Black Diamonds (12 page)

 

FRANCINE

No bridesmaids, no carriage, not even a special wedding dress, and my mother-in-law gave me away; but I have
this.
There is no word for this. I'm not even going to try. This is not something for thoughts but for our skin, as much of my skin as physically possible touching his. I am a limpet on a rock, and I'll have to be prised off. Daniel doesn't mind; in fact he's fallen into a doze. I should get up, though, and stable poor Hayseed, give him a feed of the grains from the sack that McNally made up for him before he left, then bring in something for us to eat for dinner. Daniel has to be up at five in the morning; well, he doesn't have to, but he's going to; and Mrs Ackerman, or Sarah now, has given me a very short course in the daily routine, and some of her recipes, and her paper patterns for Daniel's underwear.
Oh?
But she's an angel of rescue; she told me she'd been in a similar position once herself, not knowing what to do and how; again I wanted to ask her about herself, but she makes it so plain when she's said all she wants to say, I daren't ask. Too grateful to push my luck anyway. When I crumpled into the mirror this morning, she held my shoulders and said, ‘Now, now, stop that. I'm sure your father would want you to be your prettiest today,' and there was something firm and tender and all-knowing about the way she said it that stoppered up the flow; something in the way she said, ‘Not that Daniel would notice of course,' that made me giggle; more so, and with a jolt, when she added: ‘Blind as a boot, he is. And such a kind, sweet girl you are to take him off my hands.'

She hasn't said anything more direct than that, but I don't think she approves of him going back to work. Why on earth would she? Neither do I, but perhaps there is something in Daniel's rationale, at least where I'm concerned: to really understand something, you should experience at least a bit of it, otherwise you're just barking into the wind. I'm sure Father would endorse this
knowing what it means
exercise, and it's only for a little while. Still, I don't want him to go, and it's not just because I am a limpet. My stomach turns over every time I think of him going into that hole in the hill. But perhaps Father would say that's worth my knowing too. And besides, when I think of Drummond's contempt, I want him to have to deal with Daniel at the mine, I want him to see what it means too; even if he is as dense as Father said, then at least I'll feel we made some attempt at making a point, making sense of Father's last wishes and all that. Daniel's told me the other miners think it's hilarious too. And besides, this is what Daniel has decided to do; I can't stop him, short of having him sacked. And besides, besides, lightning doesn't strike twice, does it; not in so short a time. But it has, hasn't it: we've lost our fathers within three months of each other. I limpet-cling a little tighter; surely, lightning doesn't strike thrice, then? He doesn't wake. Tell myself there's more chance of him being attacked and eaten by a mob of savage wallabies out here in the backblocks.

And so, fully rationalised, I slip quietly out of the bed, don my nightdress and garden boots to risk the wallabies myself as I tend to my faithful but by now impatient pony — very quickly. It's so cold! Then I run back inside and set up a tray of the wonderful food that Sarah has made, and wake him: my husband, with my hand on his chest, my lips on his cheek. He only eats a little and we're back to it again. Oh my goodness.

‘How do you know when it's time to get up?' I ask him, bleary in the dark as he's creaking around on the draughty floorboards hunting for his work clothes, which Sarah hung over the chair by the wardrobe yesterday morning.

‘You didn't hear the whistle?' he says.

‘No.' Gaping yawn. Good God, this hour of the day should be banned. And if I thought it was cold yesterday …

‘I suppose it's quieter round here, and I half listen for it in my sleep. I'd probably hear it in the grave,' he says, pulling on trousers.

Not funny, I glare into the blackness.

‘Don't get up, not today,' he says. ‘I've eaten what was there.' He lights my little oil lamp and kneels by the bed to kiss me. ‘I've put the stove on, be a bit warmer in a minute, in the kitchen at least.' Laughing at me. Another kiss. ‘I'll have to take the trap in too, pick up my bike at Evan's. You don't need anything in town, do you?'

‘No.' I hug him: stay here, we've already made enough of a point.

‘Be back around five,' he says, extricating himself, stuffing cap in back pocket.

‘Five? I thought Lithgow was a strictly eight-hours town.'

‘It is.' Just one more kiss and big black boots stomp out into the world.

So I do lie in, languishing in very, very last grasp of former reality, and listen to the trap wheels fade back into silence, while I try to fathom how eight hours becomes twelve, and fail; even with travel time, from the furthest reaches, it seems impossible. I stare at a mouldy patch in the far corner of the ceiling, stricken with the even more impossible contemplation of my aloneness. As much as I enjoy my own company, I wonder how I'll go at this much aloneness, this kind of aloneness. Mould goes drippy with tears as I wonder if Father is with Josie now; I wonder if they are watching me. I don't think I believe in heaven, but I hope he's with her, I dearly hope he is, sparkling at her. I wonder what they think of me lolling lugubrious in bed, if his Josie's saying to him, ‘Good gracious, look at the girl you raised, Frank.' Whimper now: Father's voice is so fresh in me, but what did Josie sound like? How would she have said
Frank?
What did I call her? Mother? It doesn't sound right. Neither does the sound of me whimpering as if I'm the only orphan in the world.

Get up, Francy.

You've plenty to do today. Plenty to be too busy with along the lines of general drudgery and culinary experimentation. While husband of thirty seconds has gone down that wretched, hideous, stinking, putrid coal mine when there's absolutely naught that says he must. So get up, Francy, and just get on with it. Isn't this what Father wanted too? And you
agreed
to this
temporary
arrangement with steely boned resolve, so you will now do a proper job of it. Learn essential skills and build character. Be a good Socialist. Be a good Wife. Without a honeymoon, without a lazy breakfast over which we should be gazing into each other's eyes over the unopened newspaper that contains a paragraph on our swish reception and gift list, without even a door on the toot out the back. Without rolling congratulations everywhere I turn; only proof that there must have been a hundred girls in love with him if some of the sly glares I received in town on Monday were anything to go by: look at her — her father's only dead thirty seconds and now she's wedding Our Lad. Who does she think she is? Wife without household help is who I am today, and as much as
help
in principle does seem unnecessary, this morning its absence is … daunting.

Oh, enough
whining.

I whip back the covers and I'm up and out, to see the small blood splotch on the sheet. Of course. Though I can attest now that there was a great deal that Sister Terrence did not tell motherless me about Marriage, she did manage to impart in a steady whisper that such an occurrence of Stain on the Wedding Night is a commonly Good Thing and not usually cause for alarm. I'm not alarmed, no, it's just another thing I have to keep me busy today: washing.

Sarah has advised a foolproof recipe to start with, a flavoursome stovetop one-pot thingumy that's so quick and easy you just throw everything in and stir occasionally. She even provided most of the ingredients for me. But I'm muddled after a day of sweeping and cobweb snatching and window washing and wrestling sheets through the wringer and cursing whoever decided they needed to be pressed, and having to make the fire in the stove again because I let it go out — twice. This valiant worker's fist is pleased with all the effort, but limp. And I think I've left my brain inside the stove. Flavoursome is not quite the word for my thingumy. It's bitter and tastes vaguely of a dash of borax. I don't know how to save it, or if it can even be saved at all, and Sarah's too far away to ask right now. Daniel will be home any minute. I check the
jacket
potatoes in the oven part, remembering that Sarah said to prick them with a fork before putting them in, and hope it's not too late to do it now. None of them have exploded yet, so I chase them round with the fork and burn the back of my hand on the top of the oven, and yell out my worst word: ‘Arse!' just as I hear the trap pull inside the gate. I run my hand under the tap and fan my face and wait for him, wondering what else we might have with the potatoes. Bread and honey? Some leftover cinnamon cake?

Daniel looks like thunder when he finally walks round to the back door, and I'm sure it's not just because he's covered in coal. Perhaps he smelled dinner while he was stabling Hayseed. My God: I remember I haven't put the hot water on! Mad scramble with big heavy pot and tap, and abject apology for idiocy. He laughs as he kicks off his boots on the back verandah and says, ‘Don't worry about it,' grabs the tub from against the wall, fills it and starts stripping off right here by the stove.

It's not hard to smile as I watch him wash, with relief and delight in watching him; he should never be allowed to be clothed; and of course he's not going to be fussed on my first day on the job. He flicks the wet flannel at me in fun to make that clear.

‘You looked so fierce just now,' I say, ‘I thought you were angry.'

‘No.' Splash, splash, the water turns grey, but there is something the matter in the surly way he's scraping his arms clean; he just doesn't want to say it. ‘I'm knackered is all. And starving. What's for tea?' He looks up and grins and that does me in. Tears sting, but I'm not going to cry. Too late, he's seen. ‘What's wrong?'

Blather: ‘I'm tired too, and I've mucked up dinner, and I burned my hand — see?'

He really belts out a laugh then, but pretends to inspect my hand seriously. It's such a tiny mark, not even a blister. He kisses it and says: ‘You'll live. And whatever you've cooked, don't worry I'll eat it, as long as it's food. It can't be that bad.'

Oh but it is. I hold my breath as he stands, wraps the towel around his waist and tastes a mouthful of my bubbling disaster.

‘Nothing wrong with that, it's just like Mum's, nearly,' he says: you're a lunatic.

‘Really?' He's just being lovely about it. ‘It seems a bit bitter to me,' I fish but don't mention the borax, just in case I accidentally did put some in.

‘Maybe you put in too much tarragon,' he says, around another mouthful. ‘Add some cream to smooth it out — that's what Mum does. Stop worrying. It's good.'

Must be. I blob in a dash of cream and there's nothing left in the end. I've never seen someone eat so much; we'll need the profits from the mine just to feed him, I'll have to cultivate potatoes. It doesn't hurt to eat a bit of borax, does it, I tell myself. Or maybe I'm simply not used to tarragon, whatever that is — the little jar of dried dust-coloured leafy stuff Sarah gave me along with the rest. But there's still something wrong here: moody, broody hand on fist as he looks at me above the carnage. What do I ask him?
How was the coal today, dear?
Hmn. Maybe it's not so hilarious being married to The Boss after all, and he's got a ribbing now it's done. Or maybe Drummond has done something insulting already. Or maybe he really is just tired. As if he wouldn't be. I'd really rather contemplate the circumference of his forearm, the shape of the bone there at the wrist, and ignore the fresh graze that runs across the top of his knuckles.

‘Your father was right,' he says, sardonic. ‘Australia's declared war on Germany too.'

War? That's right, there's a war on. In Europe. Germany's invaded Belgium or something. I didn't get a paper today, obviously; barely glanced at yesterday's
Mercury
, naturally.

I say: ‘Yes. Of course. Well, we would, wouldn't we.'

 

DANIEL

‘Doesn't matter that it was inevitable,' I tell her; everyone knows that; doesn't make me any less shitted about it. It's the point-proving matter of arse-end Australia trying to be large as it feels. ‘We're Mother England's best little kid, aren't we. But it's, I don't know, embarrassing.'

‘Because you're German?' she says, and she's woken herself up out of her dippy-headed fuss over tea to join me at last.

‘No. And I'm not. It's because this shouldn't be anything to do with us; we shouldn't be
tagging
along. We're supposed to be an independent country, but tagging along is a forgone conclusion. Worse, when I came out today, Robby was in a lather for empire about it, and so were a dozen others, like Britannia cares what they think.'

‘Father's been known for a poor punt — it probably won't amount to much,' she says, unconvincingly. I haven't even thought about it properly yet, been otherwise occupied over the last little while, but it's taken five seconds to work out that this isn't going to be any old stoush over some scrap of land that's not happy with colonisation, like that one in Africa when I was a little kid. This is a war
between
empires: Britain, France and Russia are going to crush Prussia and Austria, out of existence according to Robby, like that's something to yahoo about. All I know is that sounds like a lot of empires. Like she's picked up my thought, Francine adds: ‘Or maybe they'll all decide it's far too unwieldy to manage and call it off.'

She's a lark … if only everyone thought like her.

‘They're already going for it,' I tell her. ‘Some idiots started firing a cannon at a German freighter out of Melbourne the second they called it on yesterday and the ship's been impounded. If you can believe that, then you can believe this is fairly serious. It's some big skite that we've fired the first British shot of the war, and Cook's already promised to send Mother twenty thousand troops.'

‘Twenty
thousand?
'

‘Yep. While the
Mercury
's saying we should all keep calm and prepare to be invaded shortly. Make sense of that, if they're going to send away defences that we don't have now.' Unless they'll look to compulsory school cadets, which I missed out on by a couple of years — they haven't started shaving yet. ‘So where do you think Cook'll get his twenty thousand?'

Not hard to work out either. He'll get them from blokes like Robby. He's talking of joining up already. Evan says it's all a load of imperialist rubbish that we should keep well out of. Too right. But tell Robby that; I'm sure it's crossed his mind that the army might give him something better than the mine, too; soldier's pay might not be a fortune, but it's regular and all expenses paid. I'm not sure about the conditions, though. Whatever, there'll be no solidarity on this issue.

‘Ah.' She can see why I'm so dark about it now. I'm sure Connolly was right that there'll be money made out of all this, but it's the working class that'll pay, with the ultimate if all the carry-on is anything to go by. She says: ‘But maybe the election will change things? Cook can't hold on, all the papers have been saying so for months, couldn't run a raffle at a church fete, let alone a government. Good heavens …' She stops to think some more: ‘How could he make such an enormous promise knowing he's on the way out? That's … that's … Well, Mr Fisher will be returned and there'll be a Labor Government again soon. Perhaps that will calm things down.'

‘That's not going to make a blind bit of difference, France,' I say, but you've got to wonder how many girls out there talk like she does. ‘The Labor Party's not going to turn around and tell Mother they've changed their mind and rediscovered socialism. Or worked out what an independent country is. Fisher's already been careful to say that if the worst came to the worst then we'd be in it. And here we are. There won't be a vote on the war.' I'm parroting the
The Worker
with this, but it's true. Not that France and I could do anything about it: neither of us are old enough to vote. And what am I doing letting this rubbish into our house? We've only been married a day — there are more important issues we should be attending to.

But France is serious now. ‘If it does really blow up, where will that leave you?'

I know what she's referring to: ‘I'm not German. I was born at Mount Kembla.' I say that sharper than I mean to, but I have a flash of memory, of Kembla, after it blew, and the funerals, endless. Wollongong, going in to buy my first pair of boots, catch the train. I must have been about seven or so. That's where the other Daniel is buried too. And Dad is buried here, under the ridge below the paddock. ‘I'm more Australian than the jokers that have put us up to this.'

But I haven't answered her question, because it doesn't have an answer, yet.

‘Anyway,' I say to get a smile, ‘I'm just German enough to be able to give the Kaiser directions straight to parliament if they do invade.'

That does the trick. ‘You never told me you speak German,' she says to me, like it's a scandal.

‘I don't. Not really. Just bits and pieces.'

‘Say something to me in German,' she says, and I could grab her right now the way she's looking at me. She's got a little streak of soot on her forehead and she's still wearing her filthy apron; no idea and she's perfect.

‘I'll do better than that,' I say, getting up. She follows me out to the front room, where her piano is, and I flip the lid. I can't see the stool anywhere for the packing cases so I stand and sing her ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star', which in Deutsch is too hilarious to ever forget:

Funkel, funkel kleiner Stern,

Was du bist, das wüßt ich gern.

Stehst hoch über aller Welt,

Ein Diamant am Himmelszelt.

Funkel, funkel kleiner Stern,

Was du bist, das wufit ich gern.

Those bells of hers bounce round the room at that and we're the only two people on earth again as I kiss her and hold her to me.

But it's then I remember the present I made her weeks ago; I picked it up from Mum's at sparrow's this morning when I was heading in, seems like a hundred years ago. It's still sitting in the bottom of the trap wrapped in an old tea towel; can't believe I just left it there.

‘Wait here,' I tell her, pulling away, ‘and close your eyes.'

I've gone out and grabbed it and I go to unwrap the tea towel on my way back in, then think, no, she'll like it better just as it is.

‘You can open them now.'

She is priceless the way she looks at it, frowning then excited like a kid. She makes that sound like a kitten as she unwraps it and sees what it is: it's her. Just her face, about to blink, framed by her hair, which was dead easy since it's so straight. Even I was impressed when I finished it; she's let out another little squeak as she turns it around in her hands. She sets it down on top of the piano, then she folds around me and the shape of her fits against me everywhere.

All through the day I'm thinking about her so much I'm dangerous. We should have gone away somewhere, or at least stayed at home for a few days. Any kind of honeymoon or celebration didn't seem appropriate a week ago, but today … I reckon they should give you a month off after a wedding to give you time to get over it. Paid leave, if such a thing existed, for your contribution to the country's general state of happiness.

‘Danny!' Evan yells at me. I've knocked my belt sideways getting up from packing under the cut and I'm spilling shot all down the front of myself without noticing, about to blow apart my happiness. ‘You're having a good time, then,' he says as I'm cleaning myself up. Like you wouldn't believe, though he looks like he knows very well.

Later on, as we're walking back up the drift at the end of shift, he says: ‘Thought about what you're going to do? You've had your laugh now, and you can't stay down here indefinitely. You're not union any more, strictly speaking.'

Here: I let the way he says that word hang about in my head for a bit; he says it
yur.

‘Daniel?' he says, laughing at me like he knows what I'm thinking about.

‘I heard you,' I say.

‘It would be good if you were managing the place, don't you think?' He's out with it.

I've thought about it, obviously. But there are two things against it. First, the place already has a manager in Stevens, useless arse that he is; for all his School of Mines and Industries Certificate on the wall, he's more paymaster than manager, and Drummond's not going to want to replace him with me for any reason. Second, I'm not sure I want the responsibility; a manager
should
be responsible for answering concerns from the pit, and making decisions about safety and such. Despite the seniority of the work I already do, I'm still the youngest at the face; I'm younger than most of the wheelers; it doesn't seem right.

Evan says: ‘You wouldn't be on your own, boyo; we'd work in together. You'd only be in a position to do what your dad always did anyway on fixing and such, except officially, and without breaking your own back; you might even teach the Premier something about it while you're there.' Gives me a nudge; the Premier is Holman who for us is not the poncy fat-headed State Labor leader, but the manager's deputy, and for all that he's a nice bloke and spends all day underground, no one's quite sure what it is he does apart from headcounts; gives me a laugh as he says: ‘It makes sense, don't you think?'

It does, but: ‘Drummond's not likely to agree.' And I'm not likely to push the issue. I don't know how to deal with him; never had to, don't want to. Evan's aware of that.

‘We'll agitate for Stevens to be sacked — and there's your vacancy.' Just like that. ‘Well, he's not exactly competent, is he. He can't think without Drummond's say-so. Wouldn't listen to me a few weeks back with the ventilation, told me to have the men keep on till he came down to check the air himself — meaning that the boss wasn't about so he could ask him. I wasn't going to wait for a few more to give way to the lack of it while he was dithering, was I, so I had to ignore him and bring everyone up. What's the point in him? He's got no idea. I don't have to tell you that.'

‘But —'

‘And
we'll
demand that you replace him. Everyone'll be onside for it. And you're entitled to it, in all ways of looking at it. So?'

‘I'll think about it,' I say; I've got to, properly.

‘You're a puzzle, Danny,' he says. ‘You get married after five minutes, but if you were any slower on this I'd say you were backward.'

He shakes his head, but I'm not committing yet. France, once I saw her properly, seemed like she'd always been there waiting for me to catch on, but this is a big shift in thinking. I always expected to get married; I never expected I'd manage a mine; and neither of them at nineteen. Never expected I'd have money, either, and so far I haven't felt the effect of that, but I know I will soon. It is time to be reasonable about it.

More than time, it seems, when we come into the lamp room and Stevens is there waiting. He says, in front of the others, ‘Something for your wife from Mr Drummond, Ackerman,' hands me an envelope and walks back towards the office.

That's it; decision's made. I pull him back by his runty shoulder and tell him: ‘Mr Ackerman, thank you.'

He tries for an eyeball but he knows; I crack with laughing, at him, and so does everyone in the room. I'd very much like to take him round the paddock and belt him for extra clarity, but he's too small. And I've had my fun.

It's an offer to buy out her share of the mine. France throws it on the fire. She couldn't sell even if she wanted to; not till she's twenty-one, but she's not going to tell Drummond that. Leave him to wonder. See why I love her?

She says of my decision: ‘So that'll mean you don't go down that hideous — into the pit?'

‘Not that often. No.' Not all day every day.

She's so happy she's almost dancing around the tub and trying not to. And then we're all over each other again.
Dinner
does get ruined this time, but it's my fault she left it burning on the stove.