nor artistic like Liza. His hard work is taken for granted by Tom, and if this state of affairs upsets Nolly, he doesn’t show it.
The bar — no bigger than two decent-sized bedrooms — iscrammed with men. Tom Cudby is here with his two grown sons, and all the Gorman boys. Rusty McGill always takes a pipe and a drink here — just until his own guest house and saloon is completed, mind. Michael’s friends Hooter and Goldie larrick around at the billiard table with two of the O’Dowd boys. Mostly these are not miners but above-ground workers. The men who spend their evenings in Tom Hanratty’s saloon work at the Bins, filling the wagons or maintaining the miles of railway tracks that carry the coal from pit to railhead: from Burnett’s Face to the bottom of the Incline. Two brakesmen warm their hands at the fire and laugh over a pint. Tom’s customers are also carpenters, blacksmiths, shopkeepers — and teachers.
Henry Stringer is here as always, under a halo of pipe smoke, watching from his corner chair by the newspaper table. He predicts that Michael will try Rusty next, and smiles to see he is right. Michael, dapper as always, even in shirtsleeves and barman’s apron, brings Rusty McGill a fresh pint, then leans against the wall, thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, and flashes Rusty his brightest smile. The usual churn of talk and laughter drowns Michael’s words but Henry can guess at the drift. Only ten minutes ago Henry himself was on the receiving end of Michael’s pitch. But where would a teacher find three guineas to pay a stud fee? The bad times are over, please God, and miners (if not teachers) have money in their pockets again. But three guineas! Even a top hewer is not going to throw away the best part of a week’s wages on the off-chance a foal may turn out to be a champion.
Clearly Rusty McGill is of the same opinion. His flaming head shakes back and forth, while one fat finger pokes at Michael’s smart yellow tie. He is offering a piece of sound business advice. Michael brushes the finger away, smiling still, and argues the point. He is a confident, popular young man but has pushed his luck too far withthe barber, who says something dismissive and turns his attention elsewhere. Michael frowns; bangs his fist against the wall in frustration. He picks up his tray and looks around the room for another target. Henry smiles and waves encouragement as those blue eyes come his way, but Michael is not interested in sympathy. Hard cash is needed and Henry has none.
Henry rather hopes no one will finance this new craze. Horse races take place off the plateau, down at sea level. If Michael were to have success with his breeding, he would probably have no compunction in leaving the family business. Meantime, Michael’s perpetual lack of money keeps him anchored, which suits Henry fine.
Michael looks towards the door and his face lightens. But this is not a likely prospective business partner: it is Brennan, rain flattening his hair and darkening his coat, cheeks fiery from the cold outside. Michael pushes through the crowd to take Brennan’s coat, shake the damp out of it, then slap his shoulder and laugh at some shared joke. Surely the request for finance will already have been made and already refused. Brennan is as canny with his money as Michael is profligate.
Henry watches keenly, his pipe dying, his paper unread, as the pair push their way through the unruly crowd.
BRENNAN has walked the long way back from band practice, hoping to see Rose. From the Volunteer Hall, down on the windswept Camp, he has taken the muddy side-track to bring him up behind the log house. But the dark windows suggest that neither Bella nor Rose is at home, so he continues up the steep path to the town, walking slowly, glad of the sharp air and stinging rain — they heighten his expectation. Any minute now, Rose will come laughing down the track on her way home, and he will grin to see her and walk her back
The bar — no bigger than two decent-sized bedrooms — iscrammed with men. Tom Cudby is here with his two grown sons, and all the Gorman boys. Rusty McGill always takes a pipe and a drink here — just until his own guest house and saloon is completed, mind. Michael’s friends Hooter and Goldie larrick around at the billiard table with two of the O’Dowd boys. Mostly these are not miners but above-ground workers. The men who spend their evenings in Tom Hanratty’s saloon work at the Bins, filling the wagons or maintaining the miles of railway tracks that carry the coal from pit to railhead: from Burnett’s Face to the bottom of the Incline. Two brakesmen warm their hands at the fire and laugh over a pint. Tom’s customers are also carpenters, blacksmiths, shopkeepers — and teachers.
Henry Stringer is here as always, under a halo of pipe smoke, watching from his corner chair by the newspaper table. He predicts that Michael will try Rusty next, and smiles to see he is right. Michael, dapper as always, even in shirtsleeves and barman’s apron, brings Rusty McGill a fresh pint, then leans against the wall, thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, and flashes Rusty his brightest smile. The usual churn of talk and laughter drowns Michael’s words but Henry can guess at the drift. Only ten minutes ago Henry himself was on the receiving end of Michael’s pitch. But where would a teacher find three guineas to pay a stud fee? The bad times are over, please God, and miners (if not teachers) have money in their pockets again. But three guineas! Even a top hewer is not going to throw away the best part of a week’s wages on the off-chance a foal may turn out to be a champion.
Clearly Rusty McGill is of the same opinion. His flaming head shakes back and forth, while one fat finger pokes at Michael’s smart yellow tie. He is offering a piece of sound business advice. Michael brushes the finger away, smiling still, and argues the point. He is a confident, popular young man but has pushed his luck too far withthe barber, who says something dismissive and turns his attention elsewhere. Michael frowns; bangs his fist against the wall in frustration. He picks up his tray and looks around the room for another target. Henry smiles and waves encouragement as those blue eyes come his way, but Michael is not interested in sympathy. Hard cash is needed and Henry has none.
Henry rather hopes no one will finance this new craze. Horse races take place off the plateau, down at sea level. If Michael were to have success with his breeding, he would probably have no compunction in leaving the family business. Meantime, Michael’s perpetual lack of money keeps him anchored, which suits Henry fine.
Michael looks towards the door and his face lightens. But this is not a likely prospective business partner: it is Brennan, rain flattening his hair and darkening his coat, cheeks fiery from the cold outside. Michael pushes through the crowd to take Brennan’s coat, shake the damp out of it, then slap his shoulder and laugh at some shared joke. Surely the request for finance will already have been made and already refused. Brennan is as canny with his money as Michael is profligate.
Henry watches keenly, his pipe dying, his paper unread, as the pair push their way through the unruly crowd.
BRENNAN has walked the long way back from band practice, hoping to see Rose. From the Volunteer Hall, down on the windswept Camp, he has taken the muddy side-track to bring him up behind the log house. But the dark windows suggest that neither Bella nor Rose is at home, so he continues up the steep path to the town, walking slowly, glad of the sharp air and stinging rain — they heighten his expectation. Any minute now, Rose will come laughing down the track on her way home, and he will grin to see her and walk her back
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