Black Diamonds (38 page)

Ha! If I do have magical powers, I doubt they extend that far. He laughs at my expression, full throated.

When Daniel joins us we talk about the Wattle and what on earth lawyers do that can make a straightforward transaction take so long. I'm sure Mr Duncan's lawyers have requested the last amendment to the loan document just to squeeze another bill from their bottomless pit of revenue: it's taken them two weeks to discover that my middle name was missing from the front page, and that
thereby
, the entire thing has had to go back and forth again for
Veronica.
Messrs Stanley and Bragg have done their bit so promptly, even sending a young associate all the way out here, twice, but then, they're angels, aren't they. Daniel's impatient to get it all over with and to get back to
work.
He won't go to the mine or talk to Evan about it until he's got the offer in his hand; then he'll approach the miners, then he'll approach Drummond. And, fingers crossed, we'll then be swimming in debt. We will be anyway: if the miners reject the idea, we're going ahead with the offer to Drummond, and if he refuses, Daniel will bully him until he capitulates into giving us the entire debt, up to our ears; and with our own savings at virtually nil, the slightest downturn in the price of coal could then send us all to the poorhouse, and generous as Mr Edward Duncan is, I'm not sure how pleased he'll be if we are bankrupt.

Doctor Adinov does not appear overly interested; he seems to be more interested in Daniel's forearm, exposed by neatly rolled sleeve and at present engaged in raising teacup. He says: ‘You look fit enough to tear this Drummond's head off. Do you mind if I have a look at that arm?'

‘What for?' Daniel is the rudest man that ever lived.

‘Because I gave it to you,' says the doctor; and he's rude too: ‘Take your shirt off.'

Daniel does as he's told; Doctor Adinov says, before he's risen from his seat: ‘You did not get that biceps lifting a brush, did you.'

‘No.' Twelve-year-old caught pinching a biscuit before dinner.

‘This is a foolish risk.' Doctor is examining hinge; very scrutable disappointment. ‘I said at least six months.'

‘I haven't wrecked it.' You'd better not have, darlingest.

‘No, you haven't.' But Doctor Adinov gives him a hard stare before adding: ‘Although any reasonable person would think that was your intention.' Then he laughs: ‘But you're not reasonable, are you. Daniel.'

‘Suppose not. Fanny.'

And it's time for Doctor Adinov to go now, to catch the train through to Bathurst, to visit the hospital there.

‘Don't get up, Mrs Ackerman,' he says and kisses my hand.

Don't worry, I can't.

Daniel drives him to the station; he'll pack up Jimmy and send him on to the doctor's home tomorrow. I'll wait here and play clap hands with Danny till Daddy comes home and can use unreasonable biceps to pull me up off the sofa.

I really can't get any bigger, can I? I'm in the bath, in our luxurious new indoor bathroom, off the kitchen; it's a massive, deep cast-iron bath, but it barely accommodates me. Daniel is rubbing my back with a flannel, trying to ease the pain with the hot water; not labour pain, just pain pain, like one of the babies is pinching the base of my spine. It's around midnight or so; it's the sixteenth of August and I just want them to come. It'll be safe now, and Sarah will be coming to stay with us from tomorrow; she'll sleep on the sofa, no argument she said, ready to help when they do come. But I want them to come now; I even try to push a bit, pointlessly, since neither one has moved down yet. Daniel is kissing my shoulder, and the late-night stubble on his jaw is as soothing to my skin as anything could be; at least I can't see his face: he looks more scared than I am. And I am very scared now.

 

DANIEL

There's not just a little bit of snow out there, the usual dusting that disappears with the sun: it's a good foot deep. It's been snowing on and off for three days. At the end of August. Why now? Just to be sure I won't miss how much I'm panicking. I can't get the fucking car to start. Fucking useless fucking pile of American shit. In lieu of being able to ask France to get the thing going, I've kicked a dent in the side of it. So much for teaching me to drive, when I don't know how it bloody works; should take the trap, but it'll take too long to get Hayseed fitted up now.

One last go before I take the bike instead: start, you bastard. It does. Grab the kids, who've been watching my performance, frozen on the front steps, even Danny, and not just because it's fucking freezing; still in their pyjamas, shit, chuck them round with Mim.

France woke up just before the whistle, with the proper pains. I wanted to get Nichols straightaway but Mum's been holding off. For what? Till the pains get worse. Where's the logic in that? She even told me to leave the bedroom, said I was upsetting France. Jesus. I've already decided she's not ever going to have another baby: this is horrible.

It's three o'clock now, in the afternoon; I'm on the front steps watching the snow melting. Of course. One baby's out. A boy. Of course. Mrs Moran brought him out to show me, but I'm a bit distracted at the moment. The other one is stuck. France is screaming; she's been at it all day. No one's telling me anything.

She screams again; it's not like any sound I've ever heard. That's it. I have to go in there.

Mum stops me in the hall; says: ‘No.'

‘Yes.'

‘No.'

And everything's gone quiet now.

He is the saddest little thing; a proper heartbreaker. He's perfect in every way, except that he's dead. Mum shows him to me before she wraps him up again. Puts him in the other basket in the sitting room. France doesn't know; she's still out to it. And she's not too well. She's lost a fair bit of blood and, though she's stopped bleeding so much now, Nichols is giving me a warning: she'll have to go to the hospital if she doesn't rouse out of the ether soon; he's concerned she might be having a bad reaction to it, and that she needs blood. I can't really hear him. I can hear the other baby crying, though. Can't look at him.

They let me in now. Can't tell you.

Just us, and that little oil lamp of hers. The room smells of blood, though I can't see any.

‘Wake up, France.' Begging. Much more than that.

I kiss her face and squeeze her hand, but she just goes on sleeping.

‘Please, France.'

A thousand years.

Behind me, Nichols: ‘We'd better take her, now. Her breathing is too shallow.'

No. No bloody way.

 

FRANCINE

My plump little hand is enclosed by Mama's; we're going to David Jones, and she'll buy me a chocolate there. My favourite one, with a caramel centre. She bends down to me outside the doors and wipes some spot or other from my cheek with her handkerchief. I can smell hyacinths, her hyacinths. She's saying to me: ‘Francy, you must not come to Sydney again.'

I say: ‘I don't want to, Mama.'

She says: ‘Good. You've always been a good girl. The bestest. I trust you not to come back. All right?'

‘All right.'

‘Now, when you get home, you must look after Danny.'

‘Daddy?'

‘No, Danny.'

‘You don't know my Danny,' I say to her.

‘Course I do. Big fellow with the green eyes.'

‘Oh, Daniel?'

‘Yes. Him.'

‘He doesn't need looking after any more,' I say.

‘Course he does,' she says, and stands up again.

We go through the doors; I can see the doorman's shiny black shoes, and his hat all the way up there on his head. But there's nothing in here. It's all black beyond the doors.

Mama's still holding my hand.

I'm crying. I'm so frightened.

And now she's gone.

I don't know where to go.

And it hurts. Everywhere.

 

DANIEL

Just as well, or I might have followed her. She's moaning awake and I couldn't be more relieved at the sound of that. I really don't believe in any of that Irish Catholic rubbish, or spirits or whatever, but I do believe I would not be here without her. And if she's not here, I'm not here. How could I be alive without her?

Nichols wants her to go to the hospital anyway. He's not confident.

No bloody way.

She's not going. Not to the local. Could be anyone there, with who knows what sickness; and I'm not letting her out of my sight. Mum can help me look after her, or I'll pay someone.

He says: ‘Danny, be reasonable.'

I say: ‘I am. Couldn't be more reasonable.' Considering. ‘Treat her here.'

Mrs Moran says: ‘All right, Danny, I'll stay tonight. But just tonight, and in the morning we'll see.'

Good. And you can stop calling me Danny.

 

FRANCINE

Danny. There he is. Frowning, fierce Danny. It's dark but I can see him clearly, his profile. And it's his big rough hand around mine, not Mama's. Mama? Josie? Can't catch the dream back to hear it again; can only hear whimpering, mine.

He's looking at me now, pushing the hair back from my face. The pain is going to shake me apart any moment. Tearing me up from the centre, but it's everywhere; burning. I am inside it. Fire trapped in glass.

He looks away and says to someone else: ‘Give her something for it.'

Yes please.

He's still there. I can feel his hand around mine before I open my eyes. Bit more properly awake now; not shaking any more. Just hurts, there, lots. I can hear a baby mewling. Mine. How long have I been asleep? I have to feed them.

He says: ‘Hello.'

‘Hello.' Ow, sore throat. ‘I want the babies.'

He strokes my face with the back of his hand and says: ‘There's only one, one baby, France.'

One …

One baby
… what does that mean?

It's still dark but I can see the tears in the lamplight, running down his face. It was so perfect last time; not easy, but perfect, and Daniel wasn't here. But this time it's … the devastation on his face. That's all I can see. I did everything I was told to do. I don't understand. I couldn't push any more.
One baby?
That means one baby is … is not. Not here. I know, but I don't understand. It didn't matter what I did, the baby just wouldn't come. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘Sorry?' he says. ‘Jesus, France. You couldn't have done anything more; he was the wrong way round. Nichols couldn't get him out. He had to cut you a bit and pull him out backwards. But his brother is fine, beautiful.'

He. Brother. Two boys. My baby is still crying; I have to feed him. The one I have. I want him now. ‘Can I have my baby then please? Now.'

 

DANIEL

She's barely conscious, and she takes him and feeds him. That's more than a little humbling to watch.

Mum says I should give her some privacy for a bit. No. I'm not leaving her. I'm not leaving this house until I know she's safe. Not leaving this room unless I have to.

In the morning Mrs Moran says France'll be all right, so long as she doesn't get an infection. Mum's given a list of instructions, and the lecture, as if I'm not here. Excuse me, women, but I think I can manage this myself. No one is going to help France wash or dress today but me.

Her poor body is so sore, as if it wouldn't be. Doesn't matter how gentle I am taking her nightdress off; and she's embarrassed when I first see her and the little bit of blood that keeps coming. I tell her I've seen a lot worse and looked a lot worse, and remind her that the second time we ever met I chucked up all over her floor, and I sound like an idiot and it doesn't matter. I keep talking into her stare, I tell her all the ways she's looked after me, I tell her it's stopped snowing, I tell her I'll have to get some paint to fix where I kicked the car, I tell her I love her, I tell her nothing matters more to me than that she is well. She looks so sore at that, she says: ‘But I am well. I'm all right, darling.' No she's not. I'd like to tell her how sorry, how cut open and gutted I am that she feels the need to say that, but I don't think that would be helpful right now. She doesn't want to cry and I'm not going to make her.

Instead I leave the room to scrub out the bathroom and the toilet with bleach, so that later, when she needs to use them, they'll be cleaner than clean. She can't sit up yet, and she's not walking anywhere in this state today, so I'll carry her there. I'll change the sheets and her nightdress every day and boil and bleach them too. And I'll scrub my hands every time I leave the bedroom, before I come back in. I'd scrub my soul if had one. I know that I'm still very much beside myself, but that's all right, in the circumstances. Mum doesn't argue; she can help me or keep out of my way.

France wants me to bring the other baby in to her now so she can dress him and say goodbye. She tells me what to get from the drawers and as I watch her put the tiny clothes on him, I think this is what's called grace. She asks me if it's all right that she calls him Joseph Francis, after her parents, and I can only nod. Then she kisses him. She doesn't carry on about it when she gives him back to me, but I might in a second.

Evan comes round and he and Mum take our little Joe out to the ridge beneath the paddock. That's where France wants him buried; no priest, no funeral, no cemetery, just looking into the valley that runs into ours. When she says she wants him to keep my father company down there, I have to leave the room for a tick again; need to get her something to eat anyway. But I go out into the orchard first and bawl for a good little while.

She's not hungry, but she's got to eat something, so she forces it down.

Baby cries and I lift him over to her so she can feed him again.

She says: ‘What shall we call him?'

‘You choose.'

‘What about David?'

‘That's very Taff, very Lithgow.' She can call him whatever she likes, and that'll do: ‘Dave.'

She's very pale and weak, even her eyes are so pale they are barely blue, but she manages a sharp little go at me: ‘You don't call a baby Dave. He's Davie.'

‘Davie, then. What made you think of that name?'

‘Close to Daniel. He looks just like Danny did, just like you, just like …'

And now it's too much. He looks just like his twin did too. She cries now, not loud, just forever.

I stay where I am, I hold her hand, till she's asleep again, and while she sleeps, I watch her.

She wakes up a fair bit in the night from the cramping, low in her belly, makes her catch her breath; Mum says it's nothing to worry about, often happens with second babies; means she's healing inside. Mrs Moran and Nichols agree. But I remember cramps I'd very much like to forget, when I couldn't move to flex them out, and I want her to stop hurting. She hasn't cried again, but I know it's more than the cramps that are hurting her. For want of saying something more useful, I tell her maybe she'll heal quicker if she tries to move around a bit, just gently; she does, a bit more every day, and the pain gets less every night.

After seven days she's declared out of danger, but Nichols orders bed rest for at least another two weeks. France winks at me when he turns his back:
see, I'm all right.

When everyone leaves us alone, she comes out onto the back verandah with me. The sun's streaming over the hill behind the orchard and it's warm here, golden. Her hair has grown to her shoulders now and it's flaming in the light; she's got her yellow-striped dressing-gown wrapped round her: she is the sun.

She says: ‘I think you can stop sleeping on the floor now.'

Hmn. Don't feel I should ever be in her bed again. But she has a point: I can't do that forever.

She adds: ‘And you can stop bleaching the life out of everything, too. For someone who can't abide unnecessaries, you can do a decent job of being excessive.'

That's true. I say: ‘But you wouldn't have me any other way.'

‘No. Couldn't, could I?' And she's a bit sharp with that.

‘No.' Poor girl; my girl.

Her hand on my shoulder: ‘Mim must be run ragged with all the boys over at your mother's.'

‘You're not well enough for that,' I say. And she's not: Nichols hasn't even taken the stitches out yet.

‘Daniel,' she says, talking to her favourite moron. ‘I miss them being here. And shouldn't you go back to work?'

Work. She means the Wattle. Since the sale went through a month ago. Everything we wanted to happen has happened. Evan gave himself a moment for shock before saying, ‘As if not,' and calling a meeting on the spot; three quarters of the miners have taken up shares; those that didn't are those that don't trust the boss because You Don't Trust The Boss, and I can't say I cared about them: more interested in getting back home to France that day, to tell her everything was good; still don't care about them, mostly the sort who can only ever look at me like I'm about to threaten their grog money. Jesus, who'd be an alcoholic coalminer; it's hard enough work without a headache. But it takes all sorts, doesn't it. And Drummond proves you can't ever be too certain of what a man will do: he rolled practically before I'd opened my mouth. I didn't consider how happy he'd be to get rid of it, me, us; I think he was relieved, but he shook my hand, even wished me luck, all's water under the bridge with the cheque in your hand, and now he's gone, off to make a bigger profit elsewhere, with partners that won't demand such horrors as cavil-out pay. Needless to say, I didn't have to ask Robbenham to resign; quickest he's ever moved. So now I need to run the company. Sign for licences to keep printing more money. Not been very interested in any of it lately, strangely enough. But France is right. Danny and Charlie and Harry can come back tomorrow, and I'll go back to the Wattle. Mum'll look after France.

I'll go back to … responsibility; first collective decision: blasting at the bottom of three. It'll stop production there for a while, but it should have been done a long time ago, to bring down all of what wants to come down. That pinch, where Dad and the others were killed, is still there, though it's unworkable now; men walk through it every day, or duck. Beyond it the seam has opened up, as if Drummond didn't know that five years ago when he had the leaseholding extended to include it; but it's haul by hand up to the pinch, too tight for ponies, up to the roof that still bumps like there's dancing upstairs. So, get rid of the pinch altogether, stabilise the roof, increase production: blast a proper hole through two hundred yards and follow what appears to be an easy, ten-foot thick run for who knows how long. But I've put it off, till after France, well, till now. Because I want to see to it myself; get the slow job done quickly but properly, carefully. Haven't mentioned it to her, though; not a conversation we need to have, and certainly not now.

But France is still a witch; she says: ‘Penny for your thoughts.'

Not for a million pounds. ‘I just don't want to leave you.'

‘Don't be silly.'

No. I'll try not to be.