The Denniston Rose (27 page)

HENRY STRINGER CALLED the meeting. He sent notes to the Hanrattys and Scobies:

‘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.