Jack must have seen something in her face, because he held out a placating hand. ‘Shall we?’
‘Sorry?’ Ellen was mildly startled.
‘Shall we go back in, Tom might be wondering where you are.’
‘Oh, I doubt it. He likes nothing better than to sit with a beer in one hand and a smoke in the other talking union business with his mates.’
Jack laughed. ‘Typical miner, then. Well, I’ll take you back to your table.’
Inside the band was having a break. Ellen sat down next to Milly, whose eyes were glazing over. Milly had never been one for the finer details of union matters, although as a miner’s wife she’d always faithfully supported Frank’s decisions regarding his employment, whether she understood them or not.
Tom, one eye closed against the smoke from his cigarette, was in full flight. ‘So I said to Tony Prendiville, if those bastards bring in emergency regulations and honest men get sent to jail just for helping a striker, or even a striker’s family—his kids—then it’s a bloody black day for New Zealand.’ There were general rumbles of agreement from the men around him. ‘And he says, “Don’t worry, Tom, that’ll be the last thing they’ll do.” And what have they done? Christ, I never thought I’d see the day in New Zealand. We didn’t go to bloody war just to put up with that sort of bullshit.’
Vic Anscombe, who actually had served overseas, said, ‘You didn’t go to war at all, Tom.’
‘No, but we knocked ourselves out day and night shovelling coal so other buggers like you could.’
Vic nodded in agreement and raised his bottle in a silent toast; coal production had been essential to New Zealand’s war effort, and it was a very unwise person who suggested that the miners hadn’t pulled their weight, regardless of the strike in 1942.
Milly leaned over to Ellen and whispered, ‘Who’s Prendiville again?’
‘National president of the United Mine Workers’ Union.’
‘Doesn’t Tom like him?’
Ellen shook her head. ‘Or Fred Crook, the secretary. Thinks they’re too soft because they’ve started pushing the wharfies to arbitrate, but Barnes and Hill won’t do it, especially now Holland’s deregistered their union.’
Milly nodded. She wasn’t always up with the play, but she did know who Jock Barnes and Toby Hill were; Frank went on about them often enough.
‘If Tom had his way,’ Ellen said, lowering her own voice, ‘they’d be out tomorrow.’
‘Barnes and Hill?’
‘No, Prendiville and Crook.’
‘And will he have his way?’ Milly asked, draining the last of her shandy.
‘I doubt it,’ Ellen said, ‘but there’s been a fair bit of complaining about the pair of them.’
The band started up again and Ellen sat back, not at all keen on sharing her views about national union leaders at the top of her voice. She let her gaze wander down the table to where Jack Vaughan was sitting, and immediately felt herself blush as she caught him staring at her. He gave that intense, dazzling smile, and raised his bottle to her. The gesture reminded her that her own glass was empty, and she pushed it across the table towards Tom, hoping he would take the hint and fetch her another. He didn’t, but Bert did, signalling that he would also replenish Dot and Milly’s drinks while he was at it.
Ellen risked another glance at Jack, but he was talking to Andrea Trask now, Lew Trask’s pretty nineteen-year-old daughter who was reputedly on the lookout for a husband. Or rather, Andrea was talking to him; in fact she was almost draped over him, her long dark hair touching his face and her hand on his arm. When they got up to dance, Ellen frowned and looked away, annoyed at herself but not sure why.
Bert set her drink on the table, and she smiled up at him, grateful for the distraction.
‘I shouldn’t have any more after this one,’ Milly said. ‘Frank says it doesn’t bother him but, well, you know, I don’t like to rub it in.’
‘How is he getting on?’
‘Great. It’s been over a year now and he hasn’t touched a drop. Things are ever so much better at home.’ Milly frowned. ‘I just hope this strike doesn’t upset him too much.’
‘Why would it upset him?’
‘Well, not the strike itself, it’s just that we don’t have much money put aside, and if it goes on for too long we could really be in the cart.’ She paused. ‘Actually, we don’t have any money put aside.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Ellen said. ‘We aren’t exactly flush either, but it’s too early to worry. And if the worst comes to the worst, the union will look after us.’
‘I know, but I still worry.’
They were interrupted then, by a loud cheer from the dance floor. A wide circle had formed around two dancers, Jack and Andrea Trask. Jack had taken off his sports coat and was leading Andrea in an energetic cha-cha, spinning her this way and that, their hips moving in unison as they danced around each other. Andrea was laughing, throwing her head back to swing her hair, and moving her rump so her full skirt flicked up and out. Jack was grinning too, and Ellen could see he was enjoying himself.
‘They’re very good together, aren’t they?’ Milly said, raising her eyebrows at Ellen. ‘Perhaps she’s finally about to nab that husband she’s been after.’
‘Yes, wouldn’t that be nice,’ Ellen said.
The band finished the number with a flourish of drums and the crowd erupted in a spontaneous burst of applause. Andrea whispered something to Jack, but he shook his head and took her elbow, escorting her off the floor, much to her rather poorly concealed chagrin. He gave Ellen a tiny wink as he went past, then sat down with the men and opened another bottle of beer.
Pat elbowed him in the ribs and lowered his voice in deference to Lew, who was sitting further down the table. Lew’s wife had died eight years ago, and since then he had been very protective of Andrea, although it hadn’t done much good. ‘You could be in there, lad, if you play your cards right,’ Pat said. ‘Could do a lot worse for yourself. She’s a cracker, that Andrea.’
Jack grinned but said nothing.
At supper Tom didn’t bother getting up, content to drink and smoke. Ellen brought him a plate anyway, piled with sausage rolls, club sandwiches and a raspberry lamington bulging with cream, usually his favourite treat. He ate half a sausage roll and the lamington, then pushed the plate aside and rolled another cigarette.
Ellen was debating whether to eat his club sandwiches when she glanced up and saw her mother waving at her from across the hall. She waved back and went over.
Her father was there too, his face cheerful and flushed. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘here she is, the belle of the ball.’
Ellen pecked him on his slightly bristly cheek. ‘Hello, Dad. I came around to see you the other day but I missed you.’
Alf’s eyes twinkled and he tapped the side of his nose. ‘Out gathering intelligence.’
Gloria snorted. ‘Out gathering hangovers, more like.’
‘What do you think about the strike?’ Ellen asked.
‘Could be a good one,’ Alf said. ‘Can’t see Holland backing down. They say he’s out to clobber the watersiders this time, teach them a lesson.’
Ellen nodded. ‘They also say that Barnes is out to teach Holland a lesson.’
‘That, petal, is why it could be a good one.’
Ellen could see her father was clearly chuffed with recent events; he’d always loved a good strike. ‘How long do you think it might go on, Dad?’
‘Who knows?’
‘Tom says they shouldn’t be out for more than a couple of weeks.’
Alf’s face became serious for a moment. He reached for his beer. ‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that, love, with all due respect to Tom. Holland means business. He’s brought in the emergency regulations, and the military to man the wharves, and he’s banned the papers from printing anything in favour of the unions. Mind you, the Herald’s always been firmly up the government’s arse—nothing new there. But he’s never done that before. Wh
y, are you worried?’
Ellen considered lying, but her father had always been able to see straight through her. A bit. I’m sure the union will see us right if it comes to that, but, well, we don’t have much put away.’
Alf stifled a burp. ‘Is it the mortgage you’re worried about?’
Ellen nodded.
‘Well, don’t be,’ Alf said. ‘Your mother and I aren’t completely destitute. I expect we could probably help out.’
Ellen didn’t really feel any better. ‘Thank you, Dad, very much, but I can’t see Tom being too keen on the idea. You know what he’s like with his pride.’
Gloria said sharply, ‘Pride will be the least of his worries if he doesn’t get back to work and a regular pay packet soon.’
Alf rolled his eyes in exasperation and turned to talk to someone else across the table.
‘Oh, Mum,’ Ellen said, ‘not everything in life is about money.’
Gloria changed tack. ‘I see that new lad Jack Vaughan is making a bit of a splash with the ladies.’ She nodded towards the dance floor where Jack was dancing with yet another girl. ‘Good-looking bloke, isn’t he?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You suppose so? He’s fit and gorgeous with a smile that would turn any woman’s head, and he’s single. There’ll be a stampede for him, you mark my words.’
Ellen was a little embarrassed, but then her mother sometimes said things like that. Beneath her coiffed hair and smart clothes, and her insistence that propriety and the social niceties of life always be observed, ran a rich vein of worldly knowing and earthiness that tended to pop up from time to time, usually without warning.
‘I also see Andrea Trask’s doing her best to stake her claim,’ Gloria added. ‘The look on her face when he walked her off the dance floor before supper! She’s never been backwards about coming forwards, that one. I expect it’s because she doesn’t have a mother to tell her how to behave. She’ll frighten him off if she’s not careful.’
Sometimes Gloria’s gossip got on Ellen’s nerves. ‘They were only having a dance, Mum.’
‘Really? She looked to me as if she was eyeing him up for his wedding suit already.’
Ellen sighed. She loved her mother, but how her father put up with her sometimes was beyond her. She envied his ability to turn himself off whenever he felt like it. But she conceded Gloria’s point—Andrea Trask was certainly a piece of work.
‘Have you seen Neil and Davey?’ she asked.
‘I haven’t seen Neil, but Davey was over by the supper table about fifteen minutes ago shovelling down sausage rolls. I suggested he might want to go easy on them, given that he’s been sick already tonight. He told me all about it in gory detail.’ Gloria smiled fondly. ‘He’s a very talented storyteller, that child.’
Ellen checked her watch. ‘I suppose I should think about getting them home, it’s nearly eleven.’
Gloria glanced across the hall. ‘Thomas looks like he’s settled in for the night, you might have a job dragging him away. Oh look, Jack’s dancing with Meg Thomasson now. I’d be very cautious there, if I were him.’
Meg Thomasson was a widow, a New Zealand-born woman originally from Southland, left with three very young children several years ago after her Scandinavian husband was killed underground at the Pukemiro mine. They’d been happily married and since his death Meg had not fared well, taking her comfort wherever she could find it. But the children were reasonably well looked after and she was considered by most in the community as harmless, although a handful of Pukemiro’s less charitable residents referred to her as the town bike. And she wasn’t a stealer of other women’s men, preferring to go with unattached males—hoping, it was generally assumed, to find a new husband and a father for her children.
Ellen didn’t know her very well, only enough to say hello at the shops, but she didn’t approve of the fact that Meg was sometimes the butt of jokes and looked down on just because she was lonely and sought company. It was true, she was a bit of a tart, but surely that was her business? She didn’t think though, that Meg would be Jack’s sort of woman.
Tonight Meg’s brassy blonde hair gleamed as she whirled, her smile wide and the lightweight fabric of her pale-blue dress clinging to her ample curves.
‘Meg’s all right,’ Ellen said, ‘leave her alone.’
‘Yes, she probably is,’ Gloria replied, ‘but she doesn’t do herself any favours putting herself about the way she does.’
Ellen shrugged. ‘Thats up to her, isn’t it?’
‘It is, but you can’t be a tart in a small town and not expect to suffer for it one way or another.’
‘I think she probably does suffer, Mum.’
‘Oh, I expect she does, and I’m not saying I’m not without sympathy for her, but she does ask for it.’
Ellen gave up because she’d lost track of the point she’d been trying to make. ‘Well,’ she said, pushing her chair back from the table, ‘I’m off home. Tom can find his own way when he’s ready.’
She rounded up Neil and Davey and told Tom they were going. He squeezed her hand, tearing himself away from the conversation only long enough to tell her he’d be home soon himself.
Outside the air was finally cooling; perhaps she should have brought a cardigan after all. The boys were yawning hugely, despite their insistence that they weren’t tired and it was too early to go home. She took their hands and stepped onto the street.
‘Ellen?’
Jack was standing on the steps of the hall, his form silhouetted against the bright lights inside. ‘Would you like me to walk you and the boys home?’
Ellen smiled. ‘Thank you, Jack, but it’s only up around the corner, we’ll be fine.’
He came down the steps. ‘Are you sure? It’s on my way home.’
‘Where are you staying?’ Ellen was curious.
‘I’m renting a house in Robert Street.’
She laughed. ‘Then you’re going in completely the opposite direction to us. Thanks anyway, but I’ve got Neil and Davey to look after me, haven’t I boys?’
The boys nodded and pulled on her hands, anticipating their pre-bedtime cup of cocoa.
Ellen thought it was very considerate and rather charming of Jack; Tom had not offered her an escort since their courting days, no matter how many times she had left an event early to take the boys home. But then Pukemiro was a very safe little town, and nothing ever happened to people walking its streets, alone or not.
‘Goodnight, Jack,’ she said.
He raised a hand. ‘Goodnight, Ellen.’
She was spooning tea leaves from the caddy into the pot when Tom finally appeared in the kitchen the next morning. She’d been up since seven to get the boys their breakfast before they disappeared outside. The Sunday roast was on and she’d make a start on the vegetables as soon as she’d seen to Tom’s breakfast—providing he had an appetite.
He sat down, put his elbows on the table and held his head in his hands. His hair stuck up in all directions and the smell of beer was still coming off him. He seldom allowed himself to get really drunk, but obviously he had last night. He hadn’t come in until after one, and had banged about the bedroom for what seemed like ages trying to get his socks and trousers off before finally collapsing into bed. Then he’d asked her four times if she was awake, and when she finally answered him, he’d said, ‘Sorry, love,’ and fallen asleep.
‘Bit of a head this morning?’ she asked.
‘Why did you let me drink all that beer?’ he moaned.
She laughed; he said this to her every single time he drank too much, ever since she had first known him. ‘Do you want something to eat? It might help.’
He slid his hand over his mouth. ‘Nothing fried.’
‘Two Aspro and a couple of poached eggs on toast?’
He nodded, then winced. ‘And a big glass of water.’
‘Dry horrors?’
He nodded again, cautiously this time. Ellen fetched his drink and he sat sipping
it in silence while she made his breakfast.
‘What time did everyone leave?’ she asked eventually.
‘I don’t know, but I wasn’t the last. It was a good bash.’
‘It was,’ Ellen agreed, although still not regretting that she had come home early. ‘What time did Dallas and Carol get away?’
‘Didn’t notice. I don’t think they’re off until today anyway.’
Ellen buttered some toast. Auckland for a week, isn’t it?’
Tom shrugged—details like the destination of honeymooning couples didn’t normally capture his interest.
‘Well, I hope the weather stays nice for them,’ she said. Then, to avoid any misunderstandings, she added, ‘Jack Vaughan offered to walk me and the boys home last night.’ She set Tom’s breakfast in front of him.
‘I know,’ he said, rupturing his eggs with a fork and grimacing as the bright-yellow yolks spilled out. ‘He told me. Good joker, Jack.’
Ellen left Tom alone while he ate, starting on the dishes and watching through the kitchen window as birds fought over the stale crusts Davey had scattered on the lawn. The sparrows might have to go without soon, though if the strike kept on, they’d be eating the crusts themselves.
Tom burped, said pardon, aligned his knife and fork in the middle of his empty plate and stood up. ‘That does feel better, thanks, love,’ he said, bringing the plate over to the sink. He smelled of beer and eggs now, but Ellen thought he had a bit of colour back.
‘What did you talk about all night?’ she asked, although she had a fairly good idea. ‘You all had your heads down with Bob Amon for long enough.’
Bob Amon was president of the Waikato Miners’ Union central council.
Tom said, ‘The council’s setting up a strike-relief committee, to work in with the watersiders’ committee in Auckland. There’ll be a Puke women’s auxiliary as well, to organise the food and all that at this end. I’ve put your name forward.’
Union Belle Page 4
