caressing way. Spud, thick about the neck and middle was sweating in the heat. His shirt was wet under the arms and he seemed to be nervous. Maybe the cards weren't falling his way, yet again. George, her uncle, was there. He was older than Harry and his friends, but he sometimes came around and spent time with them of an evening. Uncle George was tall and thin. He had a big frame but never showed anything for all Auntie Dulcie's efforts in the kitchen. She noticed that his fingers were more bent, the fingers contracting towards the palms. He couldn't straighten them anymore. Chicka was the fourth - a dark little man rather like a weasel with his long nose and scrawny body but Chicka never lost at cards. He was too mean for that.

She sat quietly to one side of them, a slight line on her forehead the only hint that she was uncomfortable. Like her hands, her cheeks and nose were lightly freckled from the sun. She tried to wear a hat when she was outside so she wouldn't freckle any more but it always seemed to slip off her hair. 'Slippery hair' she called it as she wrestled with the heavy length of it in the mornings. The weight and length of her hair was out of all proportion to her figure that had been slight until a few months ago. When she stood up her hair hung below her waist. It was a light red and waved much to her chagrin, when all she wanted were wispy dark curls that would fold themselves neatly on top of her head and stay in the pins.

She knew Harry loved touching her hair. He often brushed it for her. He'd take out the pins and run his hands through its length, then start with the brush, taking delight in making it shine. 'Smooth as silk,' he'd say when he'd finished. It was something she'd never experienced before, the sensual feel of his hands as the brush slipped through her hair, down the length of her back in a rhythm that soothed but also excited her.

Occasionally she moved in the chair, shifting her bulk to ease the pain in her back. The child was restless, squirming, making her dress move in quick bumps that came and went. No one noticed. The men were too busy talking over the cards. She'd have to get up soon and get more beer for them from the kitchen. But she'd wait a little, she was comfortable and a gentle lethargy had settled on her once she'd sat down.

She could remember being slim, able to curl up neatly in a chair, her legs tucked under her. It had been delicious luxury to go up the narrow stairs to the roof of her parents' boarding house in the early evening after the boarders were fed. There was a cane chair, rotting away in the weather and some old clay pots, smashed, leaving small piles of dirt where tenacious weeds clung to life. The salty air had penetrated the chair's supports and they complained loudly as she threw herself down, but it was still solid enough to hold her and she settled into it often, taking time to drink in the spectacle before her and absorb the peace that came from being alone with her thoughts and the prospect of the unknown life that lay before her.

Her perch faced the harbour which lay at the bottom of the street. There was always something to watch and wonder over down there. The sailors moved quickly across the decks of the moored ships in a quick dance of expectation, unloading passengers and cargo, anxious to finish and go ashore to the delights the pubs offered. She knew about the ships, because some of the sailors boarded in the house. They came in and took a room and then disappeared into the pubs until closing. Then they came back, loud and hungry just after six o'clock when the pubs closed. They said her mother was the best cook in town. She wasn't surprised. The meals were good because Mum took trouble and was proud in seeing the men enjoy their food. There was always plenty as well. No need for the boarders' quick grab the moment the food arrived at the table. The men knew there was always more in the kitchen.

The boarding house was in Murray Street, two narrow rows of bricks and mortar arranged on a sandstone escarpment that had for ages provided a vantage point for those who watched the harbour and its workings. The house was doubled fronted with large windows on either side of the door. There were three steps up from the street and a basement kitchen below. When she was in the kitchen she could look up and see carts and people passing. It had been grand once, her mother always said. Now its large rooms were divided up.

Their flat was at the top of the house, three bedrooms and a small parlour. The dining room and big parlour were on the first floor. The second floor was small bedrooms for the boarders. Her parents had owned the house since she was little. She couldn't remember living anywhere else, as she couldn't remember a time when there weren't strange men in the house, boarders. No women were allowed. Her mother said it only made trouble having men and women in the one house. Mrs Campbell, the Scot down the road, took in women. She even took in actresses.

Ever since she could remember she had helped in the house, doing vegetables, washing up and feeding the chooks. Every day she'd do 'her jobs' as Mum called them. She seemed to hear it as soon as she arrived in the kitchen in the morning: 'Louise, have you done your jobs yet?' even before she'd had her porridge. Lucy would be there and say 'There Mrs C, the child's just having her bit of breakfast, she'll be at those jobs soon enough.' She knew Mum was grinding her teeth at Lucy interfering but Mum didn't say anything. Lucy was the only help Mum had been able to keep for more than twelve months at a time. The other maids came and went but Lucy had been in the house since before she was born. She could remember Lucy picking her up and wiping her face after she'd come in, filthy from the yard. She'd wipe away the dirt before her Mum could see it and bark at her for getting herself 'filthy again!'

Lucy smelt of soap and starch and always wore a crisp white apron with big pockets. The apron crackled when she walked. You could hear her coming down the hall long before you saw her. Like a ship in full sail she'd glide by, her skirts threatening to scatter the furniture as she passed. By some miracle she'd pass through to the kitchen with the furniture undisturbed, issuing instructions to the other maids as she went. 'Dorrie, that front room's not been swept, best get in there before the missus comes down.'

After school she'd dive her small hands into Lucy's apron pockets. There was always a biscuit or piece of cake, still warm from the oven, carefully wrapped in grease-proof paper, especially for her as though Santa came each day and left a present. 'There you are,' Lucy would say, 'a sweet for my sweetie. Take it outside, quiet like. That's a good girl.'

'Any more beer love?' she heard Harry ask.

Louise pulled herself back to the present. 'Mmm? She said from what seemed a great distance in time and place, 'Yes. Won't be long, it's on the ice.'

Chapter 2

It was early January and the soft light of very early morning was short. Louise woke to the sound of currawongs calling and the first fingers of a hot sun creeping around the curtain. She'd heard the clock at the front of the house strike six. Harry lay curled around her, one arm across the tight swelling of her stomach. For once the child was still and she was able to lie against the pillows content before the world awoke and took its share of her.

It was one of her treats to look at him as he slept. If he caught her 'examining him' as he called it he'd say, 'What's up? Cut myself shaving? Dag on the end of my nose?' She'd laugh because he was embarrassed at her loving the look of him and say, 'Nothing' with a toss of her hair and a smirk. 'Nothing to see, really.' That usually provoked the response she wanted - his arms quickly around her and his mouth hungry for her.

But now he was asleep as her eyes lingered over the smoothness of his olive skin and the kink in his hair at the nape of his neck. She wanted to run her fingers through the thickness of it, but didn't, afraid he'd wake. He was beautifully made. His lean frame was straight with wide shoulders and slim hips and he was tall, about six feet. He had a square chin and his beard would have a red tinge if he didn't shave. His blue eyes were framed by dark lashes that were long and silky, like a girl's. But their blue had an icy clarity that could be cold. She'd only seen it once when he'd had words with her Dad on that awful day five months ago. Never since. But the look had frightened her then.

She'd known there could be a child from the beginning but when it didn't happen straight away the fear went a bit and she'd sort of hoped for the best. But then it happened and the realisation had been like a heavy steel door closing on her, leaving her in a dark, cold place where no-one would hear her if she called. It was her Mum who'd found out. She had a long nose like a ferret, sniffing out other people's secrets. Certainly she'd found out almost as soon as Louise herself. It had been pretty dreadful when she'd come to the toilet door and seen her being sick again.

'Filthy little bitch. You're up the duff, aren't ya?'

Louise could only go on retching, the burning bile rising in her throat and horror gripping her in a cold sweat.

'Suppose it was that Harry Jones. Don't think I don't know he's been hanging around! Don't expect him to marry you! Your Dad won't have him. Harry's a bastard himself. All you'll have is a bastard brat to shame us all!'

Dad had been worse. He'd just looked at her as though she was something foul he was trying to scrape off the sole of his shoe,

'How far along is she?'

'About three months by the look of her.'

'That mongrel, I'll kill him.'

He didn't though. He'd had a go at Harry at the pub that night, in front of the whole street, making sure his mates were there to back him up if things got ugly. She'd followed Dad down to the pub and stood outside, peering round the door like a child sent to get her Dad home for tea. Harry was alone at the bar when Dad poked him in the chest and shouted so everyone could hear:

'You've been