Union Belle

by Deborah Challinor

  Neil peered into the jug. ‘It’s got black bits in it.’

  ‘Yes, it caught a little. I should have stirred it more.’

  ‘Is it burnt?’ Davey asked.

  ‘Only slightly,’ Ellen replied through gritted teeth. She could feel Jack’s eyes on her.

  Davey’s bottom lip came out. ‘I don’t like burnt bits.’

  Tom finally decided the boys had gone far enough. ‘Then don’t bloody eat it!’ he snapped.

  Neil and Davey froze. Jack reached for the sauce and dropped a great dollop onto his chop, then sampled it. His eyes closed in an expression of pure bliss. ‘You lads’ll kick yourselves if you don’t try this. It’s the best apple sauce I’ve ever tasted.’

  Ellen smiled at her plate.

  ‘Help yourself to more chops,’ Tom urged, ‘there’s plenty to go around.’

  Jack said apologetically, ‘I wasn’t sure…’

  ‘It’s all right, we’re not on hard rations yet,’ Tom said, glancing over at Ellen. He gave her a grin. ‘This is a tremendous meal, love, well done.’

  She smiled back, and then at Jack, absurdly grateful for his compliment about the sauce.

  ‘She’s a great cook, is Ellen,’ Tom said, piling chops enthusiastically onto his own plate.

  ‘I can see that,’ Jack said, cutting a potato in half and plastering it with butter. ‘Are these vegetables from your own garden, Ellen?’

  Ellen, who had just taken a mouthful, swallowed hastily and nodded. ‘I grow as much as I can, depending on the season.’

  ‘You’ve done well, these peas are lovely. What do you use for fertiliser?’ He was looking at her intently, as if he really wanted to know.

  Neil said, ‘Chook shit.’

  ‘Chook manure,’ Ellen corrected, ‘but not a lot, just a bucketful now and then.’

  ‘I saw the chook run out the back,’ Jack said.

  Tom nodded. ‘We’ve got vegetables and eggs,’ he said, ‘and Ellen can bake bread if she has to, and while the strike’s on the meat will turn up as it’s needed.’ He tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially.

  Startled, Ellen looked at him. She didn’t at all fancy the idea of baking bread every day—it took absolute ages.

  ‘Are you going out rustling, Dad?’ Davey asked with barely contained glee.

  ‘No, son, I’m not going out rustling. We made a deal with one or two of the cockies to send a couple of steers our way, as long as we do the butchering ourselves.’

  ‘Not in my washhouse, you won’t,’ Ellen said.

  ‘No, love, in Bert’s shed. Lew can butcher, he was at Horotiu for a couple of years, and Sid said he’d give us a hand.’

  ‘So can I, actually,’ Jack said, ‘but only sheep and pigs. I’ve never had a go at a steer.’

  ‘Good,’ Tom said, ‘because we’re expecting a few sheep as well and Lew reckons he never went on the mutton chain.’

  There were oohs and aahs when Ellen produced the enormous blackberry and apple pie she’d made for pudding. The pastry had puffed up beautifully and a thin, shiny rivulet of dark juice trickled from the vent in the centre.

  At the end of the meal, Tom pushed his chair back from the table and sat with his hands over his stomach, replete. ‘Another beer?’ he suggested to Jack. ‘We’ll get out of Ellen’s way while she cleans up.’

  As they both stood and headed for the back porch, Ellen breathed a quiet sigh of relief. She’d been nervous about eating in front of Jack, and serving him with her cooking, and the boys had been little buggers for some reason. Why she’d been so on edge she didn’t know; Jack Vaughan was just a man. A fascinating and very good-looking one, that was true, but just a man, and she already had one of those.

  He and Tom came in an hour later when it was dark and the beer had gone.

  ‘Jack’s off now, and I’m just going down the back,’ Tom announced. ‘See you tomorrow, Jack.’

  Jack nodded, and watched in silence as Tom went down the steps two at a time and disappeared into the shadows along the path that led to the outhouse.

  When he was out of earshot, Jack said, ‘Thanks for a lovely meal, Ellen, it was a cracker.’

  She closed her eyes briefly as he spoke her name; it sounded so different when he said it, as though it had some special meaning, as though he really wanted her to hear what he was saying. She began to blush again and willed herself not to. She felt horribly awkward, just her and Jack standing on the porch by themselves, awkward and like a silly young girl.

  ‘I’m sorry about the burnt sauce,’ she said. ‘And the boys—I don’t know what got into them.’

  Jack shrugged and smiled his slow smile. ‘The sauce was lovely, and the boys were just being boys.’

  ‘I expect so.’

  ‘Thanks again for the meal.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ she said, and, flustered, held out her hand as if she were meeting him for the first time. She immediately felt even sillier, but it was too late to whip it back.

  He reached out his own hand, and touched his middle finger to the pulse in her wrist. And mine,’ he said.

  FOUR

  ‘How did it go?’

  Milly was sitting in Ellen’s kitchen, drinking tea and eating the last of the blackberry pie from the night before.

  ‘Pretty good,’ Ellen said. ‘The boys were little shites, though.’

  Milly looked surprised. ‘Were they? What did they do?’

  ‘Neil made a fuss about the apple sauce…’

  ‘Apple sauce! I say, how posh.’

  ‘Don’t you start. And then Davey complained because there were little tiny bits of black in it.’

  ‘Oh dear, did you burn it?’

  ‘Only very slightly, and I didn’t have time, or the apples, to make any more.’

  ‘You served burnt apple sauce to Jack Vaughan?’

  Ellen nodded, then started to giggle. And Neil asked for a beer, and said “chook shit” at the dinner table.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a worry, isn’t it?’ Milly shook her head. ‘Evan dropped a cup of milk the other day and said the f-word and Frank didn’t even pull him up. Didn’t even notice, I don’t think. Why were Neil and Davey acting up?’

  Ellen shrugged. ‘Because we had a visitor, perhaps. But they’re usually pretty good with their manners, Tom makes sure of that.’

  ‘Were they upset about something?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know. The strike?’

  ‘I wouldn’t think so. They’ve been running around on the lawn playing watersiders versus scabs all week. They think it’s a great lark.’

  Milly ran her spoon around the edge of her plate to collect the last of the blackberry and cream. ‘How was Jack?’ she asked, with a sly glance at Ellen.

  ‘Jack? He was…Jack, I suppose.’ Ellen looked at her friend quizzically, although she could feel her face heating up. ‘How would I know? I hardly know him.’

  ‘He looks like he’d like to know you,’ Milly said, waggling her eyebrows.

  Ellen, pouring herself another cup of tea, went still. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, he stares at you a lot, and he smiles at you all the time.’

  ‘He smiles at everyone, Milly, he’s that sort of person.’ Ellen decided not to mention the flowers.

  ‘Maybe, but when he smiles at you it’s like it’s just for you, no one else.’

  ‘God, Milly, you do talk a lot of bloody rubbish sometimes.’

  ‘Then why are you smirking?’

  ‘I’m not smirking!’ Ellen was mortified because she knew she was.

  Milly laughed. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, girl, the man fancies you, be flattered. Just don’t let Tom catch him at it, that’s all.’

  ‘God, no, there’d be hell to pay.’ Ellen grimaced. ‘But I wouldn’t have thought Jack Vaughan was the type, would you?’

  ‘No, he seems too…well, honest. And you’re not the type to stray, so just enjoy it until someone else catches his eye.’

/>   ‘Like Andrea Trask, you mean?’

  Milly made a rude noise. ‘And the rest. Mind you, every bloke who isn’t nailed down catches Andrea’s eye.’

  ‘She’s only looking for a husband, Milly—she’s young and unattached. We shouldn’t knock her for that.’

  Milly slurped the last of her tea and looked at her friend with genuine fondness. ‘You can always find something nice to say about a person, can’t you? Andrea can be a right little bitch sometimes—you’ve seen it yourself often enough.’

  ‘She’ll have her reasons.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Milly said. ‘Speaking of reasons, I didn’t just come round to finish your pie, delicious though it was. Lorna’s having a girls’ get-together on Friday. Interested?’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘About twelve.’

  ‘Well, I’ll have to make Tom his lunch…’ Ellen stopped, then suddenly grinned. ‘No, I won’t, he and Pat are off to Auckland. So yes, I am interested. Are you going?’

  ‘Try and keep me away.’

  ‘Doesn’t Frank mind?’

  ‘Me getting on the booze? No, as long as I leave him something to eat and I’m home in time to get the tea on he couldn’t care less.’

  ‘Tom always has something to say when I come home tipsy.’

  ‘But you hardly ever do, though, do you, Ellen? Except for that time when the kids were tiny. You’re such a model wife, the Woman’s Weekly should come and do an article on you.’ Milly laughed at the look on Ellen’s face. Anyway, Frank lets me do whatever I like—it’s his way of making up for before. Unfortunately, I’m so boring I never get up to mischief. Not for want of trying, though!’

  ‘You wouldn’t, though, would you?’ Ellen asked. ‘Get up to mischief?’

  ‘Depends on what sort of mischief you’re talking about.’

  ‘Well, you know, real mischief.’

  ‘Of course I wouldn’t. Frank’s always been the man for me, regardless of his faults.’ Milly patted Ellen’s hand. ‘And neither would you, and you know it.’

  At midday on Friday, Ellen and Milly knocked on Lorna’s back door, each carrying a plate. Milly had done egg sandwiches and Ellen cucumber and tomato on water crackers; neither had been able to scrape together anything more spectacular.

  ‘Yoo-hoo!’ Milly called, knocking again.

  Lorna appeared in the kitchen, and beckoned them in. ‘Oh, lovely,’ she said, eyeing the plates. ‘The others have all brought something too. Come through to the sitting room.’

  From her bag Ellen withdrew a bottle of sparkling wine someone had given her at Christmas, but neither she nor Tom drank wine, so it had remained untouched. She handed the bottle over to Lorna, who put it on the bench next to a bottle of medium sherry, one of Pimms and two of fizzy lemonade. To Ellen’s surprise there was also a bottle of Johnnie Walker.

  ‘Who brought the whisky?’ she asked.

  ‘Val,’ Lorna said.

  ‘How on earth did she wrestle it off Stan?’ Valerie Mason’s husband was extremely fond of his drink.

  Lorna grinned.

  In the sitting room, Dot Sisley was already seated on the couch along from Val; opposite them in an armchair lounged Avis Hale.

  Ellen knew Val and Avis well; they were local miners’ wives, of a similar age to her, and both with children of their own. She was surprised to see Dot, though, whom she hadn’t seen out much lately.

  She greeted the others and sat down on the couch. ‘I didn’t realise you were coming today!’

  Dot nodded. ‘Bert said I needed a change of scenery.’

  ‘Is he minding the kids?’

  ‘Just the little ones. He’s taking them fishing in the creek.’

  Ellen smiled at her, careful to hide her shock at her friend’s appearance. She hadn’t been over to see Dot in almost a week, and even in that short time she’d lost weight, a sure sign that her nerves were playing up, and there were deep shadows bruising the delicate skin beneath her eyes.

  ‘How have you been keeping?’

  ‘Not bad,’ Dot said.

  ‘You look a bit pale.’

  ‘Just tired. I’m not sleeping very well at the moment.’

  Lorna came in with the drinks on a tray. ‘Right, who wants what?’

  Ellen looked longingly at the whisky, but it was still unopened and she didn’t want to be the one to start on it.

  ‘Oh, go on,’ Val urged, ‘get the lid off it, Ellen, that’s why I brought it.’

  ‘What will Stan say when he finds out it’s gone?’ Milly asked.

  ‘Nothing. I’ll just tell him he drank it.’

  There was a short silence while the others digested this.

  ‘But won’t he know he hasn’t?’ Avis said.

  Val snorted. ‘I doubt it. By the time he gets home tonight, he won’t know what he’s had to drink over the last couple of days, or when.’

  The women suddenly all laughed at the image of big Stan Mason propping himself up at the kitchen cupboard, hanging onto the door, scratching his bristly head and trying to remember when exactly he’d polished off his whisky.

  ‘It’ll serve him right, too,’ Val said. ‘Too much of my grocery money’s been going over the bar since this strike started, so to hell with him.’

  Ellen poured herself a small whisky, feeling only slightly remiss at the thought of Stan searching in vain for it later on, and a sherry for Milly, who didn’t like spirits. She slipped her shoes off, sat back and felt herself relax. They were her friends, these women, and had been for years. She’d grown up with most of them, had been at their weddings and they at hers, taken them little gifts when their babies had arrived, worked with them on school projects and stood beside them on cold winter Saturday mornings watching their kids playing soccer. Most importantly, perhaps, she’d lived through hard times with them—the Depression, the war, the strike of ‘42, and, worst of all, the communal darkness of accidents and deaths underground. She would never forget the day in 1939 when eleven good local men died from carbon-monoxide poisoning down the pit at Glen Afton.

  She knew the histories of these women and many of their secrets, and they knew hers; it couldn’t be any other way in a small, tight community. Sometimes she despaired of ever having any real privacy, and had learned a long time ago not to tell anyone anything she really didn’t want to become public knowledge, but that was a small price to pay for the comfort of belonging and having friends and neighbours on whom she could always rely.

  ‘Here’s to us, the women of Pukemiro,’ Milly announced, and they raised their glasses to each other.

  ‘So,’ Val said after downing a healthy gulp of her drink, ‘how’s everyone holding up?’

  Lorna, ensconced in the other armchair, shrugged and folded her legs beneath her. ‘We’re doing all right, apart from the HP on what we’re sitting on, and my mum’s been helping us out. Mind you, it’s only been a couple of weeks.’

  ‘We’re not,’ Avis said, lighting a cigarette. ‘We’re in the cart already. I haven’t had to ask for credit yet, but I will by Monday. There’s hardly anything in the house to eat and I’m buggered if I know what I’m going to feed them over the weekend.’

  ‘The relief packages are starting on Tuesday,’ Ellen said. ‘We’ll be giving them out at the hall from nine in the morning until about twelve.’

  Avis breathed out a long, thin stream of smoke. ‘Christ, that’s a relief. I don’t know about you girls, but I’m going to feel such a bloody fool asking for credit.’

  ‘I know,’ Val said, ‘I already have. Me and Shirley Minogue went into Newton King last week, but they were good about it. I still felt stupid, though.’

  ‘What sort of food will we get, do you know?’ Dot asked.

  Milly said, ‘Rhea says it will be vegetables and a bit of meat, and basic stuff like butter and tea. Bread, maybe.’

  Avis tapped the ash off her smoke into an ashtray. And Rhea would know, of course, the stuck-up old bag knows everything.’

&
nbsp; ‘Oh, she’s not so bad,’ Lorna said.

  ‘Yes, she is. Just because she’s the president of the CWI she thinks she’s the Queen of Pukemiro as well. And that husband of hers, stirring bastard. If it wasn’t for him we wouldn’t be in this mess.’

  Ellen looked at poor Avis and thought, Oh yes we would, because Pat Wickham hadn’t had to do much convincing to get the men to go out at all. And if Avis’ husband Dennis didn’t spend so much money on the horses it would be a few weeks yet before she was having to ask for credit. But nobody contradicted Avis; they all knew what she must be feeling.

  ‘Vic reckons the men are getting a group together to go fishing,’ Lorna said, neatly changing the subject. A fishing camp at Whangamata, I think he said.’

  Avis perked up. Are they? That’d be good, I like a nice fresh bit of fish.’

  ‘Although it won’t be a nice fresh bit of fish if they stop off at every pub on the way back,’ Val said.

  ‘Why would they?’ Milly asked innocently. ‘Is Stan going with them?’

  ‘Not if I have anything to do with it,’ Val said, reaching for the sherry. ‘No, bugger it, I’m having a whisky. It’s come out of my grocery money, after all.’

  It was at times like these that Ellen was extremely thankful that Tom didn’t have any serious vices. Val was frequently having to dodge Stan’s drunken tempers, and keep the kids out of his way as well, and a large portion of Avis’ housekeeping money seemed to find its way to the tote week after week. It was true that Tom smoked, occasionally drank too much and swore like a trooper, but then most Pukemiro men did. Coalmining was brutal and demanding, and as far as Ellen was concerned that gave Tom the right to a bit of relaxation when he needed it.

  She sighed. He was a good man, Tom. He loved her and his boys, he worked very hard to support them, and they never went short of anything if he could possibly avoid it. He was a good father, too, helping Neil and Davey with their sports and taking them fishing and hunting. He had plans to buy a car one day, soon he hoped, then they would go for Sunday drives to Raglan, and maybe even to Hamilton.