Heart of Coal (23 page)

IN GREYMOUTH BRENNAN now rented a larger house in Guinness Street, with space for his mother as well as the children, and from time to time a boarder. Mary Scobie regarded the accommodation as temporary. In her mind the shift back to Christchurch was only a matter of weeks away. Her letters to Messrs Answorth and Jolly, pressing her son’s case for a position in the head office, had received encouraging responses. Mary herself was ready to move. Though she had quickly made friends among the small circle that made up the more genteel end of Greymouth society, the climate did not suit her. The damp seemed to have taken root permanently in her lungs. Even with the assistance of a daily, who came to clean and wash, and the nursemaid for Alice, she found the children’s chatter and tears tiring.

But Mary Scobie was never at a loss when it came to solving
problems. She had a plan for this one and it concerned the pretty widow from Christchurch. Mary had kept up an intermittent correspondence with Mrs Maisie Jones, who was now secretary of the West Christchurch branch of the Temperance Movement. Together with news of meetings, of successes and failures (mainly the latter in Greymouth), Mary managed to slip in titbits of information about Brennan. It was clear from Maisie’s interest in these gentle allusions to family life that she still held warm feelings for Brennan, and Mary had made no bones about describing in detail the irresponsible departure of Rose, and Brennan’s present lonely status. That indomitable woman was unaware of the ongoing correspondence between Brennan and Rose (mainly one-way, but with occasional replies). Rose wisely wrote to Brennan’s office address. Perhaps Mary would not have planned Maisie’s visit had she known. It would be kind to think she might have given pause for thought. But Mary Scobie’s will to have her own way increased with her age and with the small irritations of declining health. The invitation was sent, suggesting that, since the boarder’s room in their house was empty at the moment, Maisie and little Jackie might like to come across Arthur’s Pass and pay Brennan a surprise visit. Mary Scobie made it clear that such a visit would raise his spirits.

A WEEK into Maisie Jones’s visit, Brennan realises he now enjoys her cheerful presence in the house. True, the ‘surprise’ part of the plan was not a success — Brennan’s shock (and his irritation with his mother) definitely overrode any pleasure in seeing his old friend. But after a few days they have all settled to a pleasant routine. Brennan returns from the office to find his mother more at ease, sitting relaxed at the table reading or writing and ready with a smile. Food will be ready and the house warm. Maisie has brought from Christchurch the new pamphlet by Mr Edmonds with twenty pages
of recipes for the radical Edmonds Baking Powder. In Greymouth housewives are still suspicious of it, preferring to mix their own cream of tartar and baking soda, so both Maisie and Mary Scobie are engaged on a mission to convert the city. Brennan has been the willing recipient of an endless supply of cakes, scones and puddings as the two women work their way through the recipes. Brennan has put on weight. If he is sometimes uncomfortable at the way the two women pander to him, it seems a small price to pay for such home comforts. Tonight Maisie will probably chat away over the meal, recounting the day’s events — the tricks the children have been up to, the way they are learning to share — while Brennan will be able to sit quietly or play a game with his son. Maisie loves baby Alice to distraction. Last night he was forced to look away as Maisie smothered the child with kisses and hugs. He is uncomfortably aware that Maisie wishes the little girl was hers and Brennan’s. But the children are happy enough. Con runs around all day after Jackie, who is more than happy to have a small admirer. Brennan is in no particular hurry for the visit to end and Maisie, who found the coach trip over Arthur’s Pass fearful, is in no hurry to repeat it. To be honest, she is quietly hopeful that they may all return to Christchurch together.

This particular evening, a Wednesday, Brennan is late home following a difficult session with the band. He walks back to the house with his head full of music. He has not been satisfied with his new arrangement of that old standard ‘Soldiers of the Queen’. Somehow the decoration he has composed for the cornet, which looked so fine on paper, sounded flat and unconvincing when the band played it. Then Brennan pushed them too hard and the piece sounded even worse. Brennan rehearses the parts in his head as he walks, trying to find the answer. Was it the fault of his arrangement or the players? Or — and this is an uncomfortable thought — even
of the conductor? Brennan has sensed that the players are not quite as
with
him as they were when he arrived. That sense of anticipation he used to get from them when he raised his baton at the beginning of a practice night is no longer there. Or have the players simply become familiar with him and his style? Are they more like old friends now, and play the better music for it? Brennan shakes his head. Something is lacking, perhaps, but didn’t they win the championships again? Surely he is worrying over nothing.

The light spots of rain fall more heavily. As Brennan pauses to unfurl his umbrella he notices a man on the other side of the street. He has something large — a box of sorts — slung from a strap over one shoulder, and he walks slowly, peering at the houses and then down at a piece of paper in his hand. He is a large man, dressed in oilskins, but even in this dark there is something unusual about him. There is a lurch to his step; perhaps the man is drunk. He’s not someone Brennan knows. For a moment the big fellow glances across at Brennan, as if he is about to ask a question, but then as a fresh sheet of rain slashes down the street he turns back to his walking and peering.

Brennan hurries on. The thought of the two women and a hot meal waiting for him in a warm house is a pleasure.

BRENNAN is eating rabbit pie and creamed potatoes — a favourite — in the orderly kitchen. Everything seems as usual: Maisie sits in a corner sewing; his mother re-heats custard on the coal range and the children are in bed asleep. Something has the women twitching, though; Brennan can feel them both watching him and then glancing at each other. He suspects they have something to tell him — are waiting for a good moment — but realises he doesn’t want that moment to come. Why does he feel this way? He will not look up at them, but chews and swallows, takes another mouthful.

‘The pie is excellent,’ he says. The pressure he feels is growing.

‘Maisie made it,’ says his mother. ‘She knows you love a rabbit pie.’

‘I do,’ he says. ‘Thank you.’ But keeps his eyes on his food. They are together over something. Probably he will go along with their plans. What with the band and his work, not to mention the children, agreement is usually the only practical option. He should be grateful that his mother takes such trouble over him.

Mary Scobie cannot hold back until pudding is served. ‘And there is a letter for you,’ she says, producing it from her apron pocket. ‘From Mr Answorth. If I am not mistaken he is offering you the agency in west Christchurch!’

‘Oh!’ cries Maisie, putting down her sewing and clapping as if it is a surprise. ‘Oh, Brennan!’

‘Open it, open it, son!’ His mother flaps the heavy envelope down on the table.

But Brennan leaves it there. ‘Have you planned this all yourself?’ He tries to keep his voice light, not to show his irritation.

Mary unties her apron, comes to sit beside him. She is brimming with an energy and purpose that draws only a slow sigh from Brennan. ‘No, no, son, it is your own ability! Mr Answorth is particularly pleased with your work here. The bridge is especially fine, he says.’ She pats his hand. ‘I may claim some small part in the promotion, perhaps. Very small. A word or two pointing out how successful you have been here. I may have persuaded Mr Sommerville to send a letter of recommendation. And Mr Fingal. But it will all be on your own merit, Brennan.’

Brennan picks up the envelope and tucks it into the pocket of his jacket. He is aware of Maisie watching him, of her dismay at his cool reception. ‘I’ll have my pudding first,’ he says.

But before a mouthful of fruit sponge and hot custard is
consumed, Maisie jumps to her feet and backs away from the window.

‘There is a man outside,’ she whispers. ‘He was peering in!’

‘What?’ Brennan goes to the window. All he can see is darkness and rain. He draws the curtain closed. ‘Nothing there.’

‘A frightening man,’ Maisie insists, ‘standing at the door. And then he came over to look right in at me!’

Brennan frowns. Who would come to the back door at this time of night? But he opens it anyway and is startled to see, there in the little porch, a large man, one arm raised as if in salute and rain driving in all around him. Brennan stares. It is the same fellow he saw in the street earlier. He is reluctant to bring him into the house.

‘What are you doing, if you please, sir?’

The man towers a good head above Brennan. Water pours off his sou’wester and down into a great shock of a white beard. ‘I am trying to get up courage to knock, man,’ he booms, ‘but sure I have hit the wrong house again.’ He peers at Brennan and then over Brennan’s shoulder into the kitchen. Suddenly the beard splits. The fellow grins wider than a dog, blue eyes crinkling. ‘By God, I have got it right at last! Mrs Josiah Scobie, that is you or I’m damned! Jesu Maria, I am pleased to see you! May I come in out of this rain, good sir, and do the how-de-dos?’

Maisie is still backed into a corner with fright but something about this bear of a man appeals to Brennan. He helps him out of his wet clothes and brings him in. The box, he sees, houses an accordion and this stirs a memory. He looks sharply at the visitor, who is looking back just as sharply.

‘You will not remember,’ says the giant, who has accepted a towel from Brennan and with it vigorously rubs at his wet head. His hair, long as a woman’s, is pulled back neatly into a quirk. He wears a good wool suit and is in collar and tie as if ready for church. Across his waistcoat a silver watch-chain stretches from button to pocket,
and from the chain a small carved trinket hangs. Now he offers one great paw, holds Brennan’s in his and bows over it in a formal, foreign way. ‘Conrad, me. You knew as Con the Brake. I see the small Brennan in your face clear as looking in a mirror.’ He laughs, and the kitchen fills with the richness of it. ‘Little Brennan who sang like an angel, eh?’ He slaps Brennan on the shoulder. Brennan sees him glance over to Maisie. There is anxiety in that look and for a moment the old man hesitates. Then he turns to offer Mary Scobie both hands, shaking his white head in admiration.

‘The years have dealt you a good hand, I see, Mrs Scobie. There were some not-so-good times on the Hill, I remember? But so handsome now!’ He bows to her, again formal, military almost. His gesture gives the greeting an importance beyond any casual meeting of old friends.

Mary Scobie nods at him but will not offer her hand. There is a history here, some of which Rose has told Brennan.

At last, with a heavy sigh, Con the Brake turns to Maisie. He looks at her. Shakes his head. He comes slowly across the room to stand in front of her and takes one small hand in his. He turns the hand this way and that, and frowns at it as if the fingers might spell out answers. ‘Ah, Rose,’ he says, ‘what has time done to you, sweetheart? I do not even see one spark of that old Rose of Tralee.’

Maisie stands like a transfixed rabbit.

‘Rose? I have come across the Tasman to see you, my daughter, will you at least say good day?’

Maisie looks this way and that. Finally Brennan finds words.

‘She is not Rose.’

Con the Brake turns back to Brennan, bushy eyebrows raised, careful now.

‘This is Mrs Maisie Jones,’ says Brennan. ‘A friend who is visiting.’

The big man slaps his thigh and lets out a roar of laughter that rattles the windows. ‘By God, you have caught out this old fool! I am more than pleased to meet you, Mrs Jones. Well, then, where is my Rose?’

There is an awkward silence. All four are still standing. Brennan feels the kitchen too crowded for comfort.

‘There is much to be said, sir. Will you sit and take some food?’

‘I will gladly,’ says the big man, and sits.

The very ease of the man seems to irritate Mary Scobie. She pauses in her banging of pots to speak to him. ‘What right have you to call her
your
Rose? You abandoned her, as I recall, near twenty years ago. And even then the fatherhood was … in dispute, was it not?’

Con the Brake lifts his head to give her a straight look. ‘Those are good questions, Mrs Scobie, but not ones for you to ask.’

Mary frowns. ‘They are civil questions.’

‘And the answers are between Rose and me.’

He speaks with a calm finality that silences the woman. Brennan cuts bread and pie to hide his smile.

At this moment the door to the hallway is pushed open. Little Conrad Scobie stands there sleepily. The black Scobie hair he was born with has now turned honey-blond; the curls spring wildly like his mother’s and his blue eyes and clear skin are hers too.

‘Ah, dear God,’ breathes Con the Brake. ‘Here is no doubting at all.’ He holds out a long arm. ‘Come here, little fellow.’

Brennan is proud to see how steadily Conrad marches up to the stranger, allows himself to be lifted and seated on the table. The boy smiles in wonder at the wild white face. He peers closer to inspect the man’s ear.

‘Look,’ he says, giggling and pointing, ‘a white bush in your ear. And a shiny bell.’

Con the Brake laughs with delight, though the tears are running freely over the weatherbeaten face and down into his beard. ‘What is your name then, little fellow?’

‘Conrad Brennan Scobie.’

‘A good name. And it is mine too.’

Little Conrad nods as if this is no great matter. He is entranced with the white beard. He pats it and then pushes his nose into the tangle. Con growls like a bear and pretends to eat the lad, who shrieks with delight.

‘Conrad, you will wake the others,’ says Maisie, finding at last a role for herself. ‘Come — I will take you to bed.’