The Denniston Rose

by Jenny Pattrick

  ‘I trust we will start on time,’ says the Inspector, fiddling with his fob watch. ‘Punctuality is a trait that cannot be learned too soon.’

  This constipated little outsider can’t see what a milestone for Denniston the concert is. Totty says, with a painful smile, ‘I expect we are about to begin. Here comes the final member of the band.’

  David Scobie, his lips swollen and red from practising these last weeks, takes his place beside his brother. He sits up straight and proud as his father has taught him, though the great precious tuba almost obliterates him from view.

  The concert begins. Even the men are moved by ‘Bread of Heaven’. The fervour in the children’s faces and the way the Scobie twins lower their heads and frown like men to roar out their ‘Ever more!’ have the audience stamping and whistling at the end, with no care at all that this is a hymn. Men outnumber women four to one in the hall, but over on the miners’ side are at least five new women, pale and thin from the journey out. The community is forming.

  Tom gives a good-natured speech, joking with the miners, to free up the money in their pockets. The miners respond with a bit of good-natured heckling. The Inspector is invited to say a few words. He fiddles with his watch again, clears his throat, and then abruptly declines. A low growl, like a distant roll of thunder, sounds in the room. Any visitor here is expected to perform. Mrs C. Rasmussen quickly announces the next item.

  Michael’s poem, ‘Sunrise’, is a hit. Totty is in tears; she can’t hold them back. What gives her son this bright confidence? His fair hair, falling finely over a high forehead, shines in the lamplight —he is like a sunrise himself.

  ‘Very creditable,’ says the Inspector through pursed lips as if he is judging a slice of lemon pie. Tom and Totty take no notice. They are too busy gathering, like a bouquet, the generous praises of local friends. The evening is going well.

  But at item seven, ‘Rose of Tralee’, tension in the hall is palpable. An invisible but chilly wall separates Burnett’s Face people from Camp and Brake Head. Rose and Brennan, County Cork and Scobie, step forward to stand side by side. They can feel that the silence is different. Animation drains from their two faces. It is as if two flowers —one fair, one dark —are fading, drooping before the stony wall of colliers’ eyes.

  The Inspector clears his throat. He has no idea.

  Totty shifts on her chair, willing the music to start. It is clear the duet has been a mistake; Bella’s instincts have been wrong this time. Bella, too caught up with Rose, has misread the mood of the people. Their readiness to forget.

  Then Brennan’s solemn face opens into a wide grin. He is looking to the back of the room. There is a stir as something is passed forward, hand to hand, over the crowded heads. Mrs Rasmussen, smiling broadly herself now, retrieves the waistcoat and helps Brennan into it. The audience laughs and claps to see the boy strut. The ice is broken.

  ‘Rose of Tralee and Brennan Scobie,’ announces Bella Rasmussen in a firm voice, ‘with Josiah Scobie on the cornet.’

  Rose smiles. It is a straightforward, hopeful offering. With a rustle as soft as leaves, the audience accepts it.

  The song wavers into life. Rose’s voice is true but thin as paper. Josiah is hardly breathing into his cornet but still he drowns her. Mrs Rasmussen frowns at Rose; touches plump hands to her own taffeta-clad diaphragm. Rose nods, her eyes round and clear as marbles. She takes a deep breath.

  She was lovely and fair as the rose of the summer, she sings,

  But it was not her beauty alone that won me.

  Brennan joins in under her, stronger to match Rose’s growing confidence. Josiah’s cornet notes curl around the voices, a simple, beautiful thread binding them.

  Oh no,’ twas the truth in her eyes ever shining

  That made me love Mary, the Rose of Tralee.

  The audience is entranced. Rose looks steadily at a far corner of the hall. Totty glances quickly in the direction. Can the mother be here after all? But she sees only the crowd of latecomers standing along the wall.

  At the end of the song Rose and Brennan turn to each other as Mrs Rasmussen has taught them. Brennan pecks Rose on the cheek.

  Every heart in the hall melts. An encore is demanded, but Bella, unwilling to jeopardise her triumph, announces supper.

  The Inspector helps himself generously to scones and fruitcake. Josiah bales him up in a corner. The miner’s flat nasal voice can be heard above the chatter.

  ‘It is buildings we need, Mr Sinclair, not bureaucracy. It is stupidity to expect our children to travel to Waimangaroa. In two years the school population will have trebled up here, man. Give us a building now!’

  Josiah already has a reputation as a crusader. There will be a Miners’ Union soon, no matter what the Company or Eddie Carmichael have to say about it, and Josiah will be at the forefront, you could put money on it.

  Finally the Inspector breaks free and slips away to his bed at Hanrattys’.

  ‘Good riddance!’ roars Con the Brake. He has been drinking from some secret source. ‘Now we’ll have a bit of real music! Move back the chairs!’

  ‘Conrad!’ says Bella, but the men are already heaving chairs. There is a great rubbing of hands and stamping of feet.

  Totty looks for Mary Scobie. There she is, sitting quiet and pale by the door, ready to slip out at any moment. Some have tried to speak with her but now have drifted away. In this crowded, rowdy hall she is surrounded by a small empty space. Misery and bad luck are contagious.

  Totty sits down beside her. She is shocked to see how far Mary Scobie has slipped. Surely a miner’s wife must be hardened to death?

  ‘I’m glad you came,’ she says. ‘The Scobies were a great contribution to the concert. You must be proud.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Mary. She looks ahead and slightly down, focusing on a patch of bare floor.

  ‘Your twins are doing well at school now. After a reluctant start. They will get their Certificate.’

  Mary’s bleak eyes look up for a moment. ‘Good.’

  Totty wades on. ‘Brennan and Rose sang beautifully.’

  ‘Yes. They are a brave pair.’

  ‘Rose has much to be brave over. I hope you do not hold it against her?’

  Totty has pushed too far. Mary Scobie rises slowly, like an old woman.

  ‘Well,’ she says, finally, ‘I do not wish to hold it against her.’ She sighs. ‘It is time for me to go.’

  ‘At least wait for the music …’

  ‘The walk home is long, Mrs Hanratty. And work to be done in the morning.’

  ‘Mrs Scobie,’ says Totty. She has a strong instinct to rescue this drowning woman. ‘I would be grateful if you could spare some time in the next day or two to look at my youngest. She is not well. Perhaps your experience might throw some light.’

  This is not a complete fiction. Sarah has been flushed and feverish for two days.

  Mary is only half caught. ‘Not well in what way?’

  ‘I fear it is her throat.’

  Mary sighs again but there is a little animation, perhaps, in the formal smile.

  ‘It is hard on the little ones up here,’ she says. ‘I will come tomorrow if the weather permits.’

  She drifts into the doorway. Totty is relieved to see that Josiah is watching. He moves out quickly to take her arm.

  Con the Brake is watching too.

  ‘Josiah Scobie, man!’ he shouts. ‘I have sat through your Chapel music. Enjoyable too, in its way. Have the courage to stay for a band of a different sort!’ The accordion in his hands opens; a long, singing, sighing upbeat. Con’s head leans back, teasing the audience, prolonging the moment until all are listening. Josiah and Mary stop in the doorway. Squinty Tim and Billy Genesis unfold their accordions too, enriching the upbeat; Tom Hanratty hastily reaches for his drumsticks. Then Con’s head snaps sideways and the rollicking wash of a hornpipe fills the hall.

  An agonised shout from someone in the audience. ‘Wait, Con! Wait, man, while I get my
pipe!’ Everyone laughs as old Slim Bulliboy makes a dash for the door, but Con the Brake is away now and the music will not wait for forgotten instruments or miners’ lungs or Chapel scruples. Feet cannot stand still against this.

  The children heel and toe, showing the grown-ups how it goes. Bella Rasmussen, her propriety flown out the window at the first note, lifts her skirts and capers like a girl. Totty Hanratty joins her, matching as best she can the complicated prancing steps.

  ‘Oh, Bella!’ she gasps. ‘Oh, Bella, it is like a dream!’

  Bella is away. This is a side of Mrs C. Rasmussen few have seen. She roars out the tune, beckoning with one plump hand to those still standing around the edges, inviting the men to join in. When the band changes to a polka she draws a laughing Eddie Carmichael into the centre and the two of them gallop with a will to the shouts and claps of the whole room.

  Josiah and Mary Scobie are still standing in the doorway, but both are smiling now to see their boys stamping and hopping with the best. Josiah turns to his wife; offers her his arm. It is a tentative gesture, prepared for rejection. Mary lowers her head slowly, a much younger woman’s movement; a shy acceptance of a first advance. She takes her grave husband’s hand and they dance privately, with no great style but with an intimacy that is noticed and approved by many in this room. The Scobies are respected in all Denniston, and their wound has left a public scab.

  Young Michael Hanratty is dancing with Rose. Their two golden heads bounce and toss together. There’s no sign of Jimmy Cork or Rose’s mother. A good thing for the peace of the evening, but more than one voice has muttered in outrage that such a girl should be out alone, relying on the goodwill of the community to walk her to the so-called safety of home. What kind of mother can leave a six-year-old to fend for herself? In this hard place?

  Totty, tired herself now, sighs and tries again to collar her whirling, screaming son. He slips away.

  The youngest Scobie is on his own. The adults have all congratulated him and now he has no one to dance with. Looking like a little man in his waistcoat, he pulls on his mother’s sleeve.

  ‘It’s my turn,’ he whines. ‘Tell Michael it’s my turn.’ Every line in his dark, sleepy face droops.

  ‘Your turn for what?’ asks his mother.

  ‘My turn for Rose.’

  ‘Your turn for bed,’ says his father.

  ‘But I haven’t danced with Rose!’

  Mary smiles at her dear, dark son. ‘Time enough for that later, my boy. We have a long walk home.’ She slips on young Brennan’s coat, gives Josiah the word to collect up the rest of the boys, and steps into the night. Brennan, desperate to stay and compete for Rose’s attention, protests every step of the way.

  Totty hooks a finger into her over-excited son’s collar and looks around for Rose. She’s gone already. Perhaps someone else from the Camp has walked her down. With a nod and a wave to her Tom, who’s just getting up a head of steam on drums, she marches Michael back home.

  An hour later a good number of Burnett’s Face men and most of the Denniston and Camp folk are still enjoying the music. A bottle or two is passed around. The men pull up chairs in a circle around the accordions and call for songs. In a pause, Bella, flushed and plump as a partridge, calls for the donation box.

  ‘Come on, lads! A last round of the box. Squeeze out your pennies. This is the future of Denniston we’re looking at tonight!’

  IN a way she was right, though it wasn’t the future she hoped for. The box, which should have been tucked under Tom Hanratty’s drum, had disappeared. Money and box: both gone.

  Tempers, frayed by drink and too much good behaviour, now erupted. Totty, wiping a feverish child’s brow two streets away, heard the ruckus. Burnett’s Face blamed Brake Head, everyone blamed Camp. Before Bella could appeal for reason, fists were up and Tom’s drum trampled. Con hooked up his accordion fast, then joined the fray with a roar, defending the murky honour of the Camp.

  Billy Genesis and his friend Lord Percy dashed a raging Arnold Scobie against the wall until the raw iron rang; the O’Sheas slogged it out with Old Huff and the men from the quarters —even Tom Hanratty, angered at the destruction of his new drum —whacked Red Minifie, who’d come up late for the dancing, over the head with it. In their hearts everyone knew it had to be some drifter from the Camp; the bad reputation of the Camp was sealed that night. But even Camp people possessed a pride of sorts; no way would they accept blame until guilt was proven. It was a great roaring fight, one of the best, with nothing to break it up but exhaustion. The nearest police were way down at sea level, in Waimangaroa.

  Bella Rasmussen, head down, protective arms around the baby inside her, rammed her way to the door and trudged home to bed. No point searching for the money until the fight died a natural death. She had plenty of grim ideas about who might be low enough to pinch school donations and would knock on a few doors in the morning.

  No one suspected Rose might have anything to do with it. Not for a minute. In fact after that night Rose was accepted by all at Denniston, above and below ground, as a true citizen of the Hill. She continued to live with her parents, but the miners managed to divorce Rose from them.

  Jimmy Cork and Rose’s mother could never be forgiven.

  Eva at the Concert

  I WAS THERE. They will all point the finger: say I am a mother without care. But I was there and Rose knew it. All day she was on, nag nag: other mothers would be there, what pretty thing could she wear, as if we were lords and ladies. The child thought I could just walk into that hall and the sun would come out. She was sharp enough, my Rose, but what does she know? Nothing. What child understands the scorn and contempt a small town can heap upon one person if they choose?

  Listen. Let them screw up their sour little faces and sharpen their eyes like pencils to stab at me, but in the singing I was with Rose. I myself was a singer, who could bring a lump to tough old throats and a tickle to tired feet. I know the benefits a lively song and a throbbing voice can bring to a woman. Rose had her good voice from me, no doubt about it, and I wished to encourage it. (And here I might laugh and wink at my friends around the fire, and admit — well, all right, motherhood is not my strongest suit, but understand that I am not a complete ogre. Rose wished me to go to that concert; it shows something, no?)

  Also another plan in my mind — a possibility to meet Con, for I was desperate.

  To see my face in the scrap of mirror nearly finished the evening right there. Oh, how I had come down! Thin face, lines appearing nose to chin, hair that was once so alive now hanging like some dead animal. Now, Eva, I tell myself, you are a woman of spirit, please remember! No tears.

  I wash my face, tie back the dead hair and pinch the poor white cheeks to bring a little blood there. My best black coat brushed down and good black hat hide many bad points. Ha! I say to myself to build the courage, Ha! Big Snow or Con the Brake, whoever, watch out, for here comes Angel to claim you.

  And this is no lie: sick and hungry though I was, spat on by all, and at my lowest, my power over that man rose, fire in the blood, to swell my lips and soften my eyes, to turn an unwilling man powerless. Oh, that night I was good, my friends, believe me!

  Yes, I heard Rose sing her song — a true voice like her mother, with the power to pull the tears. A smile she gave me, just for her mother. She could be a good girl if she tried. But then I was out of the door quicker than a shadow when the audience began to stir. Who knows what scene would explode if those miners saw me, and public scenes were not my plan that night.

  Outside was cold. Even in my coat the chill bit. I waited under the shelter of a piece of iron from where I could see the back door to the hall. My breath, coming out of my so-cold body, hardly made steam in the air, but I waited still.

  In the end he came out. I knew my Big Snow. He would need to take a nip or two of liquor while he played accordion, and would have a bottle outside, count on it. And so it was. I heard the music ringing loud through the iron sides of the ha
ll. Then a pause, and out comes the man himself, and alone. My lucky night: the bottle was hid almost at my feet! That man jumped one mile high to feel my touch.

  The surprise is in my favour. Before he has time to think of good behaviour I am warming my hands in some private places and his body is leaping to meet me. The cold, the secrecy, the liquor glinting in the bottle at our feet, all powerful persuaders.

  ‘Angel, Angel,’ groans he, ‘leave me, I beg you; I am a married man.’ But all the time he leans in and pants aloud — great clouds of steam from this hot man. Oh, how my heart sang to feel him. Ten years younger I felt, and in my prime again.

  At last he pulls away. Swigs at his bottle to put some space into events.

  ‘Angel, I cannot do this,’ he says.

  I laugh. ‘It would appear you already have, my sweetheart.’

  ‘No no, you have caught me unawares.’

  ‘Unawares shows up your true heart,’ say I, ‘which tells you we are twin spirits. These cold people on the Hill are not like you and me.’

  In the dark his blues eyes are as black as mine, and shadowy. I cannot read them. ‘Angel,’ says he, ‘the past is one thing. Now I am with Bella. Do not dare to come between us.’

  ‘Bella is the one who comes between! I have the prior claim. And your daughter to care for!’

  Perhaps I am shouting a little. Con pushes me hard to the wall, stops my mouth with his big warm hand. ‘Listen well,’ he whispers. ‘I will do what I can for the child, not because I am the father — you would choose what father suits you best — but out of a care for the poor soul.’

  I would have shouted that he should only look at her to see his own face reflected, but his hand forced me still. And his whole body. His desire was great, I tell you, even in his anger. We were made for each other, two sides of one penny.

  ‘And hear this,’ whispers Con, fierce as a furnace, me smiling beneath his hand. ‘If Bella hears one word, one single drifting rumour — I mean this, Angel — of you or of Rose, you know, with me, there will likely be a broken body found down in the gully, which will not be mine.’