Heart of Coal (16 page)

IN THE HANRATTY stables Will Scobie is helping Nolly Hanratty hitch horse to cart. It is a fine high day, cool breeze in a clear blue sky. Nolly whistles as he tightens the straps. Will holds the horses’ heads. They stamp and paw, eager to be out and about. As Will, cursing, pulls them this way and that, Nolly catches sight of his face.

‘Hey there, Winks, you ran into a decent-sized door, I’d say. What a beauty!’

Will’s usual cheerful grin disappears. ‘Ran into a feckin’ banshee, more like.’

‘What do you mean, banshee?’ Nelson Hanratty is a literal lad. He likes his explanations clear.

‘A lady whose feckin’ heart is black as my eye here. And look here, too.’ Will pulls back his sleeve to display livid bruises laced with what look like claw marks.

‘Blimmin’ heck, Winks, was it Dusty’s dog got you?’

‘It was not. My own cousin’s feckin’ wife donged me one. Feckin’ Rose feckin’ Scobie.’

Will glares at Diablo as if he were to blame.

‘She never did!’

‘She did and all. They think she’s all the bees’ knees up at the Face — Rose this, Rose that. I tell you, Nolly, straight in your face — the woman’s mad as a horse-fly. Madder. Twisted as a feckin’ rope. Just don’t get on the wrong side of her, I’m feckin’ warning you.’

Nolly frowns. ‘She clocked you?’

‘And the rest. She tries to grab me; I duck away. She comes around the bed’ (here Will acts the scene, dancing around the cart, which Nolly has mounted) ‘and rakes at my arm with her feckin’ claws. Gets me pinned.’ The stablehand jams himself against the cartwheel, wriggling as if held there. ‘Well, look at me, Nolly. She has a good foot of height on me and a stone or two weight as well, never mind the baby inside who is helping his wild mum.’

‘You’re making it up. What was it all in aid of?’

‘Nothing. I’d swear in court on my mother’s Bible. Thin air. Some crazy idea in the dark hollow she calls a mind that I’m stealing stuff from her mother. Something like that — her hissing rage made no sense. Then she hauls back and clocks me hard, like a man, plumb in the spectacular.’

‘The what?’

‘Jesus, Nolly, what does it look like?’

‘And did you?’

‘Did I feckin’ what?’

‘Steal stuff from Mrs C?’

‘Oh yes, the crown jewels, the silver tea-set, the emerald necklace; use your knocker, Nolly. I like the old lady.’

‘What about Mrs C, then? Was she there?’

‘Not her. But she heard the racket and called from the other room.’ Little Will rolls his one good eye up at Nolly. ‘This was the weirdest bit of it all. As soon as Mrs C called out, that wild Rose turned all to sugar, as if some magician had flipped a switch from go to whoa. “Don’t worry, Mama,” she calls out like a feckin’ nightingale and off she runs to her step-ma without one backward glance. Me knocked to the floor and bleeding where a tooth went through my lip. Don’t ask me what story Rose-the-Crow spun. I was out the back door and up here to my nice sensible horses.’

Nolly’s eyes are round at the drama of it all, which Will has not stinted in the telling.

‘She’s true mad, do you think?’

‘I do. You’ll not see me back at the log house, Mrs C or no.’

‘Do you think she drove our Michael to it, then?’

Will considers, then shakes his head at the awe of it. ‘She feckin’ might have, at that. Steer away from her, Nolly.’

Nolly folds his long frame to bend down and shake his little friend’s hand. ‘I will at that. Thank you,’ he says solemnly. ‘You steer away too.’

Hup hup, off he clops out of the yard, shaken by such dangers about in the world. In fact he is steering right towards a very different encounter with Rose.

UP at Burnett’s Face, Rose’s baby is coming early. One minute she is laughing at a story little Sonny Jack has written on his slate, the next she is clutching at her skirts and rushing into the next room.

‘Janet, Janet!’ she hisses, loud enough for the whole class to hear. ‘The waters have broken! What shall we do?’

All the children run to the window, expecting a wall of water to come roaring down the valley.

‘I can’t swim!’ wails the youngest Brody.

‘Nor can I!’

‘Me neither!’

‘Will we all drown?’

Panic is rising all around the room, especially when they see their two strong teachers in such consternation. Billy Owens climbs onto his desk. ‘Me da can’t swim, nor me mam, nor any a one of us!’ he shouts. This precipitates a general scramble for the high spots in the room. Dai Owens manages the top of the cupboard.

‘Dear oh dear!’ laughs Janet Scobie. ‘We won’t be forgetting this day in a hurry!’ Capable as usual, she seats Rose where her wet skirts won’t show and runs to the nearest house to ask Mrs Owens (who may not be able to swim, but could possibly hold back a wall of water with the power of her voice) to mind the children for the rest of the morning. This stout lady comes puffing into the schoolroom in time to hear Rose shouting at the unruly mob.

‘Children!’ booms Mrs Owens. Even the clippies across the valley look up from their work at the sound. ‘Children, listen to your teacher!’

On top of desks and cupboards the children freeze. Mrs Owens is a legend.

‘Children,’ says Rose, laughing, ‘the broken waters are not outside, but here in my body. My baby is on its way out.’

‘Madam!’ Mrs Owens is scandalised. ‘Not in front of the little ones, please!’

Panic subsides. The birth of babies is commonplace; in these crowded houses it is difficult to avoid some experience of birthing.

‘Can we watch?’ asks Sally Owens hopefully. She has heard all there is to hear about the business but never been allowed to see.

‘Sally Owens!’ cries her mother. ‘You will wash out your mouth if I hear one more word! Dai, get down this minute!’ In her arms are
rags and scrubbing brushes. She may not be much use on history and geography, but her house is the cleanest at the Face. ‘We are going to scrub the schoolroom top to bottom and then it may be fit, in due time, to receive a visit from a wee one, God willing. On second thoughts, Dai, stay up there and I will toss you a wet rag!’

No one dares groan. Mrs Owens’s slap is far-reaching and indiscriminate. The classroom is silent as Janet carefully leads Rose out into the sunshine.

JANET cannot believe the ease and speed of the birth. For an hour Rose paces the little bedroom, grunting when the contractions come, but relentlessly walking, walking. From time to time she squats to relieve the cramp.

‘For heaven’s sake, love, get up on the feckin’ bed!’ says Janet, who has lain down properly for all of her births, but Rose is oblivious to anything but the process of her own body. When Brennan arrives, puffing, and Janet wants to keep him and his muddy boots out, Rose calls him in.

‘Bren, Bren, come in, come in quick! He’s on his way, I can feel him pushing his way out!’

Bren is caught between what is proper and what he desires. He stands at the door, humming with indecision.

‘Bren!’

Janet grins at him. ‘At least take off those feckin’ boots. Come in for a minute, then.’

Inside the room Rose halts her pacing. She seizes Brennan by the shoulders, lowers her head and growls. There’s no other word for it. Brennan grips her hard as she bears down. He looks in alarm at Janet.

‘Not to worry, our Bren, she seems to know what she’s up to.’

When the spasm passes, Rose smiles up at him. Her face is
alight — not with pain, but excitement. Sweat runs down her face and her blue eyes blaze. She kisses him hard on the lips.

‘Oh, Bren, this is wonderful!’

‘You’re not in pain?’

‘Pain, yes! Ah!
Ah
!’ She pants hard. ‘Ohhh! I love it, Bren!’

Again her fingers dig into his arms as she rides through the spasm. As it subsides she kisses him again, hard, long and with such passion! Never has Rose shown anything remotely like this towards him. She bites his neck like a wild animal. Brennan is desperately, helplessly aroused, and doesn’t know how to hide it. He is almost as mad as she is, knowing he mustn’t, yet needing to kiss back, to drive into her.

Janet turns away. This is the weirdest birthing she’s ever witnessed. Whatever will Rose do next?

At the very moment when Brennan feels he cannot hold back, Rose cries out and flings herself on the bed. ‘Yes, yes! He’s coming!’

She spreads her legs wide. This is too much for Janet. ‘Out, out!’ she shouts at Brennan. ‘Out this minute!’ He goes. ‘And shut the door!’

The first sight of Rose’s dilated crack is shocking to Janet. The opening is laced and criss-crossed with old scars, ugly and white, some of them already splitting. Blood spills onto the towels. But Rose seems not to feel the pain. Or does she enjoy it? She thrashes on the bed, pushes with great raking cries.

‘Rose! Rose love, in God’s name slow down!’

Rose seems to hear nothing.

Janet hauls back her hand and slaps Rose hard on the face. ‘Rose! You will injure yourself. Breathe, breathe, don’t push till I see!’

Rose takes a deep breath, whether from the words or the shock of the slap, and Janet has time to feel for the head. There it is,
halfway out already, surrounded by a crown of bleeding scar tissue.

‘Well now, my sweetheart,’ says Janet, ‘push then, but long and gentle or you may split in two.’

And out he comes, slick and quick — a boy, as Rose had predicted.

THREE hours later Rose is sitting up in her bed, the healthy little boy, black-haired like his father, swaddled and wide awake in the cradle by her side. Brennan stands the other side, holding her hand. From time to time a tear escapes down his cheek. Rose has asked that the children be allowed to come, and in they file, under pain of a hiding from Mrs Owens if they breathe a word, cough or sneeze. You would think Rose had just woken up from a good night’s sleep. Her face is flushed, her hair all tumbled but her eyes are bright.

‘This is the best day of my life, Bren,’ she says, and then turns to the wide-eyed children.

‘Did the stork come, Mrs Scobie?’ asks little Sonny Jack, his eyes wide.

‘Silly,’ says his friend Amy. ‘It’s not the stork brings them, but the birds.’ She frowns, suddenly unsure. ‘Or the bees.’

Rose laughs. ‘Well, you are both of you wrong. See now,’ she says, ‘what my own body has turned out. Out he came from between my legs!’

Mrs Owens is for once silenced by such scandalous talk. Rose is oblivious.

‘And this fine little boy,’ she says, ‘will be coming to school next week so you can get to know him.’

Brennan has other ideas about that.

When the children have gone, Rose swings her feet to the floor. Janet swoops forward to raise them back onto the bed.

‘No,’ says Rose, ‘we must get the little fellow down to
Denniston to meet his grandmother.’

Brennan frowns. ‘All in good time, my love. Burnett’s Face will have to do for the moment.’

‘I promised.’

‘Bella would not want you arriving with a dead baby and yourself not much better.’

Rose is not listening. ‘She cannot come here so I will have to go there.’

Janet laughs. ‘Rose, even you would not be so mad. You are still bleeding.’

Rose shakes her head impatiently. ‘Find a cart, then. I will keep my feet up and a blanket around the little boy. Or else I will walk.’

Brennan speaks heavily. ‘Rose, I forbid it. We will go in a week, if all is well. And we will send Bella the news at once.’

Rose’s cheeks flame. ‘Forbid, is it? That is not a word we use, Brennan. No one will bring the news to Bella but me. And today!’ Again she goes to rise, and again Janet pushes her back.

‘Brennan,’ says Janet, ‘a word.’ And jerks her head to the door. Outside she speaks in a low voice.

‘You know what she is feckin’ like when her mind is made up.’

‘There is no way —’

‘She’s as healthy as an ox, and had a short labour.’

‘No.’

‘She could do more injury to herself fighting you up here.’

‘The bleeding?’

Janet wonders if he knows about the scars. ‘There are many splits, but all small. The blood she has lost is not a deep concern.’

Brennan frowns. ‘But my son — he should surely stay warm?’

‘Surely he should. Brennan, I would not advise it for another woman, but Rose …’

Brennan shakes his head. He hums a little tune. Janet speaks
quietly. ‘Brennan, you know her better than all of us. She is not like any other woman. She will perhaps recover best if she has seen Bella.’

Brennan lowers his head. Like a stubborn ox, thinks Janet. ‘Nolly’s cart is at the yard,’ she says. ‘It is sprung, the day is fine, and we have blankets …’

And so Nolly, who has sworn to keep clear of the evil Rose, finds himself driving the very lady, who smiles and thanks him and appears extremely unlike a banshee. Nolly grins back, proud as punch to be driving the tiny newborn baby, even though the anxious father curses every stone the wheels encounter, and demands a pace that would shame a snail.

At the log house Brennan, his spirits up again now that the journey is safely negotiated, turns to Nolly. ‘Open the door for us,’ he says, ‘but quietly. This is to be a surprise. Then stay. I will need your help.’

Rose, a little pale but smiling, holds the baby with one arm and clings to her husband with the other as he lifts wife, baby and blankets, and, holding them like a precious gift, walks onto the veranda and in through the door.

Bella, half dozing on her settee, cries out, at first in fear to see Rose carried so, and then in joy at the sight of the baby. Brennan walks through to the bedroom, lays his bundle on the bed and then, with Nolly’s help, pushes bed, mother and child until they are alongside the old lady. Rose, ready now to rest, leans over and lays the child in Bella’s lap.

‘Your grandchild,’ she says with a tired smile, ‘as ordered.’

Nolly thinks Rose looks so beautiful: pale, but with a kind of triumph shining out of her like a halo. Could Will Scobie have made all the other stuff up?

Bella offers her finger. The baby, wide-eyed, grasps it tight. ‘Oh, the sweetheart!’ she breathes. ‘The little love.’ Suddenly she looks up
at Brennan. ‘When was he born?’