Heart of Coal

by Jenny Pattrick

  Michael takes his mug of tea but stays on his feet. He frowns. ‘What then? What news?’

  ‘Sounds like he won’t be back, Michael. He has found good work and lodging in Christchurch.’ Henry announces this with some pleasure.

  Michael jerks upright. Hot tea flies out of his cup and down his trousers. He cries out in anger or pain and dashes a hand at the wet wool.

  ‘Damn! The devil!’ He slams his mug down on the table and, when Henry tries to mop at the stain with a damp cloth, pushes the hand away. ‘I’m all right, can’t you see, you old fusspot? It hasn’t burnt. Get off me!’

  Henry steps back, unable to speak. Pieces have suddenly fallen into place. He takes the pipe from his mouth, waves it vaguely in Michael’s direction and then jams it back between his teeth. He stares at Michael. Michael stares back.

  At last Henry finds his voice. He speaks with great gentleness. ‘Sit down, Michael.’

  Michael sits. His hands are shaking. He looks down at them. His usual bravura, the easy good humour, are completely lacking. Henry pulls up a chair and sits next to him. He hardly dares breathe; he would dearly love to take one of those shaking hands but his own are in a worse state. He would not trust them to travel that short distance.

  ‘Michael,’ he says again, loving the sound. This is the moment. But anything further is so difficult to say. ‘I think … perhaps I can … I can understand …’

  Michael is not listening. He begins to tap his fingers on the table. Colour returns to his cheeks. ‘I tell you what,’ he says in a voice too loud for the small room, ‘Rose and I will go and fetch him. We will bring him back! What do you say? Bring him back?’ His bright smile is so full of pain, Henry has to look away.

  ‘Do you have his address?’ says Michael.

  ‘No … No, I don’t.’

  ‘You could find it out!’

  ‘No. Michael, no. Brennan would not come. He is in pain too.’

  Michael glares. He pushes himself up from the table, almost striking Henry. ‘What does that mean? Who else is in pain, then?’

  ‘Oh, Michael …’ The noise Henry makes is perhaps a helpless snort of laughter. Or a groan. ‘All of us. All.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Suddenly Michael is very angry. Hectic red flares in his face. ‘Did Rose say something? Is that it?’ He steps towards Henry, who cries out at the menace in those blue eyes.

  ‘Rose? No … no … Michael …’ But Henry can say no more.

  ‘Brennan will come back.’

  ‘He won’t. You must accept that. Michael, listen. You will get over it.’

  ‘Oh!’ Michael lashes out at Henry who stumbles back against the table. ‘What do you know, you old fool?’ He shouts something else — mad wild words — as he runs from the room, down the path and leaps up onto the cart.

  Henry can make no sense of the torrent. ‘Go, go,’ he says quietly as he watches the horses snort and paw under the whip. ‘You will come to accept it.’ He smiles a little. This unfamiliar feeling is perhaps a prickle of hope.

  An End to Isolation

  THE DAY THE new road opened began with a triumphant entry but ended in a tragic exit.

  That morning the mine manager rode up the six and a half winding miles in a smart new trap. Henry Stringer brought the schoolchildren to meet him at Hudson’s Dam, a few chains from the top. They stood there, Rose among them, looking over the edge, down the winding snake-bends, ready to cheer the first vehicle (other than a coal wagon on the Incline) to reach Denniston. As the trap approached Hudson’s Dam, the horse trembling and sweating with exhaustion, the children ran alongside throwing petals made from newspaper before its hooves. Henry Stringer never missed a chance to heighten the drama. Crack crack! Mr Stanley snapped his whip in an effort to coax the poor beast into a trot for the last few yards, but it was spent.

  ‘He might be able to manage a business but he has much to learn about pacing a horse,’ says Tom Hanratty, who is waiting with half of Denniston to witness the marvel. Wheeled transport all the way from Westport! What other miracles will this new century deliver?

  Another one almost immediately, it seems.

  Mr Stanley makes a show of reigning in his horse, which has in fact stopped and drooped its head into a bucket of water that Willie Winkie has thoughtfully provided. The mine manager stands on the box-seat of his trap and waves a rolled newspaper above his head.

  ‘On this proud day for Denniston,’ he cries, ‘I am the bearer of further proud news for our Dominion and our Empire. The Boer Wars are over! A victorious treaty has been signed at Vereeningen. A public holiday to celebrate this great event has been announced!’

  The cheer is more for the holiday than the victory. Although several volunteers have taken the opportunity to escape the rigours of Denniston, the Miners’ Union has not supported sending troops to South Africa, and in any case their trade has exempted them from service. Inch Donaldson will be pleased, though: two of his Westport nephews are over there, and still alive at last count.

  Henry mutters to Rose, ‘And what are the terms of the treaty, I would like to know? More English bully-boy tactics?’ Henry has been careful to teach his pupils both sides of the story.

  But Rose only smiles. ‘Leave well be, Henry; your politics will be unpopular today. Enjoy the holiday.’ She flaps her arms at the children. ‘Go on, off with you!’ They cheer and hare off up Dickson Street, heading for homes further up the plateau or mischief anywhere.

  ‘Shall we see if we can lay hands on a newspaper?’ says Henry, but Rose shakes her head.

  ‘I have another plan for today. If Tom will release Michael, and lend us his new sprung cart, I will take Bella to town! Mine manager may be the first up the road, but oldest woman resident, Mrs C. Rasmussen, will be the first down! Come with us! This will be more historic than any foreign treaty. And more fun.’ She turns to face the fearsome hairpin road, cups her hands around her mouth and shouts, ‘Hallooo! Westport, you old slag-a-bed! Take care, for here comes Denniston!’

  Marriage suits her, thinks Henry. She is so alive, surely she will burn to dust with the heat of her own energy. But Rose is already running, skirts flying, showing far more ankle than is proper for a married woman, up towards Hanrattys’.

  Totty is at the kitchen door, shaking crumbs from a tablecloth.

  ‘Mrs Hanratty, have you heard? It’s a holiday!’ says Rose, seizing the other end of the cloth to help with the folding.

  Totty smiles at her new daughter-in-law. ‘I heard. But holiday for you means good business for us. The saloon will be crowded.’

  Rose follows Totty inside the warm kitchen, where dreamy Liza is slowly shaping-up date scones as if each is a little treasure to be crafted with care. Totty goes to speed up the production but Rose grasps her arm.

  ‘Mrs H, please help. Come let us both speak to Mr Hanratty. I want to take Bella to town!’

  Totty’s eyes dance. ‘What — to Westport?’

  ‘Why not? She should be the first down! We can make an event of it. Give the newspaper a story.’ Rose writes large in the air: ‘“Isolated for a quarter-century, the Grande Dame of the Hill finally meets the civilised world!”’

  Liza looks up from her sculpting, ‘Oh, Rose, we are civilised up here.’

  ‘So we are, Liza, so we are. But Westport thinks of itself as the centre of the western world! That is how they will write it up.’ Rose bundles Totty out to the saloon, which is indeed already filling, although it is only mid-morning. ‘Go on,’ she says, ‘ask the man for his cart, and Michael to drive it. He’ll say yes to you.’

  ‘Have you thought he may wish to be the first down himself?’

  ‘He has been down the Track many times. And you more than once. Please, Mrs Hanratty! We will proclaim the benefits of Hanrattys’ Guest House with every second breath! They will come flocking with their fat purses full of Westport guineas!’

  Totty laughs. ‘Get on with you: you are more wily than Michael! Come on, then, and we
will see.’

  Tom is at the bar, directing operations. The two women announce their plan and then wait, smiling secretly as Tom predictably purses his lips, tut-tuts at the idea of the new cart being driven by Michael, pulls out his fob-watch and studies it, to allow himself time to think, and finally gives the nod. Rose jumps forward to kiss his bushy cheek, and the guests all cheer, which pleases Tom.

  ‘Well,’ he says, ready now to direct operations, ‘we will make an event of it, shall we? Send the old lady off in style, hmm? Totty, tell Willie Winkie to hitch up Diablo and Old Nick. Michael’s fancy fairies will never get Bella up the hill again. And bring the cart to the front door here. We will give her a cheer. Nelson? Nelson! Why is the lad never here when you want him?’

  Beanpole Nolly unfolds from under the bar where he has been stacking glasses. ‘Here, Father.’

  ‘Run and see if you can find that photographer, Mr Brown. He is staying at McGills’. Tell him we will pose a grand scene for him, which will be a historic event.’

  Nolly is half out the door when Rose calls to him, ‘And then find Michael and tell him to put on his finest suit. We are going to town!’

  Rose claps Tom on the back as if she were a man and he a good mate. ‘Wonderful!’ she cries. ‘A photograph to mark the occasion. Oh, what a top plan! You are a good man, Mr Hanratty.’

  Tom clears his throat gruffly but cannot hide his pleasure. Totty shakes her head at the cheekiness of the girl but she, also, is smiling. Rose’s enthusiasm is infectious. Surely she and Michael will make a happy life. Children will soften Rose, blunt her excesses, no doubt; and Michael — isn’t he a fine boy at heart? A little jumpy at the moment, but that is settling with marriage. Marriage will do wonders for Michael.

  DOWN at the log house Rose tightens Bella’s corset strings. Bella is worrying whether to take her dose of Sweet Spirit of Nitre. She wants to be at her best, but on the other hand, the journey will take hours, perhaps, and there will be no opportunity …

  ‘What do you think, Rose, shall I take it? Oh, I am all of a dither!’

  Rose smoothes the black embroidered silk down over her mother’s front and turns her to tie the plump black bow behind.

  ‘Leave it for today,’ she says. ‘You have been well for a week. Comfort is more important.’ She laughs and hugs Bella. ‘Tom’s cart is all very fine with its great springs, but the road is no feather bed and you will need to hold on to everything.’

  Bella shrieks. ‘Oh, you cheeky young madam! Where has all my fine training leaked away to?’

  ‘Leaked away, is it? Now who is being indelicate?’

  The two women toss their heads and laugh, preening before each other in their finery and high excitement. But walking up from the Camp, Bella is quieter. Halfway she pauses as usual to catch her breath. Rose steadies her gently against the slope.

  Bella looks away down and out to sea. ‘Suddenly I feel shy.’

  ‘You, shy?’

  ‘Rose, don’t you go haring off and leave me alone down there, will you?’

  ‘Mama, what is the matter? You’ve been planning this for years!’

  ‘Ah well. The reality is different. I’ll enjoy to go into a big shop and buy for myself. If you go with me. Perhaps I will enjoy a ride down a main street again. Perhaps it will frighten me.’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘Ah, Rosie, you are so young and confident. I think my spirit has shrunk to fit this small town.’

  Rose gives the arm a little squeeze. ‘We share that feeling, Mama — we are both of us more comfortable here. But never say it is through lack of spirit! You, Mama, have more spirit in you than half of Denniston rolled into one. And Michael will be with us to keep us entertained. You will love it.’

  Bella takes a deep breath and continues to walk. ‘Michael,’ she says, smiling, ‘now, he will love to be the first down the new road. Michael loves an occasion even more than we do, I think. It will cheer him up, poor boy.’

  Rose glances sideways at Bella but says nothing. Together they pick their way across the maze of railway tracks and snaking wire ropes. Today the Bins area is as quiet as a Sunday. A lone wagon heaped with coal is abandoned near the top of the Incline; a row of empties lines up under the chute. The door to the brake-man’s iron shed is closed and bolted. Rose shivers suddenly.

  ‘Funny how it feels wrong.’

  ‘What does, my sweet?’

  ‘The silence. All that rattle and bang, the ropes whining, the rails singing under the wheels, the shouts and bells, every day all day. And yet the only thing you hear — really hear — is the silence when it stops.’

  Bella pauses again, gasping with the effort, and looks around her. ‘You are right there. I love the racket. Never hear it. I will find Westport eerily quiet, I expect.’

  Rose laughs. ‘No more doubts, Mama, or we will call off the whole event. Pick up your feet, Mrs C, and we will arrive in style.’

  And so they do, Rose in a dress of pale rose cambric, a scarlet silk sash at her waist, and no hat on her head but a red silk flower perched among the curls. They look splendid, stepping proudly to the applause of the small gathering outside Hanrattys’. Willie Winkie holds the horses while Tom takes a cloth to the paintwork.

  Hanrattys’ Guest House and Saloon

  Dickson Street, Denniston

  is written in on the side. Willie Winkie’s work. He has painted the letters gold in his best swirling copperplate. The cart itself shines dark green and the long strap-springs are gleaming with oil. Down the road a little way, Mr Brown is setting up his tripod.

  Now Tom arranges the scene. Rose and Bella are helped aboard, where they sit proud and stiff-backed. Bella will not have any rug covering her finery until the picture is taken. Willie Winkie remains with the horses to keep them calm when the flash goes off. Townspeople are placed here and there down the street, leaning at doorways, or seeming to walk casually towards Hanrattys’ Guest House, which will be in full view, naturally. Tom and Totty stand at the top of the steps, their hands resting on the shoulders of Elizabeth and Nelson, one step below. Two or three guests lean out the window. Henry Stringer, who has decided to stay behind, is one of these. He puffs his pipe and pretends to read the paper.

  ‘But where is Michael?’ says Tom. ‘Didn’t you tell him, Nelson?’

  ‘No, I never saw him, Father. They said he was up here somewhere.’

  ‘Dear God,’ says Rose, ‘don’t tell me he has gone riding.’ She stands on the box-seat and shouts, ‘Michael! Michael!’

  ‘I will have to speak with Rose about this,’ mutters Totty. ‘Raising her voice like a fishwife. In public.’

  ‘Willie Winkie!’ cries Rose, ‘has Michael taken his horse?’

  ‘He has not. Neither one. They are both in the stable.’

  ‘Well, is Michael there?’

  ‘He was earlier. All dressed ready for the manager’s arrival. Haven’t seen him since, Miss. Missus.’

  Nolly steps forward quietly. ‘I could drive you,’ he says. ‘I am good with the cart.’ His eyes are alive at the rare chance to shine.

  ‘No, son, I need you here,’ says Tom. ‘Wee Willie, run and check the stables again.’

  Nolly steps back to take his place below his father. Totty pats his shoulder. She is surprised he has made the offer. She has always assumed her younger son prefers the background.

  While Wee Willie runs around the back, Rose shouts to Henry to come and drive them if Michael cannot be found. Henry puffs his pipe calmly and suggests that a minute or two will find the lad. No one disappears far on Denniston. Meanwhile, why not let the photographer take a preliminary shot? Henry wants to get back to his paper.

  So the photograph is taken. The only one, as it turns out. Everyone stands motionless in the strangely silent town. There is a flash and a puff. After a startled moment Diablo and Old Nick, without Wee Willie to calm them, rear and toss and set off down the street at a smart trot.

  At the same moment Willie Winkie, eyes sta
rting out of his bony head in horror, races out of the stables screaming for someone to come quick.

  Rose hears the screams but not the words. She has a desperation of her own to cope with. If the horses bolt down the new road they will all — horses and women — surely be killed at the first bend.

  ‘Hold on, for God’s sake hold on,’ she shouts to Bella, who is bouncing like a rag doll on the seat beside her. Somehow she manages to grab the flapping reins. With all her force she hauls on them, pulling the horses’ heads to the left, away from the precipice. At full trot they turn, up onto the stony ground of the playing field. There, away from the crowds, the familiar exercise ground ahead of them, the horses slow and halt.

  But Bella is moaning. Something in her back has given way. Also — and worse to Bella, who is used to pain — she has wet herself. To save her mother the shame, Rose coaxes the horses in a wide circle, away from Dickson Street, then down to the Bins. By the time she has cleaned her mother, tucked her into bed and returned to find a doctor, she is the last person in the town to know that her new husband has hanged himself.

  In the street, people she has known all her life turn away. Wondering, and remembering now the screams, Rose climbs the steps to Hanrattys’. In the doorway she stops. The room is full of silent people all looking at her. The sense of accusation thickens the air so she can hardly breathe. Then she sees Michael, and cries out. He is lying on the billiard table. The marks of the rope are livid on his neck. Eyes and tongue bulge horribly. Rose runs towards him but her way is barred by a stony-faced Totty.

  ‘Don’t touch him.’

  ‘Michael!’ cries Rose.

  ‘Mother and daughter,’ whispers Totty. ‘Mother and daughter. Destroyers both.’

  Rose understands nothing. She stands still, looking at the terrible body.

  Willie Winkie, his little face streaming tears, bars her passage like a small wild animal. ‘What did you feckin’ do to him?’ he shouts. ‘What in the name of heaven brought him to this?’