Authors: Jenny Pattrick
WHERE MICHAEL FOUND the money for the stud service no one found out until years later. Rose was suspected, of course, but no one had missed that kind of sum from till or savings. Michael himself was perennially short of money, always on the cadge. If Michael had a single penny in his pocket he would bet on it that he could spit further than you, or run faster to the next rock, or simply toss it in the air and ask you to call. Tom and Totty had kept their son on a very tight rope ever since he’d made off with three nights’ bar takings a year earlier. That was to buy Miss Demeanour. A good investment as it turned out, but that wasn’t the point, as Tom reminded Michael on frequent occasions. Tom was now chairman of the Domain Board, chairman of the Medical Association that was raising money for a hospital, an active member of the Good Templars Lodge and a founder member of the Trotting Club. For
such a man certain standards had to be kept up — by all the members of the family.
‘And another thing,’ Tom was often heard to say to his son, ‘tell those friends of yours to remove their horse from my stables. How am I supposed to run a decent saloon and guest house when the stables are full of non-paying fancy trespassers?’ Tom was given to rages these days. His face grew mottled at the slightest annoyance. Totty feared her portly husband might take a fit of apoplexy and would try to calm the waters.
‘He’s a good enough worker, Tom. He’s popular in the saloon.’
‘Popular is not everything,’ Tom would growl.
‘And interested in the business. At least he’s not skittered off down the Incline, like young Matt McGill. He’ll settle and raise a good family just like you, if you give him time.’ Totty would smile at her husband and pat his arm. ‘And a little space. You are simply different people.’
So they were — oil and water. The pride Tom had felt in his son had tarnished somewhat after the boy’s many carefree and downright stupid escapades. And now, just to spite his father it would seem, Michael had turned away from the good solid sport of trotting to support the gallop.
Trotting was big on the Hill. Tom Hanratty himself owned a good performer, Losing Streak, who had won two heats out of three in the mile down at Westport. But for Michael and his friends the more dashing gallop was the thing.
‘Look at my beauty!’ says Michael now to the ever-attentive Willie Winkie. They are both in the Hanratty stables, grooming a very pregnant Miss Demeanour. Outside, the wind whistles and icy mist races past the door at eye level. The stables are cold, cramped and leaky, but horses up here are bred to be tough. Which is part of their secret, according to Michael. He slaps Miss Demeanour’s full
chest. ‘Look at the cage on her! Breed a horse up here, train her at two thousand feet and she’s bound to beat the sea-level nags. When she gets down there, Willie, see, she’s breathing richer air, with lungs that are bigger from puffing around up here.’
Willie Winkie grins. ‘How come I’m this tiny size then, and not a strapping giant?’
‘You, Willie, are the exception to everything!’
‘And how come we’re not all feckin’ champions ourselves at the running?’
‘Well then, perhaps we are and don’t know it. Fettered by lack of opportunity. Like Dad checks the gait of his bloody trotters.’ Michael drapes an arm over his mare’s warm neck. ‘Eh, my lovely? Who would want to fetter such beautiful knees? Who would dare to snaffle this great neck? Trotting is downright unnatural.’
‘True, Michael, true enough.’
They both laugh. Wee Willie’s voice perfectly imitates Tom Hanratty pronouncing judgement at his own bar. The little stable-hand brushes the hind quarters with long, strong strokes. ‘I love that moment when she stretches her neck and breaks to the gallop. It’s magic, that. I could sing out loud when she does that under me.’
Michael grins sideways. ‘You do sing! I’ve heard you often enough. Reckon Miss Demeanour goes faster for it.’ He pokes his head into the next stall. ‘Is Slipshod saddled up? Here is the proud father.’
Slipshod is the thoroughbred, jointly owned by three of Michael’s friends whose presence in the Hanratty stables so enrages Tom. The friends have appeared suddenly at the stall, having crept around through the tackle room, for fear of the landlord’s wrath, not to mention a hefty stabling bill.
‘Proud father, is it?’ says Goldie McGuire, Michael’s cousin, who could almost be a twin by his colouring and stature, though he
is not near as quick. ‘Miss Demeanour foaling, is she?’
Michael slaps his back and the others groan. ‘Goldie, it is you who will be a father. In a month or two. Or did you forget?’
‘Oh well,’ grins Goldie, sheepish now, ‘so will you, cousin, given a month or two more. And maybe both ways, from mare and wife if Rose can be broken in.’
Hooter produces his high whinny of a laugh, then remembers where he is and tries to smother it. Michael frowns and turns back to Miss Demeanour. Wee Willie, who is now full-time stablehand at Hanrattys’, has often noticed this quick change in Michael. Jokes about the wedding, or about Michael and Rose, are not welcome. Michael’s cheeky tongue, his quick-witted responses desert him. Willie’s opinion is that Michael cares for Rose more deeply than he wishes to show.
Slap Honiball, Slipshod’s third owner, and a big ox of a fellow, notices nothing, though. Slap works at the Bins and plays good football, but has not much else to commend him, in Willie Winkie’s opinion. You are wise to laugh at his jokes or stay out of the way. Slap grins now and pursues the Rose topic.
‘So which comes first, Michael — foal or wedding?’ He means it as a joke. Most people think Michael would marry a horse any day.
Michael takes it straight. ‘Miss Demeanour will be well-foaled, I think, before the wedding.’
Slap, the fool, can’t leave it alone. He must have liquor in him. ‘And Brennan?’ he says. ‘Will the sorry loser be invited to the wedding?’
Michael turns on his grinning friend. His voice is easy but the eyes glint, cold as the air around them.
‘Of course Brennan’s invited. Of course he is.’
Goldie has mounted now, and frowns down in his slow way, as
if straining information drop by drop through a muslin cloth. ‘But Michael,’ he says at last, ‘Brennan will never come to your wedding. Will he?’
Michael smiles his easy smile and rubs away at Miss Demeanour’s shining neck. ‘He’ll come. I’ve asked him to be groomsman.’
Goldie’s whole body droops. ‘But Michael, but what about me? Aren’t I your best friend? And cousin?’ Slap and Hooter shuffle their feet. Slipshod feels the mood and stamps at the straw.
Michael turns to face his three hurt friends. He shrugs. ‘How could I choose from among you? Anyway, you’ll all be there,’ he flashes a smile, ‘at a good party.’
Something’s in the air, but even Willie Winkie’s sharp nose can’t smell it. The three men walk Slipshod away without another word. Slap turns in the doorway, his heavy wrestler’s head shaking as if he’s taken a punch.
‘Brennan will never be your best man,’ he says, pointing a slabby finger at Michael. ‘The day you marry Rose, he’ll ride the Incline. Off the Hill and down to greener pastures. Everyone says it.’
‘It’s the truth,’ says Willie Winkie. But says it under his breath. He’s watching Michael.
Michael’s sharp laugh cracks like a whip. As the big horse clops out into the mud and mist of the yard he turns to the little stable-hand. ‘We’ll see, then, Willie,’ he says. ‘We’ll see who’s right.’ For a moment he lets his forehead rest on the flank of his horse.
To Willie Winkie it looks like some kind of despair.
INSIDE THE VOLUNTEER Hall bandmaster Cooper is working himself into a fine rage over poor Jimmy Gorman, who is new on the bass drum.
‘This is not a funeral march,’ he shouts, ‘but a lively polka! You drag us all back every time, lad! We will be laughed out of town!’
The bandsmen shuffle their feet and warm their hands between their thighs. It is all very well for the bandmaster — he can dance around and wave his arms to keep his circulation on the move. The hall is like an ice-box: raw corrugated iron on roof and three sides, and a fireplace so tiny it would disgrace a miner’s cottage. Brennan sucks on his mouthpiece and flips the keys. Any colder and his instrument will seize up along with its owner. Nearly two years he’s been here now and still the cold gets into his bones.
‘From the top now, lads,’ says bandmaster Cooper. ‘We are
playing romantic, we are playing polka. Listen to Brennan, he has the feel of it.’
Brennan plays and forgets the cold.
Halfway down the hall Rose and Michael are waiting for Brennan to finish. They huddle close to the fire, crouched on children’s stools, knees up to their ears, heads together, whispering. Henry has invited them up to the schoolhouse for a hot nightcap, but Michael wants to wait and bring Brennan too.
‘This’ll be the last number,’ he whispers, pointing to the old miner on euphonium. ‘Old Cudby’s got his pocket-watch out. He’s as keen on his nightcap as we are!’
But the bandmaster, a fearsome perfectionist, spots a rum note in the horn section and returns them to the top again.
Rose stands and touches a finger to Michael’s smart new coat. ‘I’ll be turned to ice if I stay one minute more! It’s all very well for you in your thick wool.’
Rose has forgotten to whisper. Bandmaster Cooper sweeps the piece to a close mid-bar, with a crash of baton against music stand.
‘I’ll not brook interruptions!’ he booms. ‘Miss Rasmussen, you are not content with blocking what little heat we have from my players, you are interrupting a vital rehearsal. Be kind enough to leave these serious musicians in peace!’
There are grins at this. Rose can leave most of them for dead when it comes to serious music.
‘Sorry sorry sorry,’ laughs Rose. No one, not even the bandmaster, intimidates her. ‘We are on our way, Mr Cooper, and will leave you and the Denniston Brass to freeze in peace.’
But at this moment the peace is shattered most substantially by Rusty McGill. He crashes the door open and stands, a fat shadow in the doorway.
‘Rose, Rose, is that you there? Rose, thank God. Come quickly,
your mother needs you!’ Rusty runs down the hall as fast as his short legs will carry him, to pull at her sleeve. His eyes are popping, his fancy waistcoat half unbuttoned. ‘She is surely dying!’ he cries, but Rose has already left, flying out the door, her skirts bunched in her hands to give her long legs extra speed. Rusty flaps his hands in panic. ‘Are you coming, then?’ he asks Michael, who shakes his head and smiles. Rusty’s histrionics are well known.
‘She will have more than enough attention without me,’ he says. ‘I’ll maybe call past later.’
Rusty growls at this poor display of care for a lady soon to be his mother-in-law. He turns to run, flap flap, after the rapidly disappearing Rose.
Michael grins at Brennan, then turns his charm on the frowning bandmaster. ‘Looks like your practice is over, bandmaster,’ he says. ‘Can I winkle your prize cornet away for a nightcap?’
INCH Donaldson is waiting at the door, his face like a funeral director’s.
‘Oh, Rose, Rose, thank goodness. We didn’t know what was best. Is she dying, do you think?’
Rose brushes past him without a word. Bella is lying on the settee, chest heaving and eyes frightened. Rose flings off her coat and runs to kneel at her side.
‘Bella! Mama! What is it?’
Bella can hardly speak. Her breath comes in hard pants. She clutches at her chest.
‘My heart,’ she gasps. ‘It races and races. It won’t stop!’
Bella’s lips are blue. Her eyes fix on Rose, pleading for help as the breath rasps in and out.
‘Dear God!’ cries Rose, looking wildly around as if medical assistance might materialise from the walls. ‘Mama, you must be calm!’
Bella rolls her eyes. Rose sends Inch for a pillow, then pulls and tugs the big woman into a more upright position. Bella is frighteningly compliant, but something is slowing the thump of her heart. Perhaps just having Rose in the room makes a difference.
Inch and Rusty huddle together in fright by the door. Should they stay? Go to their rooms? Rose ignores them. She comes running from the kitchen with a small blue bottle. She uncorks it and holds it under Bella’s nose. The old woman splutters and gags; tears stream down, but her voice is steadier when words come.
‘Spirits of camphor? That won’t do! You want to kill me?’
A bark of relieved laughter explodes out of Rose. ‘It seems to have had some effect at least. What, then?’
‘The small bottle on the top shelf. Sweet Spirit of Nitre.’
Rose charges back with bottle and spoon. Bella groans. Rose kneels by her side. ‘Tell me — what is it?’
Bella is too anxious herself to see the fright in her daughter’s face. ‘Water. In water, a glassful,’ she pants. ‘Have you forgotten all?’
‘Oh. Oh yes.’ This is half sob, half laugh as she runs back to the kitchen.
‘I promise, Mama,’ she says as she guides Bella’s head to the glass. ‘Just get over this bout and I will study every remedy in your cupboard, and every detail of the dosage. I need you up and well, my dearest Bella.’
A little later the men have retired, after each has been allowed to tiptoe forward and say timid goodnights to their beloved. Bella, her breathing much calmer, sitting upright by a warm log fire, says, ‘Oh, I am ashamed to feel so weak! Do you think you can help me to the chamber pot?’
Rose jumps up. ‘The chamber pot will come to you!’ she cries. ‘Who is here to see but us women?’
‘It is a good sign at least,’ says Bella. ‘I will take another dose, I think.’
A few days later Dr Harding on his weekly round of Denniston and Burnett’s Face is cautious. He frowns down at Bella. ‘Sweet Spirit of Nitre is good, yes, but other precautions must follow. Ahem. Would you like Rose to leave the room?’
Bella snorts. She is much better today. ‘If Rose is to nurse me, she needs to know your precautions. Speak on, Doctor, we are neither of us delicate women.’ She winks at Rose, who has stayed back from her teaching today. Rose has not the heart to wink back until the doctor has made his pronouncement.
‘Your kidneys are not in good shape, Mrs Rasmussen.’
‘That is not news,’ says Bella. But it is to Rose.
‘You are having difficulty passing water?’
‘The Spirits are helping in that department.’
‘Mrs Rasmussen, the matter could become quite serious. Your body is awash with stored liquid. It presses in on your lungs, which in turn constrict the heart. It would be advantageous to have you at sea level, and closer to a hospital. Or at least to regular nursing care.’
‘Tell them to get a move on with the new road then, Doctor. Otherwise save your breath.’
‘We could arrange —’
‘Doctor, let us speak plainly. We could arrange nothing. Neither Incline nor Track is suitable for a woman of my size and condition. I will be staying here. However, I have a great desire to see my daughter married and a grandchild or two at my knee, so any precautions I can take up here will certainly be followed.’
Rose stands at the window as Dr Harding outlines a regime of restricted liquids and frequent visits to his weekly surgery to check for weight loss or gain. This combined with three-hourly doses of Sweet Spirit of Nitre, alternating with parsley tea.
At the door he frowns at Rose. ‘Anxiety or stress will not help matters.’
Rose sighs. He has heard the rumours. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘this changes matters. We will have to see.’
Inside again, she sits on the floor in front of Bella, the fire casting moving shadows around and over them, as if they are floating under sunlit water. Rose rests her arms on Bella’s great lap and looks up, smiling.
‘Now, Mama, I expect you to live to one hundred and beyond,’ she says, ‘but meantime perhaps we had better get on with — certain matters.’
Bella strokes the bright hair. ‘The wedding? Well, my dear heart, no one could say you have been hasty.’
In fact delay after delay has put the wedding back. First it was to allow for the birth of Michael’s pride and joy, the foal Black Knight. Then Rose suggested they wait for school holidays, then warmer weather. Now they both think it would be an excellent idea to postpone the celebration until after the new road has opened, thus allowing Michael’s surviving grandparents, one Hanratty and one Maguire, to ride up to the wedding. Bella has raged that people are talking, that Rose is holding the entire population of Denniston to ransom, that Bella’s beautiful wedding ensemble, already sewn and waiting in soft tissue-paper, may no longer fit if there are more delays. Rose always shrugs and dances out of range like a light-footed boxer.
Gossip is rife, naturally. Rusty McGill is running an unofficial book on who Rose will marry, and when. Betting favours Michael on the whole — doesn’t she still wear his ring? — though at Burnett’s Face the hope is that Rose will eventually settle for Brennan. Surely that’s what these endless postponements are all about?
Rose sails through this sea of conjecture, laughing it off in
public, battling with Bella in private.
All this time — nearly two years now since Brennan came back — he and Michael seem to be on remarkably good terms. A good fight would stir things up but there’s no sign of one. The three of them are often seen together on the playing field, exercising Miss Demeanour and Black Knight. Rose and Michael are at every Sunday performance of the band. They even disappear down the Track together for a jaunt into Westport.
Bella’s illness, however, changes everything as far as Rose is concerned. Games are now out of the question. Suddenly Rose can see — how had she been so blind? — that Bella has aged. The cheeks are drawn, the skin papery, even though the bulk is still there. And a certain spark is missing. Bella is always tired.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers. ‘I haven’t been noticing, have I? You’ll have your wedding, Mama. And a grandchild in your lap. As soon as we can arrange it.’
Bella’s face lights up. ‘Now there’s a tonic to beat all! I feel better already!’
Rose wags her finger. ‘Oho, this is all a ruse to get a grandchild, is it? I might have known!’ She is only half joking, but Bella laughs, and asks the question all Denniston wants the answer to.
‘Which one will it be, my Rose? Who is to be my son-in-law?’
Rose jumps to her feet, strides around the room as if caged, then comes back to face Bella. Standing there, her feet apart, head on one side, wide-open grin that promises mischief, she looks for a moment so like Con the Brake that Bella feels sharply the old loss. But Rose is smiling now, this sharp, challenging stepdaughter, who is and always will be after all, only herself.
‘I tell you what, Mama,’ says Rose, and she is quite serious, ‘you choose for me. You choose a son-in-law, and I will marry him! Then we’ll all be happy.’
Bella tries to smile. She is, in fact, deeply dismayed. ‘Ah, now, Rose, surely your own heart says —’
‘My own heart says you will know better than me.’
Bella tries to keep her voice light. She winks at her stepdaughter. ‘But you feel more for one or the other? When you are close?’
Rose shrugs. ‘Either is perfectly fine. Who would you choose? Michael, I think. Is it Michael?’
Bella is watching Rose carefully. ‘Michael is a lovely boy,’ she says slowly. ‘He is a real tonic about the house —’
Rose claps her hands. ‘I knew it! I knew you would choose Michael!’
Bella coughs painfully. ‘But you, Rose, who do you want? This is a serious matter.’
Rose kisses her mother. ‘No more long faces, now — we have a wedding to plan. Well, so we choose Michael. Now, what shall we wear, we two?’ And she dances around the room trying on the curtains and veiling her head in Bella’s rug, until Bella forgets all anxiety and joins in the fun.