Heart of Coal (11 page)

Bella twitches at the rug over her knees. Henry Stringer is being deliberately irritating. ‘Mr Stringer,’ she says sharply, ‘what has got into you? Once you would be ready with an opinion on every pupil you have ever taught, past and present, and would defend your
opinion with sensible reason.’ She frowns at a new thought. ‘Has Rose created trouble at school recently? You understand my meaning?’

Henry looks even more deeply into his pipe. ‘Rose, as we both know, is a kleptomaniac, Mrs C. It is a disease, and though it causes embarrassment, we manage. We manage.’

‘Have you asked yourself why she steals?’

Henry pauses in his inspection of the pipe. His interest is caught despite himself. ‘Her childhood was not … ideal, let us say. Until you took over, of course.’

‘Could what happened to her, the … mistreatment … cause such behaviour?’

‘I am no expert, but yes, I have always thought perhaps the cause lies there.’

Bella takes a breath. Even this forthright lady finds it awkward to approach this matter. ‘Mr Stringer, I believe Rose has no remembrance, none at all, of the treatment she received …’

Bella’s voice tails away. In the silence Henry can hear the rasp of her breath, shallow and agitated. The woman is not at all well.

‘The treatment she received,’ continues Bella at last, ‘from that sinner Billy Genesis. You were the one, Mr Stringer, who called us to our duty on that matter, if I remember rightly.’

‘Well.’

The image of the child Rose, bruised — and worse — at the hands of Billy Genesis, is one neither Bella nor Henry likes to recall.

‘My question to you is,’ Bella now gets it out in a rush, ‘should she be told? Or helped to remember? Could it help her? With the stealing, and with … other matters … matters of love, shall we say?’

Henry jams his pipe between his teeth. Looks away out the window, where nothing but lowering clouds can be seen.

‘I don’t know,’ he mutters. ‘How could I know?’

Bella is weeping quietly now, the tears sliding down her soft old cheeks. ‘I would so like her to be happy, Mr Stringer. On the outside she seems to be. Inside, though, do you see it? A knot — a blank spot. Her heart is not free. Sometimes such a lost, anxious person looks out through her eyes, my heart aches to see it. And then she is off, laughing, organising, and I think I have imagined it all.’

Bella wipes her eyes with a fine lace handkerchief. Even this is black. ‘Her marriage to Michael had some … difficulty, Mr Stringer. Please, no!’ as Henry moves to rise. ‘No, hear me out, please! You know her so well, Mr Stringer. No one else in this town can I ask, who would not die of outrage or shock. People think she somehow drove Michael to his death. I cannot believe so. Do not. The road to suicide did not begin with their marriage. Problems there were, yes. In the marriage bed she was willing, I believe, but entirely without desire.’

Henry is wringing his hands in anguish but Bella is lost in her tale and does not notice. ‘Rose knows women’s matters with her head only. To her it is a thing to be learned like another subject in the school curriculum. No emotion attaches. But Michael’s own … difficulties … did not help. Oh, forgive me for raising such matters, but if Rose is to lead a full life in the future, what is to be done? Tell me, do, please!’

What Bella thinks she hears is a deep groan. But perhaps it is the chair scraping as Henry jumps up to pace the floor. His hands flail the air as if he is pushing away circling demons. ‘No!’ he cries. ‘No more, no more! I am no oracle, but a foolish man. A young and foolish fellow. I have no answers. Please, no more!’

Bella is so astonished, she forgets her own emotional state and stares. Opinions are usually meat and drink to this man. Has he lost his reason?

Henry seizes his coat and blunders towards the door. With the door open and escape ensured, he regains a little composure. ‘Forgive me, I am not quite well. You will know best about Rose.’ And out he rushes.

Picking his way over the railway lines and snaking wires of the Bins, mist swirling low around his ears, Henry allows his own tears to fall. He realises he has failed Bella, as he failed Michael and perhaps Rose too, but all he feels is the aching absence of Michael; the sun-lit smile, the golden head of his dear, lost beloved.

SINCE THEIR TIME together on the beach Brennan and Maisie have been awkward together. Maisie is careful never to mention her passion, Brennan’s need, but there is gentle hope in every look.

I must either give in or leave, thinks Brennan.

Maisie hands him his box of sandwiches, pats his arm as he wheels his bicycle down off the porch. Like a fond and anxious wife already. Brennan smiles at her. As he mounts and peers into the half-light to find the gritty road, he tells himself that giving in is not good enough. But oh, Rose, in the name of heaven, what else is possible? Maisie will bring him property and the prospect of a solid inheritance. His mother would no doubt applaud such a suitable marriage. Christchurch is a bustling town where he will soon rise to a respectable position. Already he is a champion player in the Christchurch Civic Brass. Brennan pedals grimly over the rough
surface of the Square, his jacket and trousers misted with silver by the damp air. He groans out loud. Perhaps Maisie’s eagerness, her warm, floury body would help him forget Rose? There is no sense to this wild love of his. No future to it. Why, then, does it drive him this way and that, buck and twist like an unmanageable mount? Somehow he cannot be thrown clear.

A light rain begins to fall. Brennan arrives cold and gloomy at his office near the railway station.

A letter from Denniston is on his desk.

THAT evening Maisie is standing at the range stirring a cheese sauce when she hears Brennan wheel his bicycle down the gravel path and around to the back of the house. She frowns. Something is different. What? The time is right: quarter past six. He has leaned his bicycle in the same place, banged his boots in the same way on the edge of the porch to dislodge any mud. He is whistling, but then that is nothing new. Tunes escape out of Brennan like steam out of a kettle. Maisie shakes her head and goes back to her creamed carrots. Under the table in the corner little Jackie bangs pot lids with a wooden spoon.

‘Ease off, Jackie, I can’t hear myself think,’ shouts Maisie. Jackie stops mid-stroke and looks at her. His mother rarely raises her voice. He tries a marginally quieter tattoo.

Brennan pushes open the door and Maisie, turning to welcome him in out of the cold, gasps in shock. This is a different man. Brennan sheds his coat and cap and as usual hangs them on the hook on the door. His scarf follows, as usual. But every movement is utterly new. The coat hangs crooked. The cap is flicked to the hook. The scarf loops through the air, misses its mark and falls to the ground unnoticed. Brennan’s shoulders seem to have grown wider; his feet are planted more solidly. His chest rises and falls
quickly as if he has been running, though she has heard his slow tread outside.

Only the smile is less certain. ‘Evening,’ says Brennan, and after a pause, ‘Maisie.’

Maisie faces him, her spoon dripping sauce onto the floor. ‘What is it? Oh, what has happened?’ But she doesn’t want to hear.

‘Is it so obvious?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, Maisie …’ Brennan takes her by the shoulders, looks into her wide face, but says no more.

The excitement coming out of him sears her. ‘Spit it out then, before it chokes you,’ she says, ‘because dinner is ready.’

The sour words seem to calm him. ‘Let me wash up and find my slippers. We’ll have our meal and talk afterwards.’ He bends to peer under the table. ‘How is Jackie, then? How’s the little drummer?’ He drums his own fingers rat-a-ta-tat on the tabletop and Jackie laughs.

God help us, thinks Maisie. When has he ever talked to the boy like that? She knows Brennan’s mood is not for her.

After the meal, which is all but silent, Maisie puts Jackie down in his cot and comes back to the kitchen. Brennan is pacing the floor. He has filled the kettle and now the steam puffs out, clogging the air and silvering the windows, but Brennan doesn’t seem to notice. He turns to her as she enters and the words pour out of him. He talks of a hanging; of news withheld from him; of an invitation of work — and of Rose. He follows her as she makes tea, talking all the time, and when her legs buckle and she sits silent at the table he paces on, the wild words roaring around the little room.

Finally he draws breath. He sits opposite her at the table, as he has most nights this past year, and takes her two hands in his, which is new.

‘Oh, Maisie, it is so strange! I am so torn. Michael was a good friend — my best friend — and now he is dead. I should be desperate to think of him hanging there in the stable, should be shedding tears for him, but it is like a window opening. I cannot tell you what I feel! There is hope in the world again. All today the air has seemed clearer, my vision sharper. I solved a problem at my work that has puzzled me for days.’

Maisie looks down at her small, work-roughened hands lying inside his. She could leave them there all night. ‘You don’t feel torn over
me
at all?’

Brennan can hardly hear the words. He leans towards her. ‘Maisie, you have been so good to me. You are such a good friend. That is why I can speak to you so easily —’

‘Friendship is more precious than you think, perhaps.’

‘I do not underestimate it. I would like to think we will remain friends —’

‘Oh!’ cries Maisie. She turns her hands to grip his and holds him there against the wood of the table. ‘You have no idea! Friendship is not enough for what I feel! I want to be your wife. Every night I want you in my bed. I want a child of yours in my belly. Brennan Scobie, you are turning a knife round and round in my heart and you talk of friendship!’

She beats his knuckles against the table, bruising them. Brennan is startled by her strength and for a moment fears she will break a finger. He pulls out of her grasp and holds his precious hands between his thighs. ‘You know I have tried not to encourage those hopes.’

‘You have used me. My home, my goodwill. Oh …’ The tears are falling now. ‘The puddings I have made for you; your favourite cakes. Will she do the same?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Will she iron your shirts? Does she own a fine house?’

Brennan is hardly listening. He inhabits a different world. ‘I expect not, on either count.’

‘You have led me on.’

‘No. Not really. But Maisie, I thought there was no hope. Now there is. Everything is changed.’

Their voices have woken little Jackie but Maisie ignores his cries.

‘She may not want you back. After this time.’

Brennan nods, but nothing seems to dent his shining mood. ‘She may not. True. I can win her back, though, Maisie, I’m sure of it. We are made for each other.’

Maisie is the one now to lose hope. She leaves the room without a word and goes to her son. Brennan sits on his own in the warm kitchen. He sips a little of his cold tea and plans his new life.

When Maisie returns she is quieter and her words cut more deeply into Brennan’s euphoria.

‘This is what I think: that you are bewitched in some unreal way by this Rose. What about your prospects here in Christchurch? Your mother’s hopes for you? You sit there glowing and planning without a thought for your dead friend or my dead heart. Why did your friend kill himself? Will the same befall you? Perhaps this woman contains some evil …’

Brennan is on his feet now. His black brows are lowered. ‘No more, Maisie. I am sorry. Truly. I am fond of you —’

‘Fond!’

‘But do not speak badly of Rose in front of me.’

Maisie tries one last appeal. ‘If it does not go as you hope …’

Brennan smiles at her at last. ‘Maisie, understand that I will move heaven and earth to win Rose. If, after all, she will not have me,’ (clearly he does not take this possibility seriously) ‘I will come back to you, Maisie. I promise.’

Maisie jumps to her feet and faces Brennan. She swings with open palms, slap, slap! snapping his head this way and that. ‘I am to be the poor choice, am I? Oh, you arrogant toad! Do not be so sure I will wait to see you running back, Brennan Scobie. Wake up and use that brain of yours. Think! Think for a moment, you addlepate! Everything is here for you! Where is all that good sense you take such pride in? You are throwing away a whole life! Will that woman come to Christchurch with you?’

Brennan takes his time to think and then shakes his head. ‘I think not.’

‘We could have such a
good
life here!’ cries Maisie. ‘This — here —’ she stamps her feet on the floorboards ‘is where you should be. But Denniston!’ She spits the word out.

Brennan turns away to look out at the black night. He speaks slowly now, his back to her. ‘You may be right, Maisie. I am not a complete fool. Yours is the sensible voice. But I don’t want to think that! If this is a romantic dream I want to dream it! I must go. Perhaps going will wake me up.’ His smile is apologetic. Maisie has not shown such spirit in all this long year. He looks at the sweet, round face, flushed now, the brown curls damp with steam. She is pretty — more than pretty. His hopeless longing for Rose has made him blind, and now he is seeing the world clearly again.

Maisie’s tears are falling silently. She busies herself with a mop, though the floor is spotless. ‘I expect I will wait,’ she says, her voice choking. ‘More fool me. I will hope you come down to earth, as you surely must.’

THE WORD IS that Brennan Scobie has agreed to survey the new rope-road. Already he is making his way back to the Hill.

Nolly Hanratty has brought the news back from Burnett’s Face and told his sister. Neither has been able to tell their parents. Now Willie Winkie hears this bit of gossip from Liza. He sits at the Hanrattys’ kitchen table, head slumped onto his hands, coat dripping onto the floor. He is just back from a disastrous day at the races in Westport and the news does nothing to cheer him up.

‘Well, so feckin’ what?’ he says, without looking up.

‘Language!’ says Liza, but gets no response. She places dates into the pudding mix one by one, as if she were adding precious pearls to a piece of jewellery. ‘So we might win the championship again,’ she says at last.

‘And you will be off like a shot, making moon-eyes at our musical prodigy.’

Liza flushes. She watches the drooping little fellow closely, then smiles. Any sad thing goes straight to Liza Hanratty’s tender heart. ‘Willie Winkie, what’s bitten you? Didn’t I hear that Black Knight did well on his first race of the season?’

Willie looks up then. ‘Aye, so he did. Third. That boncey lad will beat his dam one day.’

‘And Miss Demeanour came second?’

‘Well, and second is not first. All the same, I’d give quids to own her.’

‘Isn’t one enough for a wee lad like you?’

Willie Winkie droops again. ‘Ah, what’s the feckin’ use?’ he mutters. He watches in silence as Liza stirs the mix and then rattles two dishes of cinnamon pudding into the range. For once she is quick at her work. She sits down and takes one of Wee Willie’s cold little hands in her warm floury ones. Willie is startled to see there are tears in her eyes. Mind you, Liza cries at the drop of a hat, but why now?

‘Wee Willie,’ says Liza earnestly, ‘I want you to know that I will not be chasing after Brennan Scobie. That was an infatuation of the past. To me he is simply a champion cornet, no more.’

‘So you say.’

Liza sighs grandly. ‘My heart flies free.’

Willie cocks an eye to the ceiling. ‘But would it be fluttering in any particular direction, maybe?’

‘Ah well, at present …’ Liza pauses for effect. She gazes out the little window. ‘At present it might be fluttering a little south, I’d say.’

Willie Winkie laughs out loud. He reaches up to pull Liza’s head down and plants a smacking kiss on her lips. There is something practised about the move. This is not a first kiss. ‘Liza Hanratty,
you’re a lovely feckin’ marvel and any other day I would say I am the luckiest jumping jockey on the Coast. Except,’ he adds with a despairing shrug, ‘not today when my damned luck has gone riding out the back door.’ He beats his hand on the table. ‘Oy oy oy! We could’ve been made! We could have been home and stabled, my lovely!’

Liza looks at him severely. ‘You bet on the horses?’

Willie spreads his hands. ‘When do I not? Ah, but this time I am ruined!’

Even a story as disastrous as this Willie tells with relish, Liza adding the spice of her sighs and tears and little fluttering cries. Clearly this is a point of attraction between the two — Willie’s talent as a storyteller and hers as a deeply involved audience.

On the Hill Willie Winkie acts as an unofficial agent for punters, placing bets for them down at the racetrack at Sergeant’s Hill, a mile or two out of Westport. He is trusted. Everything is written in his little notebook and every penny accounted for when he returns. He charges threepence per transaction, win or lose, thus always covering his own bets with a small income. Willie Winkie is a canny punter himself and will often win a tidy sum on top.

Two days ago Willie set off with the two horses, Miss Demeanour and Dark Knight. The second, his own, claimed by Willie after Michael’s death. The little jockey was the mystery backer who paid Miss Demeanour’s stud fee. When Willie Winkie produced the receipt Tom Hanratty judged the foal was Willie’s by right. Tom claimed Miss Demeanour was rightfully his own as Michael had stolen Hanratty money to buy her. These two decisions had enraged Rose, but not a voice was raised to support her claim as widow. Willie Winkie now trained and rode both on race days. Already he was well known as a talented jockey and a knowing judge of horseflesh.

The first day of the races was a wash-out. Heavy rain turned Sergeant’s Hill into a lake, the third time in two months. Next day the field was marginal but they raced anyway, as the government tote threatened to close the track if more races were not held. But where Willie Winkie — known on the racetrack as Willie the Rat — came unstuck was at the tote, not on the field. When he went to place the bets he found his pocket empty except for a handful of pennies and two sixpences. This was an inner pocket of his jacket, soundly buttoned. The notebook was there, but in total four gold guineas and fifteen shillings were missing.

‘Oh no!’ breathes Liza, hands to her mouth. ‘Could it have bounced out on the ride down, do you think?’

‘Oy, what kind of fellow do you take me for? Other people’s money? It was safely buttoned, I swear. Any road, there’s no bouncing with thoroughbreds on their way to a race! Slow and gentle all the way.’

‘Thieves, then?’

Willie frowns. ‘Must be.’

Liza leans in. ‘They are a wild lot down there at sea level. You are lucky to get away with your life. But oh, Willie, the money, the money!’

They both sit a while, contemplating the black rage of Slap Honiball and the quizzical looks of all those others whose bets were never placed.

‘Could you not say their horses lost?’ whispers Liza, shocked and thrilled at her own wicked suggestion.

‘It will be reported in the Westport News, which any soul can buy tomorrow at Cudby’s,’ says Willie, then adds, straightening his bony back, ‘Any road, I must face the music. And feckin’ pay them back.’ He sniffs. ‘Isn’t that the pudding?’

Liza leaps from her stool. ‘The puddings! Oh, they will be
ruined!’ She yanks the dishes from the range and bangs them down in front of him. ‘Look at the horrid things! Oh, I am ruined too! What shall I do?’ And so on in a fine display, until Willie Winkie points out that a snick or two with a knife or pair of scissors will easily remove the few black specks and not a soul will notice.

As the two attack the puddings (Wee Willie eating the castoffs) Liza comes back to the stolen cash. ‘Maybe you put it somewhere else? Have you searched?’

‘It was in me feckin’ pocket all the time.’

‘Well, when did you last set eyes on it?’

Willie thinks. ‘It would be after Mrs C put a bet on my Black Knight. She was the last punter. I remember taking her shilling and putting it in the pocket of my coat, which I had off at the time, hanging on a chair.’

‘At the log house?’

‘It was. She gave me a glass of sherry to toast Black Knight’s first ride.’ He stops his work. Drops the knife and looks at Liza. ‘Oh, sweet Jesus!’

Liza nods sadly. ‘Rose was there?’

‘She was. In a mood.’

‘Rose.’ Liza snips a charred crumb. ‘That woman can be downright wicked.’

But hope has lightened Willie Winkie’s gloom. If Rose took the cash then it is retrievable. They say that if you ask her in an offhand kind of way, not making a scene of it, the stolen goods will somehow make their way back to you. It is worth a try. But such a large sum? That is not Rose’s style, surely?

‘Oh, I could slap her,’ says Liza darkly. The heaviest violence she can imagine delivering in person. ‘It will be Rose. She has been worse lately. Be careful how you ask, Wee Willie.’

‘I will and that. She scares me witless. If it weren’t for Mrs C with her gossip and her drop of sherry I wouldn’t put a foot in the log house. Rose gives me such a black look sometimes that would shrivel your nuts off.’ Scuse the language.’

‘She is jealous of you,’ says Liza, who on a good day can show the odd flash of insight. ‘Because of Mrs C — how she dotes on you, Wee Willie Winkie.’

Willie stands up, showering burnt crumbs on the clean floor. Liza stands too. She reaches down to kiss the top of his head. He touches his brow gently to each of her neat little breasts. For a moment he rests there, nuzzling, then takes both her hands and looks up at her. He is trying a jaunty grin but can’t quite make it.

‘And another thing …’ He clears his throat. ‘I would like you to call me Will.’

Liza begins to smile, then, seeing Willie Winkie’s face, thinks the better of it. ‘Will,’ she says, trying it out slowly. ‘Will. It suits you, Willie Winkie! … Oh!’ And ruins it all by bursting into laughter. ‘No! Sorry, sorry … Will. Will Will Will. I will get used to it!’ She laughs again.

Willie glowers. ‘It is no laughing matter, Elizabeth Hanratty. For when I get my feckin’ money back and a bit more I’ll be asking to marry you. And you won’t want to be known as Mrs Wee Willie Winkie Scobie, will you?’

Out he stamps, banging the door, leaving Liza, hands pressed to her heart, her cheeks as pink as the roses on her apron.

NEXT day Will Scobie is in Miss Amy Jessop’s store looking for a collar stud. The mail has just arrived and Miss Jessop, who is also postmistress, is sorting it. Among the routine letters and newspapers is a small box wrapped in canvas and tied with fine cord. The cord is knotted beautifully at each intersection so the parcel seems to be
ensnared in a piece of fishing net. The address, in blunt capitals reads, simply:

T
HE
L
OG
H
OUSE

 D
ENNISTON

W
EST
C
OAST
OF
N
EW
Z
EALAND

The stamps are Australian, and the postmark from Hobart, Tasmania.

I’ll take it down with me,’ says Will. ‘Save you a drenching. I am going that way.’

He knocks at the back door and is both relieved and anxious to hear Bella call him in. Rose cannot be at home.

‘Well now, my Wee Winkie,’ says Bella, beaming to see him there, albeit a wet and grave version of the little jockey. ‘I hear our horse came in. That will make us both a tidy penny. Not to mention Black Knight running third. He will be champion yet. Hang up your coat, wee one, and dry out by this fire.’

Will hangs his coat. Accepts a glass of sherry and a piece of cake. He is uncertain whether to broach the matter of the lost money or to wait for Rose. Meantime, the mysterious parcel serves as a useful diversion.

Bella takes the little box in her hands. Her breath comes in quick gasps as she touches the knots one by one. She and Willie are seated one each side of the fire. Will watches as the colour drains from her face.

‘Oh!’ breathes the old lady. ‘Oh!’ She holds the parcel tightly in her lap and leans back with closed eyes.

Will thinks she has fainted and runs for her smelling salts, which have been needed on more than one occasion recently. When he returns, though, she is sitting up again, struggling with the tiny knots.

‘I cannot bear to cut them!’ she cries. ‘Wee Willie, can your fingers make sense of this puzzle?’

Will studies the network. Finds an end. His quick fingers undo three knots, which is enough to slide the canvas box out of its snare. Bella smoothes out the rough cloth and examines the wooden box inside. Its lid is carved with twinned dolphins leaping.

‘Oh yes, yes. I knew it! Look at that, Willie! And a letter! Read it quick to me. My spectacles are goodness knows where.’

Will takes the small piece of paper from her shaking hand. It is a short note.

‘That’s all?’ cries Bella.

Will turns the page for her to see. ‘Nothing more.’

Bella is desperate for any clue, any further detail of Con’s life — his whereabouts, journeys these past fifteen years, his plans. She makes Will read the note again and again, but there is nothing more. No promise to return, no reason for his disappearance, no hint of another woman in his life.

There is the gift, though. It lies in the box on a wad of soft
white cotton. She lifts it out. It is an ivory cone, about six inches long and heavy in the hand.

‘A whale’s tooth,’ says Bella, disappointed. ‘A good-sized one, but dirty. That is nothing special.’

But Will, crouching beside her, is entranced. ‘No, no, Mrs C, but look! That is not dirt. Oh, what a marvel!’ He takes the tooth and gently turns it this way and that, his eyes dancing over the little treasure. ‘Oh, and see here! This man has travelled the world.’ He jumps to his feet. ‘We must find your spectacles this instant. They will be under the bed, bet you a pound.’

Bella’s spectacles are indeed under the bed, and her magnifying glass too. Together she and Will study the intricate carvings. This is the finest scrimshaw, oceans and city scenes scratched into the ivory of a sperm whale’s tooth. The marks have been made with the sharpest of points and the scratches dyed with tea. Con has used a light brew at the base of the tooth, where the ivory is whitest, and then dyed the scenes darker and darker as they rise to the creamy brown point. On one side at the hollow base of the tooth is a sailing ship in full rig, a tiny whale spouting beside it. Nearby a dark savage is shaking a spear. Several strange animals climb exotic trees. An elephant carries a fringed tent on its back. Near the apex is a Chinese pagoda, and another beautiful structure, like a tower, wide at the base and drawing in to a point, but airy as lace. And here is a tiny man in a straw hat, beating what looks like a large cylindrical drum; beside him a woman in twirling skirts is clearly dancing. Tying all the scenes together are oceans — tiny meticulous wavelets and rolling breakers.
Indian Ocean
is scratched at one place,
Pacific
Ocean
at another.
Atlantic Ocean
and
China
Sea
appear around the other side.