‘It’s not fair!’ shouts Michael, close to tears now himself. ‘Why didn’t a grown-up kill him?’
Tom clears his throat. His voice, when it finally comes through, is rough with love. ‘Well now, Michael, killing, that is not right — killing is no answer. But I tell you clear, son: not you, nor Brennan, nor our Rose of Tralee has done murder. Self-defence, or accident maybe, who knows? And no one will lay a finger of blame on any one of you. No one.’ He blows his nose; looks fiercely around the room.
Suddenly Bella Rasmussen lets out a wail. ‘Ah, sweet Jesus, we all knew! Blame! Here it lies, right here in this barren breast!’ She beats on the purple tussore until her corsets twang. ‘We all knew about that vile man, yet she had to seek help from two six-year-old lads!’
Michael swells a little at this, looks his father in the eye, man to man, but Tom Hanratty purses his lips, playing the serious citizen. ‘Well, as to that,’ he says, smoothing his beard, ‘Surely the mother should have done something. That is where responsibility lies … ultimately.’
‘Oh Tom,’ says Totty. ‘Rose’s mother …’ Her voice trails away.
There is nothing any of them can think to say. Even the boys are silent. The room darkens as a spatter of hail sweeps down the street, rattling windows. They listen as the hail, moving north, clangs over the Bins and dies away.
Henry Stringer looks from face to face. He expects decisions. Mary Scobie sighs, shifts in her chair, sighs again, then takes charge.
‘Well then. It is clear some form of this story must be broadcast. Con the Brake’s name must be cleared. We cannot have malicious rumour running wild. So: an accident. The drunken man attacked Rose. Fell, hitting his head. Died. Rose told the boys, the boys told us. The mother moved away, taking Rose. That is the story. And when you think about it, that is the truth.’
The adults nod gravely.
Tom Hanratty pulls at his beard. ‘A well-deserved accident,’ he says. ‘Billy Genesis was a shame to Denniston, and no loss to the world at large.’
They nod again. Henry runs fingers through his hair. He is not happy. His head wags back and forth like a puppet as he searches for words.
But it is Brennan who finds them first. ‘No it’s not!’ he cries out, ‘It’s not!’
Michael understands. ‘Not all the story!’ he says. ‘What about Rose?’
‘Rose!’ shouts Brennan, fired up now, made bold since the threat of prison has passed. ‘Rose!’
The two boys face the surprised adults like a pair of puppies suddenly turned nasty.
‘Rose’s mother made her leave!’
‘She wanted to stay with us!’
‘She wanted to stay!’
‘It’s not fair!’
‘Rose was afraid!’
‘You have to find her!’
Finally their teacher, half boy, half man, weighs in on the children’s side. Stumbling against the furniture as he paces, pulling words from the air with bony fingers, showering his elders with sprays of spit, he delivers his oration.
‘Surely! Surely we all are responsible. We took Rose into our homes. We … I … we all, didn’t we? Hardly a household where she hadn’t eaten. Taken shelter. How many times have I heard it — heard people say — Michael and Brennan and Rose — first three children of Denniston? She belongs here. Here! She is Rose of Denniston, not of some mythical Tralee.’
The boys cheer their Mr Stringer, though the parents seem less impressed. Henry charges on through the furniture.
‘We cannot give Rose hope and then take it away! A good pupil. The best. Sorry boys, but you must face it: Rose, on a good day, can outclass you both. What will happen to her down there? We know; we can guess! A sorry end, a slow drift to hell. Who can support that poor lost mother down there? Who? For that matter, who supported her up here? No, no, she must be found, returned to Denniston. Surely you all can see this?’
Henry Stringer stops abruptly in the centre of the ring of chairs, turns slowly on his heel, hands spread in appeal. The boys hardly dare to breathe. The others sigh, shift a little, look into the fire.
Totty rises to refill cups of tea. ‘What I can do,’ she says slowly, ‘is write to my father … see if we can trace her … them both.’
Bella nods. ‘I have contacts too,’ she smiles, ‘in a rather different walk of life. I also will write.’
‘It is agreed, then,’ booms Mary Scobie, as if wrapping up an unruly meeting, ‘that we will try to keep contact with the child, remind her that she has friends — a gift parcel from time to time …’
‘That’s no good!’ shouts Brennan at his mother, and would have struck her if Josiah had not taken his arm quickly, pulled him to the back of the room.
‘Brennan!’ says Josiah. ‘Where are your manners, lad? Enough! Rose cannot be taken from the mother …’
‘Why not?’
‘… nor the mother from the child, nor the mother from the man she chooses to live with.’
‘Why not? Rose doesn’t want her mother!’
Mary Scobie rises. ‘It is time we went. Thank you, Totty, thank you, Tom. The boys are understandably upset. But we will pursue the matter. Brennan, fetch your boots.’
Bella is slower to leave, less sure of answers. She walks down to the Camp, where the population is back to thirty again and life is quieter. Already the sky, the rocks, the buildings are merging in different shades of shadow. Halfway down the path she stops to look below to the outline of their sprawling log house. Behind it Conrad the Sixth’s tomb stands square, the rock surfaces gleaming faintly in the last of the light. Bella’s tears flow.
‘Ah Con, Con, you foolish man,’ she whispers, but her heavy heart aches even more for Rose, whom they have all abandoned.
A fist of wind sends her on her way again. At her back the Incline and the railway yards have been shut down since noon; the only sound a sheet of loose iron rattling on its nails with each gust. Her dark shadow enters the log house. But tonight there is a little purpose to her slow movements as she bends to unlace her own boots. Inside, she lights one lamp, fetches paper and begins to write.
The Search
‘Glenmorgan’
Westport.
July 20th 1885
Dearest Dorothy,
Well, at last I have some news for you about the child, poor wee mite, though it is perhaps news you would rather not hear.
Mrs Thomas Throne, perhaps you remember her, President of our Society of Charitable Ladies, has been doing Good Work among the Fallen Women and has heard of a child called Rose whose mother, it seems, is living a Questionable Life down in the wharf area. There are a great many labourers come to help build the new wharf and break-water and I fear they have brought an unsavoury entourage with them. Just yesterday five men were found drinking on the job and were summarily dismissed. Your father was most upset about it. Shantyism and sly-grogging are aspects of life we thought Westport had left behind.
The child has excited some attention as she is evidently a clever soul, and the men like to bet on her ability to add up figures or some such story. It all sounds Most Unsuitable to me; the child is merely a side-show, a performing monkey, put to work, perhaps by her mother, who can tell? Mrs Throne has tried to remove her to our Home for Destitute Children, but somehow she or her mother have eluded us.
For the last week there have been no sightings. Mrs Throne’s informant reports that a thick-set labourer was down at the wharf asking after the mother and child. We believe all three may have moved on south. Hokitika, of course, is where such people usually end up.
Our Society will continue to inquire, my dear, and already I have sent the details to our Hokitika Branch, a very Active Group, and much needed, alas.
Oh Dorothy, I cannot tell you how thrilled I am that you are planning a Visit in the Summer, with the little ones and your husband! The news has quite perked me up and I have not had to take my drops for a whole week. I am planning a Musical Evening in your honour and a special Children’s Garden Party for the ch
ildren! Let us pray for fine weather, though what is the use, rain is bound to win out. Contingency plans will be laid, never fear.
Well, dear, I will write if further news about Rose is to hand. What a poor wee battler! Love to Michael, Elizabeth and Nelson, and my warm regards to your husband.
Your affectionate and smiling
Mother
Education Department Inspectorate,
Nelson District
Dear Mrs Scobie,
Our Department does not keep records of all those enrolled in schools within our area. I advise you to apply directly to schools for information about pupils. Enclosed is a list of schools in the West Coast area, and their addresses.
I do indeed remember the child, Rose, who sang at your school concert, and was, if I recall rightly, unusually precocious with figures.
Yours sincerely,
C. Sinclair
District Inspector of Schools
Hope Primary School:
Dear Mrs Scobie,
There is no Rose enrolled at our school.
Greymouth District Primary School:
Dear Mrs Scobie,
We have a Rose Perlham, 10 years old, whose father is a railway worker. No other Rose, but I will make inquiries in the area. Good luck in your search.
St Theresa’s Primary School, Greymouth:
Dear Mrs Scobie,
We do not divulge, without clear reason, the names of our pupils. However I can tell you that we have no Roses.
Kumara Primary School:
Dear Mrs Scobie,
I wish, indeed, that a Rose or any other child had enrolled here recently. Our roll is one short and we are in fear of closure. Try Hokitika Primary. Their roll changes like the tide.
Blackball Primary School:
Dear Mrs Scobie,
We have a Rose Blatt whom I would hand over with pleasure. She has five siblings who are all equally troublesome. Come, please, and collect the whole Blatt tribe!
Hokitika Primary School:
Dear Mrs Scobie,
Rose of Tralee is surely a pseudonym. Perhaps she is travelling under another name? Another song perhaps? In other words, madam, you are searching blind, for a needle in a haystack. I cannot assist.
‘The Paladium’
Gibsons Quay
Hokitika
Dear Bella,
Well, what a turn-up! The girls and I all thought you was long gone to Australia or worse, the dogs more like, ha ha! And here you are up the coast and a respectable woman, to boot. Good on you, Bella, we all wish you the best, though Denniston sounds like a right old dump. I’ve had diggers down here has been mining on Denniston, couldn’t stand more than a day of the foul weather they said. Well anyway, a good man is worth a storm or two I dare say!
Florrie says to tell you she has lost ten pounds weight and can now fit the beaded dress you left her, and Liz wants you to know that her little Annie you were so fond of is now dancing with us! How times fly. My ankles are not what they were, sad to say, don’t talk about weight with me! So I am mainly on the business side these days and doing nicely, thank you, though I suppose we must accept that the good old days are well and truly gone. Such is life!
Now. Your Rose. We have kept a sharp eye out with no success until yesterday when Florrie comes in with a story of a pretty little girl, fits your description, singing down on Gibsons Quay. No mother in sight, says Flo, but this tot was sharp enough herself at taking around the hat after. Then slipped away into the crowd, like a silverfish in a box of handkerchiefs, before Flo could get to her.
Anyway I had a bit of business down that way today, don’t ask what sort, ha ha! So I keep a weather eye open and there she is, voice like an angel, singing ‘Mountains of Home’, just like you did, Bell. I knew right away she was your one.
Well, I nosed around a bit without putting the wind up child or mother. I have my connections in all sections of society, as you well know, my dear! Any road, they are new in town, living rough down by the wharves among the shanties. Some giant of a feller the mother’s living with is working the boats and she likewise but in cabins rather than holds if you get my drift. Slag end of the market. Florrie says the feller looks the spit of Big Snow, remember that one was keen on you back in the old days and died off Gibsons Quay? The child runs wild so they say, no schooling, and very wary of human company. No one can get near to her.
Well, Bella, Mrs C. Rasmussen I should say, that’s the long and short of it. I advise against making contact with the child, it will only end in grief, but if you must, send me a letter and I’ll try to put it in her hand, or the mother’s, though be quick about it, my guess is they are drifters. At any rate the authorities won’t let them stay long, we are becoming a respectable town now, so they say, though in my experience the respectable ones like a bit of spice just as much as the drifters and diggers. And can pay better, to boot!
All the best, my dear. I hope you have not become so respectable that you have forgotten how to sing and ‘show yer ankle’. You were always top of the bill!
All the girls send hugs and kisses.
Your friend ever,
Ida
The Log House
The Camp,
Denniston
Dear Ida,
How I long to write a good gossipy letter, but this is in haste to catch the coal-train out. Ida, Ida, please run and put the enclosed note into the hand of the man on the wharf you say looks like Big Snow. Oh, if only I could get down from here I would do it myself. Ida, if you love me at all, pick up your skirts and run with my note this very minute. I will explain later.
Thank you, my dear.
In haste,
Bella Rasmussen [Mrs]
Bella’s note:
My dear Conrad,
You are a good man at heart, I know it, but that wicked, guileful woman has trapped you. Leave her and bring Rose back, I beg you. It is the right thing. We will care for her together. Con, Con, think of the child, think of me, your wife, and come back. We can mend what has been broken. My harsh and bitter words were spoken out of a jealousy which is now spent. Come back.
Your loving wife,
Bella Rasmussen
‘The Palladium’
Gibsons Quay
Hokitika
Dear Bella,
Oh, what a mess, I knew grief would come of it — your letter has come too late.
They are gone, Bella, vanished, just like I said they would. Mr Cream, you remember him, Bella, one of yours, says he thinks the feller got a job on the S.S. Star of the South, bound for Dunedin, then Australia. No sign of mother or your Rose, they could be anywhere. I have sent word to Lizzie, she is in Dunedin now, in case they are headed that way, but it is a long shot.
You cannot change what is meant, Bella. I see it in my girls often. They get daft and sentimental over every child comes their way, as if they were pets to be taken in and fed. Best try to forget, is my advice, and count your present blessings.
Your friend,
Ida
P.S. I return your note. Was that really Big Snow then, alive after all? You are a dark horse, Bella!
The Denniston Rose
WHEN JANET SCOBIE set out to look for her, Rose had been gone two months. Two weeks later Janet returned empty handed, but by then she had spread the story to everyone on the West Coast, give or take the odd bushed hunter or prospector. Well-bred charity ladies and tough old miners all knew her name and were mobilised to search for her. A heart-rending little song about Rose was often sung in the parlours of Westport, and a more ribald one around campfires. ‘The Denniston Rose’ she was, in the song, not Rose of Tralee any more:
Oh, there’s plenty of English Roses
And there’s Mary, the Rose of Tralee
But the Denniston Rose was a Coaster —
Wild and thorny and free.
She arrived on the Hill in a blizzard
No more than a tiny nipper
As tough as a boot our Rosie was
And as pretty as a slipper.
She was trickier than Donnelly;
Light-fingered too, they say
She’d winkle a shillun’ out of your purse
While she bade you a sweet ‘Good day’.
She killed a man with her own bare hands,
She started a miners’ riot,
Then ran off to Hokitika
When she fancied a change of diet.
A law unto herself was Rose,
She came and went at will,
From north to south she travelled the Coast
But her heart was on the Hill.
Oh there’s plenty of English Roses
And there’s Mary, the Rose of Tralee
But the Denniston Rose was one of us
It’s the Denniston Rose for me.
Railwaymen were on the lookout, and mine managers, storekeepers and farmers. The story, expanding with each telling, of the brave little girl who fought off a brutal attack, bringing down her giant assailant, appealed to rough Coaster hearts. Perhaps the story became so embroidered that no one recognised the real Rose. After the Hokitika report there was not one sighting. The Denniston Rose became a myth.
Yet somehow the real Rose of Tralee, that tough little survivor, scarcely seven years old, found her way up through Greymouth and Westport, to Waimangaroa, through the gorge to Conn’s Creek, up on the coal train to the railhead, without one single adult noticing.
Later it turned out several children saw and helped her.
‘She sat with us in the playground at lunchtime.’
‘Me and my brother let her sleep in Dad’s barn.’
‘She said it was a secret.’
‘She said she had treasure.’
‘She said she was Rose of Tralee … but it was the Denniston Rose all right.’
Rose trusted people her own age.
And the mother? Rose said she lost her mother, which officials took to mean the mother abandoned her. More likely, said Denniston people, Rose abandoned the mother. Said it with pride. No one on the Hill was going to question that sort of behaviour. Who at Denniston hadn’t abandoned family at some stage or another? Rose, smarter than most, simply did it earlier. Rose was vintage Denniston material, they reckoned: born to live on the plateau and return to her mother town like a homing pigeon. Look at the way that little tiger came back!
The Denniston Rose Page 29
