Heart of Coal

by Jenny Pattrick

  Two days ago Willie set off with the two horses, Miss Demeanour and Dark Knight. The second, his own, claimed by Willie after Michael’s death. The little jockey was the mystery backer who paid Miss Demeanour’s stud fee. When Willie Winkie produced the receipt Tom Hanratty judged the foal was Willie’s by right. Tom claimed Miss Demeanour was rightfully his own as Michael had stolen Hanratty money to buy her. These two decisions had enraged Rose, but not a voice was raised to support her claim as widow. Willie Winkie now trained and rode both on race days. Already he was well known as a talented jockey and a knowing judge of horseflesh.

  The first day of the races was a wash-out. Heavy rain turned Sergeant’s Hill into a lake, the third time in two months. Next day the field was marginal but they raced anyway, as the government tote threatened to close the track if more races were not held. But where Willie Winkie — known on the racetrack as Willie the Rat — came unstuck was at the tote, not on the field. When he went to place the bets he found his pocket empty except for a handful of pennies and two sixpences. This was an inner pocket of his jacket, soundly buttoned. The notebook was there, but in total four gold guineas and fifteen shillings were missing.

  ‘Oh no!’ breathes Liza, hands to her mouth. ‘Could it have bounced out on the ride down, do you think?’

  ‘Oy, what kind of fellow do you take me for? Other people’s money? It was safely buttoned, I swear. Any road, there’s no bouncing with thoroughbreds on their way to a race! Slow and gentle all the way.’

  ‘Thieves, then?’

  Willie frowns. ‘Must be.’

  Liza leans in. ‘They are a wild lot down there at sea level. You are lucky to get away with your life. But oh, Willie, the money, the money!’

  They both sit a while, contemplating the black rage of Slap Honiball and the quizzical looks of all those others whose bets were never placed.

  ‘Could you not say their horses lost?’ whispers Liza, shocked and thrilled at her own wicked suggestion.

  ‘It will be reported in the Westport News, which any soul can buy tomorrow at Cudby’s,’ says Willie, then adds, straightening his bony back, ‘Any road, I must face the music. And feckin’ pay them back.’ He sniffs. ‘Isn’t that the pudding?’

  Liza leaps from her stool. ‘The puddings! Oh, they will be ruined!’ She yanks the dishes from the range and bangs them down in front of him. ‘Look at the horrid things! Oh, I am ruined too! What shall I do?’ And so on in a fine display, until Willie Winkie points out that a snick or two with a knife or pair of scissors will easily remove the few black specks and not a soul will notice.

  As the two attack the puddings (Wee Willie eating the castoffs) Liza comes back to the stolen cash. ‘Maybe you put it somewhere else? Have you searched?’

  ‘It was in me feckin’ pocket all the time.’

  ‘Well, when did you last set eyes on it?’

  Willie thinks. ‘It would be after Mrs C put a bet on my Black Knight. She was the last punter. I remember taking her shilling and putting it in the pocket of my coat, which I had off at the time, hanging on a chair.’

  ‘At the log house?’

  ‘It was. She gave me a glass of sherry to toast Black Knight’s first ride.’ He stops his work. Drops the knife and looks at Liza. ‘Oh, sweet Jesus!’

  Liza nods sadly. ‘Rose was there?’

  ‘She was. In a mood.’

  ‘Rose.’ Liza snips a charred crumb. ‘That woman can be downright wicked.’

  But hope has lightened Willie Winkie’s gloom. If Rose took the cash then it is retrievable. They say that if you ask her in an offhand kind of way, not making a scene of it, the stolen goods will somehow make their way back to you. It is worth a try. But such a large sum? That is not Rose’s style, surely?

  ‘Oh, I could slap her,’ says Liza darkly. The heaviest violence she can imagine delivering in person. ‘It will be Rose. She has been worse lately. Be careful how you ask, Wee Willie.’

  ‘I will and that. She scares me witless. If it weren’t for Mrs C with her gossip and her drop of sherry I wouldn’t put a foot in the log house. Rose gives me such a black look sometimes that would shrivel your nuts off.’ Scuse the language.’

  ‘She is jealous of you,’ says Liza, who on a good day can show the odd flash of insight. ‘Because of Mrs C — how she dotes on you, Wee Willie Winkie.’

  Willie stands up, showering burnt crumbs on the clean floor. Liza stands too. She reaches down to kiss the top of his head. He touches his brow gently to each of her neat little breasts. For a moment he rests there, nuzzling, then takes both her hands and looks up at her. He is trying a jaunty grin but can’t quite make it.

  ‘And another thing …’ He clears his throat. ‘I would like you to call me Will.’

  Liza begins to smile, then, seeing Willie Winkie’s face, thinks the better of it. ‘Will,’ she says, trying it out slowly. ‘Will. It suits you, Willie Winkie! … Oh!’ And ruins it all by bursting into laughter. ‘No! Sorry, sorry … Will. Will Will Will. I will get used to it!’ She laughs again.

  Willie glowers. ‘It is no laughing matter, Elizabeth Hanratty. For when I get my feckin’ money back and a bit more I’ll be asking to marry you. And you won’t want to be known as Mrs Wee Willie Winkie Scobie, will you?’

  Out he stamps, banging the door, leaving Liza, hands pressed to her heart, her cheeks as pink as the roses on her apron.

  NEXT day Will Scobie is in Miss Amy Jessop’s store looking for a collar stud. The mail has just arrived and Miss Jessop, who is also postmistress, is sorting it. Among the routine letters and newspapers is a small box wrapped in canvas and tied with fine cord. The cord is knotted beautifully at each intersection so the parcel seems to be ensnared in a piece of fishing net. The address, in blunt capitals reads, simply:

  THE LOG HOUSE

  DENNISTON

  WEST COAST OF NEW ZEALAND

  The stamps are Australian, and the postmark from Hobart, Tasmania.

  I’ll take it down with me,’ says Will. ‘Save you a drenching. I am going that way.’

  He knocks at the back door and is both relieved and anxious to hear Bella call him in. Rose cannot be at home.

  ‘Well now, my Wee Winkie,’ says Bella, beaming to see him there, albeit a wet and grave version of the little jockey. ‘I hear our horse came in. That will make us both a tidy penny. Not to mention Black Knight running third. He will be champion yet. Hang up your coat, wee one, and dry out by this fire.’

  Will hangs his coat. Accepts a glass of sherry and a piece of cake. He is uncertain whether to broach the matter of the lost money or to wait for Rose. Meantime, the mysterious parcel serves as a useful diversion.

  Bella takes the little box in her hands. Her breath comes in quick gasps as she touches the knots one by one. She and Willie are seated one each side of the fire. Will watches as the colour drains from her face.

  ‘Oh!’ breathes the old lady. ‘Oh!’ She holds the parcel tightly in her lap and leans back with closed eyes.

  Will thinks she has fainted and runs for her smelling salts, which have been needed on more than one occasion recently. When he returns, though, she is sitting up again, struggling with the tiny knots.

  ‘I cannot bear to cut them!’ she cries. ‘Wee Willie, can your fingers make sense of this puzzle?’

  Will studies the network. Finds an end. His quick fingers undo three knots, which is enough to slide the canvas box out of its snare. Bella smoothes out the rough cloth and examines the wooden box inside. Its lid is carved with twinned dolphins leaping.

  ‘Oh yes, yes. I knew it! Look at that, Willie! And a letter! Read it quick to me. My spectacles are goodness knows where.’

  Will takes the small piece of paper from her shaking hand. It is a short note.

  I have met a sailor today who has worked on the Hill last year. He says Rose came back and you have cared for her all these years. My heart is more glad at this news than a thousand fanfares could trumpet over all the seas. I thought her lost. Th
is small thing is for her. It may show her another world which her true father (that is me) loves. Might be some of my adventuring spirit is lying in wait inside her.

  Dear Bella. I was going to write My Bella but have no right. What use is to say sorry? I have no excuse worth the saying. And thanks are cheap, you know, but I say them anyway. If I had treasure all would be yours. Con.

  ‘That’s all?’ cries Bella.

  Will turns the page for her to see. ‘Nothing more.’

  Bella is desperate for any clue, any further detail of Con’s life — his whereabouts, journeys these past fifteen years, his plans. She makes Will read the note again and again, but there is nothing more. No promise to return, no reason for his disappearance, no hint of another woman in his life.

  There is the gift, though. It lies in the box on a wad of soft white cotton. She lifts it out. It is an ivory cone, about six inches long and heavy in the hand.

  ‘A whale’s tooth,’ says Bella, disappointed. ‘A good-sized one, but dirty. That is nothing special.’

  But Will, crouching beside her, is entranced. ‘No, no, Mrs C, but look! That is not dirt. Oh, what a marvel!’ He takes the tooth and gently turns it this way and that, his eyes dancing over the little treasure. ‘Oh, and see here! This man has travelled the world.’ He jumps to his feet. ‘We must find your spectacles this instant. They will be under the bed, bet you a pound.’

  Bella’s spectacles are indeed under the bed, and her magnifying glass too. Together she and Will study the intricate carvings. This is the finest scrimshaw, oceans and city scenes scratched into the ivory of a sperm whale’s tooth. The marks have been made with the sharpest of points and the scratches dyed with tea. Con has used a light brew at the base of the tooth, where the ivory is whitest, and then dyed the scenes darker and darker as they rise to the creamy brown point. On one side at the hollow base of the tooth is a sailing ship in full rig, a tiny whale spouting beside it. Nearby a dark savage is shaking a spear. Several strange animals climb exotic trees. An elephant carries a fringed tent on its back. Near the apex is a Chinese pagoda, and another beautiful structure, like a tower, wide at the base and drawing in to a point, but airy as lace. And here is a tiny man in a straw hat, beating what looks like a large cylindrical drum; beside him a woman in twirling skirts is clearly dancing. Tying all the scenes together are oceans — tiny meticulous wavelets and rolling breakers. Indian Ocean is scratched at one place, Pacific Ocean at another. Atlantic Ocean and China Sea appear around the other side.

  ‘What things he has seen!’ whispers Will. ‘One day I’ll feckin’ travel the world, see if I don’t.’

  Bella looks at him sharply. ‘There is more to life than drifting around gawping at exotic savages, Willie Winkie. I have seen a few sights, but none is as fine as a good home with family and friends close by.’

  Will is still hypnotised by the tiny scenes. ‘Well, I will have to judge for myself because I have seen no sights further than Westport. And who could make a nice piece of artistry out of that town? Oh, Mrs C, look at that! Is it fruit or flower? And see — an inscription!’

  Carved so small that only a magnifying glass can pick it out are the words To Rose of Tralee, my daughter. Behold the wide world of your father, Conrad V. Bella groans as Will reads the message. ‘Ah, Con!’ she cries. ‘You would tempt her away too? That is …’

  Her voice trails away as they both hear Rose’s light step on the porch. Bella quickly bundles the tooth and its wrapping under balls of wool in her knitting basket. Her eyes are fierce as she turns back to Will.

  ‘This is not the time to show Rose. Who knows what harm it might bring? We will keep this a secret for the time being. Willie, you must promise?’

  Will nods, but already his mind is on his confrontation with Rose.

  Rose

  15 MARCH 1903

  EFFIE SCOTT CAME to school with her leg in a worse state than yesterday. The sores are infected and are spreading, not only up her own leg but to others in the class, I’m sure of it. In the lunch hour I bound the horrid things up and piggy-backed her home. Poor Mrs Scott, thin as a rake and streaming with a nose-cold, said she was grateful for my care but burst into sobs when I insisted Effie must go down to the hospital for treatment.

  ‘Look inside and see for yourself,’ she cried. ‘My Billy is coughing his lungs out and Joan not much better. The baby is the only well person in the family. Mr Scott has been home a week with the bronchitis, and only today back in the mine. How am I going to take a trip down to Westport? I might as well fly to the moon.’

  Well, I could see why she sent Effie to school! Back the two of us went and I let the stoic little girl lie in the little teachers’ room with her leg up and a hot poultice to draw the pus.

  It won’t do, though. We need our own hospital and the way the fundraising is going we won’t have one until the next century. Tonight I went to the Hospital Committee meeting and made a speech! (I have not been invited to join — Henry represents the school, but he is not well these days and often sends me whether they like it or not.)

  I told them about Effie and the Scotts. ‘Cake stalls and penny raffles are all very well,’ I said, fiery as a unionist, ‘but we will never raise the amount unless the Company dobs in. Let us challenge them to match every pound we raise. Or better, two to our one. It is in their interests too. There will be fewer days lost if men are treated on the Hill.’

  I know I make them uncomfortable, but they were behind me on this, which was a welcome change. Quite a few of the men clapped. (Not Tom Hanratty, who is chairman, but Flynn O’Dowd and Tom Cudby senior were behind me. Also Miss Jessop, which was a surprise.) I wanted to lead a delegation but they weren’t having that! But at least I got them moving. Mr Hanratty has lost all his drive these days. He should make way for someone with more energy.

  I will see that hospital built!

  29 MARCH 1903

  Yesterday I visited the mine where Brennan nearly died. They have closed the entrance with old iron and put up a notice, but it is easy to slip past. I was afraid to light a candle because of the gas but found my way to the hollowed space in the wall. Such utter dark! I lay in that warm black place for perhaps an hour — not long enough to be dangerous — and came out again with a light head, no more than that.

  It is dangerous though, in a different way. The peace and the warmth is seductive. I wanted to stay.

  4 APRIL 1903

  I think about Willie Winkie too much. He slinks around inside my head like a rat (Willie the Rat, the Jockey Club calls him — very apt), nosing his way into my thoughts when I am interested in something quite other. Bella wants to know why I dislike him. It’s true — he’s as irritating as grit between your toes. For one thing he is so sure of himself. He was born up here and thinks he knows everything — who is courting whom; which shopkeeper has the cheapest flour; which miner made the best tally; what entertainment is on its way. Why doesn’t he gallop off down below and leave us in peace? He spends half his time in Westport anyway.

  For another thing, he is in our house too much: under our feet like a grinning goblin. Bella wags her finger at me and says I am jealous. Am I jealous? Jealous of what? No, it is the way he plays up to Bella. She doesn’t see he is playing her like a fish. What does he want from her, the nosy little weasel? He sits by her bed, cackling and gossiping like an old woman. First it was the odd visit; now he comes down most days in his dinner-break, and eats our food rather than Hanrattys’. What does Bella see in him? She makes a fuss as if he were her child, getting up from her bed to make him soup or a cheese dish. If I come home in the middle of the day she will not bother, but lets me cut my own slice of bread.

  Well, he deserved to lose his money. Hadn’t he been dining for a month at our expense? At any rate it was only for gambling. There he was, in his shirtsleeves if you please, by the settee, holding Bella’s hand, extolling some horse that would be a good bet and how he would put a bob or two on for Bella if she wanted. Bella’s face all
rosy with the excitement of it. His coat was flung in a heap over a chair, with the pocket gaping. It was the easiest thing in the world to lift out a handful of coin. If I hadn’t been so angry with him, I suppose I might have taken less. I thought at the time that the cocky monkey must have won at the horses because there was a good sum in that pocket — several guineas and half-guineas as well as the silver. I had thought to lift a few shillings to teach him a lesson, but came out with gold coin. Well, all the better, I thought. Let him sweat a bit.

  Oh, the hue and cry that followed! I had to laugh. It turned out his pocket of coin was not his at all, but belonged to several of the lads who trusted Willie Winkie to place bets for them. Back he comes up the Hill, sitting high on Black Knight (which by rights should be mine) but well down in the dumps. They say there was a right old set-to up at Hanrattys’ with the little monkey accused of all sorts, and he insisting someone had picked his pocket.

  Later, there he is again at the log house, with a face as long as pulled toffee. He remembers leaving his coat on our chair, he says, and could he search in case the coins had rolled out. Which he did, while Bella and I watched. At last the boy faced up to me, which was brave, I suppose, and asked the question he’d been thinking of all along.

  ‘Miss — Mrs — I don’t suppose …’

  I waited.

  ‘I don’t suppose you may have …’

  Then Bella, my own Mama, helped him out.

  ‘He’s wondering, my sweetheart, if you might have borrowed a coin or two?’

  She said it in her neutral, flat voice that I have always hated to hear. Usually there is every colour in the sound of her voice — it is one of the things that sets my Bella above the general run of women up here. But her flat voice is cold as winter; it dismembers me. If she had left it to Willie Winkie to ask the question, things might have been different.