But Janet has food to prepare for her hungry tribe and the copper to boil, and hopes that Rose has some of the same tasks in mind.
ROSE, warned perhaps by Janet’s words, more likely acting out of her own need to be loved, entered community life at Burnett’s Face with a gusto that earned her immediate popularity. The near escape from death helped, of course. But most of the mining families had to admit the strange lass herself brightened things up a bit. That dank and grimy settlement was proud, it seemed, to have its own peacock. Notorious Rose Rasmussen was, after all, a living institution on the Hill, who arrived, it was said, at four years old, riding the Incline in a storm as if it were some picnic; who killed a man when not much older — though that story was more legend than truth, if Bella was to be believed. There were few left at Burnett’s Face who remembered the curse laid on her family, and those who did argued that if the son of the Scobie who laid the curse was now married to her, surely those old beefs were good and buried. Also look at how Janet Scobie welcomed her! The two were thick as thieves, both teachers at the school. The way the mining children progressed in leaps and bounds under these two had given the whole community a boost. This year, in a competition organised by Rose, the Burnett’s Face pupils wiped the floor with their rivals at Denniston, in spelling, in arithmetic and even rivers of New Zealand. History and football were another matter, but Janet and Rose were working on that for next year.
Rose loved every grimy inch of the place: its clank and rattle, the crowded houses, the dark mine entrances that swallowed the men in the morning and spewed them out, black-faced and joking, at night. In the evenings she joined in the games of cards in crowded kitchens, the political arguments, the songs. Brennan’s two-room cottage, crammed into a ferny bank behind the other Scobies, got no sun all year round, but it had the piano, Brennan’s wedding present to her, carted precariously by Nolly Hanratty all the way up the new road, with Brennan cursing and sweating on the tray as the ropes strained at every bend. Now proudly ensconced in the kitchen cum living room of the little house, the piano — and the player — brought in the crowds on a Saturday evening. Rose knew all the songs you ever thought of, and many you hadn’t, learned from her mother, Bella. Some of the stricter chapel folk thought the old ditties and shanties went a mile too far from what was proper, but most stamped and called for more. Brennan, proud as punch of his clever wife, and no slouch at the music himself, followed along on cornet, adding a hymn or two from time to time to keep the God-fearing on side.
Rose must have conceived in the first month of marriage. Now, eight months pregnant, she carries the child like a flag. No corsets or sombre colours for her, nor loose flowing smocks. She wears green and russet, deep midnight blue (creams and pinks are out of the question in this town where coal crackles underfoot wherever you go), letting the material stretch taut over her belly for all to see what is growing there. Rose is magnificent: there is no other word for it. Her curls have darkened a little to the colour of rich butterscotch; her strong face glows with health; she is interested in all the aspects of mining, and involved in every community activity. There has been not one instance of stealing laid at her door.
Janet Scobie is proud of her new cousin. ‘Isn’t she just the feckin’ bees knees?’ she says. ‘Rose was too strong for the Denniston folk: they couldn’t cope with such quality goods. This is where she belongs, in the real nitty gritty of life. Isn’t it just so?’
The others nod and grin. Janet’s opinion is widely shared around Burnett’s Face.
THERE goes Rose, the school day over, striding out, belly all a-bounce, to see how Brennan is doing with the new rope-road.
‘Brennan!’ she calls as soon as she is within earshot. ‘Listen to this idea!’ Her arms are circling wildly, illustrating some theory he can’t possibly follow at such a distance.
Brennan straightens from his levelling tool. He is supervising the actual laying of the railway lines now, up to his ankles in mud. Between him and his wife is a minefield of wooden sleepers, iron pins and shingle heaps.
‘Rose, wait!’ he calls. ‘I’ll come over.’
In his haste to protect Rose he stumbles himself and comes a painful cropper. Rose laughs and picks her way towards him, a good foot of her skirt muddied and sodden. She offers a hand to her cursing husband and brushes him down.
‘Listen, listen, Bren, think about this!’
Bren smiles at her. Where does all her energy come from? Any other mother-to-be would be sitting quietly at home with her feet up, sewing small things or sleeping. ‘And good afternoon to you too, Rose,’ he laughs. ‘Has your day progressed well?’
Rose taps him on the cheek. ‘Don’t make fun of me — this is important. There was an accident at the yards that gave me an idea.’ Rose pulls at his shoulders to draw his attention. ‘No, listen, Bren! At school I was watching out the window while the children were copying their letters. I could see young Ned Farmer and Johnny Mitchell — you know them?’
‘The two clippies? I know them. Cheeky lads.’
‘Well, Ned got his hand caught. I saw it happen! He was pulled along a good chain, screeching blue murder, till Johnny got him free by yanking the rope up out of its socket. That put a cut deep in his hand. Janet and I went running out to help. Janet stitched up Johnny’s hand but Ned’s lost a finger, if not two. We had to load him onto an empty and send him down to the Bins.’
‘You didn’t ride with him, did you?’ Brennan is aghast at the thought.
‘No, Joseph Hayman went. But Bren, it’s so dangerous!’
‘Riding the boxes?’
‘That too, with the rope jumping out of the socket as soon as you look at it, but no, I mean the clipping. That’s the third time I’ve seen a clippie get hurt in just one year.’
A sharp skitter of wind whips their faces. Rose shivers. She has come without a coat. Brennan puts an arm around her. ‘Come on, my sweetheart, let’s get you home.’
Rose shrugs away. ‘But listen to my idea!’
Brennan laughs out loud. ‘Rose, you are like an avalanche, carrying all before you. Hold your horses, then, while I just see to the men.’ Brennan shouts orders to his gang, hooks an arm through hers and heads for Burnett’s Face. ‘Tell me while we walk. You are chilled to the bone.’
As they pick their way back through the debris, Rose’s free arm draws shapes in the air. She outlines a new way of securing the boxes of coal to the moving rope. A hook on the box, she suggests, like the ones on the Incline wagons, only smaller. A chain with a ring that will hook onto the box and then wrap around the moving rope.
‘I saw a lad playing on the rope-road last week, with a homemade bogey. He hooked onto the rope by wrapping a chain. Then unwrapped when he wanted to stop. He was clever and quick.’
Bren nods as he walks. Despite his concern for Rose, he’s interested. The idea could work. ‘A box held like that might not jump off at the turns so much.’
‘Exactly! And think of this: you could load the boxes higher. If the rope doesn’t have to sit into the notch on the top of the box, you could mound up the coal! Speed up production. Think of it, Brennan — your new rope-road could carry twice the tonnage of the old one!’
‘But would it be safer for the clippies?’
‘Probably.’
Brennan wonders whether safety is as important to Rose as increased production. She should be a mine manager or an engineer. She could be anything, he realises. Sometimes he is a little frightened by her capability, but mostly he is insanely proud. And so he should be. Everyone says that Brennan has been exactly the right medicine for Rose. Getting her away from the Camp, from the suffocating Bella, from the hurt eyes of the Hanrattys, has been a master-stroke, and all down to Brennan.
As they walk and chatter, arm in arm, Brennan wonders — but with little hope — whether his clever wife has remembered about the need to eat.
TWICE a week, once for Sunday lunch and again on any midweek afternoon with suitable weather, Rose goes t
o the Camp to visit Bella. On Sundays Brennan comes too, though for some reason he finds it uncomfortable. Rose is different there. Some underlying tension, which he can’t understand, thickens the air. Bella is delighted to see them. She always cooks something special, even though the effort clearly tires her. She exclaims at Rose’s robust good health, strokes the bulging belly with love, and never fails to give Brennan a sly wink, implying that they are partners in the success story of the baby. This annoys Brennan. Loving is a private thing between him and Rose, not to be shared in any way with Bella. And if forced to discuss the matter he would have to admit that all is not perfect in that department. Several times, when Rose has been brimming with excitement and life (and love, you would have to think), Brennan has reached out to hug her, only to be shocked by her reaction. The laughing, lively face has set like concrete and she has pushed away his arms abruptly. With force. Mostly, now, he has learned to control himself, but sometimes the holding back drives him crazy.
On the visits to the log house Rose is often restless. She walks through the rooms, picking up small things, examining papers, smoothing bedclothes. In the kitchen she stacks away the food she has prepared for Bella for the coming week; is sharp if she discovers some of last week’s supply uneaten.
‘You are not eating, Bella! Here is the whole jar of meat paste untouched. And half of the cake!’
‘Oho, look at me!’ wheezes Bella. ‘And tell me am I eating or not!’ Indeed, she has grown fat and puffy, and now walks with great difficulty. ‘My gentlemen take good care of me, never you mind.’
Bella’s ‘gentlemen’ now include Will Scobie, who has taken up permanent residence in Rose’s old room. On Sundays Will is not at the log house but back at Burnett’s Face with his family, and Brennan is heartily glad of it. Rose and the little stablehand do not get on. Brennan had hoped that his cousin’s presence at the log house would calm Rose’s anxiety about her mother, that Will would bring regular news to Burnett’s Face on his frequent rides in that direction. News he brings, but Rose is never pleased to hear it from that quarter.
‘What does he know?’ she mutters, if Janet reports that Bella seems to be improving. Or ‘Tell him to leave her be!’ if the news is that Will has helped her outside to take the sun.
Once, only once, Brennan tackled her on the matter of her prejudice. They were sitting in their own little home, warm and peaceful, on either side of the coal range. Rose had read out a piece from an old newspaper that made him laugh — an account, bristling with hyperbole, of a new double bill playing down in Westport, performed by Pollard’s Lilliputian Opera Company.
‘Perhaps Will should try out for it,’ said Brennan with a grin. ‘He can imitate any voice you like, and pass himself for a young one.’
‘And good riddance to him,’ said Rose. ‘The weasel.’
‘Well, Rose, that’s uncalled for. My wee cousin is a good enough lad. Good to your mother, at least.’
Rose’s strong eyebrows lowered; she glared at Brennan from under them. ‘You’re so naïve, Brennan! Can’t you see he is worming his way into her affections?’
‘He genuinely likes her, surely? And vice-versa.’
‘More fool her! She is blind to his scheming ways.’
‘What schemes? Rose, it is you who is blind.’
‘He is hoping for some inheritance. Taking advantage. Oh, I am on to the little rat!’
Brennan was alarmed by her vehemence. But his own stubborn streak could not let the argument go. ‘Rose, Rose, what inheritance? You mother has little or no money. The house will be yours, everyone knows that. You are letting simple jealousy cloud your judgement.’
The slap of Rose’s open palms hitting the table cracked like gunshot. She pushed her heavy body upwards and lurched around to tower over Brennan. For a moment he thought she would hit him too. ‘I might have known,’ she shouted, ‘that you would take your family’s side against mine! What about loyalty to me?’
Brennan was shocked. He stood too, and reached out to hold her. She flung his arms away as if she were pushing back an assailant, not a lover. They stood there, face to face, breathing hard. Brennan had no idea what to do next. Quarrels had not been part of their repertoire at all.
Suddenly Rose regained control. ‘Well,’ she said quietly, ‘that’s what I think.’ And sat down.
Brennan watched her for some time. Rose looked away, solid as granite. Waiting for what?
‘Shall I fill a kettle?’ asked Brennan at last, uncertain of what would come next.
Nothing came next. Rose nodded, smiling up at him, sunny and open as if the flare-up had never happened. They drank tea, read some more and went to bed.
Will Scobie was never mentioned again.
Staying and Leaving
EVERY EVENING BELLA Rasmussen prays — to no deity in particular — that her health will hold up until the baby is born (and a little after, if possible). She can feel her body functions faltering, the slow creep of something shadowy and sad. There is no particular pain — no more than the usual — but a certain faint nausea. A heaviness, too — not just in her walking but in her spirit — that frightens her. She fears dying alone. Often these days she thinks of Con the Brake and wishes, without any hope at all, that he would come back. Sometimes, when Will is at home of an evening (not often) and the other gentlemen have gone to their rooms, she asks Will to fetch the fabulous carved whale’s tooth and together they make up stories of Con’s life. Narrow escapes from death, huge storms at sea, whales that run amok and smash the little whaling boats. Will loves these evenings and is as nimble as she at inventing miraculous adventures.
On one of these evenings the little jockey asks Bella if he might bring Beth down to see the treasure.
‘Beth?’ says Bella. ‘Is there some new arrival on the Hill I’ve not heard about?’
Will grins at her, cocky and proud. ‘That is Liza Hanratty, who is my sweetheart. She says if I can feckin’ change my name so can she. Liza is too common for my girl. To start with we tried Elizabeth but it wouldn’t catch on. Don’t you think Beth suits her, Mrs C? Her gentle spirit?’
Bella keeps her astonishment to herself. She knew this favourite boarder of hers had his eye on someone — but that lanky Liza Hanratty? She has always considered the girl a poor sort of fish, lacking any flavour in her spirit, either gentle or fierce. But Will clearly thinks otherwise, standing tall as he can in front of the fire, cheerful as a sparrow this evening in good dark suit and smart yellow waistcoat. These days Willie the Rat is a celebrated jockey on the Hill and at the Westport Jockey Club. His own horse, Black Knight, has won good money on the Coast. And there is talk of horse and rider making the trip to Sydney next season.
Will is waiting for his answer. ‘Can I bring Beth down then? She does love anything with a bit of artistry to it.’ He winks. ‘But you would have to keep our secret. It is not public knowledge. Nor won’t be till I have a big enough stash put away that her dad will not laugh.’ He clears his throat. ‘At so small a suitor.’
Bella sighs. Beth’s father Tom Hanratty laughs at very little these days. He seems to have lost the appetite for his businesses. Some of his regular customers have drifted over to Rusty McGill’s new saloon, where the atmosphere is more cheerful. Bella doubts whether a betrothal to a Scobie, and an undersized one at that, will be Tom or Totty Hanratty’s dream for their sole precious daughter.
She turns the glowing whale’s tooth in her hands, loving the smooth silkiness. In the months since its arrival it has darkened in colour, taking oil from her own hands; the images have darkened too. She knows them all by heart. Sometimes she will sit by the fire for hours, holding the lovely rich thing, dreaming of her past life — the countries and oceans she herself has seen, and will never see again. Twenty-four years she has lived on the Hill. Bella knows she will never go down now, until they carry her in a coffin.
Will Scobie is watching her, head on one side. Understanding her thoughts, perhaps. She is grateful for his comp
any, this chirpy cricket of a lad. He can always cheer up these empty days.
She hands the scrimshaw tooth to Will with a smile. ‘Well now, you can bring your Liza — your Beth — down to see it, but not yet. First I must introduce Rose to her father’s gift. Already I have waited longer than I should. Put it away now, Will.’
Will, dreaming no doubt of his sweetheart, carries the treasure in its box into his own room, not Bella’s. He climbs on a stool to hide it in his own wardrobe. This is a mistake he will later regret.
TWO days later Rose, very pregnant, and lacking any offer of transport, walks the two miles from Burnett’s Face to visit her mother. She arrives hot and heavy, to plump down on a chair, knees splayed like a man, head hanging down to drip sweat on the floor. She is all ungainly lumps and angles but still manages to exude — along with her usual rude good health — a glowing beauty that has more men than her husband dreaming of her. She arches her back to relieve the strain, then raises both arms to pull the mass of curls away from her raging face. The energy Rose brings into the room is palpable.
‘Oh, you wicked girl!’ cries Bella, delighted. ‘And you have carried down my groceries! You will bring on the baby before its time!’
‘It cannot come soon enough.’ Rose laughs and then clutches her belly with a groan. ‘Oh, feel the wretch kick, Mama! Surely he wants to come out this minute. Come on, come on then!’ She drums with both hands at the bulge.
Bella screams at her to stop. ‘Rose, Rose, you are the wildest mother-to-be I have come across.’ But she is laughing too. ‘Now sit down this minute and be still. I have something to show you, and to tell you. No, no …’ as Rose goes to the kitchen to make tea, ‘no my sweetheart, come and sit here by me. I must get this off my chest as I have not been quite open with you.’
Rose, curious, sits while Bella tells her of the gift. When she hears it is from Con, the brake-man who people say was her real father, she is uneasy. ‘Why? What does he want? Mama, what are you hiding?’
Heart of Coal Page 17
