Union Belle

by Deborah Challinor

  ‘Well, they have.’

  Ellen swallowed. Had Tom heard about this yet? If not, she would have to tell him: they didn’t take the Auckland Star.

  Then, to her consternation, she realised that the person she really wanted to talk to about it was not Tom, but Jack. At the mere thought of him her stomach fluttered with excitement. But she made an enormous effort to put him out of her mind; she couldn’t even think about him around anyone else, she was so afraid that her feelings would show.

  Rhea went over what would be required of them during the coming week, plus confirmation of the details of a strike dance they were planning soon, then closed the meeting with the assurance that the moment she heard anything about a response to their petition, she would be sure to let them know.

  Outside it was starting to rain, and Ellen turned up the collar of her coat.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Milly said. ‘My washing’s still out.’

  ‘I did all mine on Sunday,’ Lorna said. ‘I haven’t had to do half as much since Vic’s been off work.’

  Milly snorted. ‘You’re lucky, Billy and Evan are even filthier than ever.’ Then she said, ‘Billy reckons he saw you the other day, Ellen, last Friday morning.’

  Ellen forced herself to keep walking. ‘Did he? Whereabouts?’

  ‘That’s the funny bit. He said you were walking along the gully at the bottom of the hill behind your house. So I said, “Don’t be a drongo Billy, what would Ellen be doing mucking about in the gully?” And when I asked him what he was doing in the gully during school hours, the little bugger went bright red and it turns out he was down there having a quick smoke. Ten years old and he’s smoking! That’s Frank’s fault, you know.’ She paused. ‘Still, if that’s the only habit he gets off his father I suppose I should count my blessings. So, was it you?’

  ‘Yes, it was, actually,’ Ellen said, praying that her voice sounded normal.

  ‘Oh. What were you doing?’

  ‘Looking for Fintan.’

  Milly frowned. ‘Who?’

  ‘Fintan, Davey’s parrot. He got out.’

  ‘Oh, yes, the parrot! Evan’s being going on and on about it, he wants one too, now. He’s not bloody getting one, though. Did you find it?’

  Ellen nodded, feeling sick.

  She couldn’t stop thinking about Jack. It had been four days now since she had seen him, and it would be another agonising forty-eight hours before she might see him again.

  There had been no dances on anywhere last Saturday night, so she and Tom had taken the boys to the pictures at the hall, but there’d been no sign of Jack. She told herself he was probably out drinking somewhere—Tom certainly had been, all afternoon at the pub, and fell asleep as soon as the film started. It was A Streetcar Named Desire, with Vivien Leigh and Marlon Brando, which Ellen had been wanting to see for weeks. Neil and Davey couldn’t have cared less, much preferring cowboy or war films, but they’d insisted on coming anyway because it was better than sitting at home with Grandma Gloria, who always made them clean their teeth and get into their pyjamas at seven o’clock. But they’d amused themselves by yelling out ‘Steeellaaaa!’ at the tops of their voices all the way home after the picture finished, so she supposed they hadn’t been too bored.

  Ellen wondered why Jack hadn’t been in touch. In fact, she was fretting. People always said that other people were fretting, and she’d never quite understood what they meant, but she did now. She couldn’t concentrate on anything, she’d lost her appetite and she woke up during the night with her head filled with thoughts and images of him. It was almost as though her centre of gravity had been altered and she couldn’t quite find her balance. It had been magical and perfect with him, but now, after not having seen him for four days, she felt completely bereft. And still appallingly guilty. She watched Neil and Davey and wanted to cry because they were her precious boys and they had no idea, and she saw Tom being grumpy and cheerful, annoying and familiar and loving all in the same day, and she wanted to cry even more because it was so unfair that all she could do was think about being with someone else. She wanted to reach out to Tom and tell him she loved him, because she did, but now there was Jack too.

  She was being extraordinarily selfish, and she knew it. She knew why, too. It was because Jack was more than what he seemed. He was a good-looking man, there was no denying that; he was physical and strong and had an easy confidence that made him very appealing. He was kind and thoughtful, too, but underneath there was a streak of something much tougher, a quiet danger that Ellen found irresistible. But it wasn’t even that; it was something she couldn’t define. He had something extra, something she wanted and needed and had to have. He made her feel whole—it was as simple as that.

  So where was he? Surely he could have come around to talk to Tom about something. He needn’t have said anything directly to her, but he could have caught her eye, given her some sort of silent message, and she would have known then that it was all right.

  She sighed and cleared away the lunch things. Tom was next door helping Bert cut down a tree, and the boys were at school. There was the washing to do now, which she normally enjoyed, although it was always a bit of a chore. In the washhouse, she filled the copper and set the fire under it, then touched a match to the screwed-up newspaper she’d jammed between the kindling. She stayed crouching in front of it, watching the flame turn the edges of the paper black then creep over the kindling, catching the raw splinters and then the wood itself. The touch of heat was nice on her face; the washhouse was always cold and dank until the copper got going, then it was far too hot, especially at the height of summer.

  But it wouldn’t get going for a while yet, so she straightened up and went out onto the porch, where Jack was standing with his hands in his pockets, watching Fintan in his cage.

  ‘Jack!’ she said. She smoothed her untidy hair behind her ears, wishing she wasn’t wearing her tattiest old skirt and cardigan.

  He turned around and gave her such a lovely smile she felt it in her bones.

  ‘You shouldn’t give parrots too much fruit, you know,’ he said, ‘it gives them a crook guts. And they waste it.’

  Ellen glanced at the cage. Jack was right; she’d given Fintan a pear last night for his supper and he’d shat everywhere this morning, and the bits of fruit he hadn’t eaten were glued to the bars of his cage.

  Fintan glared at her and said, ‘Jack!’

  Jack said, ‘I’ve missed you, Ellen.’

  ‘Where have you been?’ She felt such a flood of relief she thought she might have to sit down.

  ‘Staying away.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘In case you’d decided you might have made a mistake.’

  ‘Jack, is that you?’

  Ellen nearly jumped out of her skin. She looked across at Bert’s house where Tom was hanging over the hedge, a pair of rusty loppers in his hand.

  Jack said quickly, ‘Will you come on Friday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He turned and went down the steps, Ellen behind him.

  ‘I’ve just seen Pat,’ he called to Tom, who was sidling through the hedge, Bert close behind. ‘More bad news.’

  ‘Christ, now what?’ Tom said.

  ‘Scab union at Bluff, started work this morning.’ Jack paused. ‘And Timaru’s gone back.’

  ‘To work?’

  ‘Yeah, they’ve accepted employer conditions.’

  ‘The union jokers have gone back?’

  Jack nodded.

  Tom looked away in disgust.

  Bert got out his tobacco and started to roll a smoke. ‘Timaru always was rotten, right from the start.’

  ‘There’s more,’ Jack said. ‘The scab union’s starting on the wharves at Auckland tomorrow.’

  Tom snorted. ‘They’re only seagulls, though.’

  ‘They’ll do the work.’

  ‘Then maybe we should all go up in the morning,’ Tom said, ‘show a bit of solidarity.’

  ‘Could be trou
ble,’ Bert said, tamping his smoke into shape.

  Ellen thought so, too. If there was trouble, she didn’t want Tom in the middle of it, and with Pat with him, he probably would be.

  ‘What about it, Jack?’ Tom said. ‘We’ll go up first thing tomorrow, doss down with some of the Auckland jokers overnight, and come back Friday afternoon after the meeting.’

  Ellen held her breath.

  ‘I can’t, Tom,’ Jack said. ‘I’ve got something on.’

  She shifted slightly, then settled her head back on Jack’s damp chest. She had a couple of questions, but felt nervous about asking them in case she didn’t get the answers she wanted. She’d wanted to ask him last Friday, but hadn’t had the nerve.

  She took a deep breath. ‘The other day at our house, last week, why did you say you couldn’t go up to Auckland?’

  Tom hadn’t gone either, in the end, because Pat had had a meeting with the central council he didn’t want to miss, but they’d both set off this morning for Auckland as usual.

  ‘I had enough of scrapping when I was overseas, and I had better things to do here.’

  Ellen felt her heart lift, but it wasn’t enough. ‘What was better here?’

  She cringed inwardly, squirmingly ashamed of herself. Her mother had warned her years ago that expecting a man to talk openly about how he felt was at best a waste of time, and at worst foolhardy. But she had to know what she meant to him; she had to hear him say it.

  He made a pretence of careful consideration. ‘Well, those porkers did need sorting out.’

  And that was true: he had butchered two pigs last Friday morning, before spending two and a half hours in bed with her. Crushed by the brutality of his answer, Ellen willed herself not to react, but in the end she had to. She sat up and looked at him. He was grinning at the ceiling.

  ‘Was that the only reason?’

  He laughed, and she felt her disappointment sliding into anger. ‘Well, if it was only bloody pigs, perhaps you should have gone,’ she said.

  Jack wrapped his arms around her, pulled her down and hugged her tightly. ‘And miss out on being with you? Not a hope.’

  Ellen wavered between absolute relief and the urge to remain insulted, but relief won and her heart soared. ‘You wanted to see me?’

  She felt him nod.

  ‘Ellen, I’d rather be with you than just about anything.’

  Savouring the words, she snuggled closer, rubbing her face across the hair on his chest, inhaling his scent and marvelling at how well their bodies fitted together.

  But she hadn’t finished yet. ‘Jack?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘You know how you took Andrea Trask to the dance at Rotowaro?’

  ‘Mmm,’ he replied, stroking her hair softly and rhythmically.

  ‘Will you be seeing her again?’

  ‘Well, she hasn’t asked me out since, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Hasn’t she?’ Ellen tried not to sound too pleased. ‘Why not, I wonder?’

  ‘Is it important to you?’

  ‘No.’

  He shifted out from under her, propping himself on one elbow so he could see her face.

  ‘You’ve gone red,’ he said.

  She willed the blood in her face to subside, but it wouldn’t. It got worse. ‘I’m hot,’ she said.

  ‘Are you?’ Jack thoughtfully pulled the blankets down to her waist. ‘I doubt she will ask me out again, actually.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I told her I just wasn’t interested in having a girlfriend at the moment.’

  Ellen tried to keep the smile off her face. She struggled to turn it into a look of sympathy for poor Andrea, and failed.

  Jack laughed out loud. ‘There’s that cat in you again.’

  ‘Was she very annoyed?’

  ‘Hell, yes. I thought she was going to haul off and belt me one.’

  Ellen sat up and pulled the blankets up under her armpits. ‘When did you tell her that?’

  ‘After the dance, when I took her home.’

  ‘Why then?’

  ‘Because that was the night I asked you to come and see me. And I knew you would.’

  ‘Did you? I didn’t even know then. That was a bit presumptuous, wasn’t it?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. And you did, so I was right.’ He reached out and swept a lock of hair behind her ear. ‘I think it’s a bit crook for a bloke to get tangled up with more than one woman at a time, so I had to tell her. I never fancied her anyway—too pushy.’

  ‘Are we tangled up?’

  He leaned down and kissed her. ‘Yes, Mrs McCabe, we’re very tangled up.’

  She kissed him back, then forced herself to pull away. ‘Just one more question, Jack. Please?’

  He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with us,’ she said.

  He waited.

  ‘Who blew up the line at Mahuta?’

  Jack bent over and whispered in her ear.

  The following night, on his way home after a long afternoon at the pub, Alf fell on the steps leading up to his back door and knocked himself unconscious.

  Gloria heard the crash from the sitting room, where she was working on a jumper for Neil, but didn’t get up because Alf had fallen up the steps plenty of times before and hadn’t done himself any lasting damage. But after some minutes, she realised that this time she wasn’t hearing the loud swearing that usually accompanied such incidents, so she went out to see what he was doing.

  He was lying face down halfway up the steps. His hat had fallen off and rolled all the way down to the bottom.

  ‘Get up, you silly old bugger,’ she said.

  There was no answer and he didn’t move, so she switched on the porch light and went down for a closer look. It was then that she saw he was bleeding from a gash on the side of his head, just behind his left ear. In the artificial light the blood trickling down his neck looked black. She also smelled alcohol fumes coming off him like an invisible fog.

  ‘Alf?’ she said. ‘Alf, are you all right?’

  Alarmed now, she put her hand on his shoulder and shook him.

  Still nothing, although she could see he was still breathing. She hesitated, wondering whether it was safe to leave him. Then she stepped over him and hurried down the steps and over to the Meehans’, her neighbours, and banged loudly on their back door.

  ‘Len Meehan opened it. Behind him Gloria glimpsed Rose, his wife, standing at the sink and the three Meehan children sitting around the table, apparently finishing their tea.

  ‘Len, Alf’s had a fall and I can’t get him up.’

  ‘Oh, shit. Whereabouts?’ Len said, jamming his feet into his boots.

  ‘On the steps. I can’t get him up, Len!’ Gloria’s voice was rising in panic.

  ‘Hang on a tick,’ he said, then spoke over his shoulder, ‘Chris, run up the street and fetch Mrs McCabe. Tell her to hurry.’

  Chris stood up. ‘Neil and Davey’s mum?’

  ‘That’s right, hurry up, off you go,’ Len said as his son pushed past him.

  Chris ran up Joseph Street, his bare feet immune to the gravel, then turned into John Street and didn’t stop until he was knocking loudly on the McCabes’ door.

  Ellen answered. ‘Hello, Christopher,’ she said, surprised to see him there at that hour. ‘The boys are just about to have their tea.’

  Breathless, Chris said, ‘Dad says you’re to come quickly, Mr Powys has come a cropper.’

  Ellen stared at him.

  ‘On the steps. Mrs Powys can’t get him up.’

  ‘At their house?’

  Chris nodded, his eyes big with the weighty but enormous excitement of it all.

  Neil and Davey appeared, keen to see who was at the door.

  Tom was out and Ellen couldn’t wait for him. ‘I’m just popping out for a minute, boys. Dad will be home soon. If I’m not back tell him to come down to Gran’s. Neil, keep an eye on the potatoes.’

  And t
hen she was gone, running down the street in the semi-darkness, her slippers flapping and her apron flying and her heart inflating with dread.

  By the time she arrived at her parents’ house, Len, Rose and Gloria had managed to get Alf inside, where he was now lying on the kitchen floor. Gloria glanced up as she hurried in, her face white and her expression helpless and horrified.

  Alf was on his back and Ellen could see where the blood had drenched the collar of his shirt. His face was as pale as Gloria’s and his eyes were closed and he looked terrible.

  ‘What happened? Is he all right?’ she asked.

  ‘He fell on the steps. I think he’s unconscious,’ Len said, chafing Alf’s hands briskly. Rose was loosening Alf’s belt and shirt buttons.

  ‘I told him the bloody drink would kill him,’ Gloria said, her voice shrill. ‘I told him!’

  Ellen laid a soothing hand on her mother’s shoulder, although her own panic was increasing by the second. ‘Mum, calm down, he’s just had a bump, he’ll come round.’

  ‘No, he won’t, I slapped his face a minute ago and he didn’t even stir. Help him, Ellen, help him!’

  ‘Calm down, Mum. Has anyone gone for Dr Airey?’

  Len shook his head.

  Rose said, ‘I’ll go.’ She got to her feet and pushed past Chris and Neil, standing bug-eyed at the door.

  ‘Neil! I told you to stay at home and watch the potatoes!’ Ellen said, fear making her snap.

  ‘I made Davey to do it, I wanted to see Granddad,’ Neil replied, unable to take his eyes off the still figure on the floor. ‘There’s blood on him, Mum.’

  Ellen said, ‘He’s had a fall, love, but he’ll be all right. The doctor’s coming in a minute.’

  Neil looked at her as though he didn’t quite believe her.

  ‘Now go home, sweetheart, and wait for Dad. You can’t leave Davey by himself, you know he gets frightened.’

  Reluctantly, Neil moved closer to the door.

  ‘Granddad will be fine,’ Ellen said again. She didn’t want Neil to be here when Dr Airey arrived, just in case. ‘Go on, I’ll be home soon.’

  Neil gave her a last, doubtful look and disappeared.

  ‘You hop off too, eh?’ Len said to Chris, anticipating that Dr Airey would need a bit of space.