‘Stay out of this, Janet,’ growls Brennan, his face set solid as granite.
‘But the baby …’
‘Con is part of the argument. Leave him.’
‘Bren, Bren, he is howling, man!’
‘Out!’
Janet backs a step but is herself a woman of spirit. She faces the wild boil of fury that is Rose. ‘Rose, sweetheart, let us take the babe off, till this is sorted.’
‘Out!’ screams Rose. Conrad, in the next room, wails the louder.
‘Jesus, you are a feckin’ maniac,’ shouts Janet. ‘Shame on the pair of you! All the town is listening in.’
‘Let them, and welcome!’ shouts Rose, and slams her fist into the wall as if she would clobber the whole population.
Janet gives in then and leaves, shaking her head.
‘Brennan will never persuade her,’ she reports back to her shocked and silent family. ‘Something has broken in Rose, I reckon. Her eyes are popping out her head. Her hands are wild windmills tearing at her hair, the curtains.’
‘God almighty,’ says Arnold heavily, ‘it is only natural, what he asks. Should Doldo and I go in, do you think?’
But perhaps Janet’s words have had some effect. The argument tones down marginally, from deafening to loud, and the embarrassed Arnold Scobies hold back awhile, to see how the battle develops.
Brennan has picked up the howling Con and holds him at his shoulder. The child clings to the stuff of his dad’s waistcoat and buries his head in the hollow of his neck. Like this, Bren cannot shout and Rose will not hit him. She stands at the window now, looking out at the black night, at the lights of the railway yard and the dim shapes of the boxes of coal still moving along through the night, ordered and untended, heading for the Bins. Rose is breathing hard. Her hands push the hair away from her face. There is desperation in the movement. She turns back into the room. Her voice, though no longer shouting, is thick with anger.
‘You know I cannot go. You know it.’
‘While Bella was alive, yes.’ His voice, the set of his shoulders, are hard and black as coal. Brennan faces her like a wary boxer waiting for the next move. He is solid in his determination. Rose can find no crack that she might enlarge to an advantage. No bright or pleading smile is going to move his man.
‘Now we must move,’ says Brennan. ‘There is no work for me here.’
‘There is mining work. You are the son of a miner.’
‘I am an engineer and surveyor. There is work for me in Greymouth. Good work.’
‘And I have a good position here!’
‘Rose, you are expecting again. Con is a handful already. Your teaching days will soon be over. They should be over already.’
‘Oh!’ Rose picks a cup from the table and hurls it against the wall. Next door the Scobies wince. They can hear every bitter word Rose grinds out.
‘It is your precious music!’
‘Of course there is that too —’
‘Your bloody band comes before me! Mr Champion Cornet has been offered bandmaster at Greymouth!’
‘Rose, would you have me moulder away up here?’
‘Moulder away? Denniston Brass won this year. You won.’
‘That was local. Greymouth is in the nationals.’
Another cup smashes against the wall and falls tinkling to the floor.
‘I cannot, I cannot, I cannot!’ shouts Rose. ‘You know I will get sick.’
‘I do not know that! I do not, Rose! You will get used to it.’
‘Never!’
‘You need to move on. You cannot hide here all your life. There will be much more down there for you. For your famous mind.’ There is an edge to Brennan’s voice here. He is usually so proud of her cleverness.
‘What mind I have,’ screams Rose, ‘will wither and rot away down there by the sea.’
She flings herself down onto the chair, elbows grinding into the wooden table; buries her head in her hands and bursts into great sobs. ‘Bren, Bren, don’t ask me. I know I am unreasonable, but it can’t be helped. Here is the only place. Here I am right! Please, please let us stay!’
Brennan stands watching her. Con has miraculously fallen asleep against his shoulder. He sighs. ‘Rose, my love, I have given in on almost every front. Not this one. You must at least try. I need this.’ He reaches down to touch her springing hair. ‘Look at you, so full of life! You put me in shadow! You will make a fine life down there. In some way I think you need it more than I do.’
‘No!’
‘At least try it.’
‘I’m afraid!’
‘Of a friendly, busy town? There will be entertainments and committees and a good library. We can come back here to visit. What is there to fear? You must at least try it, Rose.’
‘Oh!’ Rose dashes a fist against her forehead. A heroine might make such a gesture on stage — a dramatic, hopeless appeal in the face of ruin. ‘How can I explain? I don’t understand it myself!’ Her tears are real, though. ‘And if I can’t manage? Brennan, what if it destroys me?’
Brennan shakes his head. He will not give in. ‘You will manage,’ he says. ‘You always manage. I am the one in danger.’
IT is a sombre cartload that heads down the new road a week later. Rose, seven months pregnant, and holding Con in her arms, sits stiff-backed on the plank-seat beside Nolly. The mist is low and the day dark. The piano stays behind, donated meantime to the school — a symbol to Rose that she will return. The rest of their possessions make only a small heap atop the bed, on the tray of the cart. Brennan walks his pony beside the cart to keep an eye. Down at Waimangaroa, Rose and the possessions will transfer to the train, while Brennan travels alone, by horseback. Half Burnett’s Face is there at the Scobies’ to see them off. Janet, in tears for once, puts a fresh-baked raisin cake in its tin at Rose’s feet.
‘That’s to keep your spirits up on the journey, my lovely,’ she says.
Rose nods. Her face, usually so full of life and high colour, is as grey as the mist.
‘I’ll be down to visit soon as you’re settled,’ says Janet, which earns her a wan smile. ‘Now off with you, before I cry me feckin’ eyes out!’
On the plateau Henry Stringer is standing in front of his lonely house. He raises a hand as they plod past.
‘Write to me, Rose,’ he shouts. ‘Keep me up with the news of the world, now!’
‘We’ll do that, don’t you worry!’ The response is from Brennan, not Rose. A tiny lift of her hand is all she can manage. Brennan, on the other hand, hums with energy. Melody prances and paws, sharing the rider’s pleasure. Bandmaster at Greymouth, now; that’s something for a young man like him! Brennan has explained to Rose the changes he plans to make: new arrangements of the old standards; different instruments brought into the ensemble; performing away, perhaps, at other centres. Rose barely raised a smile. Brennan held her close, whispered his love, but she remained closed, cold as suet, against his excitement. This is certainly a worry at present, but Brennan feels sure that once they are settled, life in the busy town of Greymouth will suit his active wife.
As they ride through the cold, swirling streets of Denniston, Brennan pulls his cornet from its case strapped to the pommel. ‘Lass of Richmond Hill’ he plays, then ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ timed to the march of Diablo’s hooves. Little Conrad laughs and beats the air with his fists. When Brennan finally dares to ride abreast of Rose, and blow ‘Rose of Tralee’ as soft as silk in her ear, she turns in her seat to smile.
‘You’re a cunning man, Brennan Scobie. Your music would charm the heart of a bloodless toad. Well, my husband, let us at least try if we can capture Greymouth.’
Tarantara! blares the cornet, in a fanfare of Brennan’s own making.
Will Scobie, in the Hanratty yard, turns at the sound and comes running. ‘Oy, take care now, cousins!’ he shouts, trotting alongside. ‘I’ll bring Mistress C down to the races in your neck of the woods, see if I don’t.’
‘Look after my house,
now, Will Scobie,’ says Rose, smiling at last. ‘I’m counting on you.’
Little Will puffs out at that, but then slaps a hand to his forehead. ‘Amn’t I the idiot! Your lucky whale’s tooth. I feckin’ forgot to bring it to you. It’s back at the log house.’
Nolly pulls at the horses and the whole procession halts while Will stamps and frets in the muddy road.
But Rose only shrugs. ‘Leave it, Willie. It’s a lovely thing but no lucky charm to me. You keep it.’
‘You can’t mean that!’ But Will Scobie’s eyes are alight with the possibility. ‘No, no … your own father …’
Brennan is anxious to move on. He drums on the pommel and his pony side-steps nervously. Rose has hardly said a word to him all morning and now she is carrying on a whole conversation with his cousin.
Rose shrugs again and nods at Nolly to move on. She speaks down to Will, who walks alongside. ‘I had no father. Or if I had, he left. And now it is me leaving. Would you leave too, Will?’
‘Not I,’ says Will stoutly, then looks up at her and chuckles. ‘Well, I am off come spring to Australia. And I will travel again, no doubt. But I am Denniston bred. I’ll settle here.’
‘And I,’ says Rose grimly. ‘Count on it. Good luck, cousin.’
‘And you.’
Will stands in the road and waves them away. Totty Hanratty, watching through curtains, imagines she sees a happy family heading for good times below. She turns back to her polishing, sad at heart.
Rose
WHATEVER THE DATE is I don’t remember. Too long away from the Hill. Brennan says I should keep up with my writing but I have no spirit even for that. Oh, I miss my piano! Why did I think to leave it? Perhaps playing would ease this dead mass inside me.
I write to Henry but he never replies. They have all forgotten me. My letters are so dreary, perhaps they can’t bear to read them.
Can I describe Greymouth without prejudice?
Greymouth is surrounded three sides by water, the other by bog. The grey sea booms and moans all day. Stand in the street and you feel the ocean will engulf the whole town at the next wave. You would swear we were below sea level, and yet we are not engulfed. How can that be? Is it an optical illusion? A matter of the curve of the earth’s surface? Brennan agrees the sea looks higher, but is not puzzled about the cause. I find it fearsome. Half the day the river runs oily into the sea, the rest of the time the sea turns to roar up the river, up past the town and around the bend. Again I feel threatened. At any moment the river could spill over and wash us, hurly-burly, over and over, down the streets and away. All the houses, ours included, are on the flat and neatly ordered in rows along straight streets. Perfectly designed to be swept away! Everything smells of damp salt …
Oh dear. And so on. And so on. I try to be cheerful and interesting, but again and again the flat salt spray creeps into my words and thoughts.
This is what I have come to believe: I have a kind of vertigo in reverse. Some people will say they have no head for heights. My head swims at sea level! Down on the flat, all the fresh ideas and bright possibilities that filled my mind on the Hill turn to drab mush. On the Hill I would lie in bed, impatient for morning light so that I could get up and on with some new idea or finish an old one. Now, mornings present nothing but a sad, dizzy desert stretching before me. I long for night, for darkness to blot out the whole sorry thing my life has become. I write this to Henry. Has he heard of such a state? The wretched man never replies, after all his exhortations that I should write. No doubt some other fascinating issue has taken his interest up there. Out of sight, out of mind — that is Henry all over.
At first Brennan said it was the pregnancy; that I would get over this lethargy once the baby was born; that soon we could afford a nursemaid to care for the children; that when we had made some friends all would be well. He tried hard, for a while, to cheer me up, but has gradually lost heart himself.
I have tried to make a life here. Yes, I have tried! Brennan was right — there are things to do. Often there are entertainments. I played and sang at one. It only made me long all over again for my own piano. I helped in the library for a while, and sometimes play cards with the family next door. I went with Brennan to band practice until Bren insisted Con’s crying was too disrupting. Once or twice I have taken Con down to the beach, but it is so bleak and horrible! Grey stones, grey sea, the very air is grey; the place is aptly named! Betty Stokes, the woman next door, who has four children and one Con’s age, is a friendly soul but interested in nothing much outside the home. I sit in her warm kitchen and try to interest her in the coal industry or politics or books or life up on the Hill, but somehow the conversation always turns a corner and we are back to recipes and laundry.
Bren is his usual solid self. He is a good man. He is my only anchor to grip in the bad times — but he is so often not here! I go with him when I can, but here in Greymouth Bren is more concerned with proper behaviour.
‘Rose,’ he says with his big tender smile, ‘people here will not feel comfortable to see you so huge and out among men.’
‘And you?’ I say. ‘Are you uncomfortable these days too?’
Even this, which I meant as a laughing matter, he takes seriously. Oh, I could slap his heavy face sometimes!
‘I do,’ he said. ‘Yes, I do feel uncomfortable down here, if you run about with your belly in view and cart Con on your back to a public meeting. A wife doesn’t behave like that.’
‘The bandmaster’s wife, you mean. Plenty of women in the shantytown behave like me.’
‘Yes,’ my stubborn man said (he said it with pride!), ‘the bandmaster’s wife. The surveyor’s wife. We have a position now, you and I and Con all three.’
He was so reasonable and flat about it, as if there were no argument! Yet down there I have no strength to fight him. It is as if I am Samson with my locks cut. Down here I am no use to anyone.
Crossing the Tasman
FOR THE PAST month Will Scobie has pranced and whistled and driven everyone mad with his winks and insinuations. Truth is, news of the betrothal has provided enough gossip to keep everyone on the Hill warm the whole winter through. Who would have thought it? Imagined it, even? The rougher miners made rude jokes about it, when Doldo or Arnold were out of earshot. How in hell would such an unlikely pair manage? Some wag pointed out that the lad was used to mounting a horse wasn’t he, ha ha? Oh, there was no lack of sport over the betrothal of Will Scobie and the pale, lanky Elizabeth Hanratty.
The first anyone knew about the affair was when that dreamy Elizabeth, whom no one suspected of having much in the way of a backbone, announced that she would not move down to Westport with her parents, but would stay on the Hill with her brother Nolly.
‘And do what?’ Totty had asked, more puzzled than angry. She had imagined that her artistic daughter would leap into the more refined Westport society with relish.
‘Will has the plans,’ said Beth Hanratty enigmatically, her pale cheeks flushing scarlet. ‘He’ll tell you.’
And so he did, arriving at the front door of Hanrattys’ (soon to be Finnegans’) smartly dressed in his Sunday suit. He held the smallest size of bowler hat pressed to his chest, and wore a rosebud (where did he find that, for heaven’s sake?) in his lapel. You could see your reflection in his hair or his boots, take your pick, both oiled to shining black perfection.
In the parlour he stood proud in front of the fireplace, his head just level with the mantelpiece, and asked the astounded parents for the hand of their daughter in marriage.
‘She is willing,’ said Will, speaking formally for once — no trace of his usual colourful language. His eyes shone with a kind of pleased wonder that softened Tom and Totty’s initial shock. ‘I may be small,’ he said, stretching high in his new boots, to which the bootmaker had added an extra sole, ‘but I will love her as any proper husband. Also I can provide well enough for her. I have one or two business concerns, as you know, and I am to be in partnership with your No
lly in the carting business. Also I have negotiated to buy a house.’ Here he shot them a quick look. The house under negotiation was the log house, but Will rightly judged this information better withheld for the moment.
‘And another thing,’ said Will Scobie, an anxiety creeping into his voice at the parents’ continuing silence. ‘Nolly and I are planning an expansion, which may include …’ Here he cleared his throat, not wanting to give away too much commercial information, ‘horse-drawn passenger lorries from Denniston to Waimangaroa and Westport!’
It could have raised smiles, but Totty found herself moved almost to tears by this upright little fellow. Tom nodded sagely at the idea of passenger lorries. He asked a few questions about financial status and was both surprised and pleased at the answers. When Totty finally found her voice she queried whether Elizabeth truly favoured the match.
‘Ask her,’ said Will. ‘I’m picking she is directly outside the door.’
Which she was. Beth entered, already dressed in her best muslin, her pale gold hair brushed smooth and held back with a light blue ribbon. No need to ask what she thought. Totty wondered how she could have missed this obvious attraction. Her daughter blushed scarlet, bent her head humbly to receive Will’s kiss, and burst into tears of happiness while her little fiancé patted her hand and beamed.
‘We’ll take a little walk now it’s settled,’ announced Will. He was clearly itching to show off his betrothed. And so, it seemed, was Elizabeth. Totty had never seen her so lively, so animated. You never understand your children, she thought. Michael lay heavy on her mind. But this time she felt reassured. Such an odd pair! He a cheeky little dynamo, she so dreamy and — let’s be honest — not the most cheerful of souls. Yet there was a surprising rightness about them, standing there together. Totty kissed her daughter. Tom shook Will’s hand.
‘You won’t be feckin’ sorry,’ said Willie, grinning now, and chirpy again. He handed his Beth through the door with a flourish. ‘Just you wait and see!’
Heart of Coal Page 21