Black Diamonds

by Kim Kelly

  But luck is not happy this afternoon: Daniel utters nothing but directions as we head out to this paddock place; he barely even looks at me. I am the cabman apparently, with a moody, broody passenger. I try to make conversation — ‘Goodness, it’s chilly, isn’t it?’; ‘I’ve brought a little picnic’; ‘I hope it doesn’t rain’; ‘Here, take the blanket, your toes will fall off’ — and the monosyllabic responses wear me down. Eventually, impatience roils and I pull Hayseed up by the side of the road somewhere in the labyrinth of dusty tracks beyond town. ‘Are you going to talk at all today? Because if you’re not, I’m going to turn this trap around right now.’

  That makes him look at me, fierce, then frown, then sigh: ‘You were right, Francine, this isn’t reasonable.’

  ‘Oh.’ I sink through the seat of the trap and into the dirt below.

  ‘I want it to be,’ he adds.

  Say more, I demand with my eyes, and stop frowning at me like it’s my fault, even if it is.

  ‘I can’t think about anything else other than how much I want it to be, but it doesn’t help. We’re too different, aren’t we.’

  He’s not getting away with leaving it at that. I keep staring.

  Half sigh of exasperation, half grunt: ‘I mean it’s a bit of a Romeo and Juliet, isn’t it — a make-believe that didn’t end too well.’

  Astonishment at literary reference, but still staring.

  ‘Stop blinking at me!’

  He smiles; I blink again: I’ve won. We’ve won.

  ‘It’ll end in tears,’ he says, deadpan. I love him.

  ‘You only live once,’ I say, and that hangs there fat with meaning for a moment. ‘So do you want me to take you to this rugby thing or not?’

  ‘It won’t be like anything you’re used to.’ Last grasp.

  ‘I’m not like anything I’m used to any more. Just try to shock me.’

  ‘All right,’ he says, proper smile this time. ‘Let’s see what we can do for you.’

  It doesn’t look like a hideous hole in the ground as we pass it. Beyond the small office building and some big sheds and machinery things, and further on, presumably, the foundations of Father’s Lavatory and Washing Facility, is a rather grand portal arch set into the side of the hill proclaiming that this is The Wattle Dell Colliery, 1902. The irony is awful: fabulous façade, but, sorry, no toot. And the wattle, scraggy and olive-dull this time of year, is prolific; come winter’s end, when the fuzzy blooms cover the hillside with bobbing yellow, it’ll look like the entrance of a tourist retreat. Except for all the sets of rail tracks, especially the ones that disappear beneath the arch. They fade abruptly to black. And I don’t let my eyes linger too long; I don’t want him to see me staring at that. I look at him instead and he says: ‘Keep going round, past the stables.’

  And way round the other side of the hump of bounty and degradation, and past another couple of holes in the ground, one of which is called ‘Stables’, lies a paddock. It is a natural grassy flat, upon which tall poles and crossbars have been erected at either end; I do recognise them as the things through which odd- shaped balls are kicked. Chalk lines mark out the playing field, and a few dozen men are spreading themselves out across it. Looks just like a football match is about to start, except there are no stripy jerseys in sight: they all wear work boots and various utilitarian shades of navy and grey. There’s a gathering of other men and boys, and women and children ranged along this near edge, with picnic rugs spread out and treats laid on; very civilised. It seems the other edge of the field drops off sharply, gums dangling their branches up and over on that side, and I wonder how many times the ball goes over it. Altogether there must be around two hundred people here, and almost the same number of ponies it seems when I look across at the other end of the field again.

  ‘They’re the pit ponies,’ Daniel explains when I comment on how lovely they are, standing in such easy formation. ‘They never miss a match. Keep the grass short for us too.’

  I look across the whole scene again; they are all facing the field: people and ponies. None looking at us, though, as we slowly wheel in; more important things afoot.

  Daniel says: ‘Stop here.’ He’s so abrupt I pull Hayseed up with a bump, and here we are on the sideline close to the nearest of the posts, conspicuous as we could possibly be. But still no one shows interest in us; a whistle blows, the ball goes up and the game begins.

  ‘Who’s playing who?’ I ask, daring the obvious.

  ‘Caps and no caps. See?’ Not looking at me.

  ‘Everyone here is from the Wattle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How do you know who’s on which team?’

  ‘By the caps.’ He drags his eyes from the field and looks stunned by my stupidity.

  ‘No, I mean how do you decide who gets a cap and who doesn’t?’

  ‘It’s a cavil.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A lottery — pick the names out of a hat, before the game.’

  There you go; don’t ask what happens if caps fall off. Stop blathering on anyway; he’s half off the seat of the trap now, and muttering something unintelligible at whatever’s going on out there. I haven’t a clue, but watch too, thinking: so you all work together then smash into each other on Sundays for fun, at random. Hmn.

  ‘Yes. Yes. Yes,’ he’s calling out and I look from the field to him, and back to the field: clearly not the time for inane questions from the ignorant. It seems half of the players are charging straight for us, till the one with the ball gets thumped down and then they all appear to jump on top of each other indiscriminately. Another one emerges from the scrap with the ball and breaks away from the mob, and he really is charging at us, full tilt. Hayseed stomps and nickers, not in fright, I don’t think, but in a merry excitement. Good heavens. And the man throws himself over the chalk line, just a few yards away.

  Daniel explodes: ‘Robby!’

  And this Robby fellow picks himself up to the claps and cheers of all, runs over, jumps up to punch Daniel on the shoulder, says,’ You beaut,’ then runs off again.

  Baffling stuff but so joyous it’s hard not to be swept into the enthusiasm. Daring again I ask: ‘What happened just then?’

  With a look of the most delightful forbearance, he says: ‘That, Francine, was a try, scored by my good mate Robby Cullen.’

  ‘Oh. Good,’ I say, and still daring I have to ask: ‘How do you know who to cheer for? I mean, which team?’

  ‘Whoever you like,’ he grins and that’s all the explanation I’m going to get since he’s watching the game again. One of the players sends the ball sailing over the posts from about twenty yards off, and Daniel leans down to say: ‘And that was an excellent goal.’

  Terrible need to fan my face after the sensation of his breath on my ear. Oh goodness. Calm down, Francy. I watch the crowd and notice that they’ve started to make glances at us; how could they not? I suppose they all know who I am and are wondering what I’m doing here; and there’s that tough-as-nails-looking Mr Lewis, in the middle of the players with the whistle: he certainly knows who I am. Oh, I hope he doesn’t recognise the trap from the other day when I was hiding in the rosebush. I’ve already decided to play the happy cabman, but now I am nervous. It seems important that I have the approval of these people, not for being here with Daniel — I’m not sure I want to know what they’d think of that — but simply for being.

  Thoughts are a mire of ifs and buts until the whistle blows again, for the break in the game, and when the players leave the field, people start coming over to us. It’s a blur of:

  ‘Danny, mate, it’s good to see you.’ Back slap, handshake.

  ‘Miss Connolly.’ Doff cap or nod, pretend not to stare.

  ‘Danny, come on second half, why don’t you.’

  ‘Miss Connolly.’

  ‘Danny, you loafer. When are you back?’

  ‘Miss Connolly.’

  I want to know who this Danny is, this beloved Danny. Untouched by
myriad unmentionables.

  I feel a gentle tap on my arm, my side of the trap. A woman stands there; she’s perhaps about thirty, but it’s hard to tell, since her forehead is deeply lined. I smile my happy cabman smile and she says: ‘Miss Connolly, how do you do, I’m Moira Jones.’

  ‘How do you do.’

  ‘Better than I should be doing, thanks to your father. He should be sainted, if only for what that money means for my children. I just wanted to tell you that.’

  Saint Francis, of course; a company of sulphur-crested cockatoos rises out of the wattle behind her as if to confirm it. And this must be the Mrs Jones. I’m so moved by her directness I don’t know what to say.

  She adds: ‘And you must be a kind girl too, bringing Danny out today.’ The whistle blows for the game to start up again and she says: ‘Well, I just wanted you to know that we appreciate it. Good day, then.’

  ‘Good day to you too, and thank you for telling me.’ I barely breathe the words out.

  She looks softly into my embarrassment, then walks away. She glances back at me once, and then I see: she knows, or thinks she does. Of course, most likely everyone knows. This town is a heaving bustle, but it’s not that big, certainly not round this side. She probably lives in Dell Street too, has seen me and Hayseed traipsing up and down. That’s not a difficult two and two, is it, not for a woman with an imagination at least. Opinion is inscrutable, though: was I being reminded of my place and to be kind, or being given approval? Does it matter? No: it only feels like it matters because I’ve been conditioned to think it should matter. Facts are, kind is not the word for what I feel and I have my own approval. That’ll have to do. At least they don’t appear to hate me.

  Daniel’s bellowing out something or other again at whatever’s going on in the field; I can’t even pretend to watch: I’m too busy grabbing glances at him. And I feel like bellowing too. We’re different, but there’s nothing impossible about us. I must be staring shamelessly now, because he turns to stare back. Good. Except he keeps on looking at me, till I can’t bear it any more. I look into the sky, into the grey cold clouds; take deep, steady breaths. And see the ball, high in the air, spinning end over end; rather like my brain, I think, as it descends. And descends. And descends, landing with a filthy thump in my lap, stinging my thighs.

  ‘Oh!’ I squawk, but I stand straightaway in the trap and throw it at the nearest man on the field. A cheer roars up at that and I feel ten feet tall. I’m Francine Connolly and that’ll have to do!

  ‘Good pass.’ Daniel’s looking up at me in that way, like I am a lunatic. ‘They should have you on side.’

  ‘Just an accident, I’m sure,’ I say, sitting down again; the cat that ate the cream.

  He’s still looking at me. He says: ‘I might have to accidentally marry you one day.’

  ‘I’m still not shocked,’ I say, and my heart is charging like a train.

  ‘Well, I’ll have to make it deliberate then. Would you? Consider it?’

  ‘Yes.’ As if I was ever going to say no.

  No caps win and it starts to snow. We don’t stay to picnic. I’ve never seen snow before and I am positively weepy with ecstasy, watching it fall upon his dark hair. Driving back to Dell Street is bliss itself, flakes zinging on my cheeks, a beautiful silence of possibility between us. When we pull up at his house we just sit there in the trap. Didn’t expect all that, did we.

  DANIEL

  I don’t want to say a thing, but I want to make it real. Make sure I did actually ask her and that she did actually say yes. She didn’t hesitate for a second, did she. Flaming hell. So I say: ‘We should probably wait a while, so at least it looks halfway reasonable, don’t you think?’

  I can’t tell you what she looks like right now, I just can’t. But we have to wait: Dad’s barely cold, and although I reckon he’d see the brutal humour in this, it’s just not appropriate. And the rest.

  She nods, and after a while she says: ‘You’d better ask my father sooner rather than later, though.’

  I meant wait a while before we start stepping out, not asking her father, but she’s got a point. ‘Yes, when I get this thing off my leg.’

  ‘How long will that be?’

  ‘A month maybe; Nichols said about eight weeks, and it’s been just over three.’ Very long and now very eventful ones.

  ‘That might be too long,’ she says; that’s too real. I want to hold her to me but I’m not sure if she’d want me to. Not only because we’re out here in the street, but because she is who she is. I don’t want to do anything to make her think twice.

  ‘Well, should I do it tomorrow then?’ I can’t do it right now — I have to tell Mum first, then have a bit of a long moment with myself.

  ‘Yes, but we can keep it quiet after that for a while. That’s sensible. We’ll need time to work everything out anyway.’

  Too right. ‘I suppose you’ll have to come and get me, though. It doesn’t seem right. But I can’t very well ask any of my mates, can I, without making it obvious. Maybe I could ask Mum to give me a double on my bike.’

  She laughs her head off at that. ‘How about Mr McNally comes to get you?’

  Forgot she had servants; poor old McNally. He used to be a miner, uncle of Fred’s, I think; had some sort of mental problem years ago when I was a kid. Which makes me think of Fred, who died with Dad … this is going to trip us up everywhere we turn. But I’ve done it now, haven’t I. And I’m not giving her up for anything now anyway — there is only one Francine Connolly and I’ve got her, thank you very much. I’ve already got a bit of a plan forming too. When I’m fit, I’ll go back in for the rest of the quarter, just to prove the point that I haven’t choked on them, and then we can get married, and then I’ll … don’t know. It’ll come.

  ‘All right,’ I say and then I can’t stand it any more. I just have to do what I’ve been wanting to do every second since Friday afternoon. ‘Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, I suppose,’ I say, then I lean in and kiss her. Just on the cheek, quickly. Any more than that and I’d be dangerous. She blinks at me then — and I’ve definitely got to go. She touches my hand on the trap wheel as I get out, just lightly, but it’s enough to make me feel like I’m going to fall over.

  FRANCINE

  Father is only holding up by a thread, but so determinedly incorrigible: he pretended shock and outrage at first with Daniel; I know because I listened at the parlour door, of course. ‘YOU WHAT!’ he began, but I couldn’t hear much after that. Polly actually laughed at me when she saw; she’s much nicer these days, I’ve found, possibly because I am less of a morose horror to deal with. Another easy equation. So I had to tell her, and swear her to secrecy until we’re ready to announce. Daniel looked as though he’d been through the Inquisition when he hobbled out, but when he saw me sitting on the stairs he pointed and said: ‘You’re sold, if you’re still keen on the buyer.’ Father guffawed and offered him a malt, but Daniel doesn’t drink — ‘What, not a drop?’ ‘No.’ — Deo gratias.

  We’ve stuck to our Friday rendezvous, my weekly kiss, my fix of joy, except when I can’t bear it and have to sneak round for extras, and Mrs Ackerman, goddess of wisdom, is as sweet to me as I could ever have hoped. She makes the most delicious cinnamon cake, I wonder if I’d go there for that alone, and has filled me in on the extent of the clan. There’s Peter and his wife Violet in Newcastle, whom she hopes to get up to see as soon as Daniel is on his feet. Then there’s Miriam and her husband Roy McKinnon and seven little ones, all of them naughty, she says, and clearly adored by her. She’ll go off to stay with them in Bathurst for a while too, and help Miriam with her brood. She’s a lovely, soft-spoken woman, so delicately made that I find it hard to fathom how she has a son as large as Daniel. I’d love to ask her about Calypso, and about the bookmarked copy of a French tome entitled Les Arcs d’Amour that sits on the side table by the little sofa, but something about her tells me not to pry, to let her do the talking and the asking. I’d love to hear the little
upright against the far wall being played, too, but I don’t dare ask that; this house, I must presume, is still in mourning. For now, I can only imagine Daniel playing it — I just bet he does. And I bet he’s better than me — wouldn’t be hard: I’m all fumbles with that.

  I am so very happy, I mean inside my bones happy. I tingle with it, it ripples even through the knowledge now that mourning is not long away for me; it sings to me: your father gave all this to you, how can you not be joyful? The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, but Father has the trumps on that: Go forth and be in love, Francy. And I am. Oh, I am. So, miraculously so, I can hide my tears for him inside it, entertain him instead with tales of lovers not getting around to much working out of dull details. We’ve been too busy, Daniel and I, doing what is conventionally done before a marriage proposal: getting to know each other, and everything I’m getting to know makes me adore him more and more, from his preference for lemon in his tea, to the fact that he actually used the word proletariat in conversation the other week and I wasn’t certain of what it meant. He’s also intriguingly neat: no slurping or crumb-dropping or staining of napkins; he makes me feel deliriously unkempt. Even this waiting is sublime, though Daniel’s kisses get a little longer each time, and he has expressed some impatience: ‘You are a torture.’ Good. We’re even. He calls me France, says he’ll have this bourgeois princess conquered by spring; I tell him the Kaiser wouldn’t dare. I’m such a tease! Where do I get that from? I can guess the answer to that easily enough.