Heart of Coal (24 page)

The big man smiles at her, and willy-nilly she finds herself smiling back.

‘Mrs Jones, tonight is not for sleeping. I have these few hours only, for my ship sails on the first tide.’ Con turns back to his grandson. ‘Where is your mother?’

‘On the Hill.’

Brennan sees how Mary frowns at the quick answer. She will never mention Rose and is not aware that Brennan has kept the memory alive. Con the Brake cocks his shaggy head at Brennan. Questions will come later, but for now his attention is on the boy.

‘And can you sing as clear as your father and mother could when they were little?’ says Con the Brake.

‘I can sing,’ says the little boy proudly. He stands on the table, full of life now, and sings ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’, clear and true.

The old man nods to Brennan. ‘I see we have a musician here.’

‘Brennan,’ says Mary Scobie, ‘is an accomplished musician, and bandmaster here at Greymouth.’

Con the Brake pushes away his half-finished plate and slaps the table. ‘By God, then what are we waiting for? We will have some music! Where is that box of mine?’

There is no contradicting him. The man could charm a smile out of an undertaker. Out comes the accordion, Brennan is ordered to warm up his cornet, and the two men sit on the kitchen table vying with each other to make the notes fly fastest. Alice wakes and is introduced to her grandfather, who cries all over again and plays her a soft lullaby. Then it is back to the jigs and hornpipes. Jackie Jones and Conrad caper wildly around the table. The old sailor stops them and demonstrates a step or two of a real hornpipe and away they go, Maisie joining in, unable to keep her own feet on the ground. Then she asks for a favourite — ‘Daisy Daisy’, wouldn’t you know it — and Mary calls for a hymn. Every request is satisfied and all are drawn into the fun. Soon the family next door knock on the window, grinning, to ask if they can come and listen since there is not a sleeping soul left in their house! Oh, here is an evening long remembered down in quiet old Guinness Street. Not a drop of liquor is kept in this Temperance house, yet you would swear the whole tribe had been drinking all night!

Finally Brennan announces that his breath is gone and his lips swollen to balloons. Con the Brake nods. The old man is still lively as a cricket, but they both know there must be more to this evening than dancing.

While Maisie puts the children to bed, Mrs Scobie fusses in the kitchen. She is dog-tired, but unwilling to leave the men alone. Con the Brake winks to Brennan, tips his head at the mother, but Brennan will not act. In the end it is Con who speaks.

‘Mrs Scobie, would you allow Brennan and myself a little space to speak of Rose?’

Mary Scobie sits at the table. ‘Rose is my concern too,’ she says heavily.

The old man regards her shrewdly. ‘She is still married to this man here?’

‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘Then I wish speak to him about my daughter.’

‘Sir,’ says Mary, sharper now she is seated and the blood returned to her legs, ‘I have taken over your daughter’s duties in this household. I have a right to speak. And to listen.’

Brennan suddenly cannot bear his mother’s heavy words. He is ashamed that Con the Brake should see him so overridden. ‘Mother,’ he says, ‘you are tired. Please go to bed while I have a word with Rose’s father in private.’

Mary gasps at the plain words. She turns her head to hide the weak tears, pushes herself up from the table. ‘Well then,’ she says, ‘if I am not wanted … The kettle is on the stove. I will leave you to make your own tea.’

Con the Brake rises too, and comes to stand by her. ‘Thank you for looking after the children, my dear. They are a credit to you.’ He glances at Brennan. ‘To all of you.’ He touches Mary’s sleeve and smiles gently, but this time she will not respond. She leaves the room, walking like an old woman.

Con watches her go, shaking his head sadly. Brennan cannot read his thoughts. Then Con produces a small flask of whiskey. ‘By God, I am ready for this,’ he says. ‘Playing sober is not a trick I have often turned. Will you join me?’

Brennan nods. Back and forth the men exchange the flask, letting the silence in the warm kitchen settle. ‘Now then,’ says Con. ‘Rose. You must bring her to life for me, for it is clear I will not see her.’

Brennan tells the story then, leaving nothing out. Bella’s care for Rose and the two women’s love for each other; Michael and the hanging (and the reason for it); his own marriage to Rose and their happiness on the Hill; the black times; his own and Rose’s despair as their life fell apart. He describes the night she ran away, and
speaks of her letters: of what he considers to be a recovery. He admits that he is pained by her success and happiness now that she is back on the Hill.

Brennan feels a strange — an extraordinary — pleasure in the telling. Recounting these events — or is it the unaccustomed liquor? Or the evening of music, so like the old evenings with Rose back at Burnett’s Face? — acts on him like a jolt of electricity. He feels himself shocked back to life. For almost a year any mention of Rose has been unwelcome in this household. Now Brennan finds it difficult to stop talking about her. Though it is well past midnight, Con’s interest never flags. He asks a question or two, smiles, shakes his head in wonder, takes out a fine linen handkerchief with embroidered initials (embroidered by whom?) to wipe tears and blow his noise noisily at the account of Bella’s funeral.

At last Brennan draws breath. He turns the empty flask over and over in his hands, looking into the wavy green glass as if some answer lies there. Con the Brake watches him, smiling. When no more is forthcoming he sighs.

‘By God, that is some story you tell. An ocean itself could drown in it. That girl!’ He shakes his head in some kind of wonder.

‘And you?’ asks Brennan. ‘What of you?’

Con chuckles. ‘Ah, no. We have time for only one tale tonight. Another time, God willing.’

‘We always thought you were some kind of royalty.’

Con smiles. ‘Bella was great for embroidering a story, you know. Made her seem like a lady herself.’

‘So my children are not heirs to some kingdom, then?’

‘They are not!’ Con’s answer to Brennan’s laughing question is sharp. He sighs then, and shakes his head. ‘No, no, lad, forget all such thing. This fine, free country is their home.’

Brennan wants to ask more, but sees Conrad narrow his eyes and prepare to stand. Quickly he changes tack. ‘Will you go up and see Rose now?’

Con shakes his head and a small silver bell, hidden in the forest, rings. ‘There is no time.’

‘Miss your boat!’

‘Well, lad, I am a sailmaker, you know, and work is not plentiful for my sort these days, let alone an old man. I have risked too much already, taking leave from my own ship to travel here on a tired old barquetine that will surely be pensioned any day.’

‘It would mean much to her.’

‘Well, you will have to tell her that I have come this far to see her; that is my best. And perhaps I can serve a better purpose here, you know?’

Brennan thinks about this. ‘What should I do?’

The old man spreads his hands. His laugh rolls out like a breaking wave. Brennan feels his own mouth twitching.

‘I am some model of good behaviour to advise an upright man like you? No, no, you must decide for yourself.’ He leans forward to tap the green glass bottle. ‘But Rose. Let us think about her for a moment. There is some digging to be done here. Do you remember that black scum of the earth Billy Genesis?’

Brennan frowns. ‘Not really. There is that story in the song about his death, but Mother says it was all blown up to myths.’

‘A song!’ says Con, his blue eyes sparking. ‘We will come to that later. Billy Genesis, though, was real enough, lad. That evil Bible-spouter took advantage of Rose, surely. In the way of a man for a woman, if you take my drift, except she was a bitty girl. And with a mother — something wrong in her head, you know? — who would not protect her.’

This is news to Brennan. ‘But if you were the father?’

‘Ah well, it was not so clear then who the father was. And Bella to take into account, you understand.’

Brennan frowns. He has heard a different story, one in which Con ran away from Bella and Rose returned alone. Con sees the look and shrugs.

‘That part of my life, no one makes a song about, you know? Not me neither. But I am not bred to moan and wring my hands over things that cannot be changed. Guilt, blame, you know? Ugly words. I tell you about Billy Genesis to help you understand Rose, not heap coals on that sad sinner’s head. Or mine.

‘Listen now, because you need to hear this also: Rose is my true daughter, I see it today in her son, and from what you tell me. She is not bred like you, with a strict and loving mother and a father who provides; with the Bible and all other manner of rules to fear and obey.’

‘Bella provided those things for her.’

‘Ah, Bella!’ Con’s blue eyes gaze at different horizons. For a moment he is lost. But this man has always loved a chance to make a point, to manufacture a philosophy from the bones of whatever issue is at hand. He returns to Rose, thumping a fist now and then as he warms to his subject.

‘No, no, man. Bella, you see, was like Rose. And like me. Listen. In Canada, on the eastern coastline, is an inlet. Looks like many others — deep finger of sea, steep hills rising out of it. Looks like, but is different, you know. Here the tide rises thirty feet, falls thirty feet. Imagine! I have seen it with my own eyes. So strong the water rushes in and out, a ship cannot withstand the force of that tide. Now, some miles further south is another inlet: looks the same — deep finger of sea, mountains rising. The tide is so small, hard to notice, you know? Calm water all days of the year. So are people. I am like the deep tide — big swell, big ebb.’ He laughs, ‘Big trouble
sometimes. Bella, too. Oh, what oceans swelled in that great woman’s bosom!’

‘And Rose, too,’ says Brennan, smiling to remember something.

Con pounces. ‘Ah, you see? Yes, you understand this Rose! Well now, when there are great tides driving a man — or a woman — this way and that, this person must find some way to hold to a still thing. Some strong thing to bring a bitty calm in all the storm. You see? In my life I seen plenty people with this storm inside that never find that still thing. They smash to pieces or maybe wash back and forth this way that way like some flotsam, no use to anybody.

‘So!’ Con holds up a finger to silence Brennan, who is ready to argue the point. ‘For me this strong thing is the sea!
Now
I know this. Back with Bella I did not. I feel a deck moving under my feet, maybe a mile of blue sea under that, I can be a good man.’ Con laughs. ‘Well, not so bad, eh? Sometimes even great. On hard dry land, if I stay too long, I begin to wash back and forth. Crazy but true.’

‘And you think Denniston is the … strong thing for Rose?’ Brennan is sceptical.

‘You are the one who knows her. I say maybe yes.’

‘I hoped it might be me,’ Brennan mutters.

‘Ah well, we cannot choose.’

‘Surely we have some choice! Your argument is too black and white.’

Con rises to stretch his arms. The kitchen seems to shrink as he takes a pace to the window and pulls the curtain to peer out. ‘For some there is no choice,’ he says, turning back to smile at the seated man. ‘But for you, Brennan Scobie … who knows? Perhaps you are like the deep inlet with a tide that breathes slow and even.
For you, maybe there is a choice — to stay in your safe haven, living in peace, or to change the landscape a little, you know? Move out nearer to dangerous waters. Eh?’ Con winks. ‘Which also can bring some new life. Why did you marry her, if not?’

Brennan looks down at his hands where they lie still on the table.

‘Or maybe, even,’ Con continues, ‘she is your strong thing. To keep you moving.’ He tips his hands this way and that, indicating a choppy sea.

Brennan is charmed by this man, who is so clearly Rose’s father, but also he is unsettled. ‘I have not your quick way with words,’ he says. ‘There is more to it than what you say.’

Con comes to lay a hand on Brennan’s shoulder. ‘Jesu Maria, man, do not take me too serious. I am still developing the line of this argument, you know? A year more at sea and who knows what the shape might be? Something much different, maybe.’ He smiles and winks again. ‘But maybe a grain or two of truth here, eh?’

‘Yes.’

‘You are a good man, I think. And, by God, you have a way with that cornet. There is more to you than a solid brass band, man. I have enjoyed the night.’

‘And me. Rose and I used to play like that.’

Con heaves himself into his oilskin. ‘Tell her I came.’

‘Will you come again?’

Con shrugs. ‘I will try. But you are more important to her than me. Oh, and this.’ He fiddles with his watch-chain, detaches the little trinket and holds it out. It is a tiny carved sailing ship, in full rig; on its prow Brennan can just make out the one word
Conrad
. ‘For the little boy. I will send something for the girl.’

‘You are a wonderful carver.’

‘You have seen the scrimshaw tooth?’

Brennan nods. ‘It is a treasure and little Conrad loves it. But Rose fears its power. She says there is magic in it, that it is sent to pull her — and others — away from the Hill.’

The big man opens the door. His chuckle echoes in the quiet street. ‘Ah. That is her own fear making magic from a simple gift from her no-good wandering father. Tell her not to worry. No more powerful than this old man.’ Outside the rain has passed and stars strike sparks across the dark sky. He turns to wave at the bend of the path.

‘Do what you must, lad — or what you choose. No guilt, eh?’

And off he goes, laughing again, rolling a little as if his feet are already at sea.

BRENNAN comes back for the christening as predicted. He comes up quietly in a borrowed horse and trap, his mother, the two children and Rosser and Faith from Christchurch riding with him. Up the new road they come, the children lively at the views and the
sharp bends, the rest of the party quiet and uneasy. At Hudson’s Dam they pause to rest the horses. Above them on the brow of the plateau the bones of Rose’s new house stand — the timber struts bright against a blue sky, the front door already in place, painted red and glazed; incongruously solid in such an airy structure. Brennan glances up at it and then away. He knows whose it is — Rose has written about it often — and half fears to see her there. He sees no figure, no raised hand. The sight of those timbers, though, bruises him. So proud, so sure. How did she persuade the Company to sell such a site? Rose who left Greymouth almost incoherent? He looks around at this trapful of solid Scobies, returning to a family celebration, and his two children, who carry her different blood. Brennan quails at what lies ahead, but also — as on his earlier, more triumphant return — feels that queer lift. A tilt against the odds. He longs to see Rose again. Her letters sound so full of life, so welcoming.

Brennan glances sideways at his mother, grey-haired and stalwart, on the seat beside him. But she is looking ahead, lost in another world; preparing, perhaps, for old battles. Brennan has not yet told her his plan. First he must meet Rose. He clucks the tired horses upward again, pleased not to see her yet. Rose will appear later. He hopes that his first meeting with her will be buffered by the rest of the family — by noisy christening celebrations and with a different family as the centre of attention.

Mary Scobie tucks little Alice’s coat more tightly around her — despite the sun the breeze is keen — and tugs Con’s cap down over his ears. Her unease concerns not only Rose, but older memories of a son and brother-in-law, buried under coal. Returning to the Hill will always be painful for her.

‘We must return before sunset,’ she says, ‘or the children will take a chill.’

BRENNAN looks for Rose in the crowded Anglican church up on the hill. He stands by the altar to play his cornet while the guests file in, but sees no sign of her. Miners from the Face sit on one side, shopkeepers and Incline or Bins workers on the other. Nothing has changed. Looking older, Tom and Totty Hanratty, up from Westport, sit next to the O’Dowds. Mary and the children are in the front row, on the other side, with the Arnold Scobies. Brennan plays on. He would have seen her bright hair if she were there.

At the last minute, as little Will Scobie in scarlet waistcoat and spotless new suit brings his Beth down the aisle, the baby in her arms resplendent in the cascading lacy froth of the Scobie christening gown, Brennan sees Rose slip in the side door and take her place beside Beth.

Beth, in a torrent of tears, turns and hands the baby to Rose. Mary Scobie’s gasp is audible. Brennan wants to stand there, just looking at Rose, but now it is time to take his place beside Will. He can’t see his mother’s face now, but fancies her eyes are burning holes in his back.

Afterwards, at the noisy afternoon tea, in what used to be Hanrattys’ but is now Finnegans’ saloon and bar, Rose is gone again. Janet Scobie sees him looking around. She pulls him into a corner, smiling.

‘Now then, nephew, what about a smile or two? This is a new life we have here!’

Brennan takes a breath as if preparing for a difficult passage on his cornet. ‘A great day. Congratulations, Aunt Janet.’

‘Oho, so formal? So serious? Have you left all your high spirits back in Greymouth? Where is our old Brennan?’ Janet plants a smacking kiss on both his cheeks. ‘New generations, eh? And who would have expected our Willie to stay? It gladdens your heart, doesn’t it?’

Brennan nods.

‘Two families moved their houses down last week. But new ones will arrive, see if I’m right.’

Brennan looks at her sharply, manages a stiff smile.

‘They’ll make a good couple, Brenny-boy, despite appearances. And Doldo’s engaged at last.’

Brennan looks around the room again.

‘I’m feckin’ pleased as punch. The Hill is a good place to bring up kids,’ says Janet.

Brennan clears his throat.

‘Your two are a bonny pair. Con is the spit of Rose.’

Brennan shuffles his feet. When his aunt is in a teasing mood there is no hurrying her.

‘Your mother seems attached to them, Bren. They are well looked after.’

‘Janet! Please!’

Janet takes pity on him. ‘She’s not here, Bren. Too many dark memories for Tom and Totty.’

‘That’s not fair!’

Janet puts a hand on his arm. ‘It was her decision. Don’t blame them. It’s not easy for them to return. Rose could see their day would be spoiled to be reminded of Michael, so she decided to stay away.’

Then Janet gives him Rose’s message. Brennan and the children are invited to have tea with Rose at her new house. She has also arranged for them to stay the night, as the road down in the dark would be treacherous.

‘At her house? But it is a bare skeleton!’

Janet smiles. Brennan can see something is in the air. ‘You will have to trust her, Bren. She has changed.’

Brennan shoots her an anxious look. Changed in what way? Also there is the matter of his mother.

Janet reads his concern. ‘Your mother is not invited. And you will have to tell her that. She can spend the night with us at Burnett’s Face. Or go down with your brother.’

Janet grins to see Brennan so caught on the spit. ‘Up to you, bully-boy. Take courage.’

‘Janet, I am no good at it! Mother will hate it if I stay. She will expect the children to catch cold. In fact they might! Couldn’t you —’

‘I could not! Brennan, no one likes to gainsay your mother, not even members of Parliament! But I seem to remember you did it once.’

‘Oh, I just ran away. I couldn’t say it to her face even then. And this time she has been so good to the children …’

Janet waves a hand at him and walks into the crowd. Time to pay attention to her delicate daughter-in-law and incandescent son, who will burst with pride soon if someone doesn’t bring him down to earth. She leaves Brennan in the corner, his fingers dancing on the keys of his cornet, playing a silent tune, perhaps, to give himself courage.

What Brennan has told no one is that, urged on by letters from Rose, and by his own need of her, he has applied for, and been granted, a transfer to Westport. He understands that this step might never have happened had not his night with Con the Brake released — what? A bond to his mother’s beliefs and ideals? A deeper knowledge of himself and of Rose? More likely simply his own deep need. The move will mean leaving the band, and that will be a terrible wrench. But at least in Westport he will be within a few hours’ ride of Rose. Whether he and the children can live with her, at least part of the time, up on the Hill, is another matter. And where his useful but dominant mother may fit in is beyond his comprehension just now. No doubt Rose will have a
plan. No doubt his mother will have another.

As he stands there, undecided, against the wall of the crowded saloon, Brennan’s smile is wry. He recognises that over this last year he has simply replaced one dominant woman with another more conventional one. Does that make him weak? Perhaps he will always be the one to compromise. He shakes his head to clear the mood. Compromise will surely be a better path than a life without Rose.

His fingers drum on. Oh, but what can he say to his mother?