‘Tell them to get a move on with the new road then, Doctor. Otherwise save your breath.’
‘We could arrange —’
‘Doctor, let us speak plainly. We could arrange nothing. Neither Incline nor Track is suitable for a woman of my size and condition. I will be staying here. However, I have a great desire to see my daughter married and a grandchild or two at my knee, so any precautions I can take up here will certainly be followed.’
Rose stands at the window as Dr Harding outlines a regime of restricted liquids and frequent visits to his weekly surgery to check for weight loss or gain. This combined with three-hourly doses of Sweet Spirit of Nitre, alternating with parsley tea.
At the door he frowns at Rose. ‘Anxiety or stress will not help matters.’
Rose sighs. He has heard the rumours. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘this changes matters. We will have to see.’
Inside again, she sits on the floor in front of Bella, the fire casting moving shadows around and over them, as if they are floating under sunlit water. Rose rests her arms on Bella’s great lap and looks up, smiling.
‘Now, Mama, I expect you to live to one hundred and beyond,’ she says, ‘but meantime perhaps we had better get on with — certain matters.’
Bella strokes the bright hair. ‘The wedding? Well, my dear heart, no one could say you have been hasty.’
In fact delay after delay has put the wedding back. First it was to allow for the birth of Michael’s pride and joy, the foal Black Knight. Then Rose suggested they wait for school holidays, then warmer weather. Now they both think it would be an excellent idea to postpone the celebration until after the new road has opened, thus allowing Michael’s surviving grandparents, one Hanratty and one Maguire, to ride up to the wedding. Bella has raged that people are talking, that Rose is holding the entire population of Denniston to ransom, that Bella’s beautiful wedding ensemble, already sewn and waiting in soft tissue-paper, may no longer fit if there are more delays. Rose always shrugs and dances out of range like a light-footed boxer.
Gossip is rife, naturally. Rusty McGill is running an unofficial book on who Rose will marry, and when. Betting favours Michael on the whole — doesn’t she still wear his ring? — though at Burnett’s Face the hope is that Rose will eventually settle for Brennan. Surely that’s what these endless postponements are all about?
Rose sails through this sea of conjecture, laughing it off in public, battling with Bella in private.
All this time — nearly two years now since Brennan came back — he and Michael seem to be on remarkably good terms. A good fight would stir things up but there’s no sign of one. The three of them are often seen together on the playing field, exercising Miss Demeanour and Black Knight. Rose and Michael are at every Sunday performance of the band. They even disappear down the Track together for a jaunt into Westport.
Bella’s illness, however, changes everything as far as Rose is concerned. Games are now out of the question. Suddenly Rose can see — how had she been so blind? — that Bella has aged. The cheeks are drawn, the skin papery, even though the bulk is still there. And a certain spark is missing. Bella is always tired.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers. ‘I haven’t been noticing, have I? You’ll have your wedding, Mama. And a grandchild in your lap. As soon as we can arrange it.’
Bella’s face lights up. ‘Now there’s a tonic to beat all! I feel better already!’
Rose wags her finger. ‘Oho, this is all a ruse to get a grandchild, is it? I might have known!’ She is only half joking, but Bella laughs, and asks the question all Denniston wants the answer to.
‘Which one will it be, my Rose? Who is to be my son-in-law?’
Rose jumps to her feet, strides around the room as if caged, then comes back to face Bella. Standing there, her feet apart, head on one side, wide-open grin that promises mischief, she looks for a moment so like Con the Brake that Bella feels sharply the old loss. But Rose is smiling now, this sharp, challenging stepdaughter, who is and always will be after all, only herself.
‘I tell you what, Mama,’ says Rose, and she is quite serious, ‘you choose for me. You choose a son-in-law, and I will marry him! Then we’ll all be happy.’
Bella tries to smile. She is, in fact, deeply dismayed. ‘Ah, now, Rose, surely your own heart says —’
‘My own heart says you will know better than me.’
Bella tries to keep her voice light. She winks at her stepdaughter. ‘But you feel more for one or the other? When you are close?’
Rose shrugs. ‘Either is perfectly fine. Who would you choose? Michael, I think. Is it Michael?’
Bella is watching Rose carefully. ‘Michael is a lovely boy,’ she says slowly. ‘He is a real tonic about the house —’
Rose claps her hands. ‘I knew it! I knew you would choose Michael!’
Bella coughs painfully. ‘But you, Rose, who do you want? This is a serious matter.’
Rose kisses her mother. ‘No more long faces, now — we have a wedding to plan. Well, so we choose Michael. Now, what shall we wear, we two?’ And she dances around the room trying on the curtains and veiling her head in Bella’s rug, until Bella forgets all anxiety and joins in the fun.
Rose
6 FEBRUARY 1902
Well, I will marry Michael. Bella wants it. Also, he is safer, I think. There is an ambition in Brennan that will lead him away from here. I could never, never leave the Hill. Even one day down in Westport has me biting my fingernails in an anxiety to be back up above. Why is that? The concrete things around me shift and blur as if I have entered a different dimension. Down off the Hill I feel as if I am in a bewitched world where I will distort and change shape: turn werewolf, or fly apart, each limb growing into a new monster. Bella tells me I have an imagination too fanciful for my own good. She is wrong; it is no fancy. At sea level my heart beats hard in my chest, and my hand as it reaches to accept a parcel from the draper trembles like an old woman’s. Sometimes I have to swallow hard to keep from vomiting. This is physical. Not something in my head. Later, I will laugh with Bella, and tell her I am allergic to being away from her, but truly it is no laughing matter; it is fearful, and I mean to stay on the Hill.
Michael will surely stay in the family business. He is too lazy to start one of his own. And his horses, for all his dreaming, will never make him a fortune. No, Michael will stay on the Hill, I’m sure of it.
Michael, now. I have never written a description of him. Why not, I wonder? It is easy to pounce on someone stupid or laughable — or a stranger — take them apart and lay out the pieces of their jigsaw. But Michael is like my brother. Far more tricky. More of a challenge. Michael and I have lived all our lives not five minutes’ quick sprint from each other.
With Michael you are never bored. Well, I am not. Michael’s colour is undeniably yellow. Sometimes light comes off him, like the sun. (I do not mean this in any religious way!) He is like a bright, interesting painting, full of detail and life. Perhaps a dashing battle scene, horses prancing, soldiers in splendid uniforms, with swords aloft. Flashes of gunpowder, brave shouts, flags streaming. Hurrah hurrah! Heart-stirring, surely — but also something unreal about it. Michael seems so obvious, as clear and open — shallow, even — as Bren is dark and deep. But that’s not quite it. Michael is a mirror that reflects what you want to see of him. Behind the mirror something is held back. That part fascinates me, but damned if I can pin it down. Is he laughing at me? Does he feel something deeper but won’t show it? Perhaps dislike, even? Sometimes I simply slide off his surface and away like water. One day I’ll work it out.
For music, Michael would be the tenor part, if we are talking a choir — dramatic, noticeable, but still not the melody. I am the melody. I am the statement. Is that boastful? Yes, perhaps, but it is also true. I will think about that later; now it is Michael.
His stone is golden amber — clear, warm, and with blemishes that make the piece all the more interesting …
Well, enough of all
that. This game is foolish, I’ve grown out of it. Michael is Michael. He is a comfortable glove I can put on and take off as I fancy. He makes no demands. He’s a good friend to laugh with, and sharp enough too, in his own way. I will marry him, as everyone expects, and we will rub along together well enough. Bella will have her grandchild, and Michael will have — what? What does Michael want out of it?
There now, I’m stuck again. I’ve come up against the mirror. Does Michael want the status of marriage? To be the respected family man? Yes, that is surely part of it. Michael loves to be admired, and a striking woman on the arm is admirable. I am no catch financially (well, not as far as anyone up here knows!) but I am certainly noticeable. I am talked about, and feared a little. Michael likes that. People will think him spirited to want to marry such a termagant!
Look at Michael with Bella. That is good. That is certainly good. Bella likes Michael. He plays cards with her, and admires her clothes. He makes her laugh. Watching Michael and Bella together I see no restraint or hidden part. Michael is all clear glinting water, and I want to drink him up!
Last night, with Bella more lively, and the wedding day set for one week away, Michael stayed for the special dinner Bella had cooked. It was such fun. Michael flirted with Bella outrageously, complimenting each dish lavishly, praising the delicacy of the black lace at her throat.
‘Ah, am I making a terrible mistake?’ he cried. ‘Marrying the daughter instead of the mother? Promise me, Mrs C, you will not be jealous? Otherwise we will call the whole enterprise off immediately!’
Bella laughed until she hiccuped. ‘Oh, Michael, you are a rogue! No, no, sweetheart, not a hint of jealousy, I promise. We will be one family, Michael, and I will love you like a son.’
‘A son! Ah, Mrs C, if only I were twenty years older, son would not come into it.’
Bella’s two paying gentlemen, the sops, frowned at their plates, glowered at Michael and excused themselves early. Their silly little compliments and fawnings around Bella were quite outclassed by Michael’s antics. We all three laughed to see them scuttle off to bed.
‘Now,’ said Michael. ‘Now that we are alone, what about a preview of the wedding dress?’
Bella clapped her hands to her bosom and berated Michael for even suggesting such a thing; the bad luck it would bring.
‘Madam, you mistake me,’ cried Michael. ‘Not Rose’s gown, but your own!’
And he flattered her and cajoled until she brought it out of its tissue and laid it on the settee. It was not black but a shimmering royal blue taffeta, ruched with cream lace from throat to waist, seed pearls sewn into the lace, and sleeves puffed at the shoulder, tightly buttoned at wrist. It is truly spectacular. Michael gasped and pranced as expected. Held it up against her.
‘Mrs C, Mrs C, how can Rose and I compete? You will outshine the bridal pair! I will have to reconsider my suit; it will be completely obliterated by this creation. Who can have sewn such a masterpiece?’ Knowing full well she had spent the last year perfecting it. I love watching the pair of them. Michael is right — he would have suited Bella. There is nothing false about all his chatter. He genuinely enjoys her company and loves to gossip about the people on the Hill: who is flirting with whom, who is cheating the Company or a wife or a business. Michael is better at keeping Bella happy than I am. Bella will sometimes nod off with my talk; with Michael, never.
Well, that is Michael. When I said we must live here with Bella he shrugged, smiled and agreed; why not? I doubt Brennan would have been so easy. He would want to provide a house of his own. He would want me to himself. But whoever wants me must, of course, share me. How could I leave Bella alone? There is room here, I can continue the teaching, and Bella will feel useful, keeping house for us. Whatever she is able to do. I will have a child, perhaps even two. Bella’s aching heart will at last be at rest.
So. Bella has decided. It is all settled. Brennan will be unhappy. He will, yes, but will be loyal to us, I think. We will always be able to talk. His music won’t come to an end. He will be our friend, and Michael’s groomsman.
Now perhaps we can all be at peace, the gossip and speculation ended. There are much more interesting things to argue over than a marriage.
Pain and Hope
HENRY IS CURIOUS about Rose and Michael; more than curious if he is honest with himself. Worried, too. He would love to be a fly on the wall of the log house. Everyone seems happy. But after the strange flatness of the wedding you couldn’t be sure. On the face of it there is remarkably little difference, before or after the wedding, except that Michael now lives in Bella’s house, and Brennan is gone. Michael whistles and jokes with his friends, and continues to see to supplies for Hanrattys’ and the Miners’ Arms, the two Hanratty guest houses. He has also taken over a business supplying fodder for the horses — above and below ground. This part of the Hanratty enterprise will certainly grow with the opening of the new road and the expansion underground.
Rose continues to teach with the same carefree flair. You couldn’t say Rose was a dedicated teacher. Henry has never caught her preparing a lesson. But she’s good at it nonetheless and the children like her. Rose was back at work on Monday, after the wedding, smiling her open — was it too open? — smile, and changing the subject with a deft wink at any ribald suggestion from other staff. Bella, though — Bella is the one who has blossomed. You’d think she was the one who had married. Henry smiles at the thought. The grand old lady has pink cheeks again. She invites all and sundry into the house to show off the wedding gifts, the china from the Hanrattys, a double-damask tablecloth from Inch Donaldson, her own gift of the marriage bed, which used to be her own, beautifully carved by Con the Brake. Bella has bought herself a new single bed, transported up the Incline for all to see. Rusty and Inch pretended to frown at that but were secretly relieved. Neither would dare go as far as the bedroom with their lady idol.
The wedding was a disappointment, no doubt about that. Henry was surprised — shaken would be more the word — by the chasm caused by Brennan’s sudden disappearance. Michael had made no secret about inviting Brennan to be groomsman. Some thought it insensitive of the lad — cruel even, given Brennan’s obvious feelings — but the three had always been such friends. Perhaps Brennan could put his own infatuation behind him? Henry, watching Brennan going grimly around the town, had doubted it. Whatever the truth of the matter, Michael gave the impression that Brennan’s acceptance was signed and sealed.
On the day of the wedding Henry himself, acting as father of the bride, had ridden to the church with Rose and Bella in Rusty McGill’s new trap. Some sort of horse-drawn vehicle was all the status symbol these days, with the new road about to open. Bows of white ribbon, supplied by Inch, fluttered from the hood, which was drawn up, the weather being cold and blustery. Henry felt dowdy in his best suit, crammed between these resplendent women: Rose in simple cream satin, her mother a mountain of shimmering royal blue. When Rose suddenly asked Rusty to stop, Henry thought she had forgotten something. But it was Brennan. There he was, astride his pony, swag tied to the saddle and cornet on his back, heading for the new road, which was not yet open but easily negotiable on horseback.
Brennan saw her, reined in, and turned to face her. They were not a chain apart, but no words were spoken. Brennan simply raised his hand and held it there — a frozen farewell. Rose’s hand lifted a small distance in response. Nothing more. Then Brennan pulled the horse’s neck around and headed away at a steady walk.
On went the bride, clip clop, to the wedding. But a silence had drifted into the carriage; a slow haze of sadness that hovered all day, settling like dust on the ceremony and the celebration that followed. Nolly Hanratty, who might have fancied himself as replacement groomsman, quietly pushed his cousin forward, but even Goldie McGuire’s evident delight at this last-minute promotion did little to lighten the event. Michael drank too much and managed a few cheerful jokes, but later he picked a fight with Doldo Scobie over something, and if Arnold hadn’t
bundled his boy out by the scruff things might have turned ugly. The Arnold Scobies were all there, expecting to hear a good speech by their nephew, and a bit of good music too. Brennan’s disappearance was a surprise to everyone, it seemed.
Michael predicted that Brennan would return after a day or two. ‘The groomsman is off to groom a different horse,’ he joked, ‘called Grumpy. He can’t stay away, though. He’ll be back before the week’s out, bet you a guinea.’
TWO weeks later there is still no word of Brennan. Then a scrap of Burnett’s Face gossip reaches Henry. Brennan has found a good job and lodging in Christchurch.
‘Michael!’ he calls from the school-house door. ‘Come in a minute! I have news of Brennan!’
Michael pulls on the reins. ‘Eh? I can’t hear a thing with all this rumbling.’ His cart, loaded with sacks of oats, slows to a stop and he jumps down, grinning and slapping the dust out of his clothes. ‘Brennan, did you say? I knew he’d be back.’ Michael looks cheerful enough today, swinging down the path, dapper as usual, but only last night Henry saw him surly and aggressive outside Hanrattys’, trying to pick a fight with his own friend Slap Honiball. An unsettling sight: that big ox Slap turning this way and that, embarrassed at the dancing taunts, obviously unwilling to fight back yet hurt by his friend’s public assault. In the end he walked away and left Michael almost screaming at his back. Henry had no idea what had provoked such a frenzy.
‘Come in, come in, the kettle’s on the stove,’ says Henry now. He puts a hand on Michael’s shoulder to guide him in. Michael comes readily enough, and stands leaning against the doorway as Henry fusses with tea and mugs.
‘What’s the news, then? Wouldn’t you know I’d be the last to hear? Is he back already?’
Henry, sweeping papers aside and searching for a biscuit, fails to see the excitement in Michael’s face. ‘Sit down, sit down. No, no, you have it wrong, he’s not back.’
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