Union Belle (16 page)

Her heart began to thump wildly, and she felt her face
growing hot. ‘Do we?’ she asked.

‘Yes, and you know we do.’ He moved even closer. ‘So what are we going to do about it, Ellen? What do you want? Do you know?’

He was watching her intently, waiting, but before she could answer Tom turned around in his seat, and she almost passed out because she thought he might have heard them.

‘What are you two whispering about?’ he said.

Jack sat back. ‘I’m teaching Ellen how to whistle parrots down from manuka trees.’

Ellen stared at him, almost shocked by the smoothness of the lie.

‘That’ll come in handy,’ Tom said. ‘I’m just shooting out to the car to grab a beer. Jack, do you want another one?’

‘Thanks, but I’ve got a couple in the truck.’

As Tom negotiated his way outside, Andrea Trask appeared and sat down so close to Jack she was almost perched on his knee.

‘Hello, Mrs McCabe,’ she said, flicking her hair out over her shoulders and resting her hand possessively on Jack’s arm. ‘I love your frock. Isn’t it the same one you wore to Dallas and Carol’s wedding?’

Ellen smiled politely.

‘Would you like a glass of beer, Andrea?’ Jack asked.

‘No, thank you, Jack. I prefer not to drink alcohol in public,’ she replied, with a condescending smile at Ellen.

But before he could suggest something else, there was the sound of angrily raised voices.

‘What is it?’ Andrea asked.

‘Hang on, I can’t see,’ Jack replied. He shook her hand off his arm and stood up. ‘Oh Christ,’ he said after a moment.

Ellen stood up herself and bumped into Tom, who had come up behind her. When she saw what was happening,
her heart sank. Two men were being dragged towards the hall entrance by at least half a dozen others.

Ellen didn’t recognise them. ‘Who are they?’ she asked Tom.

‘Opencasters.’

Then, suddenly, a woman darted up and took a vicious swing at one of the pair with her handbag. He ducked, but it still clipped him soundly across the side of the head.

‘Thats for scabbing!’ the woman shrieked. ‘And for taking the food out of my kids’ mouths! Bloody
scum
!’

Everyone in the hall was watching now, their expressions ranging from discomfort to indifference, but no one moved to help the two men.

After a little more scuffling, the pair were punched several times by their evictors, then finally shoved out the door and onto the street. The chatter began again as everyone resumed their seats as if nothing had happened.

‘Serves the bastards right,’ Tom said. He took two bottles of beer out of his jacket pockets and set them on the table. ‘Stupid bloody thing to try and do anyway.’

Ellen sat down, her legs rubbery and her heart beating wildly—not because of the violence, but because she had caught herself almost cheering when the woman had lashed out.

What was happening to them all? There were shocking, bitter rifts opening up everywhere: fathers aligned against sons, wives against husbands, miners against other miners. The very heartbeat of the community was changing, and when the strike finally ended, she wondered how they could ever go back to the way they had been.

And something in her was changing as well, a part of her she’d always believed could never be any other way, and it frightened her. But it was seductive, too, because it felt like the answer to something that had always been missing,
only she’d never quite known it.

It felt like a breath of pure, sweet air.

Tom and Andrea had both gone off again, so now there was only her and Jack, sitting side by side, almost but not quite touching.

‘Jack?’ she said. She couldn’t look at him, but she knew he was watching her. ‘I do know what I want.’

He didn’t hesitate at all. ‘Then come and see me. Come on Friday.’

Over the next five days, Ellen went around feeling disconcertingly as though she were two different women in the same body: one a happily married housewife and mother, and the other the keeper of a dark and selfish little secret.

On Friday morning she was so sick with nerves she couldn’t eat her breakfast and had to settle for just a cup of tea. She saw the boys off to school, then, hating herself for a moment, kissed Tom goodbye at the door before he went off to meet up with Pat.

She hurried through the dishes, made the beds, shoved some wood in the range, fed Fintan, then made herself wait another thirty minutes exactly, in case Tom came back, before she ran a hot bath.

Wrapped in a towel, she sat on the bed and dithered over what to wear, thinking she’d made her mind up during the week but realising now that she hadn’t. She’d thought about something nice but casual, but not too nice, so that if anyone saw her on her way to Jack’s house, they wouldn’t wonder why she was all dressed up. And that had set her thinking about what horrendous gossip that alone would cause, her going to Jack Vaughan’s house, on her own, in the middle of the morning, when everyone knew Tom was in Auckland.

The anxiety had convinced her that, rather than waltzing
up to Jack’s front door as though she were the Rawleigh’s man, she should climb over her own back fence and walk along the gully at the bottom of the hill, away from prying eyes, then come back up at the end of Robert Street, where Jack lived. But if she did that, she would have to wear trousers because there was gorse and blackberry and cutty-grass all along the gully, and if she wore a skirt she’d be covered in scratches.

And then she’d thought, why not just bowl up to the front door exactly like the Rawleigh’s man, with an armful of papers perhaps, to make it look like she was there on union business? That had been on Wednesday night, just as she was dishing up tea, and the awful realisation that she was going to such deliberate lengths to deceive Tom, and everyone else, had made her feel physically ill. She’d sat down, made herself eat something and decided on the spot that what she was thinking of doing was so terrible, so dishonest and disloyal, that she wouldn’t go at all.

But by the next morning, she’d changed her mind again. She kept hearing Jack’s low, gentle voice and smelling the faint muskiness that came off his skin, and that was enough to convince her that she would go and see him, but only to explain why there couldn’t be anything between them.

So why had she just spent half an hour in the bath shaving her legs and thoroughly washing every bit of herself with her best rose-scented soap?

She had to go now anyway; it was too late not to, and his feelings might be hurt if she didn’t turn up. Then she groaned and put her face in her hands—what about Tom’s feelings? This was so awful and complicated and she hadn’t even done anything yet. But she wanted to, very much, because Jack made her feel right. There was no other word for it.

She decided on her good pair of slacks, a light blouse and
a soft, woollen jumper. Nothing that would suggest to Jack that she’d spent hours getting ready, but also not something so everyday that he might mistake her for the nightcart man. And she would go along the gully; if anyone spotted her she could always say she was looking for late blackberries.

She got off the bed and dried herself off, then looked at herself critically in the mirror, trying to imagine what Jack would see—although he wasn’t going to get the chance. Her stomach was still flat and her waist neat, but since she’d had the boys her breasts had sagged a little. She breathed in deeply, expanding her rib cage and pushing her shoulders back, but it didn’t make much difference. Her legs were still good, though. And there were faint silvery lines on her hips, and her bum was too broad for its own good—she wasn’t a girl any more, that was very clear.

Oh God, she thought, what the hell was she doing?

She knocked timidly on the closed door and waited, glancing around nervously and hoping she wasn’t being watched. There were no houses to the left of Jack’s. There were some on the right, although it didn’t look as though his neighbours, the Huriwais, were home. And his back porch was semi-enclosed, so she didn’t think anyone could see her, if they hadn’t already spotted her coming across the rather overgrown back yard.

She waited a minute, then knocked again, feeling relief as well as sharp disappointment at the thought that he might not be home after all. What if, after the beers had worn off, he’d decided he’d made a mistake?

She stood there a moment longer, feeling stupid, then turned to go.

Behind her, the door opened.

His hair looked freshly washed, he’d had a recent shave,
and he was wearing a faded shirt tucked into old trousers, although his feet were bare.

‘You did come,’ he said, and gave her a little smile.

Now that she was here, she had no idea what to say.

He moved back and held the door open for her, and she stepped inside.

‘It’s not very flash, I’m afraid,’ he said, indicating the small kitchen with a sweep of his arm.

It wasn’t, either. The faded wallpaper was starting to peel, revealing the scrim beneath it, and the wooden floor was on a slight angle and completely bare of linoleum or rugs. It was warm, though.

He nodded at the rickety little table in the middle of the room. ‘Have a seat.’

‘Thanks,’ Ellen said, and sat down.

‘Tea? Or cocoa?’

‘Tea, please.’

There was an awkward silence then, that Ellen was desperate to fill.

‘Are you just renting?’ she said, although she couldn’t care less whether he was renting the house or had won it in a raffle at the pub—she just wanted something to say. Then she remembered he’d already told her that; he’d think she had a memory like a sieve.

Jack filled the kettle and put it on the range. ‘It’s cheap enough, so I thought why not? And it came furnished, sort of.’

‘What about the single men’s hostel, in Huntly West? A lot of the unmarried blokes stay there.’

‘Closer to work here. Closer to a lot of things, really.’

He glanced up and smiled at her again.

Ellen felt herself blush. ‘Can you afford it, with the strike on?’ She winced at the nosiness of the question.

‘I’ve got a bit put away, I’m all right. I send a bit down
to my mum, but I haven’t got much else to spend it on, being single. Except beer.’

He clattered about getting out cups and saucers and spooning tea into the pot. When the kettle boiled he brought everything over to the table, sat down, then got up again to get the milk.

‘There’s no biscuits or anything, sorry. I could make you a sandwich if you’re hungry.’

Ellen shook her head; she wasn’t hungry, and didn’t think she’d be able to eat even if she was. Her stomach felt fluttery and she kept having to suppress little shudders, even though she wasn’t cold.

Jack sat down again and poured the tea. ‘No sugar, either. You have milk, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

He set a cup in front of her. The steam coming off it rose lazily into the air.

‘So,’ he said.

Ellen suddenly felt so nervous she thought she might faint. On her way along the gully she’d rehearsed what she was going to say: that she liked spending time with him and thought he was a very nice person but, unfortunately, there couldn’t be anything else because she was a married woman. She was flattered, but she was married.

But her mouth wouldn’t open to let the words out, and every time she glanced at him, her belly did a long, slow flip and the hairs on her arms stood up.

‘Do you mind if I ask you a question?’ he asked.

She held her breath: was this it?

‘What do you think of the opencasters? Going back to work, I mean?’

Ellen almost laughed, although her heart was pounding madly. ‘The opencasters?’

‘They must have known what would happen.’

She felt on safer ground now. ‘I’m sure they did, but, well, you know, you can understand it in a way, the ones with families, anyway.’

‘Can you?’

She looked at him, her head cocked, wondering what he meant. Then it occurred to her that she probably looked just like Fintan sitting on his swing, and sat up straighter

‘Yes, I can,’ she said. ‘That doesn’t mean I agree with them, though.’

‘You don’t think they should have scabbed?’

‘No. They voted to go out at the start and they should have stayed out. It’s the only way to do it. There’s no point having a bloody union if its members are going to throw in the towel the minute things get tough.’

Jack raised his eyebrows at her vehemence. ‘I was talking to your dad in the pub the other day, and he said exactly the same thing.’

‘Did he?’

‘He did. You’re a lot like him, you know.’

Ellen had an unwelcome vision of her father leaning against the bar in his tatty old sports coat, his nose red and his eyes watery with the booze. ‘Thank you very much,’ she said.

Jack realised what he’d just implied, and laughed. ‘No, you have the same ideas. I don’t mean you look like him.’

‘Well, that’s a relief.’

‘He’s not half as pretty as you, for a start.’

Ellen went very still.

Jack didn’t take his eyes off her. ‘He doesn’t have your beautiful hair, or your extraordinary blue eyes or your lovely mouth, which I want to kiss every time I see you.’

Here it was, then. She took a deep breath; she had to tell him.

But before she could, he pushed back his chair and all
of a sudden was standing over her.

‘Can I kiss you, Ellen?’

She gazed up at the hunger in his eyes, and felt every one of her resolutions dissolve into nothing.

She nodded, and he did.

He took her by the hand and led her into his bedroom. It was as shabby as the kitchen, but the bed—an old, tarnished brass one with high head and footboards—was neatly made and topped with a woollen blanket.

‘What a lovely old bed,’ Ellen prattled. ‘Is it yours?’

‘Came with the house,’ Jack said, sitting down on it. The mattress sagged visibly.

There were no chairs, only the bed and a chest of drawers. Ellen didn’t know where to put herself.

‘Come here,’ Jack said.

Ellen hesitated, then moved a little closer.

He reached out, caught the ends of her sleeves and pulled her nearer still until she was standing between his legs.