Heart of Coal (20 page)

BRENNAN HAS HIGH hopes of his aunt’s visit. Surely Janet Scobie will pull Rose out of her melancholy. Here she steps, down off the coach, brimming with energy. Janet is full of the sights on the trip down, the river crossings, the rocky coastline, the bush that towered and dripped over them. She even enjoyed the drama of the mudslide that had bogged them down for an hour. Brennan’s heart lifts to hear her chatter. This is what Rose needs! Janet describes the mayhem two miles back when the men dug out the tilting carriage and the horses, up to their knees in mud, strained to no avail.

‘And look at me, I’m no feckin’ better than the horses,’ she grins, slapping at her muddy skirt and boots. ‘I hope Rose has a tin of water on the boil, Brenny-boy, and a pot of tea. I am famished.’ Janet turns to shout up at the coachman, who is slinging down cases and boxes. ‘Mr Mauger! Take care with my bag, man! There is a
good pound cake inside which I have held off eating through all our delays. I will not take kindly to its destruction at this late stage!’

The coachman laughs and hands it down to Brennan with a wink. ‘There’s a character if ever! She has kept us all entertained with her jokes and little songs.
And
stepped down willingly enough to lighten the load when the other women would not think of it. You will have a merry evening, I’m picking, sir.’

Brennan hopes so. He has come directly from his office to meet Janet, and fears what the two of them will find at home.

‘Janet, she has not been herself at all,’ he warns as they lean into the wind, which blows, sticky with salt, off a wild sea. ‘You may be shocked at the state of …’ He shrugs, unable to find the words, ‘of everything.’

Janet pauses in this street, which to her Denniston eyes is vastly wide. She grins at him. ‘Now then, cousin, no more long faces. We women are up and down — I have seen it all before. Never fear. Rose will be laughing soon enough, pound to a penny.’

But this time she is wrong. Janet is indeed shocked at the untidy state of the house; at Rose’s unkempt hair, the usually bright curls hanging heavy with dirt; at the unwashed and listless children.

Rose herself seems to rally. Her face lights to see Janet; her embrace, though more of a desperate clinging, is warm and welcoming. Brennan is relieved to see the range is lit and the kettle boiling. For a while the three sit over Janet’s cake while the children, mercifully diverted by the newcomer, are quiet. Janet recounts news of changes and happenings on the Hill. Rose smiles and nods. At first she asks questions but gradually she sinks back into the lethargy that Brennan so dreads.

Finally the silence drags even lively Janet down. She stands to look down at Rose. ‘This will not do, my sweetheart. I am muddy and famished, the children need attention, your husband is home
and ready for his tea. Let us both set about and see to matters.’

Rose nods and rises without looking at her friend. She takes up little Alice, who clearly needs a fresh napkin, and leaves the room. Janet is dismayed to see tears. She looks over to Brennan and catches his look of intense irritation.

‘Oh, dearie dear,’ she murmurs. ‘We have a right feckin’ mess on our hands here. Is it always this bad?’

Brennan nods. ‘I have done what I can. She makes no effort.’

Janet gives Brennan a sharp look. The condemnation in his voice is not expected. She remembers the couple’s happiness on the Hill. His adoration of Rose, and his pride in her. ‘It was your choice to come down here, my boy. You must take some responsibility now.’

‘Oh!’ Brennan lowers his head onto his hands. It is a gesture of despair. Janet, looking down, notices that his collar is dirty and his jacket in need of a mend. Brennan seems to have lost his way too. ‘Janet,’ he whispers, ‘please don’t blame me. This place has ample opportunity for Rose. Ample! She turns away those who would be friends. She is no help in my career, and neglects my children. She takes pleasure in
nothing
. I sometimes think it is sheer wilfulness to get her own way and return to the Hill.’

Rose has entered the room and stands listening in the doorway. Janet places a hand on Brennan’s shoulder to silence him. She sighs. The trip has been a long one, her back is aching and it seems the day is far from over. The muddy skirt will have to wait.

‘Dinner,’ she says to Rose, who nods and follows her like a lost puppy. As the two women peel potatoes and slice cabbage Brennan reads young Con a story. From time to time Rose looks up from her scraping and smiles at Janet. Janet has seen that fragile bright smile before — when the child Rose was trying too hard to please.

‘Take me back with you,’ says Rose quietly, and places a peeled
potato in Janet’s hand, as if it were a precious gift. The bright smile again.

Janet smiles back but says nothing. It is not her place to break up a family. She has a sudden memory of the night of Conrad’s birth. Of the old scars breaking and bleeding around the emerging baby’s head. Of Rose’s wild behaviour. Something is unexplained here. Some damage, perhaps. Janet suspects that Michael Hanratty mistreated her in some monstrous way and wonders whether Brennan is aware of this. And hadn’t there been a rumour about Rose’s childhood — back at the time of the first strike? But how could you begin to talk about such a matter? And how heal such damage? Janet looks from one to the other: both look exhausted. It is hard to believe such a change in a few short months.

The next few days are no better. Rose lets Janet clean and cook and care for the children. Janet begins to feel some sympathy with Brennan’s irritation. On the second morning, desperate to escape for a while the fog of sadness inside the little house, Janet walks with Brennan down past the sea-wall to his little office. For a while they are both silent, breathing the fresh sea air.

‘The doctors may be wrong,’ Janet says at last. ‘It may be more than the tiredness of childbirth.’

‘Perhaps.’ Brennan looks out to sea. He seems reluctant to talk.

‘Is there some more deep-seated problem? That could be contributing?’

‘Like what?’

Janet cannot mention the scarring. ‘The … the thieving would come to mind.’

Brennan shrugs. Janet finds him almost as heavy-going as Rose. ‘I think,’ he says slowly, still looking away from her, ‘that she is over that little episode.’

Janet snorts. ‘
That little episode
has lasted most of Rose’s life.’
After a while she adds quietly, ‘Brenny, it may be necessary to bring her back. She may not survive down here.’

Brennan stops suddenly. He turns to face her. There is deep anger in his dark-ringed eyes. ‘You are very worried over her welfare. Is there no room for a little concern in my direction?
Auntie
Janet? I hoped you might advise Rose where her duty lay …’ Brennan flings his arms wide to encompass the business houses, the sea and river, the wheeling gulls, ‘to help her find pleasure in this place. It is not so desolate.
And it is where we all must stay
.’

The words are heavy, offering no compromise, but the misery behind them is clear for Janet to read. For once in her life this forthright woman can think of no solution. If Brennan will not return to the Hill then Rose must stay with him. Janet sees family matters in black and white. Husband and children must come first. She can only hope now that Rose will recover her great spirit and find a way through on her own.

For two more days Janet cleans the house top to bottom, washes every stitch of cloth in the house and fills the baking tins. She tries to keep up a cheerful chatter but gradually Rose’s depression beats her down. Janet works on in exhausted — and irritated — silence.

The coachman’s cheerful holler as Janet climbs aboard is a wonderful relief. She settles on the box-seat and breathes the blessed warm air.

Below, Rose stands by the horses, a freshly washed Alice on her hip. Conrad fiddles with the shining harness. He has already dirtied the sailor suit that Janet ironed this morning. Rose offers her bright, anxious smile, which Janet returns.

Oh, it is a relief when Mr Mauger cracks his whip and they are away.

AUGUST 1906, FRIDAY

I HAD ANOTHER ‘black time’ today. There are many more down here. They are unreasonable, I admit it. I can neither understand nor predict them, except to know that they are far worse away from the Hill. Bren thinks it is wilfulness on my part, or simply a fierce temper. I have both those temperaments (in good measure!) but this is quite different. Once, up on the Hill, I talked of the black times with Henry, who is more removed than Bren, and so able to be rational. So I thought. ‘But you are doing so well!’ he said. ‘Where, where are these dark moods, Rose?’

‘Willie the Rat is frightened of me. I slapped him.’

‘That is jealousy, Rose. Ugly and unjustified jealousy, in my opinion. Because Bella loves him.’

‘She does not!’

Henry’s laugh puffed out a plume of smoke. ‘You see! The green-eyed monster!’

Well, he had a point, perhaps. At that time I was jealous, I see it now. But away from the Hill there is no reason to it at all. Sometimes I remember. Other times I realise from later horrible evidence that awful things have occurred, but they are swallowed into some dark hole where memory is shadowy or lost altogether.

For example a time which I remember: J. J. Jackson’s Emporium on Mackay Street, a month after we had arrived in Greymouth.

The scene:

Myself, Mrs B. Scobie, is at the counter, her belly large, her little boy, Con, parked in his perambulator at the door and quite happy with the day. Mrs Scobie has bought a pound of butter, a five-pound sack of flour, raisins, eggs and baking powder. Also a hank of rope for a washing-line and a large bar of soap. Mr Jackson wipes his hands on his white apron, licks his pencil and tots up the items he has listed on a strip of newspaper.

Suddenly little Con cries out. Something is not to his liking. Mrs Scobie breaks into a sweat. The packed shelves about her begin to loom; they crowd closer. She grips the counter to hold her balance.

Mr Jackson: That will be five shillings and fourpence ha’penny, Mrs Scobie.

Mrs Scobie: (swaying) No, I think you have it wrong.

The emporium darkens. Mrs Scobie notices that her fingers have swollen to fat sausages. Something black flies at her from the ceiling.

Mr Jackson: Well, that is what I make it, madam. Five and fourpence ha’penny.

Mrs Scobie: (screaming) It’s threepence!
Threepence
ha’penny, you fat old fool!

The shelves are rocking. At any moment the goods will tumble to the floor.

Mr Jackson: Now let me see. Hm Hm Hm Hm. Well, look at that! You are right. What a clever lady! Threepence ha’penny.

Mrs Scobie flings her purse at the grocer and tries to dash for the door. Her feet are anchored to the floorboards.

Mrs Scobie: Oh! Oh! Oh! Let me go, you monster!

Mr Jackson: And here is your change. Thank you, madam.

Mrs Scobie’s feet are released and she flees the emporium without her goods. Outside she is violently ill.

That is how I remember it. Did I really shout? Was Mr Jackson really so calm? Did the sky darken or an earthquake threaten? I don’t believe so. I did not dare to go back to find out. The evidence showed I certainly vomited, and left my parcels behind, which the grocer’s boy delivered later without comment.

I have suffered seven of these ‘attacks’ since coming to Greymouth. Five before the baby was born and two terrifying ones recently. I write what I remember, and try to understand some pattern or cause. Nothing makes sense. I saw the doctor, who said it was simply changes in my body due to the baby and I would soon be right. No, I said, they are getting worse. Be patient, said this senile fool, and stay quietly at home with your family.

SEPTEMBER — A SATURDAY

JANET came to visit. Oh, it was so good to see a face from the Hill! But it wasn’t the same. She was shocked, perhaps, at the state of the house. I have little energy for housework or chatter or showing her around. Brennan was busy preparing for the competitions. She left after a few days. Willie, she says, has gone to Australia with Black Knight. So I cannot expect a visit from him. No letter from Henry.

TWO DAYS LATER — TUESDAY 22 SEPTEMBER?

TODAY my hand reached out and took coins from a woman’s purse, while she looked the other way. We were both watching the band parade down by the railway station on Mawhera Quay. Then later it happened again in the doctor’s surgery, where I waited with Alice. At the time it was like taking liquor — a very pleasant rush to the head — but afterwards, both times, I felt wretched. I do not know these people; perhaps they may need the money badly. They have no idea how to play the game with me, and I have no way to return what I have taken. I do not like to feel so ashamed, but have I the energy to control my wilful hand? I fear not.

29 SEPTEMBER

I CAN’T go on. I am no use to anyone. Oh, I am a danger! Something happened two days ago, of which I have no memory. None at all. I found myself, sometime past midday, slumped in a chair, the baby’s cradle overturned and the little girl underneath. Little Con sat silent in the corner furthest away from me, his eyes wide with fear. My right hand was cut and dripped blood onto the floor. How long did I sit there? Brennan found us like that. He tended us all gently, but his eyes are bruised and dark. He won’t look at me properly.

Again and again I have examined my cut hand. Did I strike out at Con? Was I trying to punish my thieving hand? Worse, did I try to end my life? Oh, I cannot bear to think I would do that. I am not like Michael! No, no, no! I must gather the shreds of myself together and do something.

Last night I mustered what energy I could to confront Bren. The poor fellow was dog-tired from his work and his music — and, I must admit, my lack of care. Often as not I leave it to him to cut a slice of bread and cold meat for his dinner. We sat opposite
sides of the table, both heads lowered, and none of the old joy between us.

‘Bren,’ I said, ‘I must go back. I must!’

‘Not that again,’ said he in a flat voice.

I held up my bandaged hand. ‘I am a danger. To the children as well as to myself. Little Con is fearful of me.’

‘Rose, I can see that with my own eyes.’

‘I can’t explain it, Bren, but being down here causes it.’

‘How can it possibly?’

‘I don’t
know
!’ I wailed. ‘I have done my best!’

‘Have you?’ he asked, bitter as wormwood. ‘That is not so clear.’

‘How can you be so blind? I am falling to pieces in front of you.’

‘You want to return to your safe and cosy friends on the Hill. I thought you were adventurous!’

‘I
need
to return. It is not a matter of want. I need you to take us back, Bren. Our life was so happy there. My strength will return when we are back home.’

This is what we have come to — throwing words at each other, back and forth like small stones. Oh, it is pitiful, when we have been so strong and alive before. But he cannot see it. The opportunities in this sea-level world blind him to all else. Like the doctor, he believes our life will come right with a bit more effort from me.

‘At least wait till the competitions are over,’ he said. ‘Then, if things are more settled down here, we will visit Burnett’s Face. Meantime I have sent for my mother to take care of things here.’