‘Safety! You would spit in the eye of safe and careful people.’
Rose is awake now. ‘Yes! But only from a position of safety. I don’t know! I have never understood it, but the fear is as solid as rock. You are the theorist, Henry. Can you explain it?’
Henry clears his throat, removes his pipe. It would be possible at this moment to speak about the past, as Bella suggested. Possible, yes, but wise? Rose is clearly puzzled by her behaviour, but is Billy Genesis really the cause? Henry suddenly doubts he can say the right words, and even if he could, who knows whether opening an old wound would heal it?
He looks at Rose. Her eyes are fixed on him, as if she would suck information from his very marrow. He looks away. Whether from wisdom or prudishness or even — it must be said — from self-interest, he remains silent.
Rose smiles, and then laughs out loud. ‘Henry,’ she says, ‘you old prude. I can see the thoughts creeping around behind your eyes.’
Henry shoots her a look of alarm, then smiles too. Here is the old Rose back again! Someone to spar with. ‘Well then, what am I thinking?’
‘You are thinking of when I was small. That terrible time with Billy Genesis. You are thinking I was damaged. You are curious, but you are too much a prude to question me.’
Henry’s mouth drops open. His pipe clatters to the floor. Will this extraordinary woman ever cease to amaze? ‘You remember that time?’
‘I was six — almost seven! Of course I do. It was not a time one forgets.’
‘Bella thought …’
Rose frowns. ‘Enough, Henry. Please. Bella thought I had forgotten. It was easier — simpler — to let her think that. The truth is I chose not to remember. I still choose. What else? If that … time … If that contributed to my problems, so be it. Better to forget when I can. The problems are still there.’
Henry nods. He looks at her with a kind of love. This tough survivor! She is wiser than all of us — and with far less reason.
‘Rose,’ he says, ‘we must take better care of you.’
Rose stretches. Gives him that wide smile that Henry has always considered manipulative. ‘Well then,’ she says, ‘why not start by letting me stay the night? I will sort something out tomorrow.’
‘You won’t go back to Brennan and the children?’
‘No. They must come here.’
There is no shred of doubt in her voice. Henry sighs.
‘You are happy on the Hill, true,’ he says. ‘Goodness knows why. It has not always treated you well. Perhaps you are right and safety is at the core. An isolated place like this is necessary to you.’
‘And you.’
‘Me?’ Henry sits straighter. ‘Oh no, I could leave and survive perfectly well. I simply …’ His voice trails away and he sighs. ‘Ah well, I expect you are right. We both need the Hill. Yes, yes, you see, Rose. A tap-root. Or perhaps an anchor.’ He nods sagely and points his pipe-stem at her. ‘A sheet-anchor. To stop you swinging too much in the storm.’
But Rose has lost interest in Henry’s theories. She is already asleep in his chair, warm and relaxed as a child.
The Sailmaker
WHILE THE DENNISTON Rose wakes to a life without husband or children, Willie the Rat is sitting on a barrel outside the Rose and Crown with his mates Slim Galloway and Tommy the Yank, New Zealand jockeys like himself, drinking their last tankard of Australian beer. These lads have good reason to be pleased with themselves, having secured three wins and five placings in three weeks of racing on Australian turf. Mr Lamb, who owns the other two thoroughbreds and has backed Willie the Rat on Black Knight, is taking a tidy purse back home, and the jockeys will get their share. The Australian papers have been tetchy about the rough riding style and have hinted at foul play but Mr Lamb has only laughed and told the lads to take no notice of the sour grapes. ‘We breed our horses finer, and we ride them better. Who needs foul play?’
Their steamship will leave shortly. Will has seen to the loading of Black Knight; has hooded the panicky nag, and spoken softly to him as the great sling was fitted around his belly, then raced up the gangway as Black Knight was hoisted aboard, hooves flailing, to be lowered into the hold with the rest of the cargo. In the makeshift stalls between packing cases and crates Will and the other jockeys calmed the mounts, shook sweet barley into their manger, then left the horses in the dark to settle in. Back on shore for an hour, they sip their beer and watch, agog, the bustle and roar of quayside Sydney.
Ships of all rig are tied up here — steamships, steam-sail and fast fully rigged sailing ships from England; paddle steamers that cross the harbour or churn their way up the Parramatta River, flatbottomed barges and their attendant tugboats. On the quay, patient horses wait inside the shafts of their drays, cranes dip down into holds and come up with all manner of cargo, barrowmen jog back and forth, their barrows loaded high, while queues of wharfies hump sacks and barrels on and off all this floating transport. The jockeys try to make sense of the shouted instructions, the laughter, abuse, the low moan of hooters and the high shriek of whistles, a snatch of music, even: where does that come from? They have never seen anything like it, not even on race day. There are more people in this one place than Will imagines exist in all the West Coast. He could sit here for ever. He turns the whale’s tooth round and round in his hands. Many of the carved pictures he has now seen for himself. Oh, the stories he will have to tell Beth! And here comes Mr Lamb down the quay, signalling to the lads to follow him aboard.
But before Will can even swing his legs to the ground he feels his coat grabbed from behind and his body hoisted into the air. He twists and kicks but is held there, unable to see who has grabbed him. Tommy the Yank and Slim watch, half laughing, half in awe.
‘Just hold your horses, Tiny,’ a voice mutters in his ear. ‘I want a word with you.’
Will’s feet are slammed back on the barrel. He turns there, ready to fight, but then thinks the better of it. His assailant is huge. Standing on the barrel Will is eye-to-eye with a face engulfed in wild white hair. The beard reaches down to a black unbuttoned waistcoat, the hair and shaggy white eyebrows all but obliterate sharp blue eyes. The man is in shirtsleeves, though the morning is cool. His white canvas trousers mark him as a sailor. One of his great paws is closed tightly over Willie the Rat’s small hand — the one that holds the scrimshaw tooth. The giant forces their two hands up until the double fist is held between their two noses.
‘You’d better tell me quick how you came by that scrimshaw,’ growls the sailor, ‘and it better be a good story, little man.’
The other jockeys, alarmed by now and ready to run for help, are surprised to see Willie the Rat break into a grin.
‘Mister,’ he says, ‘the story is a good one — the best — and I’m picking you are the fellow I’ve been asking for these last six weeks. Con the Brake, is it?’
‘Known as Big Snow this side of the sea,’ says the giant. ‘The scrimshaw? Stick to your story, man, for I have a ship to catch.’
‘And me,’ moans Will, dancing on his barrel with frustration. ‘Why in feckin’ hell has it taken you so long? I have come to the Rose and Crown twenty times already.’
‘Speak!’ growls Con.
‘Well, and amn’t I trying to? This little treasure, which I’m picking you carved —’
‘I did.’
‘And sent to Rose. She … Well …’ Will decides on diplomacy. ‘She lent it to me while I came on my trip. To bring me luck.’
‘And who might you be that my little girl would lend you such a thing?’
Will stands as tall as he may. ‘I am Will Scobie, jockey and businessman, and cousin by marriage to your daughter.’
The giant’s jaw falls open. He releases his grip on the scrimshaw tooth and offers his other hand for shaking. At the same time a great laugh nearly blasts Will off the barrel.
‘Jesu Maria! My little Rose married a Scobie? By God, that beats all. I hope your cousin is an inch or two on the taller side?’
Will frowns. He had imagined tears, remorse: a broken man overjoyed to hear news at last. ‘Size is not so important when it comes to marriage,’ he says. ‘As your own widow told me to my face. I am betrothed myself to a tall woman. Who was sister to Rose’s late husband.’
‘Will Scobie,’ says the big sailor, ‘furl your sails a moment here. Here are three stories need telling.’
‘And here,’ says Mr Lamb, hauling Will down off his barrel, ‘is a jockey needs embarking.’
The whole party sets off down the quay, but after a few paces Con reaches out a long arm, lifts Will into his arms, and carries him like a baby.
‘I am a bitty on the deaf side these days. Can’t hear a bloody word you say down there. Speak on, speak on, man.’
‘This is feckin’ embarrassing,’ mutters Will. ‘They are laughing at me.’
‘She is alive and well, then? Rose?’
‘She is alive, no thanks to her father, but not well. A visit might help in that department. Also she has two children and the older is named for you.’
‘By God, what a day!’ breathes Con. ‘That I should ever hear such things!’
‘And Mrs C is dead.’
Con the Brake stops in his tracks. Mr Lamb and the two jockeys hurry on down to the Oswestry Grange, which is already signalling its departure. A large crowd is gathered at the gangway and a band is playing. Someone important seems to be embarking.
Con sets Will Scobie down gently. Slowly he removes the cap, which has been buried all this time in the tangle.
‘She is dead,’ he says. ‘Ah well.’ Now there are tears. ‘I had the feeling — you know? This happened not long ago?’
‘A year maybe.’
‘By God, that woman had a heart.’
‘Which you broke.’
‘No, no, no, son. Bella and me, we don’t break each other. Hurt maybe; not break.’
Mr Lamb is shouting. The important man has climbed the gangway, turning twice to wave back to the crowd. The band has marched away.
‘Can you miss your boat? I need the story, man!’ Con is the desperate one now.
‘Well then, come and hear it. Rose is in Greymouth. Go and see her. You will open feckin’ windows for her, I’m picking.’
‘Greymouth, now?’ says Con. ‘There is a full-rigged ship still goes there, time to time. I just might swing a place. Westport is locked into steam. Out of the question for this sailmaker.’
They both run down the quay and the big fellow lifts Will onto the gangway, which is already being hauled aboard.
‘By God, I’m pleased you came, young Will,’ says Con. ‘It is like a forgotten story suddenly come to life! Take care of that scrimshaw. It should go back in the little one’s hands.’
Will wonders if Con means his grandson or whether he still thinks of Rose as a small child. When he reaches the deck he looks for Con. There he goes, waistcoat flapping, snowy hair marking his passage among the crowd, across the quay to where a beautifully rigged ship is hoisting sail. There is a man has deserted two people that I know, thinks Will, probably plenty more, and yet I am feckin’ dying to meet him again. The world is not a fair place.
Rose
TODAY I VISITED the old mine. I don’t know why. I lay in that peaceful, dangerous dark and thought about Michael. Poor Michael. What a strange thing! Could he have killed himself not as an act of despair, but a gift? Out of love for Brennan? And even to me? Oh, but he should not have chosen death. I would never.
Then why am I drawn to that deadly place?
I think it is a little like the landslide. There is a temptation to let go. So easy. Somehow it is a comfort that this easy possibility lies here, so close.
But when I came into the open again the pleasure of being alive was even sharper!
I thought about Brennan, too. I miss him. It is hard to say whether I miss my children. I do not even know them yet.
If I am capable of a loving gift it will be a live one.
Business Ventures
SHE CAME BACK. The Denniston Rose came back. Riding the Incline, too, wouldn’t you know it? Who else, you have to ask, returns to the Hill? People come, stay for a short while, or a long time, and then they leave. That’s the way of it. If you can get away, you do. When Rose reappeared, one wind-whipped morning, striding down Dickson Street with some purpose on her mind, people sighed and shook their heads at the wonder of it — but smiled too. They accepted her, yes — welcomed her, even. ‘The Denniston Rose is back!’ ‘Now we’ll see what-ho!’ She was no longer called Mrs Scobie. That name sat awkwardly on her shoulders now that she was alone, so plain Rose was used, or, if you wanted to light up her eyes, Denniston Rose.
Within two weeks of her return she had bought Miss Jessop’s failing general store and put sensible Annie Thomas in charge. ‘I have been saving all my life,’ she said if anyone dared ask about the money, ‘and have a good slice of shares in Denniston coal.’ Not the best of investments if you looked at the mine’s chequered career, but ‘our’ Rose had her head screwed on. She’d keep a sharp eye on the Company!
One stinging June day Will Scobie came riding home on Black Knight, leading Mistress C by a halter rope. His trip to Australia had been so-so, he said, though something about his chirpy grin suggested otherwise. They’d been unable to match the legendary Carbine’s triumph a few years back, but in Willie the Rat’s view made a solid showing for New Zealand. Two placings, and a fifth for Black Knight. The other horses in the group had done even better and Will had ridden a winner at Parramatta. Will ended up neither out of pocket nor rich — unless, as he said to Rose, you count the riches of new experiences. He and Black Knight had returned on the Oswestry Grange, the same boat that brought Premier Dick Seddon back from some politicking in Australia, and the same ship the Premier died on. Naturally little Will was full of that story, and how the great man had been interested in horseflesh and had heard of Willie the Rat and had complimented the jockey on his riding and his Scobie name both. And how, after the death, the capitalists on board had said, Thank God, while the ordinary passengers and Will himself had turned the ship into a great floating funeral cortège and searched their cabin trunks for something black to wear, vying among themselves to recount grand tales of King Dick’s achievements and deeds, as if he were King Arthur himself.
For the time being Will kept quiet about his meeting with Con the Brake, but he brought Rose back the lucky whale’s tooth — which she promptly sent down to little Con in Greymouth. Will laughed at her superstitious fear. He ticked off the sights he had now seen for himself.
‘I’ve seen the savage with the spear, see? And the pineapple. I’ve seen a whale! A whole feckin’ boil of them spouting like fountains. The Tasman Sea, and I reckon you could say the Pacific Ocean. A sailing ship quayside but not yet on the open sea. Plenty of steamer. But I’ll see the lot before I croak, see if I don’t.’
Rose held her friend by the shoulders and glared at him. ‘Willie the Rat, I hope that tooth has not bewitched you? Are those eyes already gazing out on the distant seas of another voyage?’
Will winked and tapped his feet in a hornpipe. ‘Not I. Not yet, any road. First a wedding. Then we have a business plan to discuss. And another matter or two.’
Will Scobie was irrepressible. When the wedding was over and Beth happily ensconced in the log house, Will set to, planning an empire. Ideas and projects chased each other around his head like dogs after rabbits. With Rose as business partner the two were formidable. It turned out Mistress C had not the temperament to race. Also she was unusually heavy in chest and leg for a thoroughbred. Will’s plan was to breed cavalry horses from her.
‘There’s more money in it, see? This is the right time. After the Transvaal wars everyone’s saying the British horses were no match for the Boer ones. Too slow. Not powerful enough. We’ll breed specialist cavalry mounts. The army will come knocking on our door.’
Rose loved it all. Egged him on, and backed him for a share. There
were those, of course, especially some at Burnett’s Face, who shook their heads at her obvious enjoyment of life. What about her babies? Her husband? What about a wife’s duties? Poor Brennan, he has fared no better than the first husband. And so on. But who could resist that smile? Her singing as she walked in the street? The way everything on the Hill that she touched seemed to improve or prosper?
Henry welcomed Rose back to teach at Denniston School. He watched her closely these days for cracks in the cheerful façade. Was it a façade? Their frequent discussions and arguments were lively, Rose seemed to have energy to burn in the classroom; but something about her worried him.
A month or two after Rose’s return he took a rare walk up the plateau to visit Janet Scobie at Burnett’s Face and found her still at the school, though it was late and the valley in cold shadow.
‘I am on my way home this minute,’ says Janet. ‘Will you stay and take tea with us? It is only a simple soup and bread.’
Henry realises he has become shy of accepting hospitality, though once he had thrived on political evenings in crowded miners’ cottages. ‘No, no,’ he says, ‘it is only a word I want.’ Then stumbles around between the little desks looking at slates and charts without saying a word.
Janet stamps her feet to keep the circulation going. The stove has long gone out and the room is icy. ‘Out with it, then, headmaster,’ she says. ‘Would this be about Rose, perhaps?’
Henry stops on the other side of the room, spreads his arms and gives her a creaky smile. ‘There! You have read my mind. You are a clever woman, Mrs Scobie.’
‘I dare say, but I need no great powers of deduction when you ignore Burnett’s Face School for a year and then suddenly arrive when school is out and Rose back on the Hill. What about her, then?’
The words of this usually cheerful woman are as frosty as the room. Henry walks to the window and watches the boxes of coal travelling the rope-road through the shadowy valley. He speaks with his back to her and the words come more easily.
Heart of Coal Page 24
