Black Diamonds

by Kim Kelly

  And I should remember to be grateful. I am too. By comparison, we’re well off because of Dad: he gets paid a quarterly extra for the time out with the fixing, and so do I, since that’s what I do now too, when we’re not just hewing, and even when we are just hewing, as we are at the moment, we earn above maximum. Always together, and always on day shift, special privilege of always reliable father and son, there’s no competition for our hauls at the Wattle and no financial concern in our house. Unlike others who only make enough to live on, and even then miners are better paid than most other workers, before expenses and contributions and lay-offs anyway. It’s enough to turn you red, what others have to put up with.

  But Dad’s not a fist thumper and neither am I. We keep well out of trouble. He keeps the records for our meetings, keeps a note of everything, he’s that meticulous about it, about everything he does, and staunch for the union, obviously, everyone of all persuasions is, but I think he takes most of his fight to the coal; lays in like he’d rather kill it than hew it. He says to me, ‘Where would I be if I lost my temper one day? In prison, that’s where.’ They say you’ve got to watch the quiet ones.

  Like me, driving myself round the bend turning all this over now. Looking for sense where there is none.

  Avoiding thinking about what’s really cut me. Dad’s dusted. He’s started coughing it up, a lot now; had the wheeze for I don’t know how long; still ignoring it. And he’ll push on, as he’ll expect me to, even when he can’t ignore it any more. I’d like to think this is stupid, to tell him to stop, but you don’t tell my father anything, and if he’s going to die, then he’ll want to be earning up till the day he does. He’s never seen a doctor in his life, and he’s not about to start; unlike me: I average a trip to the hospital once a year for some little thing or other. When I burned myself again last year, Dad said to me: ‘If that quack could fix your clumsy head, he’d go broke.’ Nothing the doctor could do for Dad, though, even if he got seen to. Of course I’ll keep on, look after Mum. Worry about financial concerns when I’m looking at them.

  And I’m the only one who will be looking at them, since my other brother, Pete, took off four years ago, to Newcastle. Twenty-five and he’d had enough; talked his way into a job on the docks doing bugger all, directing traffic; he writes to Mum now and again, says he doesn’t miss Lithgow winters. Dad doesn’t say anything, never mentions him, and wouldn’t go up to Newcastle even when Pete got married last year. I can understand, sort of. As much as I’ve been thinking I’d rather never go in again, I could never walk away like that. There’s too much of me here. Don’t have to think too hard about it: I can still see Jimmy Skelton too clearly, same age as me, on our first year in, caught by a runaway skip and cut almost in half. I had to run on to his family, because I knew his mum well, to tell her before they brought his body home; his father was a wreck; died the year after from the shock of it, they reckon. That’s a lot to walk away from, just there. Not to mention letting Dad down; I’d never do that.

  But I also don’t have to think too hard to remember that Mum didn’t want me to go in in the first place. She argued with Dad, the only time I can remember them arguing, the day I came home from school and said I’d go in with Dad, as the other boys from school were going in with theirs. He came back at her in German, which he never speaks unless he’s really shitted-off, and he’d have been thinking I wasn’t following the conversation through the bedroom wall. But I was. Thanks to Mum who, up until that day, had taken a particular interest in my education. Always making me read, despite the fact that I’ve always hated it; asking me about school all the time, which I hated even more, because I’ve never been the best at sitting still doing bugger all; and teaching me German, talking to me in German every day after school, on the sly from Dad. I don’t know, I’m the youngest by a long way, and I suppose Mum had time to put the effort in. She speaks French as well, and reads like it’s going out of fashion, and when I was younger I was impressed by it, but by the time I’d made the decision to go with Dad, I’d dropped the Deutsch. It seemed disrespectful to keep going with something he disapproved of — ‘This is Australia — speak English, not that ugly rubbish,’ he’d say whenever she’d let it slip in front of him — so I stopped listening, and Mum stopped bothering. Still, I have to call Dad Vati on occasion, because, well, he does love his cabbage. Anyway, what else would I have done with myself? Miners can earn more than government schoolteachers and there wasn’t much alternative. Getting fried alive at the furnaces? Good money, and it’d want to be; same difference as mining. Be a plumber and deal in shit all day? Or some other idiot trade job trying forever to edge into the middle class? Like my brother-in-law. No thanks. So I went in. I read Australian Worker and Radical and that new dippy one, Direct Action, while we’re all waiting for the socialist revolution; that’ll do. How’s that for a desperate shot at justification?

  Don’t think Mum would buy it. She never makes a disappointment known; not to me anyway. But somehow I can hear it now, in the way she’s turning our clothes again. There are secrets in her that are not legends and maybe I want to live long enough to catch wind of them.

  Maybe I should hit myself over the head with something to shut off this rubbish.

  My head is like stew. And now here comes Francine Connolly, making her hundredth appearance, scrabbling for her apples in the street, not looking at me while I help her pick them up.

  I’ve seen her once before in town, and Evan Lewis, who’s Dad’s best mate and our representative to the union, and whose socialism is matched only by his Methodism, saw me looking and said she was one of the owners’ daughters. I put her out of my head then. It’s not that hard to be a stand-out in this town full of so many men, and married women, but even with her red hair falling out of the coil under her hat as she walked up Main Street, her pretty body hugged by that slim grey skirt, I looked away again. She’s an owner’s daughter. And probably only here for a spell, and certainly out of bounds. But when I saw her again today, yesterday, when I picked up the apples, she made me feel a bit worse than invisible. Sure, I did just want to get a closer look, but I thought I was being polite about it. For me; I’m not usually known for my politeness. She looked at me like I was some kind of an animal, and ran away from me. I don’t know why I did it. Maybe just for lack of stand-outs. I hardly ever go into town looking like that; I only wanted to ride in quickly to pick up some linseed oil before the co-op closed. But what difference should it make? I’m a fucking miner. That’s what I look like after work, and I’m not on my own there: there’s a couple of thousand of us round about the place.

  Forget it, for the hundredth time. She’s bourgeois rubbish. What else did I expect?

  The whistle sails across the valley, and I get out of bed like my legs know what they are doing before I think it. I look out the window into the blackness and the tree next to the house lights up in a cloud break. It’s an apple tree, standing there like a ghost looking at me. No fruit on it.

  I hear the pan hit the stove as Mum starts breakfast. I hear Dad yawn, cough and scratch his head in the next room. I open the window and piss on the tree and already it’s just another day.

  FRANCINE

  For the third morning in a row I’ve been woken by the kookaburras. It’s hard to believe they don’t do that deliberately. At Rose Bay they were so bold that they’d sit on the balcony rail and look at me; they’d say, It wasn’t me laughing, unconvincingly. Then, just to rub it in, one of them would dive headlong into the garden below, as if in fright, only to reappear with a lizard in its beak. I look into the tired old gums of now, drearier for the hazy dawn. I haven’t seen a single one of those puffy-chested, cheeky birds here, though I can hear them loud and clear; perhaps Lithgow kookaburras mock by stealth. Oh, stop it, Francy. I break my resolutions against negativity so easily.

  I should be pleased. Father said last night that he’d already approached someone to help me with the garden design and choosing the plants. Some friend of Mr
Drummond’s knows some fellow in Bathurst, and he’ll be coming on Friday on his way through to Sydney to have a look at the yard. Father seemed very chipper himself, too, said that the mine would turn a healthy profit this quarter and there was more to come; whatever that means. Always good news he gives me. Still, when I went down to meet him in the parlour last night I could smell the sharp whisky sourness on his breath already. Not like him to drink spirits before the sun goes down; he’s always been strict about that, if nothing else. Perhaps he’d been celebrating impending healthy profit with Mr Drummond.

  I wash and dress, shifting flowerbeds and feature trees around in my head and, downstairs, gulp a glass of water in the empty kitchen. I’m sure it tastes of coaldust, but I tell myself instead how pleasant the kitchen is at this hour of the morning — with no Polly in it. She’s still asleep, not to be woken before seven o’clock, thank you, and she’ll have done breakfast by the time I get back from Mass, so I can fix myself something to eat then, when she’ll be out the back doing the washing.

  Hayseed, my new little chestnut pony, greets me with a snort and a nod outside his stall in the rear of the yard, and the ancient McNally, who looks after him and other odds and sods — and also seems to have come with the house — has already got him ready with the trap, as I told him to yesterday. No sign of Cranky McNally, though; lucky day!

  He’s a dear pony, Hayseed, most delightful being I’ve met so far. He snorts again as I climb up, and we set off down the hill towards the town.

  Already the place is alive with bustle and the sun is barely risen; I can feel it seething as we come closer, carts and traps and bicycles and working men, feel it all press in upon me along Main Street, and I rush too, turning off and up again to the church, as if I don’t have all the time in the world to get there.

  Inside, it is still, and the cool old bricks smell fresh, like river pebbles steaming rain. Cross myself, genuflect, I can hear myself breathe. There’s hardly anyone here. Just a few old women and some working types scattered amid the pews. Father Hurley has put on this extra midweek Mass for Lent, so says his yellowing notice pinned on a little board inside the door; clearly the enthusiastic response has caused him to extend it well beyond the season of sacrifice. Not many have chosen to extend themselves this morning.

  I go through the motions, let the Latin wash over me. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, burble, burble, burble … I’ve never listened at Mass, but I am bound to the ritual of it. It’s dreamlike, removed, and induces me to meditate upon higher thoughts; I always feel cleansed afterwards, and always feel compelled to return, as if prayers are more significant here. Father Hurley’s voice is wondrously dull and does the job. He looks like a dirt farmer from one of those Bulletin sketches with his thin, lined face and pale eyes tired from squinting eternally in a paddock in the middle of nowhere, mourning for his drought- stricken flock. I’m thinking about my attitude, which is my higher thought for the day, and how I shall improve it and impress upon Father Hurley that I am indeed keen to find a purpose here, so he will provide an interesting suggestion for me.

  Father Hurley wearies himself and it’s all over remarkably quickly. I’ve barely crossed myself before I’m down the aisle to accost him before he leaves for the vestry. ‘Ahem.’

  He turns around, peering through the motes.

  ‘I was wondering, Father, if I might have a quick word with you, if you’ve a moment?’

  His squint opens a little with a slim but kindly smile. ‘Ah, Miss Francine Connolly,’ he says, emphasising the Francine, I imagine, to remind me of my saint, my best intentions, and the fact that I haven’t been to confession since I arrived in this town and am therefore not entitled to sacraments of any sort. ‘Yes, of course. Tell me, how is your father? We didn’t see him on Sunday.’

  ‘No, that’s right. He was unwell,’ I say, with one part gravity to six parts mortally coy. My father’s attendance at Mass is ever sporadic to say the least; he only went the week we first arrived because I badgered him. ‘How odd will it look, me turning up alone and introducing myself?’ I’d snipped at him and he’d indulged me.

  A look of concern from the priest: ‘Is he recovered?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He’s very well now, thank you. In fact, he’s sent me here to ask you if you might suggest some sort of work for me, to keep me from idleness,’ I fib, having decided during my meditation to give my enquiry more weight this way. Father’s not the slightest bit interested in what I do all day when he’s out.

  Father Hurley’s pale slots brighten; he thinks for a moment and then says: ‘What sort of work do you think might suit you, lass?’

  ‘I thought perhaps teaching? Is there a school where I might be useful? I especially love the little ones.’ That’s true enough: very little ones are the only little ones I might abide; most children are ratty or dimmed above the age of five, I suppose because that age is the threshold for strapping and rote. Oh, but little ones smell of all sorts of foul and mysterious things, don’t they. At this point I have to admit to myself that this is a lost cause; despite my prayers, I don’t really want to do this sort of work at all, noxious odours, preparing youngsters to have their spirits broken. Much as I owe the convent sisters for my education, they beat something out of me, or into me. I’m not sure which.

  ‘There are a few schools here,’ he says, looking at me thoughtfully again. ‘But none that I know of that require a new teacher. I shall enquire for you, if you like.’

  I’m about to say, Don’t go to any particular trouble on my behalf, when he adds: ‘They do need a nurse at the hospital, though, quite urgently, I hear. Mrs Moran, the matron there, is stretched to her limit. Do you have any experience at that?’

  I am horrified, couldn’t think of anything more hideous than tending the sick. I say, ruefully: ‘No, none at all. I think I’d be all fumbles with that.’

  He smiles his kindly smile again, knowing, I’m sure. What a silly, spoiled girl I am. I thank him after he says he’ll have a further think on it, and I leave for the post office, perhaps my book will be in this morning. I shall go back to pretending that I can be an artist instead, fill my days communing with the sublime in order to create … what a load of old rot.

  ‘No, it’s not in,’ Mr Symes, the postmaster, grunts without looking for my package from Angus & Robertson; I am becoming a pest. But he adds, for my crestfallen face: ‘Why don’t you call in at the bookshop, they might have something for you instead, while you’re waiting? Or the library?’

  They have a bookshop here? And a library? Well, that’s something. But I’m too glum to ask him where they are, and embarrassed, yet again. I nod a thanks and slink away back to Hayseed tethered to the verandah pole outside. As I climb into the trap my eyes wander along the railway tracks to the buildings backing off Main Street — and fall directly on the bookshop just down from the bakers. I must have passed the front of it at least half-a-dozen times. Why didn’t I see it? Then, within a blink, I see a flicker of red apples rolling through tawny-grey dust. My cheeks are burning again and my heart is hammering all of a sudden. I grab at the reins and thwack them, swimmy-headed and the blue light blinding me as we move out from the shade. What on earth is wrong with me?

  DANIEL

  Dad’s always that careful, I can’t help ragging him for it, but I don’t this morning. Too busy yawning. I watch the way he smells the air as we come back round after firing, then he listens as he’s tapping everywhere above the fall with his pick, like he’s talking to God, as if, before laying in. There is a point to it here, though, round this blind pinch in section three; we’ve cavilled that for this quarter and the place is full of bumps and low-roofed with cranky shit shale — I’ve got a ridge of scrapes down my back to prove it. I’m way too big for this sort of thing, they should make it Taff-only work; I didn’t mean that. The rock above us groans softly, and we wait a little longer: tap, tap, tap. It settles and Dad says: ‘Yep.’

  I’m fighting my pick before I li
ft it, and already thinking about crib break, already blinking. Next time I have trouble sleeping I will hit myself over the head. The light’s streaking in my eyes like there’s water running down the face, and I’m boiling after five minutes. It’s always hot of course, but it’s too hot too quickly. It feels like there’s a fire above us, gusting down. I take off my shirt, but it doesn’t make any difference.

  I’m turning around to look at the brattice cloth, back towards the fan shaft, to see if the ventilation’s right or if we are on fire, when it bumps again, very loud this time, with an unscheduled spill of rock somewhere, and we stop. Even the rats stop. There’s dead silence; we’ve all heard it. And we all wait.

  I hear Robby Cullen say, ‘Jesus Christ’ and hoick from the next stall up. This section is so slow in parts he hasn’t met his present darg of two ton a day for a few weeks, and it doesn’t help that it takes the ponies ten years to get down here to collect. His wife is having her second one already and he’s feeling the pressure. Stupid bugger, shouldn’t have got married so young. He’s only a year older than me.