Read The Denniston Rose Online
Authors: Jenny Pattrick
HENRY STRINGER CALLED the meeting. He sent notes to the Hanrattys and Scobies:
An urgent matter has come to my attention which
should be discussed in private. Could we meet at
Hanrattys’, Saturday afternoon next at four p.m.?
Michael and Brennan should attend, but no other
children, please. I have also asked Mrs C. Rasmussen to be
present.
It concerns Rose of Tralee.
Yrs faithfully
Henry Stringer, Schoolmaster
‘What’s all this then?’ says Mary Scobie, brisk and ready to take
charge. ‘My Brennan has been drooping around the house like wet flannel all week but I can’t get a word out of him. Are the boys in trouble again?’
Bella Rasmussen eyes the others. Since news of Con’s disappearance has spread, people avoid her. The empty space left by Con is never mentioned. She smoothes her purple tussore, aware that she has overdressed for the occasion. Tom Hanratty clears his throat, frowns at Michael, fiddles with his pocket watch.
The two boys are wound like springs and not speaking to each other. Michael fidgets on his chair in Hanrattys’ dark front parlour. He glowers at Brennan. Brennan looks away, trying not to cry.
‘Henry,’ says Totty, ‘you had better spit it out quickly. With all this secrecy you can see what a state we are in.’
Henry Stringer unfolds his insect legs and stands up, running bony fingers through hair freshly cut this morning by the new barber in Dickson Street. He is nervous in the company of these five, who, in one way or another, form the backbone of Denniston. He can’t stand still in their presence. His chaotic feet crash into the polished brass fender; his attempt to steady the swinging fire-irons only makes matters worse.
‘Now, now, lad,’ says Josiah, ‘we know the rumours buzzing round. About you and about …’ He looks quickly at the silent Bella, ‘… about Con. But no one here holds truck with that nonsense. We won’t bite you.’ He strides to the fireplace, takes the teacher by his shoulders and holds him still as if he were straightening a picture on the wall.
‘Now, sir,’ says Josiah, ‘you are the head teacher at Denniston, and we respect you for the care and attention you give our lads, so if something is amiss, spit it out and we will sort out the matter. This is our half-day and spare time is precious.’
Henry’s shoulders receive a final encouraging slap to keep them
in place, and Josiah returns to stand behind his wife.
Henry nods several times. ‘Yes, yes, yes, quite, sir, quite. Well. Now.’
Michael giggles.
‘The boys have some-something to tell you,’ says Henry, stuttering and spitting in his eagerness to get things right, ‘which they need to get off their chests, and which Brennan told me in confidence and from a troubled conscience. But look here, sirs … and ladies,’ Henry blushes scarlet and begins to pace again, ‘before we judge the boys too harshly, I suggest we examine our own part in the tragedy …’
‘For pity’s sake, Henry!’ cries Mary Scobie. ‘We have no idea what the tragedy is, let alone our part in it. Brennan!’ This is an order. ‘Stand up and speak!’
‘
We
killed Billy Genesis,’ says Brennan in a low voice. He sits still on the big chair, feet dangling, tears running silently down.
‘We did not!’ Michael is on his feet, fists balled, ready to fight the whole roomful. ‘He was dead already!’
‘He was alive!’ howls Brennan.
‘Dead!’ shouts Michael at the silent adults, ‘Almost. And it wasn’t Rose’s fault either. We were trying to stop the war!’
Henry Stringer goes to Brennan, leads him to the fire, stands behind the weeping boy, hands on his shoulders. ‘Just tell the story, Brennan. It’s all right. Tell the story.’
And Brennan tells it, his voice so low they have to lean forward to hear. Michael stays on his feet, twice interrupting, still defiant. The boys’ story is one of simple aggression — a bullying man, a helpless girl repeatedly attacked in her own room. A lucky blow with a candlestick. Only too well can the adults fill in details that the boys’ inexperience and Rose’s reticence have not revealed. When the story is finished, the room is silent. There is much to think
about.
‘Will we go to prison?’ asks Brennan at last.
‘It’s not fair!’ shouts Michael, close to tears now himself. ‘Why didn’t a grown-up kill him?’
Tom clears his throat. His voice, when it finally comes through, is rough with love. ‘Well now, Michael, killing, that is not right — killing is no answer. But I tell you clear, son: not you, nor Brennan, nor our Rose of Tralee has done murder. Self-defence, or accident maybe, who knows? And no one will lay a finger of blame on any one of you. No one.’ He blows his nose; looks fiercely around the room.
Suddenly Bella Rasmussen lets out a wail. ‘Ah, sweet Jesus, we all knew! Blame! Here it lies, right here in this barren breast!’ She beats on the purple tussore until her corsets twang. ‘We all knew about that vile man, yet she had to seek help from two six-year-old lads!’
Michael swells a little at this, looks his father in the eye, man to man, but Tom Hanratty purses his lips, playing the serious citizen. ‘Well, as to that,’ he says, smoothing his beard, ‘Surely the mother should have done something. That is where responsibility lies … ultimately.’
‘Oh Tom,’ says Totty. ‘Rose’s mother …’ Her voice trails away.
There is nothing any of them can think to say. Even the boys are silent. The room darkens as a spatter of hail sweeps down the street, rattling windows. They listen as the hail, moving north, clangs over the Bins and dies away.
Henry Stringer looks from face to face. He expects decisions. Mary Scobie sighs, shifts in her chair, sighs again, then takes charge.
‘Well then. It is clear some form of this story must be broadcast. Con the Brake’s name must be cleared. We cannot have malicious rumour running wild. So: an accident. The drunken man attacked
Rose. Fell, hitting his head. Died. Rose told the boys, the boys told us. The mother moved away, taking Rose. That is the story. And when you think about it, that is the truth.’
The adults nod gravely.
Tom Hanratty pulls at his beard. ‘A well-deserved accident,’ he says. ‘Billy Genesis was a shame to Denniston, and no loss to the world at large.’
They nod again. Henry runs fingers through his hair. He is not happy. His head wags back and forth like a puppet as he searches for words.
But it is Brennan who finds them first. ‘No it’s not!’ he cries out, ‘It’s not!’
Michael understands. ‘Not all the story!’ he says. ‘What about Rose?’
‘Rose!’ shouts Brennan, fired up now, made bold since the threat of prison has passed. ‘Rose!’
The two boys face the surprised adults like a pair of puppies suddenly turned nasty.
‘Rose’s mother made her leave!’
‘She wanted to stay with us!’
‘She wanted to stay!’
‘It’s not fair!’
‘Rose was afraid!’
‘You have to find her!’
Finally their teacher, half boy, half man, weighs in on the children’s side. Stumbling against the furniture as he paces, pulling words from the air with bony fingers, showering his elders with sprays of spit, he delivers his oration.
‘Surely! Surely we all are responsible. We took Rose into our homes. We … I … we all, didn’t we? Hardly a household where she hadn’t eaten. Taken shelter. How many times have I heard it —
heard people say — Michael and Brennan and
Rose
— first three children of Denniston? She belongs here. Here! She is Rose of
Denniston
, not of some mythical Tralee.’
The boys cheer their Mr Stringer, though the parents seem less impressed. Henry charges on through the furniture.
‘We cannot give Rose hope and then take it away! A good pupil. The best. Sorry boys, but you must face it: Rose, on a good day, can outclass you both. What will happen to her down there? We know; we can guess! A sorry end, a slow drift to hell. Who can support that poor lost mother down there? Who? For that matter, who supported her up here? No, no, she must be found, returned to Denniston. Surely you all can see this?’
Henry Stringer stops abruptly in the centre of the ring of chairs, turns slowly on his heel, hands spread in appeal. The boys hardly dare to breathe. The others sigh, shift a little, look into the fire.
Totty rises to refill cups of tea. ‘What I
can
do,’ she says slowly, ‘is write to my father … see if we can trace her … them both.’
Bella nods. ‘I have contacts too,’ she smiles, ‘in a rather different walk of life. I also will write.’
‘It is agreed, then,’ booms Mary Scobie, as if wrapping up an unruly meeting, ‘that we will try to keep contact with the child, remind her that she has friends — a gift parcel from time to time …’
‘That’s no good!’ shouts Brennan at his mother, and would have struck her if Josiah had not taken his arm quickly, pulled him to the back of the room.
‘Brennan!’ says Josiah. ‘Where are your manners, lad? Enough! Rose cannot be taken from the mother …’
‘Why not?’
‘… nor the mother from the child, nor the mother from the man she chooses to live with.’
‘Why
not
? Rose doesn’t want her mother!’
Mary Scobie rises. ‘It is time we went. Thank you, Totty, thank you, Tom. The boys are understandably upset. But we will pursue the matter. Brennan, fetch your boots.’
Bella is slower to leave, less sure of answers. She walks down to the Camp, where the population is back to thirty again and life is quieter. Already the sky, the rocks, the buildings are merging in different shades of shadow. Halfway down the path she stops to look below to the outline of their sprawling log house. Behind it Conrad the Sixth’s tomb stands square, the rock surfaces gleaming faintly in the last of the light. Bella’s tears flow.
‘Ah Con, Con, you foolish man,’ she whispers, but her heavy heart aches even more for Rose, whom they have all abandoned.
A fist of wind sends her on her way again. At her back the Incline and the railway yards have been shut down since noon; the only sound a sheet of loose iron rattling on its nails with each gust. Her dark shadow enters the log house. But tonight there is a little purpose to her slow movements as she bends to unlace her own boots. Inside, she lights one lamp, fetches paper and begins to write.
‘Glenmorgan’
Westport.
July 20th 1885
Dearest Dorothy,
Well, at last I have some news for you about the child,
poor wee mite, though it is perhaps news you would rather
not hear.
Mrs Thomas Throne, perhaps you remember her,
President of our Society of Charitable Ladies, has been
doing Good Work among the Fallen Women and has
heard of a child called Rose whose mother, it seems, is
living a Questionable Life down in the wharf area. There
are a great many labourers come to help build the new
wharf and break-water and I fear they have brought an
unsavoury entourage with
them. Just yesterday five men
were found drinking on the job and were summarily
dismissed. Your father was most upset about it. Shantyism
and sly-grogging are aspects of life we thought Westport
had left behind.
The child has excited some attention as she is
evidently a clever soul, and the men like to bet on her
ability to add up figures or some such story. It all sounds
Most Unsuitable to me; the child is merely a side-show, a
performing monkey, put to work, perhaps by her mother,
who can tell? Mrs Throne has tried to remove her to our
Home for Destitute Children, but somehow she or her
mother have eluded us.
For the last week there have been no sightings. Mrs
Throne’s informant reports that a thick-set labourer was
down at the wharf asking after the mother and child. We
believe all three may have moved on south. Hokitika, of
course, is where such people usually end up.
Our Society will continue to inquire, my dear, and
already I have sent the details to our Hokitika Branch, a
very Active Group, and much needed, alas.
Oh Dorothy, I cannot tell you how thrilled I am that
you are planning a Visit in the Summer, with the little
ones and your husband! The news has quite perked me up
and I have not had to take my drops for a whole week. I
am planning a Musical Evening in your honour and a
special Children’s Garden Party for the children! Let us
pray for fine weather, though what is the use, rain is
bound to win out. Contingency plans will be laid, never
fear.
Well, dear, I will write if further news about Rose is
to hand. What a poor wee battler! Love to Michael,
Elizabeth and Nelson, and my warm regards to your
husband.
Your affectionate and smiling
Mother
Education Department Inspectorate,
Nelson District
Dear Mrs Scobie,
Our Department does not keep records of all those
enrolled in schools within our area. I advise you to apply
directly to schools for information about pupils. Enclosed
is a list of schools in the West Coast area, and their
addresses.
I do indeed remember the child, Rose, who sang at
your school concert, and was, if I recall rightly, unusually
precocious with figures.
Yours sincerely,
C. Sinclair
District Inspector of Schools
Hope Primary School:
Dear Mrs Scobie,
There is no Rose enrolled at our school.
Greymouth District Primary School:
Dear Mrs Scobie,
We have a Rose Perlham, 10 years old, whose father
is a railway worker. No other Rose, but I will make
inquiries in the area. Good luck in your search.
St Theresa’s Primary School, Greymouth:
Dear Mrs Scobie,
We do not divulge, without clear reason, the names of
our pupils. However I can tell you that we have no Roses.
Kumara Primary School:
Dear Mrs Scobie,
I wish, indeed, that a Rose or any other child had
enrolled here recently. Our roll is one short and we are in
fear of closure. Try Hokitika Primary. Their roll changes
like the tide.
Blackball Primary School:
Dear Mrs Scobie,
We have a Rose Blatt whom I would hand over with
pleasure. She has five siblings who are all equally troublesome.
Come, please, and collect the whole Blatt tribe!
Hokitika Primary School:
Dear Mrs Scobie,
Rose of Tralee is surely a pseudonym. Perhaps she is
travelling under another name? Another song perhaps? In
other words, madam, you are searching blind, for a needle
in a haystack. I cannot assist.
‘The Paladium’
Gibsons Quay
Hokitika
Dear Bella,
Well, what a turn-up! The girls and I all thought you
was long gone to Australia or worse, the dogs more like,
ha ha! And here you are up the coast and a respectable
woman, to boot. Good on you, Bella, we all wish you the
best, though Denniston sounds like a right old dump. I’ve
had diggers down here has been mining on Denniston,
couldn’t stand more than a day of the foul weather they
said. Well anyway, a good man is worth a storm or two I
dare say!
Florrie says to tell you she has lost ten pounds weight
and can now fit the beaded dress you left her, and Liz
wants you to know that her little Annie you were so fond
of is now dancing with us! How times fly. My ankles are
not what they were, sad to say, don’t talk about weight
with me! So I am mainly on the business side these days
and doing nicely, thank you, though I suppose we must
accept that the good old days are well and truly gone. Such
is life!
Now. Your Rose. We have kept a sharp eye out with
no success until yesterday when Florrie comes in with a
story of a pretty little girl, fits your description, singing
down on Gibsons Quay. No mother in sight, says Flo, but
this tot was sharp enough herself at taking around the hat
after. Then slipped away into the crowd, like a silverfish
in a box of handkerchiefs, before Flo could get to her.
Anyway I had a bit of business down that way today,
don’t ask what sort, ha ha! So I keep a weather eye open
and there she is, voice like an angel, singing ‘Mountains of
Home’, just like you did, Bell. I knew right away she was
your one.
Well, I nosed around a bit without putting the wind
up child or mother. I have my connections in all sections
of society, as you well know, my dear! Any road, they are
new in town, living rough down by the wharves among
the shanties. Some giant of a feller the mother’s living with
is working the boats and she likewise but in cabins rather
than holds if you get my drift. Slag end of the market.
Florrie says the feller looks the spit of Big Snow, remember
that one was keen on you back in the old days and died
off Gibsons Quay? The child runs wild so they say, no
schooling, and very wary of human company. No one can
get near to her.
Well, Bella, Mrs C. Rasmussen I should say, that’s the
long and short of it. I advise against making contact with
the child, it will only end in grief, but if you must, send
me a letter and I’ll try to put it in her hand, or the
mother’s, though be quick about it, my guess is they are
drifters. At any rate the authorities won’t let them stay
long, we are becoming a respectable town now, so they say,
though in my experience the respectable ones like a bit of
spice just as much as the drifters and diggers. And can pay
better, to boot!
All the best, my dear. I hope you have not become so
respectable that you have forgotten how to sing and ‘show
yer ankle’. You were always top of the bill!
All the girls send hugs and kisses.
Your friend ever,
Ida
The Log House
The Camp,
Denniston
Dear Ida,
How I long to write a good gossipy letter, but this is
in haste to catch the coal-train out. Ida, Ida, please run
and put the enclosed note into the hand of the man on the
wharf you say looks like Big Snow. Oh, if only I could get
down from here I would do it myself. Ida, if you love me
at all, pick up your skirts and run with my note this very
minute. I will explain later.
Thank you, my dear.
In haste,
Bella Rasmussen [Mrs]
Bella’s note:
My dear Conrad,
You are a good man at heart, I know it, but that
wicked, guileful woman has trapped you. Leave her and
bring Rose back, I beg you. It is the right thing. We will
care for her together. Con, Con, think of the child, think
of me, your wife, and come back. We can mend what has
been broken. My harsh and bitter words were spoken out
of a jealousy which is now spent. Come back.
Your loving wife,
Bella Rasmussen
‘The Palladium’
Gibsons Quay
Hokitika
Dear Bella,
Oh, what a mess, I knew grief would come of it —
your letter has come too late.
They are gone, Bella, vanished, just like I said they
would. Mr Cream, you remember him, Bella, one of
yours, says he thinks the feller got a job on the S.S.
Star of
the South,
bound for Dunedin, then Australia. No sign
of mother or your Rose, they could be anywhere. I have
sent word to Lizzie, she is in Dunedin now, in case they
are headed that way, but it is a long shot.
You cannot change what is meant, Bella. I see it in
my girls often. They get daft and sentimental over every
child comes their way, as if they were pets to be taken in
and fed. Best try to forget, is my advice, and count your
present blessings.
Your friend,
Ida
P.S. I return your note. Was that really Big Snow
then, alive after all? You are a dark horse, Bella!