Authors: Jenny Pattrick
HENRY COULD NEVER quite explain the mystery. Brennan himself never questioned events, never seemed to doubt or agonise or seek out the difficult explanations, as Henry himself did — and Rose — but somehow his very presence, his plain dependable sameness, was enough to lay terrible ghosts to rest. That was how Henry saw it. It was as if Brennan had by accident found the hidden end of a great snarl of wool, given a light tug, and the whole mess unravelled, then rolled itself up neatly into a ball again.
On the other hand, perhaps time would have achieved the same result. But did Brennan know this by instinct and arrive back on the Hill at the perfect moment? Whatever the truth of it, Henry recognised the moment of Brennan walking in, with snow on his boots and a light in his eye, as a turning point. He had dreaded to see the fellow, dreaded what he might feel, but Brennan’s easy grin,
the cheerful way he shook himself like a bear to shed the snow and his opening words were too disarming for any kind of fear.
‘Well, Henry,’ says this solid confident man who is now an equal, not a former pupil, ‘Nolly tells me you have gone strange so I have come to see for myself!’ Brennan laughs, clearly believing that young Nolly’s views are bound to be at fault. He shakes Henry’s hand, glances at the open newspaper on the table, and then around the crowded little room as if preparing to make himself at home. It is all so normal and friendly Henry has no choice but to slip into the same mood. He offers a cup of tea and some stale biscuits.
They eat and drink together and discuss the news. The impact of the new road, the state of the Company. The need to dredge the harbour at Westport. Before too long, though, Brennan comes to his point.
‘Nolly also tells me Rose is in trouble.’
‘Brennan,’ says Henry carefully, ‘you would do best to stay out of that area.’
Brennan looks at his old teacher, who is only thirty-seven but today looks a decade more. ‘I will not be staying out of that area,’ he says with a small smile. ‘If I had known the facts I would never have waited so long. It is the stealing?’
‘The same. This time, though, she denied it, made a fuss. And the sum was rather larger. And it was your own cousin she stole from.’
Brennan tears a small strip from the newspaper, folds it, folds it again. He is not angry or agitated but thinking. ‘Is it worse, then?’ he asks.
‘This time, certainly. Bella thinks …’ Henry’s voice trails away.
‘Thinks what?’
Henry coughs, uses the poker to open the door of the stove,
then spits into it. ‘Well then,’ he says with a shrug. ‘Who knows what Bella really thinks?’
Brennan unfolds his paper again. ‘Rose is unhappy,’ he says. ‘She is always worse if people don’t love her. I suppose they blame her for Michael?’
‘Some do, yes, but they are wrong.’
Brennan looks up then. His eyes, so dark and intense, draw the information out. ‘You know the right of it, then?’
Henry’s hands move slowly over the poker, feeling every knob and turn of it. He doesn’t notice the soot that rubs off on him and his clothes. The fever or the heat in the room is affecting him, perhaps — or some other force. He speaks very low. ‘You don’t know?’
Brennan frowns. ‘Why he killed himself? I wish I did.’
‘He loved you.’
For a while the hiss of the kettle is the only sound in the room. Brennan is simply puzzled. ‘Yes. Of course. But …’
‘As a friend, surely. But more than that. Loved you deeply.’
Brennan clears his throat. Shakes his head slowly back and forth. He cannot understand this.
Henry sighs. ‘As a woman might, Brennan. He loved you that way. And then you left him.’
The air leaves Brennan’s body in a great rush, as if someone has struck him a blow. ‘You know this? He told you?’
‘He told no one, but yes, I am sure of it.’
‘How can you know, then? What proof …’ The words are harsh, shocked. ‘You are inventing some monstrous story.’
Henry coughs painfully. He strikes the floor with the poker, tap tap tap, a nervous sound. But when he speaks the voice is calm.
‘I find I cannot tell you how I know. But I am quite sure of it.’
Henry searches Brennan’s open face for horror, or revulsion, but there is none. His frown is simply puzzled.
‘He said things sometimes! That we could share Rose, all live together! It made no sense to me.’
‘No, it wouldn’t.’
‘I can’t … but then …’ Brennan spreads his big hands, palms up, and looks at them as if they had, unbeknown to him, committed a violent crime. ‘If that is true — if … then I caused his death!’
‘No, Brennan.’ At last Henry’s voice has regained some of its sharp edge. This moment is the turning point for Henry. The conversation has released him from his depths. ‘Brennan, Michael caused his own death. He was a weak person. We all loved him, but he was weak. He chose the easy way out.’ Henry’s voice has risen until it is barely under control. ‘The easy way! Believe me!’
Brennan rises slowly and stands frowning at Henry. This dark man thinks slowly. You can almost see in his eyes as each idea connects to the next. ‘This … reason … is not spoken of?’
Henry shakes his head.
‘Some shortcoming of Rose is suspected?’
‘For most the matter is closed. Reasons are no longer sought. Hanrattys would be an exception.’
Brennan searches the tired face of his teacher. There is something missing but he cannot pinpoint it. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘I don’t understand it all, but then maybe I don’t need to. You will not be surprised to hear I plan to marry Rose.’
Henry smiles. The stretched skin is a new feeling to him.
‘And I plan to take her to Burnett’s Face, to a house of our own. A new place may help.’
‘Burnett’s Face is not exactly a fresh start!’
‘There is Mrs C to be considered. I doubt I could shift Rose further.’
Henry’s smile stretches further. ‘You are a wise man, Brennan Scobie, and a bold one. I wish you luck.’
Suddenly Brennan shakes off the weight of this heavy conversation. He dons his oilskin, claps his sou’wester to his head. ‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘You have been a good friend to Rose, and I hope we will be friends too?’
Out he clumps onto the white plateau. Henry stands at the door watching him, so solid, so sure of himself. He thinks of Rose, of his withdrawal from her these last long months, and is ashamed.
THOUGH MANY ON the Hill thought Brennan was far too good for Rose, what with the suicide and the light fingers, every soul — man, woman and child — enjoyed the famous courtship of those two. It was as if, as Bella said, spring had broken out in the middle of winter. The very first day he arrived, Brennan trudged through the snow from Burnett’s Face all the way to the Camp. He stood in the dark outside the log house and played his cornet in the freezing cold air, a tune so sweet and lovely, so it was said, that gnarled old Adam Skaggs cried into his tea and then asked flinty Muriel Blunt, who had been his ‘housekeeper’ for ten years, to marry him. That night, as far as people could see from behind their blinds, Brennan was not invited in — or more likely went his way before an invitation was issued. That patient and cunning suitor left the music hanging in the frosty air like a diamond necklace and
slipped away back to wherever his home was.
A day later he paid a formal visit to Tom and Totty Hanratty. First he walked into their stables and stood there silently. ‘Paying his respects,’ Will Scobie reported, ‘with a tear in his eye, when I showed him the spot.’ Next Brennan spent a good hour with the parents, talking quietly about Michael, dwelling on all the happy times and skirting any problems. Finally he apologised for running away at the wedding, explaining (as if they didn’t know already) that he loved Rose, always had, and didn’t want to spoil a happy day with his own pain. He told them plainly he would now court the widow, and it was best they knew it from him right at the start. What Tom and Totty answered is not common knowledge. Liza Hanratty’s response was a surprise, given her sighs and tears over Brennan only a year back. ‘I have passed through that childish phase,’ she said, sweeping her lank hair back behind her ears. ‘And please call me Elizabeth from now on.’
Brennan went about his surveying work quietly, staking a line across the plateau, two and a half miles from Burnett’s Face to the Bins, a tunnel here, a cutting there, planning a steady gradient for the new rope-road. Somehow his work often took him past the school just as the children were leaving. Soon Brennan resumed his music teaching at the school. Then Rose was seen regularly at band practice, sorting the music parts, or simply listening. Once Brennan pinned a bunch of red rata blossoms, picked from the bush on Mount William, to the door of her classroom. On a Sunday he would absent himself from the Methodist service so he might listen to her playing the piano at the Anglican church, and then walk her home.
Finally, one Sunday evening, he dressed in his best suit and stood on the rock outcrop above the log house, playing love songs into the air. People began to drift down towards the Camp to enjoy
the free concert. Courting couples and whole families stood at a proper distance to watch as Brennan, against a backdrop of setting sun and distant sea, tilted his cornet until its silver reflected a message in dancing lights onto the windows of the log house. When he knew, by a flick of curtains, that his audience was attentive, he blew his sweetest songs, then a brilliant cascading arpeggio. It was better than a romantic novel. People smiled and shook their heads at such extravagant behaviour — especially since wild Rose Hanratty was the recipient. But a good lover is always loved. They judged Brennan irresistible, and forgave Rose her oddities.
At last Rose came laughing outside, clapping her hands and dancing to the jig Brennan played. ‘Come in, come in, maestro!’ she shouted up to him. ‘Before this crowd eats you up and I am left hungry! Bella has baked you a cake.’ Brennan jigged down to her and, playing one-handed, twirled her with the other, round and round, up the path and into the house. As they went through the door, little boys threw pebbles onto the roof, like rice at a wedding.
INSIDE, Brennan is suddenly shy. He stands out of breath at the door, while Rose still dances and Bella claps her hands to music, which she now hears only in her head. Then the clapping and the dancing slow to a stop. There is silence in the warm room, an expectation in the air. The two women face Brennan, waiting.
Brennan’s suit is good Donegal tweed, made in Christchurch. His shoes are polished and his black hair at least started the evening combed and trimmed. He looks well connected and successful, which he can claim to be. He is also celebrated outside Denniston for his music. Nevertheless, for this moment he is at a loss. He has his speech practised, has courted Rose with care and a certain style, but as he faces these two unconventional, exotic women all his fine words die in his throat. The truth is, he is not quite sure of Rose’s
response. Bella, he is reasonably certain, will approve, but headstrong Rose? To cover his confusion, Brennan fusses over his cornet. Wipes the mouthpiece, returns it to the case, which he has unslung from his back. When he stands again from this operation, Rose is laughing. Oh, she is so fine in her green silk, with some small green thing pinned into her hair …
‘Brennan Scobie!’ Rose’s eyes dance. She, at least, is enjoying herself. ‘You look like a man condemned! Are we two simple women so terrifying?’
Brennan finds his way again. He smiles as he steps forward, hands outstretched to greet Bella and then Rose. ‘All my fine words have flown out the window,’ he says, ‘at the sight of you, Rose, but my heart beats in a different direction and that is towards you.’ He fumbles in his waistcoat pocket and brings out a small piece on a gold chain.
‘Rose,’ he says, his voice steady, his eyes never leaving her face for one moment, ‘I have always loved you. Since a small boy I have wanted to marry you. As you know. At the moment you wear another ring, another person’s name.’ For a moment he gazes at the fire, but he breathes deep and continues, his voice still strong. ‘Neither of us will ever forget Michael, but I hope you will soon wear my ring and take my name. Until then …’ He holds up the tiny thing to her, ‘will you wear this for me as a sign we are to marry?’
Rose steps close, smiling, and reaches to touch the jewel.
‘It is a miner’s heart.’ Brennan speaks with pride. ‘I have made it for you from the finest anthracite coal I could find. I thought you would like such a thing — its meaning for both of us.’
Brennan has guessed well. Rose takes the shining black heart, holds its smoothness against her cheek. Shows it to Bella, who is perhaps not quite so entranced.
‘But how have you done it?’ cries Rose, running a finger around
the gold rim that encases the coal, ‘This is so clever, Bren!’
Brennan grins. It is so like Rose to want to know how everything works. ‘Miners make these for their sweethearts. If the coal is right, it can be shaped and polished just like bone.’
‘But the rim?’
Brennan has forgotten all shyness in explaining the intricacies. ‘Well, that was harder, but because the gold is pure it is soft, you see; it can be shaped. You remember as children we would pan for gold in the creek?’
‘And find it!’ says Rose. ‘I still have some.’
‘Well, the flakes I found then, I have shaped and beaten into this rim. Your heart is a true piece of Denniston, Rose.’ He places the chain gently over her wild hair and settles it on her neck. ‘And of me,’ he says and kisses her.
Rose’s hand closes over the little black heart. Her eyes are shining. ‘Oh Bren,’ she says, ‘it’s the best treasure I’ve ever had!’
Brennan clears his throat. ‘Does that mean yes?’
Rose laughs, ‘Yes! Of course it means yes, you chump! Yes, and as soon as possible! What do you say, Mama?’
Bella nods through tears. One finger touches the wooden arm of her chair for luck. She has not seen Rose so alight, so … whole … for a good many months.
Later in the evening, after sherry and cake have been consumed and songs sung, Bella uses a moment when Rose is out of the room for a quick word. The sherry has loosened her tongue or the words may never have reached the surface. ‘Brennan,’ she says, leaning close like a lover, ‘in the matter of the physical — between you and Rose … You know what I mean?’
Brennan’s face goes stiff but he nods.
‘I beg you to move with great gentleness. She has been damaged.’
Brennan does not want this conversation with a drunken old woman, but there is no way to stop her. Bella ploughs on. ‘Her experiences with Michael, and much earlier, which neither you nor she will remember, have left scars. Brennan, she can make you a fine wife. Also she can be dangerous. If you love her, move slowly.’
Bella, whose tears run easily these days, mops her cheeks. She fights to control her breath. Brennan watches her steadily. As they both hear Rose returning he nods, solemn-faced. Bella can only hope he has understood.