‘Yes.’
‘Jimmy Cork’s?’
‘Well, she lives there, but who can say …’
‘No.’
‘Mrs Scobie …’ This time Totty is the one preparing for battle.
‘No, my dear, not in a school with my boys.’ The older woman’s face is granite. ‘It would not work.’
‘The child did not choose her father.’
‘The father should leave this place, not settle his blood here for schooling.’
‘Well,’ Totty smiles in spite of herself, ‘Rose will likely send herself to school, and no one will have the heart to turn her away. Wait till you see her, Mary.’
‘Not I nor any other Scobie will wish to set eyes on her. There will be trouble.’
For a moment the only sound is the boys’ boots on the floorboards. Then Mary Scobie, straight-backed at the table but unseeing, starts speaking. It is as if a small crack has opened, just enough for the words to edge out. The words are bitter, the voice bleak as winter.
‘What kind of a godforsaken place is this where you cannot bury your dead? My eldest son, Samuel, and his uncle, Frank, both of them dead in a day and I can visit the graveside of neither. What kind of a settlement can we build here without our dead? Without a churchyard? This is devil’s country. Iron-hard rock, black sky, and no shred of honest soil to bury the dead. My son is lying where he fell, who can say exactly where. His body not laid out; crumpled under a mountain of rock like some animal. Who can pray — who can commune with the dead — at the mouth of a clattering mine?’
‘I’m sorry,’ says Totty. She pats the older woman’s hand but the gesture goes unnoticed.
‘And what if our babies die? Which they will, of course.’ Mary Scobie is deep inside herself, oblivious now, surely, of her hostess’s condition. ‘Will we have to put them on a coal wagon and watch them descend away and away for ever? Could you live through that and remain in your right mind? Could you?’
‘Please …’ murmurs Totty.
‘The Incline,’ Mary Scobie spits the words, ‘is not fit transport for a human being. Nor a coffin. I will never travel it.’
Totty has heard of the funeral. Two days after the deaths Mary Scobie had stood in the rain at the Burnett’s Face entrance to Banbury Mine while her husband, the boys and the other miners had sombrely placed Frank’s coffin onto a coal box, guided it through the same mine that killed him, then loaded the body onto a coal wagon and ridden down the Incline with it, roaring down the rails, the dead out of reach forever: out by rail, past Conn’s Creek, past Koranui Mine, all the way to Waimangaroa, where there was consecrated soil deep enough for a grave. Mary, with Granny Binney beside her for company, had stood like stone, they said. Had not moved while the coffin descended both sections of the Incline. She had stood on after the faint shriek of the train whistle far below signalled the next stage of the funeral cortege. At last, with Granny Binney guiding her, she had returned in silence to the tiny empty house. All the men were praying at a distant churchyard and would not return until next day. Mary had ignored her silent younger children, refused to organise or attend any funeral supper; had sat through the night in front of a cold cup of tea while Granny Binney put the lads to bed.
In Totty’s kitchen Mary Scobie takes a breath. Totty can almost see the crack in this woman’s flinty exterior closing. But there it is — a weakness, a hairline fracture, which will open again, Totty suspects, and worse next time. A worry. You need to be rock solid to survive on the Hill.
But for now Mary Scobie is back in control.
‘I am determined, my dear, that the boys — the younger ones — will have the tools to escape this dreadful place.’
Totty frowns. ‘Dreadful is a strong word. This is my home.’
‘Not mine.’ The words are spat out. ‘Never.’
Mary Scobie rolls on, inexorable as an approaching storm. Space for a schoolroom must be considered. Hanrattys’ is the only place with a spare room big enough. And the teacher. Totty is the only person, according to Mary’s inquiries, who has the Standard Six Certificate.
‘The coming baby is a hurdle, my dear, but the need is great. Will you take it on?’
Totty will not be bullied. ‘I simply cannot do it, Mrs Scobie. Tom is out all day building houses. I have the boarders to cook and wash for, and, God willing, three children.’ She sighs. ‘You have noticed the scones are yesterday’s.’
‘I have. And have done the same.’ Mary nods with the solid understanding of another overworked mother. She pats Totty’s hand and the younger woman finds herself in tears, seduced by exhaustion and the rare soft pleasure of a woman’s company.
‘I’m sorry … I’m sorry … but you are welcome to the room.’
‘And we will find the teacher to fill it. We must. There is no other way on the Hill. I will come up with a plan, never fear.’
In the end it was Totty who thought of asking Mrs C. Rasmussen. That ample lady shook with pleasure at being asked, not at all deterred by her total lack of formal education.
‘A teacher! Well, I suppose I could manage. I would have to confer with Mr Rasmussen, of course.’
‘Of course,’ said Totty soberly, though she could imagine the scene if Con the Brake was anything less than wildly encouraging.
Mrs C’s confident smile slipped for a moment. ‘The Chapel parents — they would accept me?’
‘Mrs C, everyone loves you.’
‘Love, yes; but respect?’
‘If they don’t now, they will learn to.’
Mary Scobie, practical woman, had immediately seen the good sense of the suggestion, and was prepared to put aside religious scruples for the time being. She herself, though unschooled, was literate enough, and respected Mrs C. Rasmussen’s knowledge, even if she had her suspicions about where the knowledge was acquired. In fact it was she who suggested, with a surprising snort of laughter, that they hoodwink the officials.
‘We will apply for the licence in Totty’s name. She has the Certificate. Who is to know? Can you imagine that School Board in Nelson sending someone up here to inspect? Never!’
Mrs C. Rasmussen sat up straighter. ‘My qualifications may not be formal, Mrs Scobie, but they will stand in their own right. I do not need to hide behind Totty.’
Totty laughed. ‘Oh, Mrs C, you could run me into the ground on any subject in the curriculum, but we need our allocation of slates and chalk and blackboards. If the silly twits in Nelson want a Certificate, let’s give them one!’
In the four years since Con had brought her to the Hill, Mrs C had done everything a good pillar of the community should, except, sadly, produce children. The offer of a post as schoolmistress was to her a final proof of respectability and more precious than a six-ounce gold nugget.
‘Thank you, Totty, I will accept,’ she said, sitting straight and formal on her chair. She smoothed back a strand of her heavy brown hair with a finger in whose plump folds gleamed the wedding ring placed there by Con the Brake and no preacher. At last she felt secure enough to add, ‘Please call me Bella.’
So Mrs C. Rasmussen, alias Mrs Dorothy Hanratty, became the first teacher of the tiny school in Hanrattys’ spare guest-room. Indeed she was an inspired choice, for she read and wrote fluently, knew more songs and stories than anyone in the world, and had travelled to Australia more than once, according to Con the Brake. What’s more, Mrs C could add up a column of figures, especially if it was money, faster than the mine manager.
On the first day of school the Scobie twins hitched a ride on a couple of boxes coming out of the mine, rode down to Denniston, jumped off near Hanrattys’ and arrived with their identical faces black as thunder — and not only with soot. Schooling was well below the dignity of this pair of experienced miners, who were Scobies to boot. Brennan, too scared to ride the skips, or unwilling to ignore his mother’s absolute veto on the practice, walked through the mud beside the skipway — dangerous enough in itself, as everyone in Burnett’s Face grumbled.
He walked with Jackie and Donnie O’Shea, — ‘Catholic, but never mind, Brennan,’ his dad said. ‘The O’Sheas are good miners.’ Brennan smiled at the thought of spending this day and all the next days with Michael Hanratty, the gold-coloured boy with six rooms inside his house.
In Hanrattys’ back room Mrs Rasmussen wrote their names firmly in her new register. She sat them at desks hammered together the previous night by Tom Hanratty and still smelling of sawdust and oil. In twos they sat: the twins at the back, then the O’Sheas, with the young ones at the front.
There is an empty desk on the other side of Michael.
‘Who is this for?’ whispers Brennan, awed by the newness of it all.
‘Rose,’ says Michael, smiling in excitement and not one whit awed. ‘She’s my friend too.’
There is a knock on the door.
‘Come in!’ calls Mrs Rasmussen, glowing, in her own schoolroom.
Rose, small and tightly contained, steps into the room. For a moment she stands by the door, her mass of fair curls boiling in all directions. Hardly breathing, she turns to face the door, closes it slowly and stands there, her thin little back shielding her from the six pairs of male eyes. She seems unable to turn around.
‘Good morning, Rose,’ says Mrs Rasmussen quietly, and Rose comes away from the door, her too-bright smile firmly in place. The boys wait in silence as Rose stands in front of the teacher. She smoothes her pinafore, good clean flour-bag, sewn by Mrs C herself, and waits too.
Mrs Rasmussen clears her throat. This must be done right. She is aware the child has had to face open enmity many times since the accident. Goodness only knew why the mother had not left the Camp. Surely any existence would be preferable to living under Jimmy Cork’s reputation.
Rosser Scobie, jumping to his feet, is the first to find words.
‘Is this his girl? Killer Jimmy’s daughter?’
The other twin stands too. His voice tries to imitate a man’s but comes out in a boy’s squeak, which would be funny if the face were less rigid. ‘From County Cork?’ It is an accusation.
Tiny Rose turns to face the boys. ‘No, I am not,’ she says in her clear accurate voice, and waits for the next onslaught.
‘This is Rose,’ says Mrs Rasmussen firmly. ‘Rose.’ And smiles at the tense child. ‘When we are at school we all need a second name to come and go with. Shall we say Rose of Tralee?’ She walks to the back of the room where the miners’ sons are still standing with their fists balled at their sides. ‘Tralee. Which is not in County Cork but an altogether gentler part of Ireland.’
Mrs Rasmussen has no idea where Tralee is, though she loves the song. The shadow of a saucy smile, long subdued, pulls at her cheek and she remembers smoky saloons, appreciative customers, a younger, beribboned Bella, in lace petticoats, singing to the diggers in shanty-towns up and down the Coast. The smile broadens.
‘Rose of Tralee,’ she repeats. ‘Now, sit down everyone, and I will give you your tasks.’
Rose of Tralee, pink as her name, trots over to her desk. She sits on the little bench and runs her hands over the fresh wood.
‘Rose of Tralee,’ she says, trying it out.
Michael, not a miner’s son and shielded by Totty from their dramas, smiles at Rose.
‘This is my other friend, Brennan,’ he whispers.
Brennan, dark browed and black eyed, stares hard at Rose, but when the curls bounce and the blue eyes crinkle he forgets he is a Scobie and smiles back.
Playmate and Pariah
ROSE OF TRALEE never once missed a day’s school that anyone could remember. Sometimes she would arrive late; her mother spent most of the night wrestling Jimmy Cork to bed, so was not one to wake her daughter, lay out clean clothes and see there was a warm breakfast inside her. Besides, no one at Jimmy’s shack had a clock or pocket watch of any sort. So until Rose learned to time her life by her mother’s roosters and the Powerhouse whistle, she might arrive at Hanrattys’ back door, the usual smile in place, to find Brennan and Michael halfway through their alphabet.
On other days Totty would find her at the door a good hour early.
‘I haven’t had my breakfast, Mrs Hanratty,’ she would say in a straightforward way, ‘I couldn’t find any at our home.’ And would walk straight in to take her place at the kitchen table with a delighted Michael.
That was a remarkable thing about Rose: she never learned to cringe or whine; never in all those years became defensive. Goodness knows, she had reason. People on the Hill were free with their opinions, and made no bones about what they thought of Jimmy Cork and his wild, mad wife. But Rose was born, according to Mrs C, with a sunny nature, which was the greatest gift anyone could have given her, under the circumstances.
Rose and Brennan and Michael were the only children of their age on the whole plateau. Women were arriving now, of course. Babies would be born. But those three were like the spearhead of a new generation. The twins and the O’Shea boys were little men, marking time until they could go down the mine. Rose and Brennan and Michael were everyone’s hope for Denniston, for a proper town. For schools and a hospital and churches and sports teams. The dreams of many centred on those three children. Circumstances, accidental but in the end too potent to be ignored, threw those three children together, tied their lives into a knot which, in the end, bred disaster. In these early days, though, their antics brought only a smile.
Everyone knew them. Everyone at Denniston town, that is. After school the three would go shouting and chasing down to the Brake Head, where Con the Brake would greet them with a roar and a cracking grin and let them try their strength on the heavy iron of the brake-wheel.
Eddie Carmichael would call them up to his office to test their addition on his coal tallies, and if they got it right he might find a piece of chocolate or an apple.
The men at the Bins would shout and wave and warn them to keep a safe distance, and the hook-men would give them rides running the empties down to the Bins.
Michael is the leader. His coppery thatch of hair, a legacy from his mother, flops into blue sparky eyes. Taller and faster than the other two, knobby knees pounding up and down, he marches along the street, leading his army of two.
‘Halt!’ he cries, and the two followers try to stand solemn and upright in the mud like proper soldiers. Michael’s eyes blaze. Games are real for him.
Rose looks sideways at Brennan. The dark little boy is almost as small as Rose but much solider. His hair is cut bristly and short; his clothes, always hand-me-downs, are always too big for him. He frowns, trying to look the proper soldier, and Rose bursts into giggles. Rose, though oldest of the trio, is smallest. A stranger would think her delicate as glass, her mop of fair curls almost too massive for the thin neck to bear. But there’s energy in her, like a coiled spring. Both boys adore her.
Rose giggles again. Brennan loses control too and they laugh and pull even more serious soldier-faces.
‘Attention!’ yells Michael, red in the face. Brennan attempts to obey but slips in the mud and only just stays upright. His arms windmill. Rose shrieks with laughter and gives him her hand.
Michael flourishes his toy gun, shaped by his carpenter father, marches up to Brennan and strikes him. The blow is more than play-acting. Brennan stops in the middle of his pantomime. When he frowns it’s like a blind coming down.
‘That’s not fair. I’m going home,’ he announces, and turns to stump up the hill.
‘About turn!’ orders Michael, to no effect. He stamps his foot and shouts again, ‘About turn! ’
Rose dances back and forth between them. ‘You can be leader, Brennan … can’t he, Michael?’
Brennan says nothing. Plods up towards the skipway. Rose runs after him. She is always desperate to keep the games alive. ‘Going home’ is not an attractive option for her.
‘I’ll give you a penny,’ pleads Rose.
‘I said about turn!’ Michael is standing his ground, further down the road, his thin legs planted in the mud, the
bullying stance an imitation of a man’s.
‘I’ll give you two pennies.’
Brennan stops. He is crying. Though he looks tough as a boot, Brennan cries easily, earning him taunts at school and from his older brothers. Rose suddenly reaches out a small hand and rubs it over his wiry hair as if stroking a dog. Brennan pulls away but the corners of his mouth twitch at this surprising offering.
‘You haven’t got two pennies,’ he sniffs, wiping his nose on his sleeve.
‘I have, and a gold nugget.’
‘You’re daft. Like your mam. Show me your gold then.’
‘It’s down at the Camp. It’s hidden.’
Michael can’t bear to see them talking together up the road. He marches up, left, right, left, comes to a smart attention. But is undermined by the mention of money.
‘Well, where is it hidden?’ he asks.
‘Somewhere secret. Near our place.’
Brennan says nothing. One of his hands reaches up slyly to rub his own hair, relive the feel of Rose’s fingers. Since his brother’s death, embraces of any kind have been rare in his family.
‘That’s not fair!’ storms Michael. They all know that Jimmy Cork’s place is out of bounds. The far end of the Camp, the rough men’s quarters, and especially Jimmy’s place, are not for women and children, except for Rose’s mother, and Rose herself.
Rose raises her voice. It is high and clear with an edge to it, but not pleading.
‘We can go there now. He’ll be asleep. We can go a secret way.’
But even the hint of secret gold is not enough to tempt the boys. Two places the three of them never play together are near Jimmy Cork’s and up at Burnett’s Face. Michael can go to the miners’ settlement, and does sometimes, with Brennan. Rose tried only once, soon after school started.
She had plodded up the skipway, stepping over sleepers. Because it was Sunday the ropes, usually clattering, usually endlessly jerking towards the Bins or back to the mines, were lying lifeless. Michael was inside with a cold and everyone else on the Hill was busy doing Sunday things. Rose remembered the hymn-singing the day the English miners arrived. Mrs Rasmussen said their singing at Chapel service was a wonder, especially now the Welshmen had arrived. She said it brought a lump to her throat, and Rose wanted to feel a lump in her throat too. So she walked the two miles up to Burnett’s Face on her own.
The Denniston Rose Page 9
