Authors: Jenny Pattrick
A MONTH LATER Brennan's weekly letter from his mother carries news of another death â and a new opportunity.
26 The Terrace
Wellington
12 May 1905
Dear Brennan,
My dear, there is sad news that will not be entirely unexpected.
Your father has passed away. As you know he has
been troubled in health these past two years and two days
ago the end came, peacefully, in his bed. There is no doubt
in my mind that his years underground contributed to his
final illness. I do not expect you to come to Wellington,
son.
The funeral will be over by the time you receive this
letter, and your brother Andrew will be here to represent
Josiah's children. The Premier himself has agreed to
attend, which is a great honour!
Your father has been a fine battler all his life and
achieved much. From humble hewer of coal to respected
administrator. He has influenced many of Premier Seddon's
reforms, especially better conditions for workers and setting
up the Arbitration Court. You must know how proud I was
of him. And of my sons! Now it is up to you and your
brothers to carry on the Scobie name with honour. I know
you will all achieve highly in your allotted careers.
On that front I have some news for you of a good
position in Christchurch, but will write soon when the
funeral is over.
These are sad times but even in death new paths are
opened. I have long thought myself of moving to
Christchurch, which is such a vibrant community
compared to Wellington. There are hints of some task for
me there too. The Temperance Movement is very active in
Christchurch and there may well be an opening for
someone with my connections. We will see.
Take heart that your father will be farewelled in style.
I will be thinking of you and Rosser on that sad day
(Tuesday 14th).
I will write again after the funeral and send you
further details of the Christchurch position, but thought I
had better warn you at once in case a proposal comes to
you in the next day or two.
Your loving mother,
Mary Scobie (Mrs)
Burnett's Face
18 May
Dear Mother,
All last Tuesday I thought about Dad and his funeral so
far away. It may not seem that I was close to him, especially
these last few years when family and work have kept
me occupied. But I loved him â he was a straight and
stern man, whose strong beliefs I admired. Also of course
his love of music. Rose also sends her condolences. She was
shocked by his death, so soon after her mother's, and wants
you to know that she has always admired Josiah Scobie.
To be frank, Mother, I was saddened that you were
not more urgent with the news of his death. A telegram
would have allowed me time to attend the funeral.
Denniston is not the end of the world. Was my presence,
perhaps, not so important to you as that of Wellington
dignitaries? Or my more successful brothers? I will not
dwell on this again, but Rose felt I should mention it, since
I feel so strongly. I would so like to have been there, and so
by the way would Arnold. You have a bridge to mend
there, I'm afraid.
I have heard nothing about a position in
Christchurch. The rope-road is now in operation and I
have only a few details to finish off, so it is true that I am
looking for a new challenge, but I'm afraid Christchurch
would be out of the question. Rose is very attached to
Denniston.
Rose has let Bella's log house for a small but welcome
rental. It turns out she is quite a businesswoman and has
shares in the Company as well as other savings. You would
be impressed. We still live in our Burnett's Face cottage,
which is already cramped. It will not do after the new
baby is born.
Janet and Arnold and their family are well. So is Rose
and little Conrad. I admit to feeling a little lacking in
spirit these days, but will pick up soon, no doubt.
Your loving son,
Brennan
69 Colombo Street
Christchurch
6 July 1905
Dear Brennan,
I cannot begin to tell you how stimulating a city
Christchurch is! Already I belong to four groups, one of
them the University Women (even though I have never set
foot in a university!). The ladies had heard of my work in
Wellington and invited me to join. I am sure your Rose
would feel at home here and of course with the expansion
of roads and railways you would soon rise in your own
career.
Rosser is doing splendidly here in Christchurch. There
is talk of a partnership in a few years if he continues with
his present success. His reputation at the bar is growing.
Clearly he has his father's skill as an orator! Andrew has
stayed in Wellington, with his wife. He will make a career
in politics, that is clear. Not as a politician, but in the
administration, which is more secure and, to be honest,
more influential.
Now to you and your future, my dearest son. Surely
with Mrs Rasmussen sadly gone, your Rose will not be tied
to life on Denniston. Janet tells me the new rope-road is in
operation and a great success. It must be clear to you that
now is the moment to move on. There cannot be a worthy
career to be made for a promising engineer in that small
community.
You have written of Rose's attachment to the Hill.
That is natural, given she has never tasted the excitement
and challenge of a larger city. I have no doubt Rose will
blossom, and her many talents come to the fore when she
is confronted with new friends and a more educated
society. You have done wonders with her, and I am sure she
will make you a fine wife as you proceed up the ladder,
but it would be a mistake to let her feel she can dominate
your life. The husband's career is paramount.
As to your prospects, I have heard of an opening in
Greymouth that would be an ideal entrée into a respected
firm. Answorth and Jolly of Christchurch are opening an
agency in Greymouth and would welcome your application
for the position. You would be in charge of an office
of three â small, but highly reputable: a good starting
point. Also â what a stroke of luck! â Mr Stoke, bandmaster
in Greymouth, has retired and they will offer you
the position if you go to Greymouth! Your own band â
and a champion one at that! Mrs Forsythe, who leads the
Temperance Society there (and is a good acquaintance of
mine), says her husband who is chairman of the Band
Committee knows of you and would propose your name. It
is as good as done!
Brennan, you must take this opportunity. Greymouth
is not too far from Denniston. You can wean your wife
away from her attachment in slow stages. A year or two
more on the Coast and then the bright lights of
Christchurch! I am just the person to introduce her to
several of my committees where her energy and capability
can be channelled usefully.
Mr Answorth has kindly shown me his letter offering
you the position. The terms are very fair, Brennan. Do not
delay in accepting.
Rosser and Faith send their kind wishes and say they
look forward to the day when we will all live in this
bustling city.
Your loving mother,
Mary Scobie (Mrs)
P.S. I have met a charming widow at our temperance
branch meeting, a Mrs Maisie Jones, with whom you
boarded here. She recognised my name and introduced
herself. Do you remember her? A pretty soul with fair
ringlets and an extraordinarily creamy complexion. Her
parents own the large drapery â Forbes' Emporium â in
High Street and she says she is to be proprietress of their
new branch in Manchester Street. Clearly a capable
woman, though without a husband, I gather. She asked
me very prettily to send you her congratulations on the
birth of your son and her best regards to you and Rose.
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.