Heart of Coal (17 page)

‘Five hours ago.’

The old lady explodes. ‘What! What are you doing bringing her out like this?’

Brennan laughs. ‘I tried my best not to!’

Nolly waits at the door a little longer, hoping to find evidence of even a hint of a foul deed to relate back to Will, but can find none at all. Rose, half asleep now, speaks gently to her mother.

‘It is for you to name him.’

Bella pulls a sharp breath. ‘But Rose … surely the father …’

Brennan lays a hand on his son’s tiny black head. ‘You choose. We would both like you to.’

‘Well then,’ says Bella, tears running streams down her old face. ‘Conrad.’

‘Conrad the seventh?’ asked Rose.

‘No, no, no. Surely we are beyond titles now, Rose. What good did they serve my Con or our son? This little fellow will be Conrad; simply the name.’ She strokes the soft hair. ‘I name you Conrad Brennan Scobie.’

THE YEAR THAT followed, 1904, was perhaps the happiest in Rose’s twenty-five years. Little Conrad thrived, a miraculously healthy and contented baby, given the way Rose carted him around. Bella adored and spoiled her little grandson. Often, when Brennan’s work took him to Denniston, he would take the baby with him on horseback. Little Con was strapped into one saddlebag, Brennan’s work journal in the other, balancing the weight. Melody, Brennan’s pony, seemed to understand and would step lightly among the stones. Not that sunny little Con minded the bouncing and jouncing; he would laugh and wave fat fists and then fall asleep. Bella would clap to see them come; would sing to the boy and let him grab at her earrings, and feed him crumbs of sweet cake.

‘Mrs Sweeney!’ she would call, leaning from her window and
waving to attract her neighbour’s attention. ‘Marie, come quick and see what my Conrad is up to now!’

On this fine and breezy morning, though, Bella has more than her grandson’s new trick in mind.

‘Marie,’ she says, ‘can you take an hour or two from the washing and we will have a small adventure? This old lady cannot manage on her own.’

Marie Sweeney, wife of the head brakeman and a good ten years younger than Bella, is up to her elbows in housework, for she has two boys in the mines, another at the Bins and a daughter still at school, but who can deny the Queen of the Camp? Besides, she is curious.

‘Mrs C,’ she says, ‘whatever have you in mind? I thought you were confined to home rest these days?’

Bella tickles little Con’s tummy and the boy laughs out loud.

‘Oh, aren’t you the little man?’ she coos. ‘You have your grandfather’s laugh to a tee. Look at that smile, Marie. Who does he remind you of?’

Marie Sweeney has only the vaguest memory of Con the Brake but has learnt what response is demanded. ‘Your husband, Mrs C. Like two peas.’

Bella’s plan is to take the baby on a tour of Denniston town and up to the school. She has hired Nolly and the Hanratty cart for the morning. Tom and Totty think the cart is needed for furniture shifting — a necessary prevarication as Bella’s triumphant entry into grandmotherhood only highlights their loss.

‘We will make a grand parade of Dickson Street, Marie. Call on Mrs O’Dowd and Mrs Gorman and Miss Amy Jessop. It is all very well my grandson growing up with the miners at Burnett’s Face, but his roots are at this end of the Hill and his introduction is well overdue.’

Marie is happy enough to join in the fun. She hasn’t seen Bella so lively in months. ‘Mrs C, these plans and expeditions are all very well, but have you considered your health? Can you manage the cart? And for another matter, Hanrattys live on Dickson Street.’

Bella has thought of everything. ‘I will have you and Nolly to help manage me and my grandson.’ (There is always a flourish to the way this word is pronounced.) ‘As for the Hanrattys, we will turn up towards the school before we come to the saloon. The children will love to see my wee fellow.’

‘You would interrupt classes?’ Mrs Sweeney is a strict one for education, even though her boys left at thirteen to work in the mines.

Bella taps her stick on the floorboards to bring Marie to order. ‘Conrad Scobie here is a living history lesson. He is three generations on the Hill. Grandson of my legendary husband, first brakesman, and of myself, first teacher. I will explain it all to the children, and you can be sure Mr Stringer will applaud the lesson.’

Marie Sweeney turns away to hide her smile. ‘Well, I had best put on my afternoon dress if we are going visiting. I will be back in two shakes to help you with yours.’

She is worried that the exertion will damage what is left of Bella’s health, but the sensible woman also recognises that the benefit to the old lady’s spirits may be more important.

Bella arranges the beautiful christening gown over Con. At seven months the bonny lad no longer fits it, but Bella cannot resist showing off her fine needlework. She tucks the ivory whale’s tooth into his basket. It is Con’s favourite toy. He holds it with both fat hands and chumbles away on the smooth point. A tooth for teething, Bella says, but when the teeth are through she will put it away for fear of damage.

‘Oh, how beautiful you are,’ she whispers to the sleeping lad.
She will not ever mention the fact that he is the spit of her own dead baby, for fear the diphtheria will claim him too, come winter. ‘Let us show you off, my little king, to your kingdom on the Hill.’

And here is Nolly and the cart, waiting quietly at the gate, and Marie Sweeney bustling in to tie Bella’s ribbons and button her at the back. At last Bella Rasmussen, the Black Widow, the Queen of the Camp, marches stoutly out, ignoring knees and back.

‘Don’t you wake him!’ warns Bella as Nolly lifts the basket into the tray and wedges it between two bales of hay. ‘I want him fresh and sonsy for the ladies.’

Between them Nolly and Marie manage to bundle a puffing Bella onto the bench-seat of the cart, where Nolly has placed a cushion. Bella bites her lip but says nothing. She expects this will be her last expedition, and intends to enjoy every minute of it. ‘You are a good lad, Nolly,’ she wheezes. ‘Let us be off, then.’

Nolly knows very well that shifting furniture is not the purpose of this trip and he approves. He is sad, though, to recognise that his parents will neither receive nor welcome a visit. It seems to Nolly that nothing he or Liza can do will ever erase the gap Michael has left.

THE visits are all that Bella hoped for. She has sent notes ahead to announce times, and Mrs Gorman and Mrs O’Dowd are ready with their best baking and a friend or two to admire the child. Little Con produces smiles and gurgles and everyone dutifully sees both Con and Rose in the baby’s fine looks. Then everyone processes across the road to Miss Amy Jessop, whose general store and postal services provides a larger venue. The party is in full swing when in walks Totty Hanratty, come with a letter to post.

She stands in the door, looking from woman to woman.

‘Mrs Hanratty, my dear,’ says Miss Amy Jessop, who is a brave
and forthright lady, proud of her manners, ‘come in and join us in a pot of tea. Mrs C has brought us her grandson.’

The other women also murmur encouragement. Bella, who sits on the one chair among sacks of provisions, little Conrad on her lap, nods to Totty, hoping the gesture lacks any hint of the triumph she feels.

Totty can move neither forward nor back, it seems. Slowly she holds up her letter but still says nothing. It is Nolly, down from his cart and now at her side, who saves the day. Gently he takes her by the arm as if supporting someone much older. With his free hand he takes the letter from her.

‘I think you are especially busy today, Mother, is that right?’

Totty manages a nod.

‘Well then, I will post this for you and let you be on your way.’ Nolly turns his mother, but before he can lead her out, Bella, who has never been able to let an emotional moment escape unmarked, cries out.

‘Totty, Totty! Will you not give him your blessing? An innocent child?’ Bella, coughing and wheezing with her own pent feelings, holds the laughing baby out. ‘We have seen so much together, Totty! Can the new life not mend old fences? Come in, come in, my old friend!’

But the outburst is too much for Totty. For a moment she stands in the doorway, then smiles, gives her son a wordless pat and leaves. Nolly stands in the doorway watching her slow steps up Dickson Street. When he returns with the letter his young face shows his embarrassment. ‘Miss Amy Jessop, my mother doesn’t mean to be rude. It is just —’

‘Nelson, my boy,’ says the postmistress gently, ‘we have known your mother longer than you have, some of us. We all know what she is feeling. It might have helped her if she could have stayed …’

‘I know.’

‘But maybe she will come to it later.’

The women stir. They rustle their skirts and make small noises. Take nibbles of cake. Even little Con is subdued.

‘She was my closest friend,’ says Bella, sighing, ‘and now there is a chasm between us that neither has dug. Will she get over it, Nolly?’

‘Not that I can see.’

‘Nor I. She used to be such a happy soul.’

‘But in any case,’ says the boy, ‘this is your day, Mrs C, and we should move on before you lose your strength.’

The women smile and nod at such good sense from one so young. It takes many hands, though, to return Bella to the cart.

The school visit is pure triumph. Henry Stringer, a more cheerful man these days, makes a great fuss, seating her in the largest room, with all the children on the floor around her. Many have not met the old lady, who is mostly bedridden. Bella invites them to touch little Con’s tiny hands. She teaches them a sea song that Con the Brake taught her many years ago, and they all sing it to the baby. Then she holds them all spellbound with stories of the old days when there was no road to Denniston — no track, even! When her husband, Con the Brake, brought every man, woman, child and their belongings up to Denniston in the coal wagons.

‘What happened to him — that other Con?’ asks one of the older O’Dowds, who has heard rumours.

Bella pauses a moment and glances over to Henry Stringer. The headmaster winks, knowing an embroidery of the truth is on the way.

‘Well now,’ says Bella, ‘he was a seaman at heart, my husband, and one day he set out on a short voyage — just to remember what salt spray tasted like, you understand. But a great storm arose, with
waves as high as the roof of this school. Higher even!’ Bella’s swooping arms create the picture. ‘And a blizzard drove up from the south, with hail to blind a man, and cold black ice to form on the ropes and the sails to make them heavy as lead.’

Every child’s eye is round, every mouth hangs open. Henry Stringer remembers what a great teacher this woman has been and regrets he has not brought her to the school in recent years. He sighs to think what a fool he has been over so many things. But is it possible to change?

Bella is in her element, with little Con asleep on her lap and the children agog. ‘So in the end, despite the fine seamanship of Conrad and the other sailors, the ship keeled over with all that frozen weight aloft and all were lost.’

‘Like the electric wire coming down last winter with the ice?’

‘Exactly so, Sandy McGee.’

Sandy puffs up, to be recognised by such a famous lady.

‘And now, children,’ says Henry, who can see how tired and drawn Bella has suddenly become, ‘shall we sing a song to our first teacher on Denniston and her new grandson to send them safely on their way?’

As the party heads home to the strains of ‘Over the Sea to Skye’, Nolly says, ‘I’ve never heard that story about Con the Brake’s death.’

‘Nor I,’ says Marie Sweeney quietly from the tray of the cart, where she steadies the baby’s basket.

‘Have you not?’ says Bella, and then, to change the subject, ‘Thank you, Nolly. You are a good lad. I hope this will not get you in trouble.’

DURING THE FIRST two years of little Con’s life Rose was busy with events at the Face. She still taught at the school. Her idea to use a chain and hook on the coal boxes was taken seriously. Brennan himself experimented, with the help of the engineering shop and a team of young clippies. Soon all the lads were practising snaking the chain around the moving wire rope, then hooking it off and unwinding with a neat flick of the wrist.

‘Rose Scobie,’ said the mine manager, after a demonstration had been arranged, ‘I hear the original idea came from you. We owe you a favour, indeed we do; this will increase production, indeed it will.’

‘Mr Symonds,’ said Rose, bold as brass, ‘I’ll take a favour, then, indeed I will. How many shares in your company would you say the idea was worth?’

That took the manager aback. But when he saw the row of boxes, heaped high and moving steadily around corners, he shook her hand and said he’d see what might be done; he’d speak to Brennan.

‘Oho, no you won’t,’ said Rose. ‘Over shares you will deal with me.’ At which Janet Scobie had to grin. Brennan was a soft-hearted man for all his stubborn streak. Rose knew she would drive the better bargain. Which she did, though the details of the agreement were never common knowledge. Rose kept money matters close to her chest. Even her husband had no idea.

These were prosperous times for Denniston. It was often said, later, that the fortunes of Rose and of Denniston were joined at the hip, like Siamese twins. True, perhaps, in the wider picture, but then you would have to discount 1905 and 1906: good years for the mines; dark, difficult years for Rose.

First Bella died. Not unexpected, of course, but the old lady’s delight over her grandchild had perhaps masked the deterioration taking place in her body. She died, it was supposed, in her sleep. In fact no one was there. Rusty McGill now had his own accommodation up at his saloon. Inch Donaldson always went early to the shop and made tea and toast on the premises. And Will Scobie slept up at the Hanratty stables most days. So it was not until later that afternoon, when Will arrived at the log house — out of anxiety perhaps, or with a piece of gossip — that Bella’s body was discovered lying half out of bed. She had on her best lace nightgown, though, and her ruby earrings, which made you think …

Will straightened her, pulled the sheet up smoothly, then ran for his horse. He galloped over the plateau, not sparing his precious Black Knight, jumping bushes and taking risky short-cuts, to arrive in a lather at Burnett’s Face school. Rose saw him ride down the rope-road, spattering coal, and ran outside, forgetting schoolchildren
and little Con. She knew. Could see it anyway in the tear-stained face of Willie the Rat.

Without a word — he couldn’t have got one out to save his life — Will manoeuvred Black Knight against the school gate. Rose, also silent, climbed the gate and leapt up behind, clasping the little fellow around the waist as if he were bosom friend, not hated rival. Away they galloped, back down the rope-road and out of sight.

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.