‘Conrad, you will wake the others,’ says Maisie, finding at last a role for herself. ‘Come — I will take you to bed.’
The big man smiles at her, and willy-nilly she finds herself smiling back.
‘Mrs Jones, tonight is not for sleeping. I have these few hours only, for my ship sails on the first tide.’ Con turns back to his grandson. ‘Where is your mother?’
‘On the Hill.’
Brennan sees how Mary frowns at the quick answer. She will never mention Rose and is not aware that Brennan has kept the memory alive. Con the Brake cocks his shaggy head at Brennan. Questions will come later, but for now his attention is on the boy.
‘And can you sing as clear as your father and mother could when they were little?’ says Con the Brake.
‘I can sing,’ says the little boy proudly. He stands on the table, full of life now, and sings ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’, clear and true.
The old man nods to Brennan. ‘I see we have a musician here.’
‘Brennan,’ says Mary Scobie, ‘is an accomplished musician, and bandmaster here at Greymouth.’
Con the Brake pushes away his half-finished plate and slaps the table. ‘By God, then what are we waiting for? We will have some music! Where is that box of mine?’
There is no contradicting him. The man could charm a smile out of an undertaker. Out comes the accordion, Brennan is ordered to warm up his cornet, and the two men sit on the kitchen table vying with each other to make the notes fly fastest. Alice wakes and is introduced to her grandfather, who cries all over again and plays her a soft lullaby. Then it is back to the jigs and hornpipes. Jackie Jones and Conrad caper wildly around the table. The old sailor stops them and demonstrates a step or two of a real hornpipe and away they go, Maisie joining in, unable to keep her own feet on the ground. Then she asks for a favourite — ‘Daisy Daisy’, wouldn’t you know it — and Mary calls for a hymn. Every request is satisfied and all are drawn into the fun. Soon the family next door knock on the window, grinning, to ask if they can come and listen since there is not a sleeping soul left in their house! Oh, here is an evening long remembered down in quiet old Guinness Street. Not a drop of liquor is kept in this Temperance house, yet you would swear the whole tribe had been drinking all night!
Finally Brennan announces that his breath is gone and his lips swollen to balloons. Con the Brake nods. The old man is still lively as a cricket, but they both know there must be more to this evening than dancing.
While Maisie puts the children to bed, Mrs Scobie fusses in the kitchen. She is dog-tired, but unwilling to leave the men alone. Con the Brake winks to Brennan, tips his head at the mother, but Brennan will not act. In the end it is Con who speaks.
‘Mrs Scobie, would you allow Brennan and myself a little space to speak of Rose?’
Mary Scobie sits at the table. ‘Rose is my concern too,’ she says heavily.
The old man regards her shrewdly. ‘She is still married to this man here?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘Then I wish speak to him about my daughter.’
‘Sir,’ says Mary, sharper now she is seated and the blood returned to her legs, ‘I have taken over your daughter’s duties in this household. I have a right to speak. And to listen.’
Brennan suddenly cannot bear his mother’s heavy words. He is ashamed that Con the Brake should see him so overridden. ‘Mother,’ he says, ‘you are tired. Please go to bed while I have a word with Rose’s father in private.’
Mary gasps at the plain words. She turns her head to hide the weak tears, pushes herself up from the table. ‘Well then,’ she says, ‘if I am not wanted … The kettle is on the stove. I will leave you to make your own tea.’
Con the Brake rises too, and comes to stand by her. ‘Thank you for looking after the children, my dear. They are a credit to you.’ He glances at Brennan. ‘To all of you.’ He touches Mary’s sleeve and smiles gently, but this time she will not respond. She leaves the room, walking like an old woman.
Con watches her go, shaking his head sadly. Brennan cannot read his thoughts. Then Con produces a small flask of whiskey. ‘By God, I am ready for this,’ he says. ‘Playing sober is not a trick I have often turned. Will you join me?’
Brennan nods. Back and forth the men exchange the flask, letting the silence in the warm kitchen settle. ‘Now then,’ says Con. ‘Rose. You must bring her to life for me, for it is clear I will not see her.’
Brennan tells the story then, leaving nothing out. Bella’s care for Rose and the two women’s love for each other; Michael and the hanging (and the reason for it); his own marriage to Rose and their happiness on the Hill; the black times; his own and Rose’s despair as their life fell apart. He describes the night she ran away, and speaks of her letters: of what he considers to be a recovery. He admits that he is pained by her success and happiness now that she is back on the Hill.
Brennan feels a strange — an extraordinary — pleasure in the telling. Recounting these events — or is it the unaccustomed liquor? Or the evening of music, so like the old evenings with Rose back at Burnett’s Face? — acts on him like a jolt of electricity. He feels himself shocked back to life. For almost a year any mention of Rose has been unwelcome in this household. Now Brennan finds it difficult to stop talking about her. Though it is well past midnight, Con’s interest never flags. He asks a question or two, smiles, shakes his head in wonder, takes out a fine linen handkerchief with embroidered initials (embroidered by whom?) to wipe tears and blow his noise noisily at the account of Bella’s funeral.
At last Brennan draws breath. He turns the empty flask over and over in his hands, looking into the wavy green glass as if some answer lies there. Con the Brake watches him, smiling. When no more is forthcoming he sighs.
‘By God, that is some story you tell. An ocean itself could drown in it. That girl!’ He shakes his head in some kind of wonder.
‘And you?’ asks Brennan. ‘What of you?’
Con chuckles. ‘Ah, no. We have time for only one tale tonight. Another time, God willing.’
‘We always thought you were some kind of royalty.’
Con smiles. ‘Bella was great for embroidering a story, you know. Made her seem like a lady herself.’
‘So my children are not heirs to some kingdom, then?’
‘They are not!’ Con’s answer to Brennan’s laughing question is sharp. He sighs then, and shakes his head. ‘No, no, lad, forget all such thing. This fine, free country is their home.’
Brennan wants to ask more, but sees Conrad narrow his eyes and prepare to stand. Quickly he changes tack. ‘Will you go up and see Rose now?’
Con shakes his head and a small silver bell, hidden in the forest, rings. ‘There is no time.’
‘Miss your boat!’
‘Well, lad, I am a sailmaker, you know, and work is not plentiful for my sort these days, let alone an old man. I have risked too much already, taking leave from my own ship to travel here on a tired old barquetine that will surely be pensioned any day.’
‘It would mean much to her.’
‘Well, you will have to tell her that I have come this far to see her; that is my best. And perhaps I can serve a better purpose here, you know?’
Brennan thinks about this. ‘What should I do?’
The old man spreads his hands. His laugh rolls out like a breaking wave. Brennan feels his own mouth twitching.
‘I am some model of good behaviour to advise an upright man like you? No, no, you must decide for yourself.’ He leans forward to tap the green glass bottle. ‘But Rose. Let us think about her for a moment. There is some digging to be done here. Do you remember that black scum of the earth Billy Genesis?’
Brennan frowns. ‘Not really. There is that story in the song about his death, but Mother says it was all blown up to myths.’
‘A song!’ says Con, his blue eyes sparking. ‘We will come to that later. Billy Genesis, though, was real enough, lad. That evil Bible-spouter took advant
age of Rose, surely. In the way of a man for a woman, if you take my drift, except she was a bitty girl. And with a mother — something wrong in her head, you know? — who would not protect her.’
This is news to Brennan. ‘But if you were the father?’
‘Ah well, it was not so clear then who the father was. And Bella to take into account, you understand.’
Brennan frowns. He has heard a different story, one in which Con ran away from Bella and Rose returned alone. Con sees the look and shrugs.
‘That part of my life, no one makes a song about, you know? Not me neither. But I am not bred to moan and wring my hands over things that cannot be changed. Guilt, blame, you know? Ugly words. I tell you about Billy Genesis to help you understand Rose, not heap coals on that sad sinner’s head. Or mine.
‘Listen now, because you need to hear this also: Rose is my true daughter, I see it today in her son, and from what you tell me. She is not bred like you, with a strict and loving mother and a father who provides; with the Bible and all other manner of rules to fear and obey.’
‘Bella provided those things for her.’
‘Ah, Bella!’ Con’s blue eyes gaze at different horizons. For a moment he is lost. But this man has always loved a chance to make a point, to manufacture a philosophy from the bones of whatever issue is at hand. He returns to Rose, thumping a fist now and then as he warms to his subject.
‘No, no, man. Bella, you see, was like Rose. And like me. Listen. In Canada, on the eastern coastline, is an inlet. Looks like many others — deep finger of sea, steep hills rising out of it. Looks like, but is different, you know. Here the tide rises thirty feet, falls thirty feet. Imagine! I have seen it with my own eyes. So strong the water rushes in and out, a ship cannot withstand the force of that tide. Now, some miles further south is another inlet: looks the same — deep finger of sea, mountains rising. The tide is so small, hard to notice, you know? Calm water all days of the year. So are people. I am like the deep tide — big swell, big ebb.’ He laughs, ‘Big trouble sometimes. Bella, too. Oh, what oceans swelled in that great woman’s bosom!’
‘And Rose, too,’ says Brennan, smiling to remember something.
Con pounces. ‘Ah, you see? Yes, you understand this Rose! Well now, when there are great tides driving a man — or a woman — this way and that, this person must find some way to hold to a still thing. Some strong thing to bring a bitty calm in all the storm. You see? In my life I seen plenty people with this storm inside that never find that still thing. They smash to pieces or maybe wash back and forth this way that way like some flotsam, no use to anybody.
‘So!’ Con holds up a finger to silence Brennan, who is ready to argue the point. ‘For me this strong thing is the sea! Now I know this. Back with Bella I did not. I feel a deck moving under my feet, maybe a mile of blue sea under that, I can be a good man.’ Con laughs. ‘Well, not so bad, eh? Sometimes even great. On hard dry land, if I stay too long, I begin to wash back and forth. Crazy but true.’
‘And you think Denniston is the … strong thing for Rose?’ Brennan is sceptical.
‘You are the one who knows her. I say maybe yes.’
‘I hoped it might be me,’ Brennan mutters.
‘Ah well, we cannot choose.’
‘Surely we have some choice! Your argument is too black and white.’
Con rises to stretch his arms. The kitchen seems to shrink as he takes a pace to the window and pulls the curtain to peer out. ‘For some there is no choice,’ he says, turning back to smile at the seated man. ‘But for you, Brennan Scobie … who knows? Perhaps you are like the deep inlet with a tide that breathes slow and even. For you, maybe there is a choice — to stay in your safe haven, living in peace, or to change the landscape a little, you know? Move out nearer to dangerous waters. Eh?’ Con winks. ‘Which also can bring some new life. Why did you marry her, if not?’
Brennan looks down at his hands where they lie still on the table.
‘Or maybe, even,’ Con continues, ‘she is your strong thing. To keep you moving.’ He tips his hands this way and that, indicating a choppy sea.
Brennan is charmed by this man, who is so clearly Rose’s father, but also he is unsettled. ‘I have not your quick way with words,’ he says. ‘There is more to it than what you say.’
Con comes to lay a hand on Brennan’s shoulder. ‘Jesu Maria, man, do not take me too serious. I am still developing the line of this argument, you know? A year more at sea and who knows what the shape might be? Something much different, maybe.’ He smiles and winks again. ‘But maybe a grain or two of truth here, eh?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are a good man, I think. And, by God, you have a way with that cornet. There is more to you than a solid brass band, man. I have enjoyed the night.’
‘And me. Rose and I used to play like that.’
Con heaves himself into his oilskin. ‘Tell her I came.’
‘Will you come again?’
Con shrugs. ‘I will try. But you are more important to her than me. Oh, and this.’ He fiddles with his watch-chain, detaches the little trinket and holds it out. It is a tiny carved sailing ship, in full rig; on its prow Brennan can just make out the one word Conrad. ‘For the little boy. I will send something for the girl.’
‘You are a wonderful carver.’
‘You have seen the scrimshaw tooth?’
Brennan nods. ‘It is a treasure and little Conrad loves it. But Rose fears its power. She says there is magic in it, that it is sent to pull her — and others — away from the Hill.’
The big man opens the door. His chuckle echoes in the quiet street. ‘Ah. That is her own fear making magic from a simple gift from her no-good wandering father. Tell her not to worry. No more powerful than this old man.’ Outside the rain has passed and stars strike sparks across the dark sky. He turns to wave at the bend of the path.
‘Do what you must, lad — or what you choose. No guilt, eh?’
And off he goes, laughing again, rolling a little as if his feet are already at sea.
A Tilt Against the Odds
The Log House,
The Camp
Denniston
15 September 1907
Dear Brennan,
I am proud to tell you that a healthy boy has been born to Beth and me. He is to be named Josiah William Scobie, in honour of your own father. Dad is happy enough about the name since there is already another Arnold in the family! Beth and I would be more than pleased if you would consent to be the godfather. There is to be a christening up here in one month’s time, 17 October, a Sunday. Please come with all your family (and Auntie Mary too, of course). We will have a good Denniston-style entertainment.
Rose has already agreed to be the godmother.
Please come, Brennan. We all think it would be a good thing.
Your cousin,
William Scobie Esq.
P.S. I am feckin’ pleased as punch! He is a fine big baby.
P.P.S. Bring your cornet.
17 Guinness Street
Greymouth
18 September
Dear Will,
Congratulations! It is good to hear of the first of a new tribe of Scobies — and cousins for Conrad and Alice.
I am honoured to stand as godfather and will do my best to come to the ceremony. I cannot speak for my mother. To be honest she doesn’t know about the invitation yet. Do you think you could send her an invitation in her own name? And perhaps not mention that Rose is to be godmother? She has some sensitivity in that matter still.
I hope Rose is well. You hint at some concern?
Yrs sincerely,
Brennan Scobie
BRENNAN comes back for the christening as predicted. He comes up quietly in a borrowed horse and trap, his mother, the two children and Rosser and Faith from Christchurch riding with him. Up the new road they come, the children lively at the views and the sharp bends, the rest of the party quiet and uneasy. At Hudson’s Dam they pause to rest the horses. Abov
e them on the brow of the plateau the bones of Rose’s new house stand — the timber struts bright against a blue sky, the front door already in place, painted red and glazed; incongruously solid in such an airy structure. Brennan glances up at it and then away. He knows whose it is — Rose has written about it often — and half fears to see her there. He sees no figure, no raised hand. The sight of those timbers, though, bruises him. So proud, so sure. How did she persuade the Company to sell such a site? Rose who left Greymouth almost incoherent? He looks around at this trapful of solid Scobies, returning to a family celebration, and his two children, who carry her different blood. Brennan quails at what lies ahead, but also — as on his earlier, more triumphant return — feels that queer lift. A tilt against the odds. He longs to see Rose again. Her letters sound so full of life, so welcoming.
Brennan glances sideways at his mother, grey-haired and stalwart, on the seat beside him. But she is looking ahead, lost in another world; preparing, perhaps, for old battles. Brennan has not yet told her his plan. First he must meet Rose. He clucks the tired horses upward again, pleased not to see her yet. Rose will appear later. He hopes that his first meeting with her will be buffered by the rest of the family — by noisy christening celebrations and with a different family as the centre of attention.
Mary Scobie tucks little Alice’s coat more tightly around her — despite the sun the breeze is keen — and tugs Con’s cap down over his ears. Her unease concerns not only Rose, but older memories of a son and brother-in-law, buried under coal. Returning to the Hill will always be painful for her.
‘We must return before sunset,’ she says, ‘or the children will take a chill.’
BRENNAN looks for Rose in the crowded Anglican church up on the hill. He stands by the altar to play his cornet while the guests file in, but sees no sign of her. Miners from the Face sit on one side, shopkeepers and Incline or Bins workers on the other. Nothing has changed. Looking older, Tom and Totty Hanratty, up from Westport, sit next to the O’Dowds. Mary and the children are in the front row, on the other side, with the Arnold Scobies. Brennan plays on. He would have seen her bright hair if she were there.
Heart of Coal Page 26
