by Ella West
‘But not all of them. And how did your neighbour even get them, let alone know how to use them?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t know him that well. I thought you said your dad didn’t discuss his work with you much.’
‘He’s starting to, with this case. I think he’s hoping with me getting to know people here, someone might tell me something that could help.’
‘Like me and the raincoat?’
‘It’s such a small community, someone must know something.’
‘I don’t know anything else.’
‘But if you did, you would tell me, wouldn’t you? At the moment they’re looking at all the employees at the coalmine, all those who have explosives knowledge. There’ve been a lot of people laid off over the last year there, they’re talking to them as well. That’s why he’s so busy, which, really, I don’t mind at all.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it means I can keep staying out here with you, of course.’
‘Don’t you have schoolwork to do or something?’
‘Don’t you?’
I give Blue a good brush when we get home, thinking about Jack. It’s beginning to be quite hard not to think about Jack. He kissed me again, when we left each other on the banks of Deadmans. And he had a look on his face, of longing, of sadness, which I know I can do nothing about. I get that he’s missing Stella, especially after getting that text from her, that I am some poor substitute for her. At least I know now from Facebook that I don’t look like her: I look nothing like her. I felt like saying, when he gazed at me that way, something like she’ll be back soon or I know you miss her to make him feel better. But it would be nice to be her, to have Jack as a boyfriend. I wonder if she will ever know about me. His nobody, the girl who rode with him on the beach in the rain, the girl who fell off Tassie, her horse. What would it be like to be Stella – travelling the world competing, being so stunningly beautiful, having an amazing boyfriend?
I move to the other side of Blue, giving him long strokes across his back, and my mind drifts to what Jack said about his dad’s investigation. If Pete hasn’t used his bank accounts since he went missing, does that mean he’s dead? Or does he have heaps of cash and doesn’t need to use them? Or maybe he’s gone somewhere where he can’t use them, doesn’t need to use them. Maybe somewhere where there are no money machines, no EFTPOS. I look over Blue’s back to where Harry and Di’s farm is, and then up at the mountains, at Mount Rochfort, and wonder.
Would Pete have the knowledge to survive in the bush? And for how long?
That evening, I help Mum strip wallpaper again. Dad’s gone out somewhere so there is just the two of us working away with Thomas the cat watching. We don’t talk, there’s just the sound of wallpaper tearing into tiny, tiny pieces and the rain drumming on the roof. Mum has already said she’s booked the plasterer to come next week and the painter the week after that, so we will have to be finished by then for all of that to happen so we don’t stop, even when we are both sick of it.
‘So are we going to keep doing this, you know, horses, beach, rain thing?’ Jack asks.
It’s Thursday afternoon and apart from my Tuesday rail trip with Dad through the gorge we’ve been riding on the beach every day now since Friday. A whole week.
‘What do you want to do?’ I ask. We’re heading towards the Whareatea River at a walk on the hard sand. It’s almost low tide and the end of the waves spread out beneath us, all white froth. The horses’ heads are up, ears constantly moving, listening to us talk, listening to the sea.
‘I don’t know, something without horses and rain.’
‘You still haven’t taught me how to barrel race.’
‘Maybe when it stops raining. Annie, can’t we just do something different for once?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like go somewhere – a café, the movies? Somewhere where it’s dry. Do whatever people do around here.’
‘I’ve told you there’s a problem with that.’
‘What?’
‘People would see us.’
‘Why is that a problem?’
‘You’ve met Sam and you have to ask me that? Believe me, she’s not the only one who wants to go out with you. The whole town is talking about you and your dad and you don’t think that’s a problem if we’re seen together? And you probably should warn your dad, too. Everyone seems to know your mum’s died. They’re out to get him.’
‘He did say something about that.’
‘You see? I’m not making it up.’
‘I just think you don’t want to be seen with me because you haven’t told your parents about us yet.’
‘And there’s that.’
‘So they believe you’re out riding Blue every afternoon because you like the rain?’
‘I do like the rain.’
He says something else but my attention is no longer on him. I pull Blue to a stop, looking around.
‘What?’ Jack halts Tassie as well. She doesn’t like it. Both of the horses are acting up but it’s not because we’ve stopped.
‘Smell that?’ I ask him.
‘Stay here,’ he says, and urges Tassie into a trot, heading her up the beach to the high tide mark.
It’s not the first time I’ve smelt that smell. Last time it was a rotting seal. I don’t think it’s a seal this time.
I let my breath out slowly, trying to concentrate on the smell of the sea instead. Wait. Watch. Jack disturbs a group of seagulls among the driftwood. They fly into the air shrieking at him. He turns Tassie around, his face suddenly pale, and trots back to me. ‘Stay here,’ he says again and unzips his jacket, reaching inside. Blue is jumpy, not wanting to keep still, and I turn him in a slow circle to settle him down. We both want to get away from the smell. We know what it is. I try to breathe through my mouth but it doesn’t help.
‘Hey, Dad, it’s me. Yeah. Look, I think we’ve found a body on the beach.’ Jack looks up at me. ‘Yes, she’s here. She hasn’t seen it. I kept her away.’ He listens again. ‘Thanks, I was hoping you’d say that. But how about, you know, counselling and all that stuff? If she’s not a witness, she won’t be able to get it?’ Eyes still on me. ‘Okay. Ten minutes. I’ll be by the float. You know where I’m parking it? See you soon.’
I finish another slow circle on Blue and look around at Jack.
‘Annie, Dad has to send out the cavalry and if you’re here you’ll have to give a statement and…’
‘I know.’
‘So you’ve got to go now.’
‘What if it’s Pete? I want to find out if it’s Pete.’ I push Blue towards the smell, towards where the seagulls have gathered again, hovering, landing on the sand, wings still spread, their necks outstretched, screeching.
‘No, Annie. Don’t do it.’
‘I want to find out.’
Jack wheels Tassie round so he’s blocking me. Blue stops, confused, unwilling to push past the black horse.
‘I’ll text you as soon as I find out if it’s your neighbour or not,’ Jack’s saying. ‘I promise. There’s no time. You’ve got to go.’
‘I just—’
‘I will ring you, I promise. I love you.’
I nod, bite my lip, unable to speak, and turn Blue again. He takes a few reluctant steps but I kick him hard and we’re in a gallop back down the beach, towards Deadmans, the rain coming down on us hard. I don’t know if it’s tears in my eyes or rain filling them up so much that I can’t see. Does it matter?
Mum is stripping wallpaper again when I get into the house. She’s multitasking – a casserole in the oven for tea, Millionaire Hot Seat on TV, up loud so she can hear it from the hallway where she is standing on a chair with her knife. Tiny pieces of wallpaper are falling onto the carpet below her like confetti.
‘A,’ she’s yelling, ‘the answer is A. How can they be so stupid on this programme?’
‘Mum?’
‘Annie, tea will be ready in about five. Could you get some plates out for
me? Dad should be home any minute.’
I go back into the kitchen, hear the person answer D on the TV with one second to spare – they’re wrong, the answer was A. Applause follows anyway.
‘That was Dad driving in,’ Mum says, washing her hands behind me in the kitchen sink. ‘Let’s dish it up.’
My phone is vibrating in my pocket and I pull it out, Mum glancing over at me, spoon poised halfway between casserole dish and plate. I quickly check it. There’s a text from Jack: Not your neighbour, will ring later.
I text back: Thanks.
‘Who was that?’ Mum asks, concentrating again on the casserole.
‘Just Sam, basketball stuff,’ I answer, putting my phone in my pocket, rummaging for knives and forks in the drawer, trying to stop my hands from visibly shaking.
Dad comes in, shedding his jacket in the laundry in time to take the plate of food handed to him by Mum, and we sit down to watch the TV news, our plates on our laps. The casserole is Mum’s usual, with baked potatoes, but I’m having trouble eating it. I chew the meat over and over but I can’t swallow. It tastes like dust. About halfway through the latest update from Syria, Dad mutes the sound.
‘They’re going to let us know early next week who’ll be laid off,’ he says.
‘How many?’ Mum asks.
‘They’re not saying. Union is guessing it could be up to half of us.’
‘But the mines aren’t closing yet. Are they? There’s been no announcement.’
‘They’re not closing but there are not the volumes anymore. Less coal going over the hill means fewer train drivers needed.’ His voice is flat, like what he’s saying is inevitable.
‘Do you think it will be you?’
‘I don’t know. They used to have this first-on, first-off policy but all that’s gone. Everything’s changed. Nothing is the same as it used to be. Everyone is worried. Everyone thinks it will be them. Everyone’s in the same boat as us.’
‘Early next week?’
‘We should know by then.’
Listening, I put another forkload of casserole into my mouth. If they expect me to say something, comment, my slow chewing excuses me. I can feel them both looking at me, both waiting. I chew even slower. They could have talked about this when I wasn’t around, waited until I was in my bedroom doing homework. Then I wouldn’t know anything, wouldn’t have to wait and worry like they are. Maybe this is just another way of them letting me realise the situation, what is going on, so there will be no surprises, no shock.
Dad unmutes the sound. Syria is finished with and now it’s milk prices. Another fall on the international market, dairy farmers worried.
‘Poor Harry and Di,’ Mum says.
‘And now just in,’ the TV news announcer is saying as the words ‘Breaking News’ flash across the bottom of the screen, ‘we have reports of a body found washed up on a beach near Westport.’
‘Turn it up!’ Mum says, but Dad is already fiddling with the remote.
‘A body was found late this afternoon on the Fairdown Beach just north of Westport on the South Island’s West Coast, but is yet to be identified. Police are unable to say whether it is connected to the recent explosion which destroyed a local house, but hope a formal identification of the body will be completed by tomorrow. We will bring more updates to you as they come to hand.’
There’s a brief shot of the beach in the rain, a police tent erected on the sand, people everywhere.
‘Didn’t you go riding on the beach after school today?’ Mum says, looking at me.
‘Yes, just by Deadmans. I didn’t go far.’
‘Didn’t see any of this?’ Dad asks.
‘No. Didn’t know about it.’
‘That could have been you finding that body,’ Dad says. ‘You should be careful riding on that beach by yourself.’
I try to swallow more casserole and turn back to the TV, hoping my parents will do the same. There’s something on now about an attempted bank robbery in Christchurch, explosives were used. Police have no suspects yet.
‘I wonder who it is,’ Mum says.
‘Who?’ Dad asks.
‘The body.’
‘Could be Pete’s,’ he says.
Mum shakes her head. ‘I hope not. That would be awful.’
I manage, just, to scrape the last of the casserole off my plate and shovel it into my mouth. My parents have what they call a ‘clean plate’ policy: always finish what’s given to you and then there are no arguments.
‘I’ve got homework to do,’ I mutter and carry my plate to the kitchen. If my parents reply I don’t hear them over the noise of the TV. It’s the sports news and then there will be the weather. I’m not missing anything. No need to watch the weather forecast for here.
Somewhere in the middle of my persuasive writing assignment for English my phone starts vibrating again in my jeans pocket. I’m lying on my bed, the bedroom door shut, James Bay playing on my laptop. It’s Jack calling. I’d forgotten he was going to ring.
‘Hi, it’s me,’ he says. ‘You doing okay?’
‘I’m fine.’ I keep my voice low, just in case anyone is listening in the hallway.
‘We’ve just got back.’ I can hear a door shutting in the background.
‘From the beach?’
‘Yes.’
‘It was on the TV news.’
‘Was it?’
‘My parents saw it.’
‘Had you already told them?’
‘No.’
‘So did you tell them afterwards?’
‘I couldn’t.’
‘Annie…’
‘My dad might be losing his job. They’re laying off some of the train drivers. There’s not enough coal coming from the mines to keep all the trains running.’
‘Here, my dad wants to talk to you.’
I hear the phone changing hands.
‘Annie, it’s Grant Robertson, Jack’s dad.’
‘Hi.’
‘I just want to make sure you’re okay. Wasn’t very nice on the beach today.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘People usually aren’t fine after what you’ve been through.’
‘Really, I’m okay.’
‘We can offer you counselling. We can do it at your school, no one has to know. It can be completely confidential.’
‘I’m okay.’
‘If you change your mind, just ring me, or ring Jack. Anytime, you just ring, doesn’t matter if it’s the middle of the night. Anytime, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘Here’s Jack. I think he wants to talk to you again.’
‘Hi, Annie. Look, I could come around. I could pick you up. I’ll be twenty minutes. We could go somewhere. Anywhere you want to.’
‘I’m okay.’
‘You could tell your parents you’re just going for a walk or something.’
‘I’m okay.’
‘You don’t sound okay.’
I’m wiping tears off my cheeks with my fingers.
‘I’m okay.’
‘Annie?’
I turn the phone off. In the hallway I can hear Mum and her knife tugging at the wallpaper.
Brunner, Dobson, Strongman, Pike River. This is our litany, the West Coast’s prayer for the dead. Our past. Our history.
Brunner, 1896, gas in the coalmine explodes after a charge goes off in the wrong place, where people shouldn’t be, killing all of the sixty-five miners who are deep down in the pit. They get all the bodies out. Some are so torn up by the explosion they can only be identified by their clothes; others died of suffocation trying to escape. Thirty-three of the dead are buried in a mass grave at the Stillwater Cemetery. You can see the pictures online. They’re black and white, of course. Two men standing in an open grave filled with coffins, a ladder behind them so the living can climb back out. Another photo with the same grave surrounded by people, sitting, standing, men, women. Some must be standing on something so they can see over the others into the grave. There a
re even little kids peering in between legs. In 1896 there was no social welfare system, no widow’s benefits.
Dobson, 1926, a gas explosion kills all nine coalminers in the mine. Two more explosions follow, hurling rocks from the mine’s entrance onto people’s houses nearby. In the end they have to flood the pit with water to put the fires out. The Municipal Band plays Handel’s ‘Dead March’ at the funerals.
Strongman, 1967, a shot hole for a charge breaks through the face to an area where gas has built up in abandoned coal workings. It triggers an explosion. The abandoned workings should have been checked for gas, but they weren’t. Two hundred and forty miners are down in the pit but a wet patch in the mine, where water seeps through the rock, puts the fireball out before it gets to most of them. Nineteen are killed. Fifteen of the bodies are found that day, but it takes three weeks to get to another two and the last two still remain there. They seal up the tunnel where they lie under the fallen rock. Five men who are part of the rescue team get the British Empire Medal for bravery.
Pike River, 2010, a methane gas explosion kills twenty-nine coalminers working about two kilometres into the shaft. Nobody knows what ignited the gas. Only two men make it out. They’re about three hundred metres into the tunnel when it happens and are knocked off their feet by the explosion. Somehow they find each other in the smoke and the darkness and struggle together to the mine entrance. No one else follows, but for almost a week everyone hopes the twenty-nine men are still alive, in an air pocket, safe somewhere, somehow. For almost a week the whole country waits for the gas levels to drop, so the rescuers can go in safely. Everyone watches on TV. Then there is another explosion and then another until the coal is burning in the mountain and the shafts are collapsing. So they shut the mine, seal it – there is nothing else they believe they can do. Twenty-nine men buried in a mountain. My dad knows the father of one of them.
Brunner, Dobson, Strongman, Pike River – these are the ghosts that walk among us.
But not only the dead, the coalmines themselves are now becoming ghosts. Brunner, Dobson, Denniston, Strongman, Runanga and Pike River have all closed over the years. And maybe soon Stockton, where hundreds of people work, and from where my dad hauls the coal by train. Soon, with the downturn, there may be no coalmines left at all on the West Coast and more than one hundred and fifty years of history – of men going underground, of people taking off the overburden with diggers and trucks as big as houses to reach the black gold in opencast mines – will end. Our lives will be remembered in museums and on webpages. There will be no more heavy machinery on the coast, no more coal trains. The line will be empty, the sound of trains rumbling through the night gone forever. And the people will be gone too. There will be nothing left for them. What will the Coast be like then? Will there be only ghosts?
