Heart of Coal

by Jenny Pattrick

  Well, he had a point, perhaps. At that time I was jealous, I see it now. But away from the Hill there is no reason to it at all. Sometimes I remember. Other times I realise from later horrible evidence that awful things have occurred, but they are swallowed into some dark hole where memory is shadowy or lost altogether.

  For example a time which I remember: J. J. Jackson’s Emporium on Mackay Street, a month after we had arrived in Greymouth.

  The scene:

  Myself, Mrs B. Scobie, is at the counter, her belly large, her little boy, Con, parked in his perambulator at the door and quite happy with the day. Mrs Scobie has bought a pound of butter, a five-pound sack of flour, raisins, eggs and baking powder. Also a hank of rope for a washing-line and a large bar of soap. Mr Jackson wipes his hands on his white apron, licks his pencil and tots up the items he has listed on a strip of newspaper.

  Suddenly little Con cries out. Something is not to his liking. Mrs Scobie breaks into a sweat. The packed shelves about her begin to loom; they crowd closer. She grips the counter to hold her balance.

  Mr Jackson: That will be five shillings and fourpence ha’penny, Mrs Scobie.

  Mrs Scobie: (swaying) No, I think you have it wrong.

  The emporium darkens. Mrs Scobie notices that her fingers have swollen to fat sausages. Something black flies at her from the ceiling.

  Mr Jackson: Well, that is what I make it, madam. Five and fourpence ha’penny.

  Mrs Scobie: (screaming) It’s threepence! Threepence ha’penny, you fat old fool!

  The shelves are rocking. At any moment the goods will tumble to the floor.

  Mr Jackson: Now let me see. Hm Hm Hm Hm. Well, look at that! You are right. What a clever lady! Threepence ha’penny.

  Mrs Scobie flings her purse at the grocer and tries to dash for the door. Her feet are anchored to the floorboards.

  Mrs Scobie: Oh! Oh! Oh! Let me go, you monster!

  Mr Jackson: And here is your change. Thank you, madam.

  Mrs Scobie’s feet are released and she flees the emporium without her goods. Outside she is violently ill.

  That is how I remember it. Did I really shout? Was Mr Jackson really so calm? Did the sky darken or an earthquake threaten? I don’t believe so. I did not dare to go back to find out. The evidence showed I certainly vomited, and left my parcels behind, which the grocer’s boy delivered later without comment.

  I have suffered seven of these ‘attacks’ since coming to Greymouth. Five before the baby was born and two terrifying ones recently. I write what I remember, and try to understand some pattern or cause. Nothing makes sense. I saw the doctor, who said it was simply changes in my body due to the baby and I would soon be right. No, I said, they are getting worse. Be patient, said this senile fool, and stay quietly at home with your family.

  SEPTEMBER — A SATURDAY

  JANET came to visit. Oh, it was so good to see a face from the Hill! But it wasn’t the same. She was shocked, perhaps, at the state of the house. I have little energy for housework or chatter or showing her around. Brennan was busy preparing for the competitions. She left after a few days. Willie, she says, has gone to Australia with Black Knight. So I cannot expect a visit from him. No letter from Henry.

  TWO DAYS LATER — TUESDAY 22 SEPTEMBER?

  TODAY my hand reached out and took coins from a woman’s purse, while she looked the other way. We were both watching the band parade down by the railway station on Mawhera Quay. Then later it happened again in the doctor’s surgery, where I waited with Alice. At the time it was like taking liquor — a very pleasant rush to the head — but afterwards, both times, I felt wretched. I do not know these people; perhaps they may need the money badly. They have no idea how to play the game with me, and I have no way to return what I have taken. I do not like to feel so ashamed, but have I the energy to control my wilful hand? I fear not.

  29 SEPTEMBER

  I CAN’T go on. I am no use to anyone. Oh, I am a danger! Something happened two days ago, of which I have no memory. None at all. I found myself, sometime past midday, slumped in a chair, the baby’s cradle overturned and the little girl underneath. Little Con sat silent in the corner furthest away from me, his eyes wide with fear. My right hand was cut and dripped blood onto the floor. How long did I sit there? Brennan found us like that. He tended us all gently, but his eyes are bruised and dark. He won’t look at me properly.

  Again and again I have examined my cut hand. Did I strike out at Con? Was I trying to punish my thieving hand? Worse, did I try to end my life? Oh, I cannot bear to think I would do that. I am not like Michael! No, no, no! I must gather the shreds of myself together and do something.

  Last night I mustered what energy I could to confront Bren. The poor fellow was dog-tired from his work and his music — and, I must admit, my lack of care. Often as not I leave it to him to cut a slice of bread and cold meat for his dinner. We sat opposite sides of the table, both heads lowered, and none of the old joy between us.

  ‘Bren,’ I said, ‘I must go back. I must!’

  ‘Not that again,’ said he in a flat voice.

  I held up my bandaged hand. ‘I am a danger. To the children as well as to myself. Little Con is fearful of me.’

  ‘Rose, I can see that with my own eyes.’

  ‘I can’t explain it, Bren, but being down here causes it.’

  ‘How can it possibly?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ I wailed. ‘I have done my best!’

  ‘Have you?’ he asked, bitter as wormwood. ‘That is not so clear.’

  ‘How can you be so blind? I am falling to pieces in front of you.’

  ‘You want to return to your safe and cosy friends on the Hill. I thought you were adventurous!’

  ‘I need to return. It is not a matter of want. I need you to take us back, Bren. Our life was so happy there. My strength will return when we are back home.’

  This is what we have come to — throwing words at each other, back and forth like small stones. Oh, it is pitiful, when we have been so strong and alive before. But he cannot see it. The opportunities in this sea-level world blind him to all else. Like the doctor, he believes our life will come right with a bit more effort from me.

  ‘At least wait till the competitions are over,’ he said. ‘Then, if things are more settled down here, we will visit Burnett’s Face. Meantime I have sent for my mother to take care of things here.’

  Tap-roots and Anchors

  AT FIRST SIGHT Henry cannot recognise Rose. When he goes to the door, in answer to the violent knocking, he sees someone wild and dishevelled, face streaked with black, hair plastered, shivering violently with the cold. In her arms a sodden bundle of clothes. She stands there, wordless, until he reaches forward to draw her inside.

  Under the hall light he sees who it is.

  ‘Rose, Rose!’ he cries. ‘Whatever has happened?’

  Water drips from her. Shudders rock her body so fiercely that any movement is scarcely possible. Henry thinks she is trying to speak. ‘No, no, no,’ he says. ‘Quick, come quick, we must warm you!’

  He drags her into the kitchen, cursing that he has let the fire go out, dithering over towels and blankets and hot water, wondering aloud whether to undress her or wrap her up wet clothes and all, or should he make a cup of tea first, until Rose, though half dead, cannot help a wan smile. She drops her bundle. She tries to undress.

  ‘Henry,’ she says through clashing teeth, ‘you will have to help me. My fingers won’t work.’

  Henry has no idea what garment to tackle, or where, but finally has her stripped. He rubs her fiercely with a towel until Rose screams in pain.

  ‘A blanket, a blanket! Where?’ shouts Henry. It is hard to guess which one of them is more panic-stricken. He crashes into his bedroom, knocking over the oil-lamp in the process, hauls the blanket off his bed and rolls her up in it. Colour begins to creep back into Rose’s grey cheeks. Slowly the shivers subside.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispers. ‘Oh, Henry, it is so
good to see you.’

  Henry nods. He has guessed that Rose has run away, but does not question her. Instead he busies himself at the coal range, riddling it into life again, and setting the kettle atop. From time to time he steals a look at her. She has changed so much! Where has the wide-shouldered, confident, irrepressible Rose gone?

  Henry tugs his dressing-gown tighter around him, pulls up a chair next to Rose. She follows his every move with her eyes.

  ‘Tell me what happened.’

  She shakes her head. Looks down at the floor where the drops have fallen. Henry notices how much smaller she looks when her hair is wet.

  ‘Where is Brennan?’ he says.

  ‘Oh.’ Rose won’t look up. ‘Down there still, I suppose.’

  ‘What about little Conrad? And the baby?’

  ‘Henry, I don’t want to … I don’t remember properly.’

  Henry, watching her intently, thinks she does remember. A spark is returning to her eyes. Suddenly she looks straight at him.

  ‘You never wrote.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not one letter.’

  ‘Rose, you arrive here in the middle of the night, alone, half dead with cold and exhaustion, and you talk of letters?’

  ‘Letters might have helped. Why didn’t you write?’

  Henry is at a loss. ‘Are you sure? I meant to —’

  ‘Not one word. You never wrote.’

  Except for the hissing kettle there is a silence in the room.

  ‘Well, then, I am sorry,’ he says. ‘You know how forgetful I am —’

  ‘You cannot believe how badly I needed them.’ Rose sighs deeply. Twice she moves as if to speak but remains silent. At last the words come, but slowly. ‘Well, it is over now. I hit her, I think. And then ran. Bundled a few bits and pieces and ran. I had to come up here.’ A sound that is half cry, half bitter laugh catches in her throat. ‘I rode the Incline. That damned cableway must be my destiny! Henry, listen to me! I cannot think straight unless I am up here! That is the simple, irrational truth of it.’ Rose huddles deeper into her blanket.

  Henry knows he must talk to her. This time he must. But the words elude him.

  ‘You hit who?’ He frowns and corrects himself. ‘Whom?’

  This makes her smile. ‘Pedant! I hit his mother. Mary Scobie.’

  Mary Scobie had answered Brennan’s call promptly. Always at her best in a crisis, she set to with mind-numbing kindness and efficiency. Within a week she had taken over running the household completely. Rose was treated as an invalid: urged to take long walks, bathe in salt water, join the local temperance group, write pamphlets. Meals were regular and nourishing, and little Con adored her. Mrs Scobie found a wet-nurse for the baby, who now beamed and burbled at all her admirers, and then slept all night.

  When Brennan’s band won the championships Mary persuaded the mayor to throw a celebratory afternoon tea in the town hall. Rose went along with Mrs Scobie and the children, but could think of nothing to say to the hoard of unknown men and women, smart in their suits and hats, their gloves and handbags and smiles.

  Brennan caught her as she was about to slip out a side door. ‘Rose, stay, please!’

  His hand sat gently on her arm but there was a desperation in his voice. His need panicked her.

  ‘Bren, I can’t. I don’t know them.’

  ‘Just for a while. Take my arm.’

  ‘I’m not dressed right.’

  Brennan gripped her elbow. ‘When did that worry you, Rose? Come and meet the mayor.’

  But Rose could see how oddly she stood out. A rainbow among dark stormclouds. She felt the eyes of these strangers steal a curious look at the bright ornament in her hair, then slide off before they were caught staring. Whispers began to roar in her ears — this is the strange woman who strides alone around the streets; this is the bandmaster’s wife who can’t cope; whose mother-in-law had to be called in; who neglects her babies.

  The dark roar of the gossip filled her head. She could feel the warm pressure of Brennan’s hand on her arm. Not enough. Not nearly enough against this wall of disapproval.

  ‘Bren!’ she gasped, ‘I’m truly proud of you. Truly.’ Then pulled away and dashed for the door.

  When the others arrived home she had tea on the table, the stove lit, the kettle boiling. The little coal heart, Brennan’s first present to her, warmed the skin at her throat like a tiny fire. Rose cut bread, passed the corned beef, endured Mary Scobie’s silence. When Con was asleep, and Mary had taken Alice across the road to the wet-nurse, Rose spoke to Brennan. The need to scream nearly overcame her, but she touched the little heart gently with her forefinger, spoke the words she had rehearsed.

  ‘Brennan, I must go back. You know it. I am no use to you here, or to the children.’

  Brennan listened but said nothing. His misery was palpable, thick as treacle. Rose shut her eyes and ploughed on.

  ‘This is what I plan. No, listen — I have thought about it carefully. I will sell the log house. We could build our own fine place close to the new road. You could travel down often. You could easily find work on the Hill. Maybe we could start our own business. I have some savings. More than you think —’

  ‘No.’ Mary Scobie stood dark in the doorway. ‘No, Rose, no. You cannot run his life.’

  ‘Oh!’ Rose turned on her. ‘And who has been running all our lives these past few weeks?’

  Mary cut through Rose’s words as easily as a steamship cuts through an ocean swell. ‘Rose, you have been sick. You are still not well. We must take care of you and the children — down here where Brennan has good work.’

  Brennan’s eyes begged Rose to agree. He looked from one woman to the other but said nothing. Rose could not plead her cause against this solid block of mother and son. Her own voice sounded thin; it buzzed like a fly against Mary Scobie’s will.

  ‘Brennan,’ she said, ‘Brennan — my good friend — at least try. We were happy enough before. Remember those times? Come back with me.’

  ‘No.’ Again it was Mary who spoke. ‘No, Rose, it is no use to plead. Brennan’s future is not up on the Hill. He knows that. I know it. His father would say so if he were alive. None of my sons will ever go back there. It is a black place for our family.’

  Brennan lifted his head at that, turned to his mother as if to speak. But Mary Scobie’s hand fell heavily on his shoulder, holding him in place.

  That heavy controlling gesture broke the last shreds of control in Rose. ‘Leave him alone!’ she cried. ‘Let him decide, you evil woman! Go away! Go away!’ She rushed at the older woman, her arms flapping as if a stray chicken had entered her vegetable patch. Cups flew off the table, a chair overturned, Brennan jumped up in alarm. But before he could restrain his wild wife, Rose had reached his mother.

  ‘Go! Go! Go!’ Rose placed her hands on that woman’s stout bosom and tried to drive her out of the room.

  Mary Scobie lost her balance and fell to the floor.

  ‘Rose!’ shouted Brennan, the first word he had uttered in all this fracas.

  But Rose was already in the bedroom, tying a bundle of clothes together. By the time Brennan had picked up his dazed mother, Rose was out the back door and away, running north as if her life depended on it.

  ROSE stops speaking. She cradles a mug of sweet tea, watches its surface as she tips it this way and that. Her hair is drying, the curls springing out again from her face. Henry has re-lit his pipe and its fragrance fills the tiny kitchen. He clears his throat. Begins to speak, then clears it again.

  ‘I have a question,’ he says at last. ‘In fact, two questions.’

  ‘Mmm?’ Rose is sleepy now.

  Henry’s arm jerks and he knocks his pipe to the floor. He curses, retrieves it, sweeps up the ashes. Finally the question arrives. ‘Has Brennan spoken to you of Michael? … Of his death?’

  Rose frowns. ‘Henry. No one speaks about Michael’s death. Not you, not Brennan, not anyone. Michael’s death is an empty space tha
t everyone skirts.’

  ‘Just so.’

  ‘Which leaves me there in the empty space too. Being skirted.’

  Henry sighs. She sees things with such clarity at times, he thinks, and is ashamed of his own evasions. He tells her what he believes. That Michael loved Brennan deeply and without hope. The words come easily. Henry realises how ridiculous he is to have made such a monster of a young boy’s moment of despair. It is almost a pleasure to speak of it.

  Rose narrows her eyes. Puts her cup down carefully. ‘You told Brennan this? When?’

  ‘Oh …’ Henry scratches his wiry hair. ‘Oh, years ago.’

  ‘And I never came into this cosy equation?’

  Henry is taken aback by her vehemence. He plucks at the cord of his dressing-gown. ‘I assumed Brennan would —’

  ‘Brennan,’ says Rose fiercely, ‘would be embarrassed, yes? Ashamed, yes? How much easier for you to tell me. Oh, Henry, for pity’s sake, Henry, why didn’t you?’

  Henry sees, in her lowering eyebrows, a sudden look of her true mother, Eva. Rose is as single-minded in her demand as a striking miner. His eyes crawl over the floor, searching for a crack. He brushes imaginary ash from his knee, picks up his empty mug and then puts it down again. Outside the rain lashes. Rose watches him.

  He cannot say it.

  ‘Oh, Henry,’ says Rose, but her voice is gentler. ‘You fool. You cannot imagine how important — how good — it is to know that. Poor Michael.’

  ‘Yes.’

  There is silence in the cramped little room. The rain has turned to sleet. Rose watches the watery ice slide down the window, melting before it arrives at the sill. A kind of peace — or is it exhaustion? — is dragging her under.

  ‘What is your second question?’ she asks. Her eyes are closed.

  Again Henry skirts the main issue. ‘Have you asked yourself why you have to come back? To this bleak spot? A woman with all your array of talents?’

  ‘Of course I have!’ Her gesture seems to brush at cobwebs; an odd, defensive movement. She sighs. ‘Of course I have, Henry. It is a matter of safety, I think.’