Janet, watching at the classroom window, picked up little Conrad, sent the children home and went to find Brennan.
AFTER that day, Rose and Willie the Rat were often together. Comrades in tears, you might say. Rose, who had jealously hoarded Bella’s love, was now, it seemed, quite generous over the sharing of her loss. Will and Rose sat one each side of the bed that first day, each holding a cold, be-ringed hand, each weeping for the loss of this grand old lady. And when Brennan arrived with Marie Sweeney, who would lay her out, Rose and Will stood hand in hand in the next room like brother and sister, silent until it was over and they could return to their dear, dead friend. Brennan smiled his thanks to his small cousin. He had feared this day: the histrionics Rose would surely throw, given her nature and her great love for Bella. But Rose was never one to do the expected. She was sad — deeply sad — but also calm, able and ready to make decisions.
Those who knew Rose best, who had feared a wild disintegration, were amazed.
‘It is you, Bren,’ said Janet. ‘Rose has you and Con, now, to anchor her. Just be sure you don’t feckin’ let her down.’
‘How could I ever?’ smiled Brennan.
He would, though, not three months later.
Rose planned the funeral: a legendary celebration marred only by the sad fact that Bella was not joining in. As you’d expect, the event was unorthodox. True, it was held in a church — the Anglican — but only because Rose liked the piano there and the building could hold a good number. The coffin, precious mahogany, was paid for, so it was said, by Rose herself from her own account. It was draped in a scarlet coat. Military perhaps, or regal. Gold cord adorned the epaulettes; the brass buttons were embossed with some sort of crest; a silver many-pointed star, enamelled in blue, was pinned to the breast. It was a wonder to most of the congregation. Tom and Totty Hanratty had seen it before, once, and so had Brennan and Rose, when they were small children. The day Bella’s only child was born, Con the Brake, the proud father, had worn this coat to introduce the baby to the people of the Camp. The baby lived only a few months and the coat was never explained or seen again. Bella must have kept it all these years.
The vicar’s part in the service was nominal — a prayer at the beginning and a blessing at the end. Henry Stringer, in fine form, gave the funeral oration, sparing none of the details of Bella’s colourful past — her voyage, alone and unmarried, from Ireland to Australia and later to New Zealand; her shipwreck off Stewart Island and subsequent rescue by a rough band of sealers with whom she stayed, by her own choice, sharing their life for several months; her famous saloon in Hokitika in the gold-rush days, and finally her ascent to the Hill — and respectable society — on the arm of Con the Brake: he the first brakesman on the Incline and she the first woman on the Hill. She was the first teacher, too, and one of the best, although she had never received formal schooling herself. She had taken in the Denniston Rose as a destitute child and brought her up as her own. And she had never, in twenty-five years, left the Hill. The congregation gasped and laughed. This was as good as an evening at the theatre. Respectable old Mrs C! Who would have guessed?
Many of the colourful stories had been supplied by Will Scobie, a fact that Rose no longer seemed to resent. Then Rose herself, whom you would expect to weep copiously in the front pew all service, stood to announce in a clear voice that she would play ‘Arabesque’ by Schumann. It was Bella’s favourite, she said with a calm smile. Rose was not in black. Her dress, like the military coat, was scarlet. She wore Bella’s ruby necklace and earrings, and a dark red ostrich feather pinned directly into her curls. Those who might be disposed to disapprove of this vibrant garb were soon silenced by the music. This was no dirge, no swelling romantic outpouring, but light and tripping — more like sunlight on running water. Rose sat at the piano straight-backed, and played the sweet, trilled melody with such clarity, so simply, that everyone in that packed church dreamed of summer flowers in lush fields (which they might never have seen in their lives), or birds dipping into mountain creeks. When she came to the slower final section Rose drew out the aching tenderness until there was not a dry eye, even among tough miners and weathered brakesmen. Oh, that music came from the heart and the soul. How Bella would have wept herself.
Tom Hanratty read from the Bible — a more conventional touch, but then Bella always treasured her respectability — after which the Denniston Brass Band, crowding in the doorway, led everyone in ‘Lead Kindly Light’.
Outside the church, convention took another nose-dive. Brennan Scobie had the band lined up in a guard of honour as the coffin was carried out, shoulder high, by six tall men — Inch Donaldson and Nolly Hanratty, Tom Hanratty, Henry Stringer and two O’Shea boys whom Bella had taught. First Brennan played a fanfare of his own design, high and triumphant. The brassy notes echoed off bare rock and you could imagine high cathedrals, kings and queens and princes in rows. As the notes died away and the coffin was laid in Rusty McGill’s smart trap, the band struck up a jig. A jig! Totty Hanratty laid an arm on bandmaster Cooper’s sleeve to bring his band to order, but he shrugged at her helplessly and continued to beat the lively rhythm. This was Rose’s express desire: to have the coffin led away to the tune of one of Bella’s ‘secret’ dances — a spicy number from Bella’s old saloon days, which Rose and Bella had danced together in the privacy of the log house, kicking up feet and snapping skirts this way and that.
So off jigged the coffin, horses prancing. Rose led the procession, not exactly dancing too, but walking jauntily, little Con on her hip, arm in arm with Brennan, down the dusty street to the log house where the wake was held: a lively party. Every housewife at the Camp and at Denniston brought an example of her best baking; a selection of Denniston Brass members set up stools on the veranda and played old songs and new, hymns and marches. Will Scobie, the sherry gone to his head after two nips, stood on a stool and called for silence.
‘Silence!’ everyone shouts, by now well into their stride. ‘A bit of hush for our Willie the Rat!’
‘Well now,’ says Will, flustered by the sudden silence and the expectant faces. ‘Before we toast our most famous citizen,’ (a few frowns, one or two cleared male throats at this) ‘I have an announcement concerning a fitting memorial to her.’ Will looks over to Rose, who gives the nod. ‘You all know how Mrs C loved a flutter on the horses — and had a good eye for the form …’ (Laughter here. Everyone knew Bella followed Will’s tips slavishly.) ‘Well, there is a pretty little filly come up for sale here on the Coast and Rose and I have formed a partnership to buy her!’
Brennan looks at his wife in amazement. Clearly he has not been party to the discussion. Will catches the look and hurries on before any explosion can mar the moment.
‘So we have negotiated for her. She is to be called Mistress C.’ Willie raises his hands as the cheers begin. ‘Hold your feckin’ horses while I finish! Mistress C. And any winnings will be donated to the hospital fund. So here’s a toast to the real Mrs C and to the success of her namesake!’
A shout of laughter greets this unusual memorial — but fitting when you think about it. Bella, like Rose, has been a strong advocate for a hospital on the Hill. Mistress C and Bella are toasted with raised teacups and glasses. Willie the Rat is generally acknowledged to have his head screwed on sensibly. The horse could well provide funds for the hospital. Tom Hanratty, though, who knows something about the cost of a good thoroughbred, is amazed. Where would that kind of money come from? And how in the name of heaven has tight-fisted Rose been persuaded to part with hard cash?
At last, as the sun sits high over the sea, cart and coffin, this time accompanied more sedately by the Denniston Brass, set off not towards the new road, as everyone has expected, but towards the Incline.
Rose has pleaded with the mine manager, begged the brakesman for this favour. ‘The Incline is the way she arrived. The Incline has always been part of our destiny — hers and mine. It is so right for her to go down that way!’
; And when they demurred: ‘But it is so much more dignified! Quicker, smoother! The horse and cart rattling down the road tips at every corner. Your heart is in your mouth to lose your load.’ Then, in a gentler voice, with her famous smile, ‘Please. Do it for Bella. Do it for us both. It is the old way, which Bella wanted.’
Truth is, Rose wants it. And gets her way. No one realises until it is too late to argue that Rose plans to ride down the Incline with the coffin. No woman has ever ridden with the body in twenty-five years of deaths. And what a sight that is!
The crowd gathers at the top of the Incline as the coffin, draped in its scarlet coat, is strapped across the coal wagon. Henry Stringer climbs aboard, trembling a little, then Brennan and Will Scobie. Everyone watches Rose to see if she will break, will howl and reach for her beloved and have to be restrained, as have so many women when they watch their dead disappear down that fearsome slope. But Rose passes her baby to Janet, accepts Will’s helping hand, and climbs aboard at the last minute, nimble as any miner. She must have squared it with the brakesman because he sets them off without a murmur. Down they go, slower than a load of coal but still fast enough to bring your stomach up into your throat just watching. Rose stands, feet set wide, one hand gripping the iron of the wagon, the other braced against her Bella’s coffin. Somewhere on the way her red ostrich feather floats free and drifts away into the bush. But the mourners, left behind up at the Brakehead, can see that other splash of colour — Rose and Bella — all the way down to Middle Brake.
ROSE sings when the coffin is finally laid in the graveyard at Waimangaroa. ‘The Mountains of Home’ she sings, with the sound of sea clashing on shingle as accompaniment — a sound for which Bella had yearned all her years on the Hill.
Then Brennan plays ‘Abide with Me’ and Rose cries at last. She returns, though, readily enough, that same evening, back to the Hill.
A Mother’s Expectations
A MONTH LATER Brennan’s weekly letter from his mother carries news of another death — and a new opportunity.
26 The Terrace
Wellington
12 May 1905
Dear Brennan,
My dear, there is sad news that will not be entirely unexpected. Your father has passed away. As you know he has been troubled in health these past two years and two days ago the end came, peacefully, in his bed. There is no doubt in my mind that his years underground contributed to his final illness. I do not expect you to come to Wellington, son. The funeral will be over by the time you receive this letter, and your brother Andrew will be here to represent Josiah’s children. The Premier himself has agreed to attend, which is a great honour!
Your father has been a fine battler all his life and achieved much. From humble hewer of coal to respected administrator. He has influenced many of Premier Seddon’s reforms, especially better conditions for workers and setting up the Arbitration Court. You must know how proud I was of him. And of my sons! Now it is up to you and your brothers to carry on the Scobie name with honour. I know you will all achieve highly in your allotted careers.
On that front I have some news for you of a good position in Christchurch, but will write soon when the funeral is over.
These are sad times but even in death new paths are opened. I have long thought myself of moving to Christchurch, which is such a vibrant community compared to Wellington. There are hints of some task for me there too. The Temperance Movement is very active in Christchurch and there may well be an opening for someone with my connections. We will see.
Take heart that your father will be farewelled in style. I will be thinking of you and Rosser on that sad day (Tuesday 14th).
I will write again after the funeral and send you further details of the Christchurch position, but thought I had better warn you at once in case a proposal comes to you in the next day or two.
Your loving mother,
Mary Scobie (Mrs)
Burnett’s Face
18 May
Dear Mother,
All last Tuesday I thought about Dad and his funeral so far away. It may not seem that I was close to him, especially these last few years when family and work have kept me occupied. But I loved him — he was a straight and stern man, whose strong beliefs I admired. Also of course his love of music. Rose also sends her condolences. She was shocked by his death, so soon after her mother’s, and wants you to know that she has always admired Josiah Scobie.
To be frank, Mother, I was saddened that you were not more urgent with the news of his death. A telegram would have allowed me time to attend the funeral. Denniston is not the end of the world. Was my presence, perhaps, not so important to you as that of Wellington dignitaries? Or my more successful brothers? I will not dwell on this again, but Rose felt I should mention it, since I feel so strongly. I would so like to have been there, and so by the way would Arnold. You have a bridge to mend there, I’m afraid.
I have heard nothing about a position in Christchurch. The rope-road is now in operation and I have only a few details to finish off, so it is true that I am looking for a new challenge, but I’m afraid Christchurch would be out of the question. Rose is very attached to Denniston.
Rose has let Bella’s log house for a small but welcome rental. It turns out she is quite a businesswoman and has shares in the Company as well as other savings. You would be impressed. We still live in our Burnett’s Face cottage, which is already cramped. It will not do after the new baby is born.
Janet and Arnold and their family are well. So is Rose and little Conrad. I admit to feeling a little lacking in spirit these days, but will pick up soon, no doubt.
Your loving son,
Brennan
69 Colombo Street
Christchurch
6 July 1905
Dear Brennan,
I cannot begin to tell you how stimulating a city Christchurch is! Already I belong to four groups, one of them the University Women (even though I have never set foot in a university!). The ladies had heard of my work in Wellington and invited me to join. I am sure your Rose would feel at home here and of course with the expansion of roads and railways you would soon rise in your own career.
Rosser is doing splendidly here in Christchurch. There is talk of a partnership in a few years if he continues with his present success. His reputation at the bar is growing. Clearly he has his father’s skill as an orator! Andrew has stayed in Wellington, with his wife. He will make a career in politics, that is clear. Not as a politician, but in the administration, which is more secure and, to be honest, more influential.
Now to you and your future, my dearest son. Surely with Mrs Rasmussen sadly gone, your Rose will not be tied to life on Denniston. Janet tells me the new rope-road is in operation and a great success. It must be clear to you that now is the moment to move on. There cannot be a worthy career to be made for a promising engineer in that small community.
You have written of Rose’s attachment to the Hill. That is natural, given she has never tasted the excitement and challenge of a larger city. I have no doubt Rose will blossom, and her many talents come to the fore when she is confronted with new friends and a more educated society. You have done wonders with her, and I am sure she will make you a fine wife as you proceed up the ladder, but it would be a mistake to let her feel she can dominate your life. The husband’s career is paramount.
As to your prospects, I have heard of an opening in Greymouth that would be an ideal entrée into a respected firm. Answorth and Jolly of Christchurch are opening an agency in Greymouth and would welcome your application for the position. You would be in charge of an office of three — small, but highly reputable: a good starting point. Also — what a stroke of luck! — Mr Stoke, bandmaster in Greymouth, has retired and they will offer you the position if you go to Greymouth! Your own band — and a champion one at that! Mrs Forsythe, who leads the Temperance Society there (and is a good acquaintance of mine), says her husband who is chairman of the Band Committee knows of you and would propose your na
me. It is as good as done!
Brennan, you must take this opportunity. Greymouth is not too far from Denniston. You can wean your wife away from her attachment in slow stages. A year or two more on the Coast and then the bright lights of Christchurch! I am just the person to introduce her to several of my committees where her energy and capability can be channelled usefully.
Mr Answorth has kindly shown me his letter offering you the position. The terms are very fair, Brennan. Do not delay in accepting.
Rosser and Faith send their kind wishes and say they look forward to the day when we will all live in this bustling city.
Your loving mother,
Mary Scobie (Mrs)
P.S. I have met a charming widow at our temperance branch meeting, a Mrs Maisie Jones, with whom you boarded here. She recognised my name and introduced herself. Do you remember her? A pretty soul with fair ringlets and an extraordinarily creamy complexion. Her parents own the large drapery — Forbes’ Emporium — in High Street and she says she is to be proprietress of their new branch in Manchester Street. Clearly a capable woman, though without a husband, I gather. She asked me very prettily to send you her congratulations on the birth of your son and her best regards to you and Rose.
Fights and Fanfares
THE ARGUMENT WAS famous. Rose and Brennan were usually such easy friends, which made the force of the words, bouncing off the close-packed houses of Burnett’s Face, the more shocking. At one stage Janet Scobie dared to push open the door of the racketing little cottage, thinking to rescue the screaming Conrad.
Heart of Coal Page 20
