Union Belle

by Deborah Challinor

  But there was good news, too. Miners at Kamo finally joined the strike, and on 5 April a national strike committee was formed from the rank and file of the Waikato, Taranaki and West Coast coalminers’ unions. The meeting was held in Wellington and although none of the Pukemiro union officials went, Bob Amon did and was elected onto the committee. Prendiville’s fervent efforts to get the underground miners to take part in the secret ballot had been the final insult for many, and a new committee, divorced from the national council of the UMWU and therefore Prendiville and Crook, seemed the only solution. The old UMWU was now in tatters, but it was clear that the new committee had the mandate of the majority of the underground miners. It was a relief to regional union officials especially, as they were now back in a position of control and the strike looked certain to continue. They had held on now for six weeks, and still saw no reason to return to work before the watersiders had negotiated a satisfactory outcome, and while the emergency regulations were still in force.

  But life was getting more and more difficult. Money was coming from various sources, including via a very convoluted and shady trans-Tasman arrangement with sympathetic trade unions in Australia, but it wasn’t stretching far enough and most families had come to depend on the food parcels distributed every week. Ellen and Tom certainly had, in a desperate effort to conserve the little money they still possessed so they could pay their mortgage. It wasn’t enough, though, what was in the parcels, certainly not for larger families anyway, and Ellen thanked God she had her vegetable garden. Each week they received six pounds of meat or fish, a variety of whatever vegetables came from the market, two pounds of butter, half a pound of tea, enough loaves of bread for the week and a portion of any fruit that might be available. Honey was also bought in bulk, as a substitute for sugar, which no one could get anywhere in the country because supplies had dried up as a result of the strike.

  Tom had stopped complaining about getting cheese in his sandwiches as there wasn’t any now, unless Ellen got a tiny bit on credit from Fred Hollis. But the boys never stopped moaning about the monotony of the meals she served up to them, and received several clips across the ear from Tom for doing so. From time to time she felt like smacking them herself; she made a real effort to prepare appetising food with what she had, but more often than not the result was uninspiring.

  One morning at the breakfast table Tom lost his temper. It wasn’t Davey’s fault—none of this was the children’s fault—but he did start it with his incessant whining. Unlike Neil, he wasn’t quite old enough to read the signs from his father that he was going too far.

  It started when Ellen put a plate of porridge in front of him. The oats had been a gift from Milly, whose mother had bought her a large sackful to help out, and Ellen had been very grateful for her friend’s generosity.

  Davey wasn’t grateful at all.

  ‘I don’t like porridge,’ he said, shoving the plate away so the milk on it slopped out onto the tablecloth.

  Ellen moved the plate back in front of him, and blotted up the spilt milk with a tea towel. ‘Come on, love, it’s good for you.’

  ‘I don’t like it!’

  ‘You have to eat something before school.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Yes, you do. Come on, I’ll put some honey on it if you like. You like honey, don’t you?’

  Tom was looking up from his own plate of porridge now, watching Davey with eyes that were just beginning to narrow.

  Davey blurted, ‘I hate honey!’ and put his hands over his face.

  This wasn’t true, and Ellen knew it: Davey would have honey on every single thing he ate if he could get away with it.

  A silence developed that began to stretch on and on.

  Ellen sighed. ‘What do you want then?’

  Davey’s hands crept into his lap. ‘Kornies.’

  Tom very deliberately set his spoon down across his plate, perfectly balancing the handle on the edge so it wouldn’t flip up and make a mess.

  Neil lowered his own spoon and leaned as far back in his chair as he could get.

  ‘You want Kornies, do you?’ Tom said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And why do you want Kornies, Davey? You’ve got perfectly good porridge right there in front of you.’

  Ellen looked uneasily from Tom across to Davey, then back at Tom again.

  ‘Kornies have got cards in,’ Davey said.

  Tom leaned forward. ‘What sort of cards?’

  ‘Colour ones, of dogs.’

  ‘Really?’ Tom said, as if this was the most interesting thing he’d heard all year.

  Ellen could see what was coming, and for a moment she hated Tom for being so bloody cruel.

  ‘Yes, and there’s two cards in the big boxes, and you can get an album to put them in. You send away!’ Davey’s eyes were shining now.

  ‘Mmm,’ Tom said, pretending to consider the idea. ‘And you think your mother should go down to the shop and get a box of these Kornies so you can have the dog cards?’

  Davey nodded, but there was a hint of wariness in his face now. He looked quickly at Neil, and then at Ellen.

  Neil got up from his chair and Tom snapped, ‘Sit down, boy!’

  ‘Tom,’ Ellen warned, ‘let it go.’

  Tom ignored her. And what do you think your mother should use to pay for these Kornies, eh? Buttons? Marbles?’ he demanded, his voice rising.

  Davey said, ‘Trevor Quinn’s allowed them. He showed me at school. He’s got an Alsatian and a husky.’

  Ellen closed her eyes. This was the worst thing Davey could have said: Trevor Quinn’s father was one of the opencast miners who had gone back to work.

  Tom banged both hands down on the table, spilling everyone’s porridge and making them all jump. ‘Trevor Quinn’s got them, has he? Well, fancy that! And do you know why he’s got them?’

  Davey shook his head from side to side, eyes wide with fright now.

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you why, Davey. It’s because his father’s a bloody scab, that’s why! A disloyal, cheating, thieving bloody scab!’

  ‘Tom! That’s enough!’ Ellen cried.

  Tom picked up his spoon and shook it at Davey, so that drops of congealing porridge flew off it in all directions. ‘And when you get to school this morning you can tell Trevor Quinn he can stick his dog cards up his arse, and after that you’re not to speak to him ever again, do you hear me? Never!’

  Davey burst into loud sobs. Ellen pulled his chair out from the table with him still on it, then took hold of his upper arm and steered him towards the back door.

  As she gently pushed him outside, she said over her shoulder, ‘Neil, take Davey over to Milly’s. Tell her Dad and I are having a talk, then go to school when it’s time, all right?’

  Neil stood up smartly, more than happy to be getting away from his father, at least for now.

  ‘What about our lunch?’

  ‘I’ll bring it to school. Go on, off you go.’

  When they’d gone, Neil leading a still-bawling Davey by the hand down the steps, Ellen turned to face Tom. There were spots of bright colour high on her cheeks.

  ‘You big bloody bully,’ she said.

  Tom put the heels of his palms in his eyes and rubbed. ‘Oh, shut up, woman.’

  ‘What a rotten thing to do, Tom!’

  ‘He was getting on my nerves.’

  ‘He only wants to collect something,’ Ellen snapped. ‘He’s only a little boy, for God’s sake.’

  ‘He wants to collect something we can’t fucking afford.’

  ‘You didn’t have to go on about the Quinn boy like that.’

  ‘I did. Davey has to learn, Ellen. Sandy Quinn is a scab, and scabs don’t deserve the time of day.’

  ‘Yes, that’s Sandy Quinn, but what have his kids got to do with it?’

  Tom crossed his arms. ‘Everything. An apple never falls far from the tree.’

  Ellen shook her head in absolute frustration. ‘Oh, for Christ’
s sake, Tom, I’ve never heard anything so bloody ridiculous in all my life!’

  ‘Haven’t you?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. They’re just kids!’

  ‘Then why are they punching the shit out of each other?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘At the school, there’s fights just about every day, according to Ted Carlyle.’

  Ellen sat down. Ted Carlyle was the headmaster at Pukemiro school, and he’d certainly never mentioned anything to her about fights.

  ‘Involving our boys?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, Neil.’

  ‘Neil’s being beaten up?’ Ellen was aghast.

  Tom was quiet for a moment, then he said, ‘No, Neil’s doing the beating.’

  Ellen looked at him properly then, and saw something she didn’t like at all; across his face was an unmistakeable expression of pride.

  ‘Our son’s a bully?’

  ‘No, our son’s sticking up for his principles.’

  ‘What principles? He’s nine years old!’

  ‘He knows a scab when he sees one.’

  Ellen was so angry she couldn’t sit still. She marched over to the sink and turned on the tap to fill the kettle, except that she turned it too hard and water exploded out of the sink and all over the bench and up the window.

  She spun around. ‘And you think that’s all right, do you, our son beating up other children? I suppose you told him what a good little bloke he was for doing it?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. But I can’t stop it if I’m not there, can I?’

  Tears were brimming in Ellen’s eyes now, and she blinked hard.

  Tom saw, and relented slightly. ‘Do you want me to go over to the school and see if I can sort it out?’

  ‘Well, it certainly wouldn’t do any harm. And talk to him about it, Tom, tell him it’s wrong.’

  ‘All right, if that’s what you want.’

  She nodded. She did want that, but she realised she wanted something else, too. She hadn’t seen Jack for days and she had a sudden and overwhelming need to be near him. Not to touch him or anything like that, but just to see his smile and hear his voice. Jack didn’t yell or bang tables or wave spoons around; Jack was calm and everything about him was soothing. And he listened.

  She glanced apprehensively at Tom, who was stretched back in his chair now with his long legs thrust under the table, anger gone, waiting for his cup of tea. Was this the right time to tell him what she wanted to do? She put the kettle on the range and sat down.

  ‘Tom?’

  He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘We won’t be able to make the mortgage repayments next week,’ she said. He didn’t look surprised. ‘So we’ll have to get some money from somewhere else to cover it.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, ‘I’ve been thinking about that.’

  Her pulse raced as she allowed herself to think, just for a second, that he might have had the same idea as her.

  But then he said, ‘I think we should borrow the money off the mine, and pay the bank off.’

  Her heart sank. ‘From Pukemiro Collieries? With their interest rates?’

  Tom plonked his elbows on the table. ‘I know it’s highway robbery, but we wouldn’t have to pay anything at all then, until I go back to work.’ She started to speak but he held up his hand. ‘No, listen to me, Ellen, it would be better than losing the house, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but why are we going to lose the house? Have you talked to the bank about what they might be able to do?’

  ‘What, like put the payments on hold?’

  ‘Something like that, yes.’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Well, why not?’

  He didn’t answer, so she said it again. Then the kettle whistled and she got up to make the tea.

  Eventually, he said, ‘It would be like begging, like asking for credit but worse.’

  Ellen didn’t even turn around. She was the one who’d been asking for credit lately—Tom had never asked for credit in his life.

  ‘If we went to the Collieries,’ he went on, ‘we could do it quietly. Bernie Tompkins in the pay office is a good bloke, he could sort it and then no one would even have to know, only him and us.’

  ‘And all the Pukemiro Collieries bosses.’

  ‘No, he said it doesn’t work like that. He manages the loan details himself.’

  Ellen did turn to look at him then. ‘So you’ve already talked to him about it?’

  ‘Only over a beer.’

  ‘And what happens when you do go back to work? The repayments will be double, and so will the interest.’

  ‘I’ll do extra shifts.’

  Ellen set the teapot on the table, but she didn’t sit down this time.

  ‘This is about your precious bloody pride, isn’t it? You don’t want anyone to know we can’t pay our mortgage. Not unlike just about everyone else in this town at the moment, I might add.’

  ‘You can add what you like, but no, it’s not about my pride. It’s business.’

  ‘Then why can’t I go to my parents for the money? Dad’s already said to talk to him if we get stuck.’

  ‘We’re not borrowing money off your parents.’

  Ellen knew that what Tom meant was he wasn’t borrowing money off Gloria, because he couldn’t bear her satisfaction at the fact that he couldn’t provide for her daughter and grandchildren.

  ‘But Dad said we wouldn’t even have to pay interest, that we could just pay them back when we could.’

  Tom stood up. ‘I said we’re not borrowing money off your parents.’

  ‘But Tom…’

  ‘I said no, Ellen, and that’s the end of it!’ And he slammed out of the kitchen, banging the back door behind him.

  He wanted sex that night, and Ellen suspected it might have been an attempt to say sorry for his obstinacy. But although she might have accepted an apology, she certainly didn’t feel like having him grunting away on top of her, so she pleaded a headache, curled up and pretended to be asleep.

  But by the following morning she was clear about one thing at least. Tom would hate it, but she would be the one doing the borrowing, so that was just too bad. She hadn’t believed when the strike had first started that losing their home could be a real possibility, but things were different now. She was reasonably confident that the bank wouldn’t foreclose on their mortgage, although she could be completely wrong about that, especially if the strike continued for much longer. But even if it only went on for another month or so, they still couldn’t manage and she knew there would be financial penalties for postponing the repayments. They might even be as crippling as what the Collieries would charge. Tom was naïve to think that any deal he did with the mines would be any more of a secret than one with the bank, even if Bernie Tompkins was a good bloke, and she was still angry at him for letting his pride run off with his common sense.

  She decided to visit her parents early, before her father had had a chance to disappear into town, and was glad she did, because Alf was sitting on the steps with his hat already on, having a last cup of tea before walking over to Pukemiro Junction to catch the train.

  ‘Hello, petal,’ he said, his weathered face lighting up. ‘You’re looking radiant as usual. How are those fine grandsons of mine?’

  ‘Oh, they’re good,’ Ellen said as she sat down next to him. The wood was damp under her backside, but she didn’t bother moving.

  ‘Come to see your mum?’

  ‘No, I’ve come to see both of you, actually.’

  ‘Oh dear, that sounds ominous,’ Alf replied, although his eyes were twinkling.

  ‘Not really. Is Mum in?’

  Alf shook his head solemnly. ‘No, she’s gone to Hamilton to order a new tiara for the next royal visit.’

  Ellen looked at him, then burst into giggles. ‘Oh, Dad, you’re terrible.’

  ‘I try, love. Yes, she’s home.’

  ‘Good. I wanted to talk to you both about…well, can you remember what you sa
id about helping us out?’

  She thought it wise to ask, because Alf didn’t always remember some of the things he said when he’d been drinking.

  ‘Financially, you mean?’

  Ellen nodded.

  ‘Yes, petal, I do.’

  ‘Well, I think we might need to take you up on the offer. If it’s still open, that is.’

  ‘Oh, it’s still open, don’t you worry about that. Hang on, I’ll get your mother.’

  Alf hoisted himself off the steps, wincing at the arthritic pain in his lower back—the curse of the retired miner—and went inside, yelling for Gloria. Ellen followed him into the kitchen.

  Her mother appeared a minute later. ‘Hello, dear,’ she said as she pecked Ellen on the cheek.

  ‘Our lovely daughter has come to talk to us about something,’ Alf announced.

  ‘Have you? Well, come through to the lounge, love, you know we don’t receive visitors in here.’

  Alf sat down deliberately at the kitchen table.

  ‘Alf!’ Gloria snapped.

  ‘Gloria,’ Alf said.

  Ellen rolled her eyes. ‘Stop it, you two.’

  ‘Sit down, petal, and you too, Gloria,’ Alf said. ‘This is family business and we don’t need any silly bloody airs for family business.’

  Reluctantly, Gloria sat.

  Without preliminary, Alf said, ‘Ellen and Tom are in the shit.’

  ‘Well, no, Dad, we’re not in the shit, not quite.’

  ‘It’s your mortgage, isn’t it?’ Gloria said. ‘I told you this strike would bring nothing but trouble.’

  ‘Taihoa, Gloria,’ Alf said, ‘let the girl speak.’

  Ellen thought for a moment. She disagreed very much with what Tom wanted to do, but she didn’t want to admit it to her mother because, his pride aside, she was convinced he thought he was doing the right thing for his family.