Heart of Coal (2 page)

Step by step up the hairpin Track, listening to his mother curse every damned thing about Denniston, dark-haired Brennan Scobie, single-minded, stubborn, is fixed on one purpose only — to find Rose and to stay with her on the Hill.

HENRY STRINGER, AS flushed and excited as his pupils, looks up for a moment from his ordering and exhorting to hear that voice ring out — more strident, carrying more weight of authority than he remembers but still unmistakably that of Mrs Josiah Scobie.

‘Don’t talk rubbish!’ booms that perennial battler (these days it is Temperance, Suffrage having been won) at her black-browed son, for all in the hall to hear. ‘You’ll be coming back with your father and me and that’s an end to it.’

Brennan looks quickly from side to side like a cornered animal. You can see he’s desperate to argue but embarrassed in front of his old friends. To start with he looks younger than them: Donnie O’Shea is a married man already; he and his brother Jackie O’Shea are tough men about town. Brennan’s twenty-two-year-old body is not settled into manhood yet, despite his large frame and smart
Wellington suit. His friends’ faces are cracked and ruddy from rough weather and black coal dust. Already they have eight years’ work for the Company under their belts. Brennan, his face pink and white, his hands still soft, has just finished his training.

Josiah’s heavy hand settles on his son’s shoulder like doom.

‘Not now, lad. This is neither time nor place. We’ll hear no more.’

‘Dad …’

‘I said no! Think what you’re asking, lad. Now give off.’

Henry Stringer hears it. Sees Brennan’s eyes dart here and there, and knows he searches for Rose. Later he sees Brennan in a corner, begging help from his aunt, Janet Scobie, who clearly rebuffs him as you’d expect. Henry frowns. The boy is blind to normal considerations, as they can be at that age, but with Brennan it may be more than a phase. Brennan never had the ability to skim along, to take what comes and enjoy the ride, like his old friend Michael. Henry, who’s always been fond of this quiet, stubborn boy, and who understands — perhaps shares — that tenacity, gnaws at his pipe. Eight years Brennan has been away and it looks as if nothing has changed.

‘God help us all if he does come back to live,’ mutters Henry Stringer, who has been teaching on Denniston for fifteen years now and feels he is an expert on the aspirations and foibles of the young who have lived here. He is wrong this time, though. The headmaster’s fear is for Brennan: that Rose and Michael will eat him alive and spit out the pips. ‘Without even knowing what they do,’ he adds sadly, through a waft of pipe smoke.

Henry Stringer often talks to himself. People take him for a man much older than his thirty-four years. His stoop, his solitary ways and his bookish passions set him aside from others in his community. In fact he is no older than many of the miners whose sisters he might have courted. Might have — but never does. Henry
will argue politics until his opponents buckle at the knees, will spend a whole weekend reading alone in his school-house, will chivvy and exhort his pupils into shape for concerts and plays and every manner of entertainment, applauding wildly and laughing louder than any of the audience at their antics. But you will never see a young lady on his arm when others parade on the Recreation Ground, or walk the long way home from church. Some say Henry himself has always held a secret love for Rose; that he is the sort who favours a hopeless cause. Most people simply never connect Henry Stringer with the notion of love. Henry is Henry — born to be a loner.

On this fine evening though, Henry is anything but alone and he is in his element. He is organiser and master of ceremonies at a Grand Entertainment, celebrating jointly the twentieth anniversary of the opening of the Incline and the second year running that the Denniston Miners’ Brass Band has won the West Coast Band Championship. The school hall is crowded: paper chains, painted and pasted by the schoolchildren, fan out from the new electric light; a banner, stretched above the stage, proclaims
‘WELCOME HOME CHAMPIONS!’
and another, less prominently displayed above the door says
‘OUR INCLINE — EIGHTH WONDER OF THE ENGINEERING WORLD!’
This banner is a little faded. It has emerged from a ten-year storage. The band banner, on the other hand, is spanking new — every letter a different vibrant colour.

Henry steps up onto the stage, stumbling only once, and raises his arms high. ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ A cheer from the excited crowd of children at the front, all dressed as little ladies and gentlemen, miners and railwaymen for their tableaux depicting Twenty Years of Denniston History. ‘Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to you all!’

And so he goes, for rather too long, welcoming the members of
the brass band individually as they sit proud and ready on the stage, their smart caps straight, their instruments properly laid in the ‘rest’ position. ‘A special welcome,’ shouts Henry, all aglow, ‘to Mr Josiah Scobie, one of our own from the Ministry of Mines in Wellington, who will inspire us as always with the power of his oratory, and who brings a special message from our beloved Premier, Mr Richard Seddon. Indeed, welcome also to Mr Scobie’s wife and son. They honour us with their presence.’

A snort of laughter from somewhere near the back, and heads turn. Henry doesn’t hear. He gestures dramatically towards a red-faced Brennan. ‘Brennan Scobie, who as you all know won second place in the
national
championships, solo cornet [more cheers], has agreed to play us a selection from his winning entry later in the evening. Also performing will be the delightful …’ The crowd shift and shuffle. Henry is talking too much as usual. The programme is clear enough isn’t it? — chalked in curly writing by Janet Scobie’s clever boy Willie Winks on the billboard beside the stage.

Eventually the concert is under way.

Brennan, sitting trapped in the front row, wants to search the audience again. Surely Rose will be here? And Michael? They know he’s here, he wrote to them weeks ago, told them his plans to return, to work as a surveyor for the Company. Brennan had asked Michael to search out some accommodation for him. His letter to Rose was more …
personal
… without pushing his interest too far. Or Brennan thought so; he’d spent long enough on it. Perhaps he should have been clearer?

Brennan plans to slip out in the next interval and look around outside.

WHAT happens at the end of the evening, when the audience is nicely warmed up and ready for a bit of fun, could have come
straight out of one of those touring comedies so popular these days. Mrs C. Rasmussen is not amused, nor are Tom and Totty Hanratty, but most of the miners laugh their heads off. The children’s charming tableaux are over; the speeches and the band’s second, lighter bracket completed. Supper is to follow after Brennan’s piece. But where is Brennan? In the pause after his item is announced, a high, excited voice from the back calls out.

‘Well then, while we await the prodigy, I have some news for you all!’

Laughter from the back of the hall.

‘Go on, Michael, you wouldn’t dare!’ — that is Goldie McGuire.

‘Hoist the flag, boy! Tell the world!’ shouts Hooter Harries. Everyone recognises his nasal drawl and prepares for some trick or other. You can count on Michael and his group of lads to liven up the evening one way or another. They are popular enough, these Denniston fellows; none of them is a miner, they’re above-ground workers, bred on the Hill, stalwarts of the wrestling club, the football club and most of the drinking clubs. Mad on horses, all three of them, and always on the lookout for action.

‘Wouldn’t I just dare?’ shouts Michael, bounding down the aisle on long legs, admired up here for their mastery of polka and waltz. Henry, indulgent as always with these early pupils of his, and presently lacking a cornet solo, allows Michael Hanratty on stage, though it is clear by now that the boy has been drinking. Michael is famous for his inability to hold liquor. He always lights up like a torch after a glass or two, cheeks aflame, ears like two beacons. But he’s usually forgiven next day; isn’t he a good lad on the whole? Helps with the family business? And you couldn’t say he was anything but a cheerful drunk.

Cheerful he most certainly is at this moment, waving his arms
for silence, grinning like a puppy, his golden hair sleeked down flat as water under the electric light. The audience cheers him good-naturedly.

‘I thought you all would like to be the first to know,’ he shouts, and then lurches sideways. Henry, almost as uncoordinated but dead sober, shoots forward to support him. For a moment the two waver and topple amid gusts of laughter. Bandmaster Cooper rises majestically from his seat. With one hand he holds the headmaster firm, with the other he guides Michael’s flailing arm onto the wooden pulpit. He stands with arms spread, waiting for further disasters, then, like an impresario presenting a pair of performing dogs, takes a bow and seats himself. The audience loves it.

Henry frowns. The boy is really drunk. And where is Brennan?

Michael slants against the stand. ‘You, my friends, are the first to know,’ he shouts, flashing his brilliant smile, ‘that Rose Rasmussen, my Rose of Tralee, has agreed to become my wife!’ He flings his arms wide, sending the pulpit rocking. ‘And you will all be invited to the wedding!’

Ragged cheers from the back of the hall. The more respectable front rows shake their heads at this unorthodox behaviour. Tom and Totty Hanratty look at each other in frowning disbelief.

‘Oh, Michael, you fool, you fool,’ mutters Henry Stringer.

At this moment Michael plunges down onto one knee, pulls a tiny ring-box from the pocket of his fancy waistcoat and holds it aloft like a trophy.

‘Rose Rasmussen,’ he calls. ‘Will the lucky lady please come forward?’

The audience expects Rose to dance on stage and play her part. She is quite capable of joining in the fun, and usually does, in a manner many consider at best unladylike. But this time nothing happens; no Rose appears. The laughter dies away. Heads turn.
Michael stays frozen on one knee.

‘Rose?’ he calls again, but the prank is wearing thin.

At this moment Brennan steps on stage. Dark-suited, black-haired, quiet and sober, his cornet swinging easily from one hand, he stands in front of the kneeling Michael. He smiles at his old friend, bows slightly and accepts the ring-box.

‘Hurrah!’ yells some wit at the back.

‘Match made in heaven,’ shouts another. There is much stamping and whistling and slapping of thighs at the joke.

Who knows what is going on in Michael’s head? His face is a railway station of emotions. He wants to play his part but cannot manage. All he can do is grab at the ring, throw an unconvincing bow at the audience and stumble offstage. Out he runs, out of the hall, leaving the door swinging.

Brennan smiles still, fingering the keys of his cornet. Perhaps he did not hear Michael’s announcement. More likely, good performer that he is, his mind is on the music he’s about to play. He brings cornet to lips and the silver notes slide, supple as a silk ribbon, through the quiet air. Here is magic! Oh, this visiting Scobie is good! Bandmaster Cooper sits forward. He wants the lad. Could he be persuaded to return?

Brennan’s last item is that beautiful love song
The Rose of Tralee
, and there she is, the Denniston Rose, standing alone at the back of the hall, motionless for once, listening to him.

Henry Stringer can see her clearly. What a woman she has grown into! No one would doubt, these days, that she is Con the Brake’s daughter — her height, the spread of her shoulders, the broad, open face: not pretty or sweet, but handsome and spirited in a way that completely eclipses the other faces around her. One side of her face flushes more brightly than the other — the old burn scar still casts its fiery shadow. But that and the mass of gold-blonde
hair are not the only features that mark her out, in Henry’s opinion. That intensity is born of fierce intelligence. Rose is clever — very clever. In her last years at school she often challenged Henry’s ability to keep up with her; he was fascinated by how far he could push her before she would laugh and shrug, slap the book closed and run outside. Henry has tried to send her to Christchurch, where a woman of her intelligence could continue her education, but Rose only laughs. ‘I can learn all I want here,’ she says. ‘How could I leave all of you?’ And of course Henry is secretly glad, and flattered, and forgets to pursue the matter further.

At this moment, though, he frowns, gnaws at his pipe as he sees Rose’s rapt attention, her bright flush and shining eyes. Is it the music or is it Brennan?

He could kill the hussy.

THE DAY AFTER the concert Mary Scobie finds a note under the door of the clean but simple room they have hired at Hanrattys’ Guest House. Her explosion of rage wakes her husband. Josiah is used to his wife’s righteous and highly vocal indignation on subjects as widely diverse as the evils of alcohol, the proper and healthy diet for schoolchildren or the outdated and ignorant views of conservative politicians. Over the last few years he has learned to screen out two-thirds of her regular diatribes.

‘Come on then, Mother,’ he rumbles, ‘let’s enjoy the peace of a holiday morning, eh? You’ll be waking the other guests.’

‘There’s one I won’t be waking,’ shouts Mary, ‘and that is our son. Oh, the wretch! We should never have brought him back with us.’ She rattles the note as if she would shake the life out of it.

Josiah sighs and heaves himself up in the bed. ‘Well then, let’s
look at it.’ His brows lower as he reads. Brennan has written that he has found work and accommodation on the Hill, and will not be coming back with them. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ the letter ends. ‘I will work hard and, I hope, give you cause for pride. But I am determined in this matter and will not be budged from it. Thank you for my education. I will use it, Mother, never fear. Sincerely, your son Brennan.’

‘Oho,’ says Josiah, torn between pride and loss for this much-loved youngest son, ‘the boy has spirit, you can’t deny that. And enterprise.’

Mary glares. Already she is struggling with her stays. ‘Enterprise! He is nothing but a lovesick puppy! He’ll throw all his education and a brilliant musical future at the feet of that wild, untutored woman, bred of criminals and wasters! Get up, for goodness sake, Josiah. We must find him!’

Josiah stays where he is, frowning. ‘The boy has feelings for that — what did they call her back then? Rose of Tralee?’

Mary groans. ‘Where are your eyes, man? Ever since this trip was planned he has been on fire. I have seen several discarded love letters of his’ — she meets Josiah’s accusing eye defiantly — ‘which he has left lying around for anyone to read. And last night! If you did not notice the way he looked at her you would be the only man in the room who didn’t.’ She wrenches her hair tightly into a bun and skewers it to her head. ‘He will have gone to Janet and Arnold. That’s where to find him. Get up, Josiah!’

Josiah swings his legs out of bed but sits there thinking. Last night, in the hall, surrounded by coal men — their grainy, lined faces; their bluntness; the strong bonds of friendship, man to man, that come from working underground together — he had felt suddenly nostalgic for the old life. His present work up in Wellington with the Ministry is important and satisfying. Well paid. But for all that …

He stands slowly. A strong, imposing man still, even in his underwear. He smiles at his impatient wife, wanting to soften the message. ‘Hold your horses there, Mother. Our baby is a grown man of twenty-two.’

‘He’s still a child!’

‘He’s a man. We cannot force him. And if we tried, matters would grow worse, not better. He must find his own way now. A bit of toughening up on the Hill will do him no harm.’

‘No harm! I have lost one son to the coal here. Two others not four years back to the Brunner Mine. I have sworn —’

Josiah hardens his voice. ‘
You
have sworn, yes, but your boys have wills of their own. A young man needs to set his muscles to work. If Brennan is drawn to the coal, I will not forbid it. Mary — it is time to let Brennan go.’

Mary is not listening. She plunges into her coat sleeves, slaps a hat on top of the bun. ‘If you will not help save your own son —’

‘We are not talking saving here.’

‘Then I must do it myself.’ She storms into the corridor. Josiah shouts after her that they must leave in four hours to walk down the Track and catch the train at Conn’s Creek.

‘I will be there,’ she shouts back, ‘with Brennan!’

This time, though, Mrs Josiah Scobie suffers a rare defeat. Later that day she has no choice but to walk with Josiah back down the cursed Track, head lowered against driving wind-blown rain, foreboding in her heart. Nobody has set eyes on Brennan.

BRENNAN, in fact, has neither accommodation nor job. He spent part of that night and all next day hiding in a disused section of Cascade mine. He had waited in his room at Hanrattys’, dressed and packed, grinning in the dark as he relived the few moments he had spent that evening alone with Rose: the laughing way she had
cocked her head to one side, looked him up and down. ‘Oh, it’s so wonderful to see you, Brennan!’ Those were her words, and surely she had meant them. Rose hadn’t changed. She would never say something like that if she didn’t mean it. The old friendship was still there. Brennan considered Michael — his proposal — but dismissed it as a piece of theatre. Not from the heart. Brennan was the one to give Rose the steady loving life she would need, and the security, and the prospect of good wages. Brennan ticked them off on his fingers as he waited in his quiet room. And the music — Rose loved music. They were made for each other!

Long after he had heard the last burst of laughter from the saloon, the last clumping of feet along the wooden floor to bed, Brennan, carrying shoes, bag and cornet, had slipped away from his parents, from Hanrattys’ and from his rival, Michael, into the cold starry night.

Up over the plateau he walked, bushes and rocks glowing blue in the moonlight. He would have sung, for the freedom of it, the sheer joy of being back here, near to Rose, but secrecy was paramount. Brennan knew and feared the pressure his mother would exert. He would dare to face Josiah, to plead his case. But his mother’s love — her protective fear for his safety — was for him insurmountable. In a confrontation with his mother he knew he would lose. On he walked, happy to be alone, marvelling at the new houses built here since he left, the new track, wide enough for horse and cart, heading towards Burnett’s Face.

He had walked right through the silent town of Burnett’s Face, the ugly miners’ village, crammed into a narrow valley, cheek-by-jowl with the machinery of mining and the mine entrances themselves, where Brennan, his four brothers and his parents grew up and once worked. Keeping to shadows, he followed the rope-road towards Cascade mine. It was darker here, the steep sides of the
valley blocking moonlight. Twice he stumbled and fell. With both hands full it was no easy matter to pick his way between rails, wires and heaps of coal-slack. Finally he found what he was looking for — the old disused mine entrance where he had played as a boy. A short distance in, if he remembered right, in the first cross-tunnel, was a broad ledge cut in the stone of the wall. Other smaller cavities had also been carved out. He and the other children believed that once some lonely man, lacking a house, had lived there.

Inside the mine it was pitch black but strangely warm. Brennan’s feet crunched on coal. He loved the sharp twinkling sound — so much more lively than the dull crunch of gravel. Gently he set down his cornet case, felt along the wall with his free hand until he came to the side-branch. The sacking brattice still hung there, frayed and decaying. He pushed through it and felt for the ledge. There it was, just as he remembered! Working from memory, using hands for eyes, he found two smaller cavities and stowed his things. He grinned in the dark — ‘All my worldly possessions.’ The thought was exciting. He could stay here for days if necessary. Wrapping his coat tightly about him, he rolled onto his ledge and set his back to the wall. The space was surprisingly comfortable. Surprisingly warm.

That sleep would almost certainly have been his last had it not been for an extraordinary stroke of luck. Doldo Scobie, Arnold’s oldest boy, was walking home next day from a new section of Cascade, further up the valley, where he worked underground as trucker. Doldo was a quiet boy, like his dad, solid for his fifteen years, sooty-headed and black-browed like most of the Scobies. Every morning Chip, his small white terrier, followed Doldo to work, then sat, ears and tail adroop, while Doldo disappeared into the black tunnel. All day Chip would fossick around, never far from that entrance, until ten minutes before knock-off time when Chip
could be found, without fail, sitting facing the entrance, every sense alert for his master’s return. Up Doldo would come, black and sweaty, running his last boxes out by hand, and Chip, knowing his master’s tread, ran the best part of a chain inside to greet him, jumping and licking until they both emerged, as black as each other. The two would then walk home to sluice off together in the tin tub back behind the Scobies’ house.

That narrow path home alongside the rope-road took them past the unused mine entrance, half obscured by old timber props and drooping ferns. A chain inside, Brennan lay on his warm shelf, still heavily asleep. Much earlier he had woken and stumbled blearily to the entrance. Seeing miners approaching, on their way to work, Brennan had dodged back inside, planning to wait until he was sure his parents had left the plateau. Back on his shelf in the dark he ate a little bread and biscuit, then fell deeply asleep again. He was quite unaware that the foul air he breathed was slowly, imperceptibly poisoning him.

CHIP stops at the old entrance with his nose high; he looks back at Doldo, tail flagging that something’s up. One short high yelp of excitement and Chip disappears into the dark.

‘Hey, feller, nothing but rats in there,’ says Doldo, but he’s interested. Chip walks past this spot twice daily and has never investigated before. Doldo ignites the lamp, still hooked to his cap, and follows.

Chip won’t go past the brattice but barks at the shredded curtain, runs back to the pool of light that is Doldo, barks again. The sound echoes wildly off the walls, sending the little terrier belting back to daylight with his tail between his legs. Doldo laughs, almost follows. Then some lucky sense guides him to brush aside the brattice and glance up the side-branch. Pale lamplight falls on a
dark body lying curled on the shelf. A crust of bread lies on the ground; rat-tails scuttle away from the light.

‘Hell’s fires!’ mutters Doldo, approaching with care. Is the man dead, or drunk? Crazy maybe? Not until he is close up does he recognise Brennan. Gently he reaches out, and is relieved to feel warm flesh.

‘Bren! Our Bren! Wake up, man!’

Brennan sleeps on.

Doldo shakes harder but his cousin is oblivious. Doldo examines the sleeper for blood or damage — why in the name of God won’t he wake? Finally he heaves the unconscious body onto his shoulder, knocking out his lamp in the process, and staggers towards the fading light at the mine entrance, where Chip is dancing his anxiety.

It takes several slaps about the face and a good whiff of Janet’s smelling salts to bring Brennan back to life. Even then he’s groggy. Nothing he says makes sense.

‘Give the boy some soup and put him to bed,’ grumbles Arnold, who is tired and ready for his dinner.

‘Bed, bed, all very well,’ says Janet, waving her arms wide. ‘Where would you feckin’ suggest, then?’

‘Put him on the floor, under Doldo and Wee Willie. Beats a rat-ridden mine.’

And there Brennan sleeps all night and half the next day. He wakes, clear-headed and ravenous, ready to face the legendary gauntlet of Janet’s tongue.

In the kitchen, where Janet is making bread, he pours himself tea from the kettle on the stove, cuts himself a heel of bread and sits to eat and drink. When Brennan left eight years ago, Janet was adult to his child: a different generation. Now he sees his aunt more as an equal — much younger and more full of fun than his mother. It is difficult
to call her Auntie. Slowly, for his own tongue is not sharp like hers, he stumbles through an explanation: his note to his parents; his desire to come back and work on the Hill. His feeling for the coal business.

Janet narrows her eyes. ‘Oh yes, mining, is it?’

‘It is,’ says Brennan earnestly. ‘I want to work with my hands for a change.’

‘A certain colourful Rose is not part of the attraction, then?’

Brennan dares to grin. Janet hoots with laughter and slaps him on the back.

‘You sneaky devil! After all these years? Well now, Mr Lovesick, and what about that golden cockerel Michael Hanratty? Your one-time feckin’ “best friend”? What about him, then?’

Brennan frowns. Clearly Janet is not over-fond of Michael. But this is an uncomfortable area for Brennan.

‘What about him?’ he says.

‘You saw him at the concert. His proposal. He is a Denniston lad like her. Everyone expects it, Brenny-boy.’

Brennan swallows his tea, then looks up at her. ‘Ay, but did you see Rose when I played?’

‘I did not.’

Brennan’s serious face is now alight. ‘I played for
her
, every note. Every note! She knew it; she loved it. She never took her eyes off me, beginning to end.’

‘Oh, Bren — she loved your
music
! Everyone does.’ Brennan frowns and thinks about this.

Rose is too sharp for our plodder here, thinks Janet. He would never manage her.

‘No, but,’ says Brennan finally, ‘not just the music. We talked before that. She is happy to see me. Really happy. Oh!’ He blushes like the little boy Janet remembers. ‘I kissed her!’ His eyes are confident and proud.

‘Bravo and all! She kissed you back, then?’ This role as confidante is hugely entertaining to Janet.

‘Well, she laughed and ducked away. But that is Rose.’

‘Oho, and you are the one-day expert on Rose?’

‘No, but listen — she squeezed my hand. That must mean something?’

‘Surely,’ laughs Janet. But she knows, better than Brennan, Rose’s reputation, and fears for him. She sighs. Plants her floury hands on the table in front of him. ‘Now then. What about your mother? She is not happy.’

Brennan looks away. ‘I left her a note.’

‘A note! Words spoken to her face would be the bold action.’

Janet watches as the proud young man turns boy again. Brennan squirms in his chair, reduces his crust to crumbs, then sweeps them back and forth on the table. His mouth turns down like a sulky child’s. Janet wonders if he is going to cry. Oh yes — here is a boy who needs to get away from his mother. When Brennan finally looks up there is indeed an extra brightness to his black eyes.