Union Belle

by Deborah Challinor

  She stood up. ‘I’ll just check on the boys first.’

  The boys’ bedroom was marginally cooler than the sitting room, the wide open windows catching a hint of the night breeze coming down off the hills. Neil’s eyes glinted in the darkness as he watched her open the bedroom door.

  ‘Still awake?’ she whispered.

  He nodded and grumbled, ‘It’s too hot, I can’t sleep.’

  Ellen tiptoed across the room and laid a hand on his damp forehead under the light-brown hair that fell perpetually into his eyes. ‘I know, love, we’re all feeling sticky. Here, take your cover off and just lie under the sheet. Better?’

  Neil nodded, and Ellen bent and kissed his cheek.

  ‘Have they decided?’ he whispered.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Dad and them.’

  ‘Decided what?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘I don’t know, either. I’ve been in the sitting room since after tea.’

  Unsatisfactory as it was, the answer seemed to satisfy Neil, and he rolled onto his side and thrust his feet out from under the sheet. “Night, Mum.’

  “Night, love.’

  Ellen hovered for a moment over Davey’s bed but he was fast asleep, his mouth open and a thread of dribble dampening the pillowslip. She kissed him too, and smiled as he stirred slightly.

  She adored her boys, and sometimes when she looked at them, the sensation of love she felt in her chest physically hurt.

  As Gloria had predicted, the air in the kitchen was blue. Ellen blinked through the haze at the men around the table, littered now with tobacco packets and open beer bottles. And then her heart stopped. Only for a moment, but the gap where the beats should have been caused her to sway and reach out a hand to clutch at the bench.

  Tom saw. ‘You all right, love?’ he asked.

  Ellen nodded. ‘It’s smoky in here, I’ll open the door.’

  She turned away quickly, because sitting next to Frank was someone she hadn’t seen before, a young man with dark hair that curled down almost to his collar, and eyes the colour of deepest lignite. He had smiled at her, just at her, a smile of such intensity that for a moment she had felt distinctly light-headed.

  ‘Who was that new bloke?’

  They were in bed, the kitchen door and windows left wide open to let in the fresh night air.

  Tom rolled over and slid his hand across the firm curve of Ellen’s stomach, rubbing gently but insistently in the way that told her he wanted sex.

  ‘Jack Vaughan, came up from Ohura about ten days ago. Seems a reasonable sort of joker. Bad timing, though. Mind you, Ohura’s out too, so I suppose it doesn’t make a lot of difference. Why?’

  ‘Just wondered, I haven’t seen him around. Why is he on the committee already?’

  Tom wriggled closer. ‘Well, we’ve been one short since Ken had his heart attack, and Jack was the union secretary at Ohura for two years, so it made sense to ask him on.’

  Ellen waited a second or two, then said, ‘If he’s just moved up here, then perhaps we should invite him and his wife around for tea one night.’

  Tom moved his hand up to her breast, his rough thumb stroking the tender underside beneath the nipple. ‘Don’t think he’s got a wife.’

  For some reason, this piece of news disturbed Ellen, but she pushed it out of her mind. Moving to face her husband, she slid her leg up and over his hip, and guided him into her.

  TWO

  March 1951

  The Henshaw women and the Selby women slaved all Friday preparing the Pukemiro miners’ hall for Dallas and Carol’s wedding reception the next day, and it was generally agreed that they’d made a lovely job of it. It was a shame, though, that the newlyweds would be embarking on married life together without an income, because Dallas was a miner and out on strike. But his mother had none too subtly let it be known that he had a few bob tucked away, so no doubt all would be well for them, at least in the meantime.

  The walls of the hall were festooned with jade-green ponga branches from the bush, each one decorated with a large white crepe-paper bow. Trestle tables, a vase of sweet-smelling honeysuckle in the centre of each, lined both sides of the hall, leaving a good space in the middle for dancing. Below the stage sat the wedding party’s tables, spread with snowy tablecloths and a spectacular floral centrepiece arranged by Carol’s mother. The wedding breakfast had been served, admired and enjoyed, although there was still a substantial supper to come later on, and the guests were leaning back in their seats, lighting cigarettes and refreshing drinks before the band started.

  While Tom prised the lid off another beer, Ellen looked around for Neil and Davey. No sign of them; they were probably outside somewhere running around with the other kids. The sun wouldn’t go down for another hour, and anyway they could see in the dark, those two. She sipped her shandy, wishing it was whisky. She liked a tot of whisky—something else she’d inherited from her father—but Tom disagreed with women drinking hard liquor. Occasionally, at a ‘ladies’ afternoon’ at the house of one or another of her friends, she would indulge and waft home afterwards feeling as light as a feather and seeing bright new colours in everything, then proceed to burn the tea or cook the vegetables without peeling them. Tom would be less than amused, but the boys would dance around the kitchen trumpeting, ‘Mum’s been on the jar, Mum’s been on the jar!’ until their father clipped them across the ear.

  On one memorable occasion, when the boys had been very young, she had carefully pushed their pram home from her friend Val’s house in Bernard Street, diligently avoiding every pothole and large stone on the road so as not to wake them, only to discover to her absolute mortification when she got home that the pram was empty; she had forgotten to put them in. But those afternoons with the girls were infrequent, and just as well, really. So this evening she was sticking to her shandies, and perhaps a sherry for the toasts at supper time.

  She felt content, and tonight the strike seemed miles away. The men had only been out a week, and the novelty of having Tom at home most of time was still fresh. It would soon wear off, according to Gloria, but at the moment Ellen was enjoying his company.

  The hall was becoming even more crowded as additional dance guests arrived. Soon there would barely be room for everyone to sit down, but when the band started, that wouldn’t be a problem; Pukemiro people enjoyed a good spin around the dance floor.

  ‘Ladies’?’ she mouthed to Milly, sitting opposite her across the table.

  Milly nodded and grabbed her handbag, leaving Frank to nurse his bottle of Lemon & Paeroa.

  The toilets were occupied, so the women joined the queue.

  ‘Your dress came out well, didn’t it?’ Milly said.

  ‘I thought so,’ Ellen replied, feeling a small flush of pride.

  ‘It’s gorgeous—the colour matches your eyes perfectly. I’ve always said you should sew professionally.’

  ‘Actually, I’ve been thinking about getting a job at Berlei, but I doubt Tom would let me. And I’d have to be back home by the time the boys got in from school.’ Ellen pulled a wry face. ‘Imagine what Mum would say, though, a daughter of hers sewing bras and knickers.’

  ‘That’s true. I forgot about your mum and her high horse.’

  Ellen leaned towards the mirror above the handbasin and applied fresh lipstick. ‘You’re lucky, she never lets me forget it.’

  Milly had heard Ellen’s moans about her mother too often to bother acknowledging the comment. ‘Carol looks lovely, doesn’t she? Her dress must have cost a fortune, all that satin and lace. I love the high collar. Not sure about the train, though. It’ll be filthy by the end of the night.’

  Ellen pressed her lips together to set her lipstick, then said, ‘It comes off.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Milly asked, examining her own reflection and pushing her energetic curls back into place.

  ‘The flower girl stood on it when Carol was coming down the church steps.’

  ‘That’s a clever
idea. Not standing on it, I mean, having it detachable.’

  By the time they’d returned the band was warming up, and there was a rush to see the new Mrs Henshaw and her husband waltz a circuit of the dance floor. Ellen felt her eyes prickling as everyone cheered and she recalled her own perfect wedding day.

  It seemed such a long time ago now, but it wasn’t really, only ten years. They’d had a bit of an ‘austerity’ wedding because of the rationing—a pale-blue suit for her instead of a wedding dress because she couldn’t get the material, and a sponge cake instead of fruit—but there had been compensations. Because Tom was in an essential industry he’d been exempt from military service, so she’d not had the misery of being parted from him so soon after getting married. He could have just taken off and joined up like a few of the younger miners, but he’d chosen to stay at home on the coal. But now and then she wondered if he regretted not having gone, although he’d never said anything. She also wondered whether, as a sort of compensation, the union had become Tom’s army and the government the enemy, especially now that the Tories were in. Perhaps he was getting his taste of war after all.

  She sat down and stretched towards him so he could hear her over the noise of the band. ‘Dallas looks pleased with himself.’

  ‘I expect he would, with a bride like young Carol. I was pretty pleased myself on our wedding day, if I remember rightly.’

  Ellen smiled, and lowered her head to drop a light kiss on his shoulder, then stopped as she realised her lipstick would mark his good shirt.

  ‘Jack!’ Tom exclaimed suddenly, and reached around Ellen with his hand out.

  She swivelled in her seat and found herself staring directly into the face of Jack Vaughan.

  He nodded and shook hands with Tom, although his eyes never left hers. ‘Evening Tom, Mrs McCabe. I didn’t get a decent opportunity to introduce myself the other night. Jack Vaughan,’ he said, offering her his hand.

  She took it, feeling the strength and roughness of his miner’s fingers.

  ‘Yes, I know. Hello, Jack,’ she replied, astounded at the steadiness of her voice, given that her heart was suddenly pounding so violently. ‘It’s very nice to meet you. Please, call me Ellen.’

  Jack’s face creased into a slow, wide smile, and his dark eyes sparkled. Ellen’s stomach did a slow flip.

  ‘I’d better check with Tom first, he might not appreciate me being so familiar,’ he said with an earnestness Ellen couldn’t be sure was real or not.

  ‘What’s that?’ Tom said, leaning across the table and knocking over a half-full bottle of beer in the process. ‘Bugger.’

  ‘Your lovely wife has just asked me to call her Ellen. No objections?’

  Tom righted the spilled bottle. ‘None at all, mate. Call her anything you like, just don’t call her late for dinner. She likes her food, does Ellen.’

  Ellen felt a twinge of annoyance. She was accustomed to Tom’s teasing, and normally didn’t mind it, but he could have refrained from doing it tonight. In front of Jack Vaughan.

  Jack seemed to sense her discomfort. ‘Would you like to dance?’

  Ellen glanced at Tom, who shrugged amiably. There were several unopened bottles lined up in front of him and Bert Sisley had settled himself on his other side, clearly wanting a chat.

  ‘Yes, thank you Jack, that would be lovely.’

  She placed her hand in his and let him lead her onto the dance floor as the five-piece band launched into a brisk and rather loose rendition of ‘Begin the Beguine’.

  He was a good dancer, economical of movement but deft and confident. She looked back at Tom but he was deep in conversation, a skinny cigarette wedged into the corner of his mouth.

  Steering her towards the back of the hall, away from the noise, Jack said, ‘Your eyes really are navy blue. I’ve never seen that before.’

  Ellen blushed and stared straight ahead; he was shorter than Tom and her eyes were level with his throat. He had a five o’clock shadow, but she could clearly smell the scent of shaving cream on his skin. Perhaps he needed a new razor.

  Deliberately redirecting the conversation, she said, ‘Tom says you’ve just moved to Pukemiro.’

  Jack nodded. ‘A week or so ago. I had five years down at Ohura before that.’

  ‘And before then?’

  The band cranked up the volume.

  ‘Sorry?’

  Ellen raised her voice. ‘Where were you before then?’

  ‘Overseas.’

  ‘With the army?’ It was where most young men had been six or seven years ago.

  ‘Mmm.’

  Ellen awarded herself a mental tick; she’d suspected he was a veteran. The tilt of his shoulders said there was more to him than met the eye, something tempered and a little unyielding. He was a very good-looking man, too, although the heaviness of his brow would always save him from being called beautiful.

  ‘Have you always been a miner?’ she asked.

  He moved back slightly so he could see her face. ‘Since I was sixteen. It’s in the blood, I suppose. My dad was on the coal his whole life, in the Rhondda and then here.’

  ‘But you were born in New Zealand?’

  ‘Only just. Mum was eight months gone when they arrived—I was born at Blackball. Mum’s still down that way, in Westport, although Dad died a few years ago.’

  ‘Tom has always been a miner, too. So was my father, before he retired.’

  ‘I know, he told me. Tom, I mean.’

  ‘About Dad?’

  ‘Mmm. He said you’re a chip off the old block.’

  Ellen grinned. ‘Dad’s a miner through and through. He was always big in the union, he lived and breathed it. Still does, really. Twenty-six years he was down the pit.’

  ‘Pukemiro Collieries?’

  Ellen nodded. ‘He started there when the mine opened in 1915.’

  Jack sidestepped another couple, taking Ellen neatly with him. ‘So what does he do now, your dad?’

  ‘Props up various bars, whenever he can get away from Mum.’

  ‘She doesn’t like him drinking?’

  ‘No, she thinks it’s common and working class.’ Ellen wondered why she was telling Jack all this.

  ‘Begin the Beguine’ came to an and, and the band slid into a waltz.

  ‘Another one?’ Jack suggested.

  Tom still had his head down, with Pat Wickham now, so Ellen nodded. Jack eased her closer, but she made sure their bodies didn’t touch. She began to worry that he might notice her hand was getting sweaty in his, then it occurred to her that she was probably breathing shandy fumes all over him, speaking so loudly and forcefully over the band, and she ducked her head. They danced on in silence for several minutes, until she found their lack of conversation embarrassing.

  ‘What made you come up here?’ she asked.

  Jack shrugged. ‘Needed a change, I suppose.’

  ‘Isn’t the inside of one mine the same as the inside of any other?’ She thought for a moment, and answered her own question. ‘No, I suppose it isn’t, is it?’

  ‘Not really. And it’s always good to get to know new people.’

  Ellen glanced down as she felt a tug on her skirt; Neil hovered behind her, his best shirt hanging out of his shorts and his shoes and socks nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Davey’s spewed up,’ he announced.

  ‘Has he? Where?’

  ‘Outside, on the steps.’ Neil shot a look at Jack. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Don’t be rude, love. This is Mr Vaughan, a friend of your father’s. I’m sorry,’ Ellen said to Jack, ‘I’ll have to sort Davey out.’

  Jack smiled ruefully, releasing her as she turned away. ‘I’ll wait,’ he said to her departing back.

  Outside, Davey sat on the hall steps looking very small, his knees drawn up to his chin, arms folded across his stomach. Ellen bunched her skirt around her legs, sat down next to him and felt his flushed cheeks.

  ‘What have you done to yourself, sweetheart?’

&n
bsp; ‘Spewed up.’ Davey’s eyes were watering and his face was pale.

  ‘Why, do you think?’

  Neil said, ‘Three helpings of trifle and cream, probably.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Know-It-All. Did you have three puddings, Davey?’

  Davey nodded, blinking back tears of fright and self-pity.

  Ellen smoothed damp hair back from his forehead. ‘Is there any more to come up?’

  Her younger son nodded again, leaned sideways and opened his mouth. A last weak, watery squirt of trifle came up, followed by a loud burp, then nothing. A tea towel appeared on the handrail next to him.

  Jack, standing on the top step, said, ‘I thought you might need something to clean him up. I couldn’t find a proper towel.’

  Out here, where it was quieter, his voice was rich and warm and slightly gravelly, with a hint of the accent West Coasters often had. It wasn’t a particularly deep voice, but Ellen was shocked to note the disconcerting effect it was having on her. She felt every syllable he uttered, every vowel and consonant that came out of his mouth, stroking her skin, seeping into her pores and filling her with something she hadn’t felt since she was a girl.

  She folded the tea towel and gently wiped Davey’s mouth and chin.

  He grimaced. ‘Yuck, Mum, it smells like sick already.’

  She sniffed. ‘Pooh, it does, too. All right now? Good, go and wash your hands and face then, there’s a good boy.’ As Davey ran off, evidently recovered, she called after him, ‘And don’t eat anything else, all right?’

  He nodded, his blond hair flopping, but didn’t look back.

  Jack held out a hand to help Ellen to her feet. ‘Nice-looking kids. Do you just have the two?’

  ‘Yes, and they’re enough of a handful some days.’

  ‘You never hoped for a daughter?’

  Ellen smiled wistfully. A little girl would have been nice, but no, we’re more than happy with Neil and Davey.’

  ‘You are, or Tom is?’

  It was on the tip of Ellen’s tongue to say to Jack that Tom did think two children were enough, and that she would have liked at least one more, but she stopped herself: she didn’t know Jack Vaughan well enough to be divulging that sort of confidential information. Tom would be ropable if he thought she was going about telling anyone their personal business.