Heart of Coal (5 page)

MICHAEL HANRATTY IS working his way around his father’s saloon bar, searching for a backer. Michael likes to work in front of the bar, and is good at bringing a good lively stir to the room. He will drop a word here, a laugh there and generally charm an extra drink or two out of the customers. Behind the bar Tom Hanratty presides, both hands spread on the polished wood, ready with opinions and advice. From time to time Tom’s youngest, Nelson — called Nolly by most — unfolds his lanky frame from beneath the bar, where he sorts and wipes glasses, to run for a fresh keg from the storeroom. If it were not for his height, Nolly would pass unnoticed. He is not brilliant like his brother, nor artistic like Liza. His hard work is taken for granted by Tom, and if this state of affairs upsets Nolly, he doesn’t show it.

The bar — no bigger than two decent-sized bedrooms — is
crammed with men. Tom Cudby is here with his two grown sons, and all the Gorman boys. Rusty McGill always takes a pipe and a drink here — just until his own guest house and saloon is completed, mind. Michael’s friends Hooter and Goldie larrick around at the billiard table with two of the O’Dowd boys. Mostly these are not miners but above-ground workers. The men who spend their evenings in Tom Hanratty’s saloon work at the Bins, filling the wagons or maintaining the miles of railway tracks that carry the coal from pit to railhead: from Burnett’s Face to the bottom of the Incline. Two brakesmen warm their hands at the fire and laugh over a pint. Tom’s customers are also carpenters, blacksmiths, shopkeepers — and teachers.

Henry Stringer is here as always, under a halo of pipe smoke, watching from his corner chair by the newspaper table. He predicts that Michael will try Rusty next, and smiles to see he is right. Michael, dapper as always, even in shirtsleeves and barman’s apron, brings Rusty McGill a fresh pint, then leans against the wall, thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, and flashes Rusty his brightest smile. The usual churn of talk and laughter drowns Michael’s words but Henry can guess at the drift. Only ten minutes ago Henry himself was on the receiving end of Michael’s pitch. But where would a teacher find three guineas to pay a stud fee? The bad times are over, please God, and miners (if not teachers) have money in their pockets again. But three guineas! Even a top hewer is not going to throw away the best part of a week’s wages on the off-chance a foal may turn out to be a champion.

Clearly Rusty McGill is of the same opinion. His flaming head shakes back and forth, while one fat finger pokes at Michael’s smart yellow tie. He is offering a piece of sound business advice. Michael brushes the finger away, smiling still, and argues the point. He is a confident, popular young man but has pushed his luck too far with
the barber, who says something dismissive and turns his attention elsewhere. Michael frowns; bangs his fist against the wall in frustration. He picks up his tray and looks around the room for another target. Henry smiles and waves encouragement as those blue eyes come his way, but Michael is not interested in sympathy. Hard cash is needed and Henry has none.

Henry rather hopes no one will finance this new craze. Horse races take place off the plateau, down at sea level. If Michael were to have success with his breeding, he would probably have no compunction in leaving the family business. Meantime, Michael’s perpetual lack of money keeps him anchored, which suits Henry fine.

Michael looks towards the door and his face lightens. But this is not a likely prospective business partner: it is Brennan, rain flattening his hair and darkening his coat, cheeks fiery from the cold outside. Michael pushes through the crowd to take Brennan’s coat, shake the damp out of it, then slap his shoulder and laugh at some shared joke. Surely the request for finance will already have been made and already refused. Brennan is as canny with his money as Michael is profligate.

Henry watches keenly, his pipe dying, his paper unread, as the pair push their way through the unruly crowd.

BRENNAN has walked the long way back from band practice, hoping to see Rose. From the Volunteer Hall, down on the windswept Camp, he has taken the muddy side-track to bring him up behind the log house. But the dark windows suggest that neither Bella nor Rose is at home, so he continues up the steep path to the town, walking slowly, glad of the sharp air and stinging rain — they heighten his expectation. Any minute now, Rose will come laughing down the track on her way home, and he will grin to see her and walk her back down.

Brennan dawdles over some imaginary interesting sight, walks on, pauses again, but in the end finds he has crossed the tangle of rails at the Bins and entered Dickson Street, where every house and business is lit by electric light. The changes in his eight-year absence still surprise him. Brennan left a town and a community in trouble — men out of work two or three days in the week, low wages and poor conditions; the Incline sending down the coal stop/start as orders trickled in; the Westport Coal Company crying ruin, crying cheap competition from Australia. Now this gritty, isolated town smells almost prosperous. Over there Rusty McGill is building a guest house next to his barber shop; Flinty O’Dowd’s decrepit old house, which used to squat in the mud next to Hanrattys’ full of hungry little O’Dowds, has been turned into a smart shop with a bright new sign —
Flynn O’Dowd and Sons,
Bootmakers and Saddlers
; J. J. Gorman’s Hardware and Mining Supplies is twice its old size, with a large window onto the street crammed with goods. Almost every building he walks past is now a business.

But where is Rose? Guessing Hanrattys’ kitchen, Brennan pushes open the saloon door, hoping to slip back into the house. Michael is too quick for him, though, laughing and slapping and drawing him towards the billiard table.

‘Brennan! Look at you, boyo, walking the streets at this hour! Come and join the lads. Goldie here is on a winning streak and needs taking down.’

Michael leans over easily, plucks the cue from his cousin’s hand, pots a ball off the cushion as casually as spitting, and has the cue back in Goldie’s hand before the gawpy lad can protest. Hooter roars with laughter, which attracts the attention of Tom Hanratty, behind the bar. Tom is red-faced and outwardly jovial but his voice, booming over the general hubbub, has an edge to it.

‘Shake a leg, son, there are customers dying of thirst in this neck of the woods.’

Michael grins and waves a cheery hand in his father’s direction, but turns back to Brennan. He is suddenly serious.

‘Brennan! In God’s name, rethink! I know this is your payday. I’m cutting you in on the opportunity of a lifetime! We could be business partners. Raise a string of thoroughbreds. New Zealand horses are winning big money in Australia. My Miss Demeanour has Carbine blood in her, and crossed with Traducer bloodstock who knows what she might produce!’ Michael’s clear skin is flushed, his eyes alight. ‘It would be such fun, Brenno!’

Brennan grins. ‘Well, good luck to you, but I am not one to gamble my savings.’

‘Gamble? This is the nearest to a sure bet you could imagine. Miss Demeanour came second in the filly derby last month down at Westport, and she’s only just starting!’

‘Michael!’ booms Tom, angry now. Michael dances a jig of impatience.

‘Think about it, think about it, promise you will?’

But Brennan, his eyes searching in another direction, shrugs and smiles. ‘Try Wee Willie Winkie, why don’t you — he had a win last month, and is mad on the horses …’

Michael is already moving away, less jaunty now but still amiable. ‘Willie Winkie is only a baby. Just think about it, Bren.’ Suddenly he turns back, one eyebrow quirking, and looks directly at Brennan. ‘She’s back in the kitchen,’ he says quietly, ‘with my sister Liza.’ Then shouts with laughter to see Brennan blush. ‘Bring her out to play! We need a song or two here!’

On the pretext of knocking out his pipe ash Henry has moved over to the fire, where he can see the two men clearly. The exchange is outwardly easy, friendly, but something else — something electric
— lies underneath. Henry looks from one face to the other. There is irritation in Michael’s strange look, but a gentleness too. Henry, used to reading Michael’s moods, notices the hitch of his shoulders, the fingers beating a gallop on his thigh. The boy is thrumming with an odd, hectic excitement.

Brennan is harder to read. For a moment Brennan looks hard at Michael, frowning, head to one side. He goes to speak and then thinks better of it; shrugs and flicks a hand at his friend. It is amiable enough. But as he turns away he shakes his head as if to clear it from a distraction. Then he’s gone, through the door to the kitchen, and Michael is back at the bar, dodging his father’s wrath, smiling and nodding at all and sundry.

Henry sighs and returns to his newspaper.
VOLUNTEERS
EMBARK FOR WAR, he reads. 300 brave West Coast volunteers set
sail today for Wellington, and then on to Australia and the wars in
Africa. The contingent is comprised of 40 from Westport, 35 Greymouth,
30 Brunner, 50 Denniston
… Henry frowns. More from Denniston than from any other West Coast town. Are they mad? Or blind? (And what if Michael should catch the same zeal?)

In the hissing kitchen Rose is reading too — an article from an older newspaper. She stands at the table, oblivious to her surroundings. Elizabeth Hanratty is at the other end of the table, a pile of stone bottles in front of her, and a kettle of boiling water. She is supposed to be filling hot bottles for the guests’ beds but as usual her mind is elsewhere. Tonight she is entertained by the antics of little Willie Winkie, in from the stable for his supper. Willie is as full of stories as the Bible, and can tell them as well as any travelling performer. Liza, who rarely finds anything to smile at, is laughing out loud at his story of the mine inspector who tried to tell Willie’s Da how to lay a shot, and instead laid himself out cold when it blew the wrong way.

Willie shakes his head as if dazed from the explosion. ‘Ahem,’
he says in the inspector’s voice, ‘we’d better take a look at your powder, sir. It is surely faulty.’ He grins at Liza and winks. ‘Feckin’ idiot never seen Denniston coal before. Da and his mates nearly caused an explosion of their own trying to hold back the laughter!’

Liza giggles again in spite of herself, then struggles to compose a more artistic expression as Brennan pushes his way into the room, through a curtain of towels drying on the rack above the coal range.

‘Good evening to the workers,’ says Brennan cheerfully.

Liza fills a bottle with a flourish. She fancies the musical Brennan and often sighs over his dark good looks.

No one notices the spark go out of Willie Winkie, his face drain of animation at Liza’s change of attention.

Willie climbs down from his stool. ‘Well, I’m back to my nags,’ he says, his voice cracking. ‘Thank you, Liza … Hey there, cousin!’

He might as well not be there.

Rose has continued reading, all through Willie’s stories, leaning on her hands. She notices nothing around her, but reads on as Brennan stands behind her, smiling at her absorption. When he finally puts a hand to her shoulder and lets it lie there, she turns slowly, as if waking, and grins.

‘Listen to this, Brennan! Can you believe it?’

She reads something from the paper. A disgruntled politician accusing Seddon, yet again, of cronyism. Rose is outraged. Seddon can do no wrong in her eyes. He is the champion of miners, upholder of the West Coast. Brennan smiles and listens with only half an ear. Rose is as partisan as the Premier when it comes to mines and miners. But he has been at the receiving end of Seddon’s rude manners and rough talk at their dinner table in Wellington. The man argued loudly all through a performance of Brennan’s, with half the audience shushing him and the other half joining the fray. Brennan, who had practised for weeks, hated it. Like as not his own father, Josiah, was appointed
to the Department of Mines by Seddon out of friendship and West Coast connections, but even so Brennan could not take to the man.

‘Look at all he has done for us!’ rails Rose. ‘The old age pension! The Arbitration Act!’

‘That was Pember Reeves,’ murmurs Brennan, loving her fiery eyes.

‘It was not! Pember Reeves, that limp weed, could get nothing through Parliament. Not till King Dick took over!’

‘Oh well,’ Brennan shrugs, still smiling. He could eat her.

Liza’s face gathers to a tragic gloom. A tear or two steals down well-worn tracks on her cheeks. He has not even said good evening.

‘Brennan, you know I’m right,’ says Rose, laughing herself now, at the sheer pleasure of the argument. ‘Admit it!’

Brennan spreads his hands wide, lowers his head in mock defeat. ‘I bend to the power of your persuasion, not to the man. Mr Seddon is a goat.’

‘Brennan!’

‘And you are wanted in the front room, Rose, if you please, at the piano.’

Out they go, batting through the towels, arguing still. Liza hears the cheer from the men. ‘Give us a tune, Rosie!’ shouts someone. Another calls for Michael:

‘Michael! Come on sonny-boy, let’s have
Daisy Daisy
!’

Liza pouts to think of the lost opportunity: she has never learned to play the piano. She sighs into the sudden silence as Rose starts to play. Liza’s brother sings. A bubble of laughter snags his clear tenor voice as he changes the words — ‘
Rosie, Rosie, give me
your answer do
…’ The men love it.

‘Oh Michael, Michael,’ weeps Liza in a thrill of despair, ‘marry her quickly!’

31 MARCH 1900

One quarter of the first year of the new century has gone! What fraction of my own life has passed I wonder? If a quarter, then I will live to be eighty! New resolution: I will live to be eighty. 80. Eighty is bright yellow and brassy as a trumpet.

Now. A serious quarterly report on my five resolutions.

1.
Songs

Good progress. My repertoire is growing. Bella has lowered her guard more than once and taught me a spicy number from her past.

Example:
Satin Slipper

It is a good rollicking song, which Bella taught me last night (after three glasses of sherry). This morning she shrieked out loud to hear me sing it, and clutched her head and cried that I was a wicked temptress to drag such depravity from her, and made me promise never to sing it, except perhaps to entertain my husband. I will try it on Michael. Anyway, where is the depravity in tickling?

2.
Thieving

Well, I could do better. Room for improvement!

Under Inch Donaldson — definitely a C minus

Under Henry Stringer — B plus (only 1½ slips — both undetected so far. The half was really just my good fortune — a threepenny piece lying in the playground. My only fault was to pick it up and pocket it.)

3.
Reading

Excellent. Mrs Hanratty keeps old copies of
Westport News
for me to read, before they are put to a more … fundamental purpose! I have read Pember Reeves’
Long White Cloud
which is interesting, and the latest volume of Thomas Bracken which is not. That man can churn out poetry by the yard as if his verses were a string of sausages. Liza Hanratty adores him (of course). I find him soft and daft. Also I have read one copy of
The Journal of the Department of
Labour
, which Josiah Scobie sends to Henry. It is surprisingly interesting. Henry says Edward Tregear, who is Secretary of Labour, is a brilliant man and a fine socialist. Certainly he can write well. I am definitely a socialist.

4.
Writing in journal

Poor. (But there is so much happening! I am wonderfully busy.)

5.
Embracing Poverty

Very good (except for the 1½). My teaching position pays 1/- a day less than Assistant Draper.

Now then.
My suitors

I have three suitors: Michael Hanratty, Brennan Scobie and Jackie O’Shea. Last night Bella and I played a game where we described them by assigning to each colours, music, art, poetry, etc, etc. It’s great fun. Also Bella betrays what she really thinks that way. If I am to marry — and Bella wants it with desperation — the winner must be pleasing to Bella.

So.

Jackie O’Shea
: Colour — dark brown. Musical instrument — none that we could think of, except perhaps a loud bass drum! Art — an advertisement for something — a boxing contest perhaps!

Then we gave up on poor Jackie. He thinks he is so tough but underneath is rather sweet. But he’s not in the running, which I think he knows. 

Brennan Scobie
: This is much harder. Bella and I argued over Brennan. Does she fancy him or not? I can’t quite tell and she won’t say outright. I must let my own heart speak, she says. I wag my finger at her and say that a reasoned approach — head over heart — will surely produce a sounder choice. My dear Bella is ruled every second of the day by her heart, but I am different.

I like to watch Brennan. He has been away for long enough that I can now look on him as part old friend, part new acquaintance. Has he changed? Or perhaps have I? He’s not an easy task, Brennan,
to put down in words. Musically he’s a bass part, marching steadily up or down the scale, giving weight and emotion to the melody without ever
being
the melody — if that makes sense. And yet he chooses as his instrument the high, sweet, melody-carrying cornet. From his character you’d expect — not as serious as bass trombone — let’s say euphonium. There’s the enigma in Brennan. He’s steady and reliable, but also occasionally you come across a sweetness that surprises.

Mathematically he’d be a clever but simple equation of universal application. π
²
perhaps. As a painting? Bella said
Snowy
Mountain Landscape in the Mist
. Colourful and romantic. That is
nothing
like Bren! What was Bella thinking of? The painting I chose was dark — and oil not watercolour. Not a pompous portrait like the ones hanging in the Maguire home in Westport. Nor a wishy-washy romantic sunset over the sea, like Liza Hanratty endlessly paints, perched, freezing to death, on some rock with her little easel. No, Brennan would be a
worthwhile
painting. Perhaps a peaceful rural scene, painted with strong brushstrokes, cows grazing in the foreground, bush-clad mountains behind, some sunlight in patches, but storm clouds gathering. Bella laughed and said there’s something in the storm clouds — especially if I choose Michael!

As a precious stone, it would be easy to say jet. His hair is so dark, and his eyes. The hairs on his arms lie black but delicate, as if drawn by the finest pen nib. Bella said jet — she would! — but jet is too obvious. Ruby? There’s something red in Bren, but ruby is too bright. I went for garnet. Garnet is good. Blood-red, dark and secret, and rich as kings.

In poetry? That doesn’t come so easily. Would it be flattering him too much (God forbid!) to say he is a sonnet by Shakespeare? That could fit. Weighty, carefully rhymed and worded, overflowing with unspent love. Yes!

Poor Bren, I shouldn’t laugh. I don’t laugh. He is such a good friend and I love him. He is intense, everyone can see that, and some make fun of it. But look for the brilliance too! The music he draws out of his cornet! His excitement over new developments on the Hill. I love that. When I’m with Brennan I can believe there is real worth in the world.

Last Sunday we walked south over the plateau, beyond Burnett’s Face. Brennan wanted to show me something. Michael was away in Westport, putting Miss Demeanour to a famous stud, so it was just the two of us. Should I admit to enjoying the peace? Why not? I did. I know what people say — that I am not only light-fingered but lightweight, buzzing from one excitement to the next, like a bee after sweet honey. Let them say what pleases them. On Sunday I enjoyed a quiet walk with a quiet man.

Quiet for a time only, mind. When we came to the place where he had been working a week or so ago, Bren knelt to remove a rock, and then a wad of cloth. There, under these plugs, was a dark hole, no thicker than a child’s arm, drilled down into the rock, further than you could see.

Bren stamped his feet and grinned. Suddenly I saw the boy he had been, and I could almost have kissed him then and there, he looked so pleased with himself, so triumphant.

‘Rose!’ he cried, still grinning. ‘We are standing on the future of Denniston, and Burnett’s Face and the Company and all of us rolled together! Under here,’ he stamped again, ‘not twelve feet under, is a great slab of top-class coal. It’s twenty feet thick, Rose! Some places more — almost thirty. And vast.’ He swept his arms south and east, like a magician about to produce marvels. ‘This, Rose,’ he shouted, ‘will be Whareatea Mine, one to beat all records, and I have mapped it!’

Oh, it was music to my ears! A new mine, new expansion, new
wealth to the community! What will old doomsday Stringer say to this, then? I laughed to see Brennan so alight, and also for the sheer pleasure of his discovery. Under my feet I could fair feel the rumble of full boxes, travelling on rails, the slow clop of horses’ hooves, the sharp crack of a shot fired and the long
crrrump
! of falling coal. Think of the miles of criss-cross passages soon marching their way underground through bright, hard coal. A maze that spells good times for us all.

I must have been speaking aloud.

‘Rose Rasmussen, you should have been a miner!’ said Bren. ‘I thought you were an above-ground lady!’

‘Above-ground for me, yes, but I wouldn’t say no to mine manager. Or company manager.’

I meant it too — I would show them how!

Bren laughed out loud. Told me I was a handful, no mistake about it. Suddenly he grabbed me by the waist and whirled me. Round we danced, dizzy and laughing, till we hit a rock and capsized in a heap.

‘Oh, Rose,’ said he, his face a picture of dismay, ‘have I hurt you?’ And beat his hand on his thigh as if to punish himself for his clumsiness.

I smiled at the great lump of him lying there. I was not hurt one whit and if the world had stopped gyrating one moment I would have got up and proved it.

But Bren put out a hand to stay me. There was something urgent about that hand, and a new intent in Bren’s face as he rolled towards me. I knew very well what was now on his mind. Up I jumped to my feet before the simple pleasure of the moment was all spoiled.

‘Come on, lazybones,’ I said, ‘let’s walk on to that outcrop. There’ll be a view up the valley.’ And of course he came after me,
smiling, like a faithful puppy.

He couldn’t leave it, though. That is part of Brennan: he is slow to read signs. On the way back, the sun hot on our backs and the two of us easy again, he had to ask about Michael and me. Were we truly engaged? Was there any chance for him? Surely I must know what he hoped for? And so on. I tried to make light of it all, but this is difficult with Brennan. He needs to know. Brennan is the sort who likes a clear end to a story; ambiguities confuse him. What could I say? I still wear Michael’s ring. That should be sign enough for him. I spread my hand so his eye would catch the sparkle.

Brennan stopped walking. ‘Rose, Michael is a fine fellow and my friend, but he is not right for you. You must see it!’ The force of his words punched holes in the air. ‘With Michael you will come to some terrible grief. I know it. I
know
it!’

Well, he annoyed me. Truly, what does he know? He knows the force of his own love and thinks that will carry all before it. Sometimes he is a visionary; sometimes he is unbelievably, stubbornly blind. And lacking in subtlety. And arrogant. I don’t need to be lectured on Michael’s faults: I have lived with them all my life. Nor do I need to be loved with such vehemence; blind devotion can be destructive too.

And yet. Three days later I watched from the classroom door as he knelt before an aspiring young brass player. Sternly he demanded breath control. Frowning with effort, the lad puffed up his chest and blew. The sound blared out raw as winter, but Brennan shouted and cheered as if a symphony had emerged, and the lad turned red with pleasure.

‘Now again, and sweeter,’ said Brennan.

The boy looked around from behind the cornet that obscured most of his head. His eyes asked the question.

‘Like this,’ said Brennan. He took up his own instrument and
blew. No fancy arpeggios, no boastful virtuosity, but a single true note, as sweet and simple as a smile.

That’s Brennan for you. The wretched man had me in tears, from a single note.

No time now to write about Michael — anyway, I know him so well, it’s like describing myself.