Authors: Jenny Pattrick
6 FEBRUARY 1902
Well, I will marry Michael. Bella wants it. Also, he is safer, I think. There is an ambition in Brennan that will lead him away from here. I could never, never leave the Hill. Even one day down in Westport has me biting my fingernails in an anxiety to be back up above. Why is that? The concrete things around me shift and blur as if I have entered a different dimension. Down off the Hill I feel as if I am in a bewitched world where I will distort and change shape: turn werewolf, or fly apart, each limb growing into a new monster. Bella tells me I have an imagination too fanciful for my own good. She is wrong; it is no fancy. At sea level my heart beats hard in my chest, and my hand as it reaches to accept a parcel from the draper trembles like an old woman’s. Sometimes I have to swallow hard to keep from vomiting. This is physical. Not something in my head.
Later, I will laugh with Bella, and tell her I am allergic to being away from her, but truly it is no laughing matter; it is fearful, and I mean to stay on the Hill.
Michael will surely stay in the family business. He is too lazy to start one of his own. And his horses, for all his dreaming, will never make him a fortune. No, Michael will stay on the Hill, I’m sure of it.
Michael, now. I have never written a description of him. Why not, I wonder? It is easy to pounce on someone stupid or laughable — or a stranger — take them apart and lay out the pieces of their jigsaw. But Michael is like my brother. Far more tricky. More of a challenge. Michael and I have lived all our lives not five minutes’ quick sprint from each other.
With Michael you are never bored. Well, I am not. Michael’s colour is undeniably yellow. Sometimes light comes off him, like the sun. (I do
not
mean this in any religious way!) He is like a bright, interesting painting, full of detail and life. Perhaps a dashing battle scene, horses prancing, soldiers in splendid uniforms, with swords aloft. Flashes of gunpowder, brave shouts, flags streaming. Hurrah hurrah! Heart-stirring, surely — but also something unreal about it. Michael seems so obvious, as clear and open — shallow, even — as Bren is dark and deep. But that’s not quite it. Michael is a mirror that reflects what you want to see of him. Behind the mirror something is held back. That part fascinates me, but damned if I can pin it down. Is he laughing at me? Does he feel something deeper but won’t show it? Perhaps dislike, even? Sometimes I simply slide off his surface and away like water. One day I’ll work it out.
For music, Michael would be the tenor part, if we are talking a choir — dramatic, noticeable, but still not the melody. I am the melody. I am the statement. Is that boastful? Yes, perhaps, but it is also true. I will think about that later; now it is Michael.
His stone is golden amber — clear, warm, and with blemishes that make the piece all the more interesting …
Well, enough of all that. This game is foolish, I’ve grown out of it. Michael is Michael. He is a comfortable glove I can put on and take off as I fancy. He makes no demands. He’s a good friend to laugh with, and sharp enough too, in his own way. I will marry him, as everyone expects, and we will rub along together well enough. Bella will have her grandchild, and Michael will have — what? What does Michael want out of it?
There now, I’m stuck again. I’ve come up against the mirror. Does Michael want the status of marriage? To be the respected family man? Yes, that is surely part of it. Michael loves to be admired, and a striking woman on the arm is admirable. I am no catch financially (well, not as far as anyone up here knows!) but I am certainly noticeable. I am talked about, and feared a little. Michael likes that. People will think him spirited to want to marry such a termagant!
Look at Michael with Bella. That is good. That is certainly good. Bella likes Michael. He plays cards with her, and admires her clothes. He makes her laugh. Watching Michael and Bella together I see no restraint or hidden part. Michael is all clear glinting water, and I want to drink him up!
Last night, with Bella more lively, and the wedding day set for one week away, Michael stayed for the special dinner Bella had cooked. It was such fun. Michael flirted with Bella outrageously, complimenting each dish lavishly, praising the delicacy of the black lace at her throat.
‘Ah, am I making a terrible mistake?’ he cried. ‘Marrying the daughter instead of the mother? Promise me, Mrs C, you will not be jealous? Otherwise we will call the whole enterprise off immediately!’
Bella laughed until she hiccuped. ‘Oh, Michael, you are a
rogue! No, no, sweetheart, not a hint of jealousy, I promise. We will be one family, Michael, and I will love you like a son.’
‘A son! Ah, Mrs C, if only I were twenty years older, son would not come into it.’
Bella’s two paying gentlemen, the sops, frowned at their plates, glowered at Michael and excused themselves early. Their silly little compliments and fawnings around Bella were quite outclassed by Michael’s antics. We all three laughed to see them scuttle off to bed.
‘Now,’ said Michael. ‘Now that we are alone, what about a preview of the wedding dress?’
Bella clapped her hands to her bosom and berated Michael for even suggesting such a thing; the bad luck it would bring.
‘Madam, you mistake me,’ cried Michael. ‘Not Rose’s gown, but your own!’
And he flattered her and cajoled until she brought it out of its tissue and laid it on the settee. It was not black but a shimmering royal blue taffeta, ruched with cream lace from throat to waist, seed pearls sewn into the lace, and sleeves puffed at the shoulder, tightly buttoned at wrist. It is truly spectacular. Michael gasped and pranced as expected. Held it up against her.
‘Mrs C, Mrs C, how can Rose and I compete? You will outshine the bridal pair! I will have to reconsider my suit; it will be completely obliterated by this creation. Who can have sewn such a masterpiece?’ Knowing full well she had spent the last year perfecting it. I love watching the pair of them. Michael is right — he would have suited Bella. There is nothing false about all his chatter. He genuinely enjoys her company and loves to gossip about the people on the Hill: who is flirting with whom, who is cheating the Company or a wife or a business. Michael is better at keeping Bella happy than I am. Bella will sometimes nod off with my talk; with Michael, never.
Well, that is Michael. When I said we must live here with Bella he shrugged, smiled and agreed; why not? I doubt Brennan would have been so easy. He would want to provide a house of his own. He would want me to himself. But whoever wants me must, of course, share me. How could I leave Bella alone? There is room here, I can continue the teaching, and Bella will feel useful, keeping house for us. Whatever she is able to do. I will have a child, perhaps even two. Bella’s aching heart will at last be at rest.
So. Bella has decided. It is all settled. Brennan will be unhappy. He will, yes, but will be loyal to us, I think. We will always be able to talk. His music won’t come to an end. He will be our friend, and Michael’s groomsman.
Now perhaps we can all be at peace, the gossip and speculation ended. There are much more interesting things to argue over than a marriage.
HENRY IS CURIOUS about Rose and Michael; more than curious if he is honest with himself. Worried, too. He would love to be a fly on the wall of the log house. Everyone
seems
happy. But after the strange flatness of the wedding you couldn’t be sure. On the face of it there is remarkably little difference, before or after the wedding, except that Michael now lives in Bella’s house, and Brennan is gone. Michael whistles and jokes with his friends, and continues to see to supplies for Hanrattys’ and the Miners’ Arms, the two Hanratty guest houses. He has also taken over a business supplying fodder for the horses — above and below ground. This part of the Hanratty enterprise will certainly grow with the opening of the new road and the expansion underground.
Rose continues to teach with the same carefree flair. You couldn’t say Rose was a dedicated teacher. Henry has never caught
her preparing a lesson. But she’s good at it nonetheless and the children like her. Rose was back at work on Monday, after the wedding, smiling her open — was it too open? — smile, and changing the subject with a deft wink at any ribald suggestion from other staff. Bella, though — Bella is the one who has blossomed. You’d think she was the one who had married. Henry smiles at the thought. The grand old lady has pink cheeks again. She invites all and sundry into the house to show off the wedding gifts, the china from the Hanrattys, a double-damask tablecloth from Inch Donaldson, her own gift of the marriage bed, which used to be her own, beautifully carved by Con the Brake. Bella has bought herself a new single bed, transported up the Incline for all to see. Rusty and Inch pretended to frown at that but were secretly relieved. Neither would dare go as far as the bedroom with their lady idol.
The wedding was a disappointment, no doubt about that. Henry was surprised — shaken would be more the word — by the chasm caused by Brennan’s sudden disappearance. Michael had made no secret about inviting Brennan to be groomsman. Some thought it insensitive of the lad — cruel even, given Brennan’s obvious feelings — but the three had always been such friends. Perhaps Brennan could put his own infatuation behind him? Henry, watching Brennan going grimly around the town, had doubted it. Whatever the truth of the matter, Michael gave the impression that Brennan’s acceptance was signed and sealed.
On the day of the wedding Henry himself, acting as father of the bride, had ridden to the church with Rose and Bella in Rusty McGill’s new trap. Some sort of horse-drawn vehicle was all the status symbol these days, with the new road about to open. Bows of white ribbon, supplied by Inch, fluttered from the hood, which was drawn up, the weather being cold and blustery. Henry felt dowdy in his best suit, crammed between these resplendent women: Rose in simple
cream satin, her mother a mountain of shimmering royal blue. When Rose suddenly asked Rusty to stop, Henry thought she had forgotten something. But it was Brennan. There he was, astride his pony, swag tied to the saddle and cornet on his back, heading for the new road, which was not yet open but easily negotiable on horseback.
Brennan saw her, reined in, and turned to face her. They were not a chain apart, but no words were spoken. Brennan simply raised his hand and held it there — a frozen farewell. Rose’s hand lifted a small distance in response. Nothing more. Then Brennan pulled the horse’s neck around and headed away at a steady walk.
On went the bride, clip clop, to the wedding. But a silence had drifted into the carriage; a slow haze of sadness that hovered all day, settling like dust on the ceremony and the celebration that followed. Nolly Hanratty, who might have fancied himself as replacement groomsman, quietly pushed his cousin forward, but even Goldie McGuire’s evident delight at this last-minute promotion did little to lighten the event. Michael drank too much and managed a few cheerful jokes, but later he picked a fight with Doldo Scobie over something, and if Arnold hadn’t bundled his boy out by the scruff things might have turned ugly. The Arnold Scobies were all there, expecting to hear a good speech by their nephew, and a bit of good music too. Brennan’s disappearance was a surprise to everyone, it seemed.
Michael predicted that Brennan would return after a day or two. ‘The groomsman is off to groom a different horse,’ he joked, ‘called Grumpy. He can’t stay away, though. He’ll be back before the week’s out, bet you a guinea.’
TWO weeks later there is still no word of Brennan. Then a scrap of Burnett’s Face gossip reaches Henry. Brennan has found a good job and lodging in Christchurch.
‘Michael!’ he calls from the school-house door. ‘Come in a minute! I have news of Brennan!’
Michael pulls on the reins. ‘Eh? I can’t hear a thing with all this rumbling.’ His cart, loaded with sacks of oats, slows to a stop and he jumps down, grinning and slapping the dust out of his clothes. ‘Brennan, did you say? I knew he’d be back.’ Michael looks cheerful enough today, swinging down the path, dapper as usual, but only last night Henry saw him surly and aggressive outside Hanrattys’, trying to pick a fight with his own friend Slap Honiball. An unsettling sight: that big ox Slap turning this way and that, embarrassed at the dancing taunts, obviously unwilling to fight back yet hurt by his friend’s public assault. In the end he walked away and left Michael almost screaming at his back. Henry had no idea what had provoked such a frenzy.
‘Come in, come in, the kettle’s on the stove,’ says Henry now. He puts a hand on Michael’s shoulder to guide him in. Michael comes readily enough, and stands leaning against the doorway as Henry fusses with tea and mugs.
‘What’s the news, then? Wouldn’t you know I’d be the last to hear? Is he back already?’
Henry, sweeping papers aside and searching for a biscuit, fails to see the excitement in Michael’s face. ‘Sit down, sit down. No, no, you have it wrong, he’s not back.’
Michael takes his mug of tea but stays on his feet. He frowns. ‘What then? What news?’
‘Sounds like he won’t be back, Michael. He has found good work and lodging in Christchurch.’ Henry announces this with some pleasure.
Michael jerks upright. Hot tea flies out of his cup and down his trousers. He cries out in anger or pain and dashes a hand at the wet wool.
‘Damn! The devil!’ He slams his mug down on the table and, when Henry tries to mop at the stain with a damp cloth, pushes the hand away. ‘I’m all right, can’t you see, you old fusspot? It hasn’t burnt. Get off me!’
Henry steps back, unable to speak. Pieces have suddenly fallen into place. He takes the pipe from his mouth, waves it vaguely in Michael’s direction and then jams it back between his teeth. He stares at Michael. Michael stares back.
At last Henry finds his voice. He speaks with great gentleness. ‘Sit down, Michael.’
Michael sits. His hands are shaking. He looks down at them. His usual bravura, the easy good humour, are completely lacking. Henry pulls up a chair and sits next to him. He hardly dares breathe; he would dearly love to take one of those shaking hands but his own are in a worse state. He would not trust them to travel that short distance.
‘Michael,’ he says again, loving the sound. This is the moment. But anything further is so difficult to say. ‘I think … perhaps I can … I can understand …’
Michael is not listening. He begins to tap his fingers on the table. Colour returns to his cheeks. ‘I tell you what,’ he says in a voice too loud for the small room, ‘Rose and I will go and fetch him. We will bring him back! What do you say? Bring him back?’ His bright smile is so full of pain, Henry has to look away.
‘Do you have his address?’ says Michael.
‘No … No, I don’t.’
‘You could find it out!’
‘No. Michael, no. Brennan would not come. He is in pain too.’
Michael glares. He pushes himself up from the table, almost striking Henry. ‘What does that mean? Who else is in pain, then?’
‘Oh, Michael …’ The noise Henry makes is perhaps a helpless
snort of laughter. Or a groan. ‘All of us. All.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Suddenly Michael is very angry. Hectic red flares in his face. ‘Did Rose say something? Is that it?’ He steps towards Henry, who cries out at the menace in those blue eyes.
‘Rose? No … no … Michael …’ But Henry can say no more.
‘Brennan will come back.’
‘He won’t. You must accept that. Michael, listen. You will get over it.’
‘Oh!’ Michael lashes out at Henry who stumbles back against the table. ‘What do you know, you old fool?’ He shouts something else — mad wild words — as he runs from the room, down the path and leaps up onto the cart.
Henry can make no sense of the torrent. ‘Go, go,’ he says quietly as he watches the horses snort and paw under the whip. ‘You will come to accept it.’ He smiles a little. This unfamiliar feeling is perhaps a prickle of hope.