As if betrothal isn’t enough to send Will skywards, he and Black Knight have been selected to join a group of New Zealand thoroughbreds crossing the Tasman to compete in the Sydney Cup and other Australian races. This is a serious honour (and a serious business commitment). Willie the Rat now has friends in Westport willing to back him, and plenty on the Hill wanting a taste of his good fortune.
The pending voyage has given Henry Stringer an idea.
Early one morning, before the children arrive, he is writing up tasks on the blackboard. Through the chilly mist he sees Will Scobie trotting past on Black Knight. He runs to the door.
‘Will! Willie the Rat! Pull up a moment! I want a word.’
Will waves a blue hand and shouts back. ‘Let me finish my run, Mr Stringer. I must get this precious fellow back to his warm stable. And Beth — you know we are to wed?’
‘I believe I heard it, yes. About twenty times from your own lips.’
‘Ah, well.’ Will pulls his horse into a prancing circle in the schoolyard. ‘My Beth will have some warm breakfast for me. Can we both step up to your house tonight?’
‘You can, and welcome.’
‘Make sure your fire is on. Beth feels the cold.’
‘Get away with you, you cocky monkey!’ Henry grins as he flaps at horse and rider. ‘What Denniston house lacks a fire this time of year?’
‘Yours, so I hear. You are prone to forget.’
And off he rides, leaving Henry shaking his head at the chirpy fellow, but looking forward, all the same, to a cheerful evening.
THAT evening the pair arrive hand in hand. Will, who sports a green waistcoat under his coat, and a green cap to match — very classy for Denniston — ushers Beth into Henry’s tiny front room as if she is visiting royalty, settles her in Henry’s chair, and perches on the arm. Henry casts around the room for a second chair, sweeps books and papers aside and sits too. The fire is lit; Henry has remembered that at least, and a pot of tea sits on the hob. Whisky for the men is already poured. Henry tries not to remember past evenings when Michael and Brennan and Rose would all call for a nightcap. This is the first time in years he has invited anyone home.
‘Well now, Liza,’ he says. ‘A mug of tea?’
‘Beth,’ Will corrects him, sipping at his whisky before he has been invited.
Henry lifts his own glass and regards the little jockey sternly. ‘Wee Willie, I have taught you and Liza both from little children and no doubt when you have grown into your new adult names I will learn to call you by them. Meanwhile, let us enjoy our evening in peace.’
Beth looks down at her hands in dismay, but nothing daunts Will Scobie these days. He grins. ‘Oh dear, I have feckin’ overstepped the mark here. Sorry, Mr S. Me and Beth are doing our best to grow up, aren’t we, sweetheart?’ He winks at his girl, who looks up to him with something like adoration.
Henry finds it all a bit much. He lights a pipe, accepts a piece of tea-cake, which Beth has wisely provided. There is an awkward silence.
‘Your parents are well?’ asks Henry of Beth. ‘Settling in to Westport?’
She nods. Will rescues the conversation with a lively description of the Hanrattys’ guest house, now reconstructed near the river and the railway station at Westport and beginning to pull in customers. Half of Denniston had come to watch the move: three carts piled high with the timbers, the doors and windows and the roof iron of Hanrattys’ famous guest house. At the first hairpin bend a poorly secured window had come loose and slid over the edge, rolling spectacularly end-over-end down the hillside, showering glass into the air and finally smashing back onto the road hundreds of feet below. But after more ropes were brought and the ungainly cargo resecured, the horses inched their way successfully around the other hairpins and the whole cavalcade arrived safely at sea level. Two weeks later the furniture and fittings made the same journey and Hanrattys’ (of Westport) was resurrected.
Henry is pleased to hear that Tom and Totty are finding a new life, but disturbed that a trend may have started. This week two children have reported that they will leave school in the summer. Their parents are planning to move house and chattels down to Waimangaroa ‘like the Hanrattys’.
‘I’m pleased to see you and Liza — Beth — are planning to stay?’ It is more question than statement. ‘All this fancy trotting overseas is not making you restless?’
Henry is finally getting around to the business of the evening.
‘Will, when you head for Australia with Black Knight do you leave by Westport?’
Will sits up proudly. ‘We do. To Wellington, and then, with the other three thoroughbreds, to New South Wales.’
It is like the other side of the world to all three, and Henry would love to discourse on that colony’s problems and politics, but he sticks to his purpose.
‘Is it possible to leave a day or two early and visit Greymouth on your way?’
Will frowns. ‘Greymouth? But why?’
‘Have you forgotten your promise to Rose to visit her?’
Willie the Rat looks down at his Beth. ‘I have another lady to take care of now, Mr S. Besides, Greymouth is a deal further south.’
‘You could stable Black Knight with Mr Lamb and take the coach.’
Will cocks his head to one side and squints at his former teacher. ‘You have the detail planned, I see. What is behind all this?’
‘She writes of being unhappy. Lonely.’
Beth speaks up. ‘We all get those letters, Mr Stringer. But she must surely take pleasure in her husband and children.’
‘And our Bren,’ says Will, ‘must be the best tonic for her, don’t you think?’
Henry sighs. He is getting nowhere. ‘I feel it is something deeper. She seems desperate for contact with the Hill. Could you not take the time? You would cheer her up, no doubt of it.’
But Will, whose itinerary is planned to the last detail already, is not interested in detours.
‘I tell you what,’ he says, ‘why don’t you visit her yourself in the spring holidays? You would cheer her up more than anyone.’
Henry pours more whisky. ‘Perhaps I will, perhaps I will.’ He is satisfied that at least he has made some effort.
As Beth and Will walk together back down the road into Denniston, Will tells her his secret plan, which is much more exciting than any visit to Greymouth.
In Australia he will try to make contact with the carver of the fabulous whale’s tooth. If the man is a sailor, perhaps he will be in and out of Sydney harbour? From all Bella’s chatter he has a picture of the big man called Con the Brake or Big Snow, and surely an artist so skilled will be well known among Australian sailors. What a triumph if he could bring back Rose’s long-lost father!
A Helping Hand
69 Colombo Street
Christchurch
24 February 1906
My Dear Brennan,
I am so sorry to hear that Rose has not been well. Childbirth may be the culprit here — it can drain the spirit, though Janet said Rose took to birthing very readily with the first one.
My suggestion is a good tonic (cod-liver oil and treacle should do the trick) and a brisk walk each day. Perhaps you can arrange for someone to mind the children for an hour or two while Rose gets out and about. Rose has a good basic constitution and will rally, I am sure. We mothers soon learn to cope with the trials of childbirth and babies!
Mrs Forsythe writes that everyone is delighted with the band’s progress under your baton. Bravo. I am determined to come over for a visit, maybe at the time of the competitions. This might give me a chance to take Rose in hand. I am sure Mrs Forsythe will introduce her to interesting society, which is what Rose needs. Since your work will naturally be keeping you very busy (Mr Answorth is pleased with the contracts you have won and is thinking of promotion for you) Rose may feel the need for the kind of stimulation I can give her.
I have been making enquiries here in Christchurch and know of a good possibility for further promotion f
or you, should Mr Answorth not move you up shortly. Someone of your talents will best be appreciated in this city, I feel. I will certainly keep you posted as to progress in this area.
Meanwhile, I look forward to seeing little Alice. What a quaint name! It is more usual to name a girl after one of her grandmothers — but you have heard my views on this. Rose was never one for conventions.
Well, son, call on me at any time if you have need. Rosser and Faith have a nanny and a girl in the house so I am not so needed in that department. And to be honest, I am tiring a little of my work here. The Temperance Committee in Christchurch can be a little irksome. There is a rather outrageous bohemian group, and one or two very straight-laced Presbyterians. Friction is not uncommon. I am thinking of taking up other causes. But family first. Rose must be brought out of herself.
Do write when you can. Or encourage Rose to write. A lively exchange of letters with me might be just the tonic she needs!
A kiss to little Conrad and of course to Alice too. Girls are so precious!
Your loving mother,
Mary Scobie (Mrs)
Old Scars
BRENNAN HAS HIGH hopes of his aunt’s visit. Surely Janet Scobie will pull Rose out of her melancholy. Here she steps, down off the coach, brimming with energy. Janet is full of the sights on the trip down, the river crossings, the rocky coastline, the bush that towered and dripped over them. She even enjoyed the drama of the mudslide that had bogged them down for an hour. Brennan’s heart lifts to hear her chatter. This is what Rose needs! Janet describes the mayhem two miles back when the men dug out the tilting carriage and the horses, up to their knees in mud, strained to no avail.
‘And look at me, I’m no feckin’ better than the horses,’ she grins, slapping at her muddy skirt and boots. ‘I hope Rose has a tin of water on the boil, Brenny-boy, and a pot of tea. I am famished.’ Janet turns to shout up at the coachman, who is slinging down cases and boxes. ‘Mr Mauger! Take care with my bag, man! There is a good pound cake inside which I have held off eating through all our delays. I will not take kindly to its destruction at this late stage!’
The coachman laughs and hands it down to Brennan with a wink. ‘There’s a character if ever! She has kept us all entertained with her jokes and little songs. And stepped down willingly enough to lighten the load when the other women would not think of it. You will have a merry evening, I’m picking, sir.’
Brennan hopes so. He has come directly from his office to meet Janet, and fears what the two of them will find at home.
‘Janet, she has not been herself at all,’ he warns as they lean into the wind, which blows, sticky with salt, off a wild sea. ‘You may be shocked at the state of …’ He shrugs, unable to find the words, ‘of everything.’
Janet pauses in this street, which to her Denniston eyes is vastly wide. She grins at him. ‘Now then, cousin, no more long faces. We women are up and down — I have seen it all before. Never fear. Rose will be laughing soon enough, pound to a penny.’
But this time she is wrong. Janet is indeed shocked at the untidy state of the house; at Rose’s unkempt hair, the usually bright curls hanging heavy with dirt; at the unwashed and listless children.
Rose herself seems to rally. Her face lights to see Janet; her embrace, though more of a desperate clinging, is warm and welcoming. Brennan is relieved to see the range is lit and the kettle boiling. For a while the three sit over Janet’s cake while the children, mercifully diverted by the newcomer, are quiet. Janet recounts news of changes and happenings on the Hill. Rose smiles and nods. At first she asks questions but gradually she sinks back into the lethargy that Brennan so dreads.
Finally the silence drags even lively Janet down. She stands to look down at Rose. ‘This will not do, my sweetheart. I am muddy and famished, the children need attention, your husband is home and ready for his tea. Let us both set about and see to matters.’
Rose nods and rises without looking at her friend. She takes up little Alice, who clearly needs a fresh napkin, and leaves the room. Janet is dismayed to see tears. She looks over to Brennan and catches his look of intense irritation.
‘Oh, dearie dear,’ she murmurs. ‘We have a right feckin’ mess on our hands here. Is it always this bad?’
Brennan nods. ‘I have done what I can. She makes no effort.’
Janet gives Brennan a sharp look. The condemnation in his voice is not expected. She remembers the couple’s happiness on the Hill. His adoration of Rose, and his pride in her. ‘It was your choice to come down here, my boy. You must take some responsibility now.’
‘Oh!’ Brennan lowers his head onto his hands. It is a gesture of despair. Janet, looking down, notices that his collar is dirty and his jacket in need of a mend. Brennan seems to have lost his way too. ‘Janet,’ he whispers, ‘please don’t blame me. This place has ample opportunity for Rose. Ample! She turns away those who would be friends. She is no help in my career, and neglects my children. She takes pleasure in nothing. I sometimes think it is sheer wilfulness to get her own way and return to the Hill.’
Rose has entered the room and stands listening in the doorway. Janet places a hand on Brennan’s shoulder to silence him. She sighs. The trip has been a long one, her back is aching and it seems the day is far from over. The muddy skirt will have to wait.
‘Dinner,’ she says to Rose, who nods and follows her like a lost puppy. As the two women peel potatoes and slice cabbage Brennan reads young Con a story. From time to time Rose looks up from her scraping and smiles at Janet. Janet has seen that fragile bright smile before — when the child Rose was trying too hard to please.
‘Take me back with you,’ says Rose quietly, and places a peeled potato in Janet’s hand, as if it were a precious gift. The bright smile again.
Janet smiles back but says nothing. It is not her place to break up a family. She has a sudden memory of the night of Conrad’s birth. Of the old scars breaking and bleeding around the emerging baby’s head. Of Rose’s wild behaviour. Something is unexplained here. Some damage, perhaps. Janet suspects that Michael Hanratty mistreated her in some monstrous way and wonders whether Brennan is aware of this. And hadn’t there been a rumour about Rose’s childhood — back at the time of the first strike? But how could you begin to talk about such a matter? And how heal such damage? Janet looks from one to the other: both look exhausted. It is hard to believe such a change in a few short months.
The next few days are no better. Rose lets Janet clean and cook and care for the children. Janet begins to feel some sympathy with Brennan’s irritation. On the second morning, desperate to escape for a while the fog of sadness inside the little house, Janet walks with Brennan down past the sea-wall to his little office. For a while they are both silent, breathing the fresh sea air.
‘The doctors may be wrong,’ Janet says at last. ‘It may be more than the tiredness of childbirth.’
‘Perhaps.’ Brennan looks out to sea. He seems reluctant to talk.
‘Is there some more deep-seated problem? That could be contributing?’
‘Like what?’
Janet cannot mention the scarring. ‘The … the thieving would come to mind.’
Brennan shrugs. Janet finds him almost as heavy-going as Rose. ‘I think,’ he says slowly, still looking away from her, ‘that she is over that little episode.’
Janet snorts. ‘That little episode has lasted most of Rose’s life.’ After a while she adds quietly, ‘Brenny, it may be necessary to bring her back. She may not survive down here.’
Brennan stops suddenly. He turns to face her. There is deep anger in his dark-ringed eyes. ‘You are very worried over her welfare. Is there no room for a little concern in my direction? Auntie Janet? I hoped you might advise Rose where her duty lay …’ Brennan flings his arms wide to encompass the business houses, the sea and river, the wheeling gulls, ‘to help her find pleasure in this place. It is not so desolate. And it is where we all must stay.’
The words are heavy, offering no compromi
se, but the misery behind them is clear for Janet to read. For once in her life this forthright woman can think of no solution. If Brennan will not return to the Hill then Rose must stay with him. Janet sees family matters in black and white. Husband and children must come first. She can only hope now that Rose will recover her great spirit and find a way through on her own.
For two more days Janet cleans the house top to bottom, washes every stitch of cloth in the house and fills the baking tins. She tries to keep up a cheerful chatter but gradually Rose’s depression beats her down. Janet works on in exhausted — and irritated — silence.
The coachman’s cheerful holler as Janet climbs aboard is a wonderful relief. She settles on the box-seat and breathes the blessed warm air.
Below, Rose stands by the horses, a freshly washed Alice on her hip. Conrad fiddles with the shining harness. He has already dirtied the sailor suit that Janet ironed this morning. Rose offers her bright, anxious smile, which Janet returns.
Oh, it is a relief when Mr Mauger cracks his whip and they are away.
Rose
AUGUST 1906, FRIDAY
I HAD ANOTHER ‘black time’ today. There are many more down here. They are unreasonable, I admit it. I can neither understand nor predict them, except to know that they are far worse away from the Hill. Bren thinks it is wilfulness on my part, or simply a fierce temper. I have both those temperaments (in good measure!) but this is quite different. Once, up on the Hill, I talked of the black times with Henry, who is more removed than Bren, and so able to be rational. So I thought. ‘But you are doing so well!’ he said. ‘Where, where are these dark moods, Rose?’
‘Willie the Rat is frightened of me. I slapped him.’
‘That is jealousy, Rose. Ugly and unjustified jealousy, in my opinion. Because Bella loves him.’
‘She does not!’
Henry’s laugh puffed out a plume of smoke. ‘You see! The green-eyed monster!’
Heart of Coal Page 22
