Tiger Men by Judy Nunn

into a cloth on the table.
    Mick and Eileen said nothing throughout the performance, but stood boldly surveying each other, neither prepared to be the first to look away.
    Ma finally drew breath and, glancing up, her shrewd eyes darted from one to the other.
    ‘Put your clothes on, Red,’ she said, ‘you’ll catch your death in that blouse.’
    Red obeyed in an instant. Crossing wordlessly to the chair by the window, she took up the velvet pelisse and eased it over her shoulders, gently feeding her right arm, then her left, through the drapes of its sleeves, playing out every step with slow grace. She fastened the cloak’s collar and did up each of its front buttons with meticulous care, and her eyes remained on Mick all the while. Then picking up her right glove, she started teasing her fingers into it, delicately, sensuously.
    ‘I must be going now anyway,’ she said, her words addressed to Ma, but her eyes still on Mick.
    He stared back, mesmerised. It’s like watching a woman strip in reverse, he thought. Every action was extraordinarily provocative. Had she been this seductive taking off her outer garments? he wondered.
    Red had not been seductive in divesting herself of her outer garments, but she had indeed stripped with a purpose. In fact she’d put on quite a show for Ma as the old lady had scoffed back her scones.
    ‘So what do you think, Ma? Am I the goods or am I not?’ she’d said and she’d twirled about the room, pulling off her gloves and caressing her garments with her bare fingers. ‘Feel that for velvet.’ She’d hoisted her skirt up over Ma’s lap, heedless of the crumbs which nestled there. ‘And how’s that for petticoats, now?’ she’d said ruffling the many layers of ruched cotton beneath.
    ‘That’s fine fabric all right,’ Ma had said, stroking the velvet reverently with the back of her hand, careful not to touch it with her buttery fingers, ‘that’s fine fabric indeed.’
    ‘And the bonnet, Ma, just look at the bonnet.’ Releasing the ribbon at her throat, Red had pulled off the bonnet. Her hair tumbled to her shoulders, for the bonnet was all that had been holding it in place – she never cared much for combs and pins. ‘Take a peek at the lace in that brim.’
    ‘Easy girl, easy,’ Ma had scolded as the bonnet was plonked on her lap. ‘A thing like this should be treated with care,’ and she’d wiped her hands with the cloth on the table before touching the fine ruffled lace.
    But Red wasn’t listening. Hauling off her cloak, she’d thrown it around Ma’s shoulders. ‘And try that for warmth,’ she’d said, ‘that’ll beat your old shawl any day.’
    ‘My old shawl will do me just fine, thank you, Eileen,’ Ma had said, her tone now one of distinct reprimand, and she’d taken the pelisse from her shoulders, folding it carefully. She never addressed Red as Eileen unless they were alone, and then only when she had a point to make, which she now did. ‘You show some respect for fine clothes like these, girl,’ she’d said, ‘they’re worth a tidy sum, and you never know when a tidy sum might come in right handy. Now you put them over there on the chair by the window before they get covered in butter.’
    ‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Ma.’ Red’s shrug had been dismissive, ‘I can get clothes like these whenever I want –’
    ‘There’ll come a day when you won’t be able to say that, Eileen,’ Ma had said ominously. ‘The good times don’t last forever. Now put your fine clothes on that chair.’
    Red had done as she was told, albeit a little sulkily, but she’d quickly perked up when Ma had poured them both a rum and they’d settled down to talk.
    ‘Right,’ Ma had said, starting on her fourth scone. ‘How’s it all going at Trafalgar? You tell me everything you’ve been up to, Red.’ And Red had.
    Both gloves were now in place, and Mick continued to watch spellbound as Red raised her arms and slowly drew her mane of hair back from