Heart of Coal (18 page)

A MONTH LATER Brennan's weekly letter from his mother carries news of another death — and a new opportunity.

THE ARGUMENT WAS famous. Rose and Brennan were usually such easy friends, which made the force of the words, bouncing off the close-packed houses of Burnett’s Face, the more shocking. At one stage Janet Scobie dared to push open the door of the racketing little cottage, thinking to rescue the screaming Conrad.

‘Stay out of this, Janet,’ growls Brennan, his face set solid as granite.

‘But the baby …’

‘Con is part of the argument. Leave him.’

‘Bren, Bren, he is howling, man!’

‘Out!’

Janet backs a step but is herself a woman of spirit. She faces the wild boil of fury that is Rose. ‘Rose, sweetheart, let us take the babe off, till this is sorted.’

‘Out!’ screams Rose. Conrad, in the next room, wails the louder.

‘Jesus, you are a feckin’ maniac,’ shouts Janet. ‘Shame on the pair of you! All the town is listening in.’

‘Let them, and welcome!’ shouts Rose, and slams her fist into the wall as if she would clobber the whole population.

Janet gives in then and leaves, shaking her head.

‘Brennan will never persuade her,’ she reports back to her shocked and silent family. ‘Something has broken in Rose, I reckon. Her eyes are popping out her head. Her hands are wild windmills tearing at her hair, the curtains.’

‘God almighty,’ says Arnold heavily, ‘it is only natural, what he asks. Should Doldo and I go in, do you think?’

But perhaps Janet’s words have had some effect. The argument tones down marginally, from deafening to loud, and the embarrassed Arnold Scobies hold back awhile, to see how the battle develops.

Brennan has picked up the howling Con and holds him at his shoulder. The child clings to the stuff of his dad’s waistcoat and buries his head in the hollow of his neck. Like this, Bren cannot shout and Rose will not hit him. She stands at the window now, looking out at the black night, at the lights of the railway yard and the dim shapes of the boxes of coal still moving along through the night, ordered and untended, heading for the Bins. Rose is breathing hard. Her hands push the hair away from her face. There is desperation in the movement. She turns back into the room. Her voice, though no longer shouting, is thick with anger.

‘You know I cannot go. You
know
it.’

‘While Bella was alive, yes.’ His voice, the set of his shoulders, are hard and black as coal. Brennan faces her like a wary boxer
waiting for the next move. He is solid in his determination. Rose can find no crack that she might enlarge to an advantage. No bright or pleading smile is going to move his man.

‘Now we must move,’ says Brennan. ‘There is no work for me here.’

‘There is mining work. You are the son of a miner.’

‘I am an engineer and surveyor. There is work for me in Greymouth. Good work.’

‘And I have a good position here!’

‘Rose, you are expecting again. Con is a handful already. Your teaching days will soon be over. They should be over already.’

‘Oh!’ Rose picks a cup from the table and hurls it against the wall. Next door the Scobies wince. They can hear every bitter word Rose grinds out.

‘It is your precious music!’

‘Of course there is that too —’

‘Your bloody band comes before me! Mr Champion Cornet has been offered bandmaster at Greymouth!’

‘Rose, would you have me moulder away up here?’

‘Moulder away? Denniston Brass
won
this year.
You
won.’

‘That was local. Greymouth is in the nationals.’

Another cup smashes against the wall and falls tinkling to the floor.

‘I cannot, I cannot, I cannot!’ shouts Rose. ‘You know I will get sick.’

‘I do not know that! I do
not
, Rose! You will get used to it.’

‘Never!’

‘You need to move on. You cannot hide here all your life. There will be much more down there for you. For your famous mind.’ There is an edge to Brennan’s voice here. He is usually so proud of her cleverness.

‘What mind I have,’ screams Rose, ‘will wither and rot away down there by the sea.’

She flings herself down onto the chair, elbows grinding into the wooden table; buries her head in her hands and bursts into great sobs. ‘Bren, Bren, don’t ask me. I know I am unreasonable, but it can’t be helped. Here is the only place. Here I am right! Please, please let us stay!’

Brennan stands watching her. Con has miraculously fallen asleep against his shoulder. He sighs. ‘Rose, my love, I have given in on almost every front. Not this one. You must at least try. I need this.’ He reaches down to touch her springing hair. ‘Look at you, so full of life! You put me in shadow! You will make a fine life down there. In some way I think you need it more than I do.’

‘No!’

‘At least try it.’

‘I’m afraid!’

‘Of a friendly, busy town? There will be entertainments and committees and a good library. We can come back here to visit. What is there to fear? You must at least try it, Rose.’

‘Oh!’ Rose dashes a fist against her forehead. A heroine might make such a gesture on stage — a dramatic, hopeless appeal in the face of ruin. ‘How can I explain? I don’t understand it myself!’ Her tears are real, though. ‘And if I can’t manage? Brennan, what if it destroys me?’

Brennan shakes his head. He will not give in. ‘You will manage,’ he says. ‘You always manage. I am the one in danger.’

IT is a sombre cartload that heads down the new road a week later. Rose, seven months pregnant, and holding Con in her arms, sits stiff-backed on the plank-seat beside Nolly. The mist is low and the day dark. The piano stays behind, donated meantime to the school
— a symbol to Rose that she will return. The rest of their possessions make only a small heap atop the bed, on the tray of the cart. Brennan walks his pony beside the cart to keep an eye. Down at Waimangaroa, Rose and the possessions will transfer to the train, while Brennan travels alone, by horseback. Half Burnett’s Face is there at the Scobies’ to see them off. Janet, in tears for once, puts a fresh-baked raisin cake in its tin at Rose’s feet.

‘That’s to keep your spirits up on the journey, my lovely,’ she says.

Rose nods. Her face, usually so full of life and high colour, is as grey as the mist.

‘I’ll be down to visit soon as you’re settled,’ says Janet, which earns her a wan smile. ‘Now off with you, before I cry me feckin’ eyes out!’

On the plateau Henry Stringer is standing in front of his lonely house. He raises a hand as they plod past.

‘Write to me, Rose,’ he shouts. ‘Keep me up with the news of the world, now!’

‘We’ll do that, don’t you worry!’ The response is from Brennan, not Rose. A tiny lift of her hand is all she can manage. Brennan, on the other hand, hums with energy. Melody prances and paws, sharing the rider’s pleasure. Bandmaster at Greymouth, now; that’s something for a young man like him! Brennan has explained to Rose the changes he plans to make: new arrangements of the old standards; different instruments brought into the ensemble; performing away, perhaps, at other centres. Rose barely raised a smile. Brennan held her close, whispered his love, but she remained closed, cold as suet, against his excitement. This is certainly a worry at present, but Brennan feels sure that once they are settled, life in the busy town of Greymouth will suit his active wife.

As they ride through the cold, swirling streets of Denniston,
Brennan pulls his cornet from its case strapped to the pommel. ‘Lass of Richmond Hill’ he plays, then ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ timed to the march of Diablo’s hooves. Little Conrad laughs and beats the air with his fists. When Brennan finally dares to ride abreast of Rose, and blow ‘Rose of Tralee’ as soft as silk in her ear, she turns in her seat to smile.

‘You’re a cunning man, Brennan Scobie. Your music would charm the heart of a bloodless toad. Well, my husband, let us at least try if we can capture Greymouth.’

Tarantara! blares the cornet, in a fanfare of Brennan’s own making.

Will Scobie, in the Hanratty yard, turns at the sound and comes running. ‘Oy, take care now, cousins!’ he shouts, trotting alongside. ‘I’ll bring Mistress C down to the races in your neck of the woods, see if I don’t.’

‘Look after my house, now, Will Scobie,’ says Rose, smiling at last. ‘I’m counting on you.’

Little Will puffs out at that, but then slaps a hand to his forehead. ‘Amn’t I the idiot! Your lucky whale’s tooth. I feckin’ forgot to bring it to you. It’s back at the log house.’

Nolly pulls at the horses and the whole procession halts while Will stamps and frets in the muddy road.

But Rose only shrugs. ‘Leave it, Willie. It’s a lovely thing but no lucky charm to me. You keep it.’

‘You can’t mean that!’ But Will Scobie’s eyes are alight with the possibility. ‘No, no … your own father …’

Brennan is anxious to move on. He drums on the pommel and his pony side-steps nervously. Rose has hardly said a word to him all morning and now she is carrying on a whole conversation with his cousin.

Rose shrugs again and nods at Nolly to move on. She speaks
down to Will, who walks alongside. ‘I had no father. Or if I had, he left. And now it is me leaving. Would you leave too, Will?’

‘Not I,’ says Will stoutly, then looks up at her and chuckles. ‘Well, I am off come spring to Australia. And I will travel again, no doubt. But I am Denniston bred. I’ll settle here.’

‘And I,’ says Rose grimly. ‘Count on it. Good luck, cousin.’

‘And you.’

Will stands in the road and waves them away. Totty Hanratty, watching through curtains, imagines she sees a happy family heading for good times below. She turns back to her polishing, sad at heart.