Coal Flat

2

2

When the company refused to suspend Mike Herlihy for so long as he was suspended from the union, the union called for a strike. Thompson could not at first believe it. ‘It’s the publicans you’re fighting, not us,’ he said. ‘Or is it the brewers? We didn’t put your beer up. We have to pay more for our beer too.’

‘Then you should be boycotting it,’ the union secretary said—Archie Paterson, the man who was president of the local branch of the Labour Party.

‘I don’t drink,’ Thompson said. ‘But if I did I’d pay up like a man. If the brewers put up the wholesale price, the publicans have got to charge more too.’

‘We’re not working while you employ a scab,’ Archie said. ‘The men are determined.’

‘I can’t see it’s got anything to do with the company,’ Thompson said. ‘I’d understand if you were striking against the company.’

‘That’s an improvement,’ Archie said. ‘The time was when you bosses didn’t even understand that.’

‘Well, why penalize us? We can’t stop Herlihy having his beer if he wants to. We’re not making him break the boycott.’

‘It’s the only weapon we’ve got,’ Archie said. ‘Our labour’s our only bargaining power. If we had a more suitable weapon we’d use it in this case.’

‘Well, I’m not sacking Herlihy. He’s never missed a day. He knows the dredge backwards.’

‘He never was a keen union man either, if that’s what you mean.’

‘I don’t care whether he’s a keen union man or not. It’s about time the union was taught a lesson anyway. You’ll come off worst this time. I’m not budging. You might all be sacked yet.’

‘Where would you get replacements from? And every dredge in the South Island would come out in sympathy. The miners too. You don’t take me for a fool, do you?’

‘Well, we’ll fight it out. Herlihy’s staying.’

The town was weirdly silent when the dredge stopped. Of a fine night there seemed to be silent mockery in the stars and ancient brooding in the hills. To Rogers, when it rained there was insidious despair on the roofs. Boxed off from the rain the dredge families waited in their houses; it was unlike previous strikes because they could not go to the pubs—they met each morning in the secretary’s backyard. They held out two days and then the miners struck in sympathy. Caddick argued with Ben, and Ben simply said: ‘Save all that for the publicans. Send delegates to the victuallers’ next meeting.’

Only the shops and the school continued. Rogers noticed the strangeness of the children living as if time was interrupted and eternity had broken through, while their parents stayed at home and waited. For the town was still, waiting in the rain, camped in a bush clearing on a terrace under the mountains that had stood before pennies were thought of, and stood now, Rogers thought, under shifting grey fog, impassively as if waiting for the energy to shrug off this colony of men who made mountains out of pennies, breaking their necks on their own artifacts, marshalling like gamblers on one side or other of a penny. He felt above the struggle, and for that moment it seemed pathetic and amusing.

But it wasn’t comic for long. A strike was a strike and Rogers was now in secret sympathy with the men, though he didn’t admit it to himself. He was a displaced person, standing of a late afternoon in the bar with Dad and Don leaning by, and Heath and Mike for company. Cheerless company they were; Heath skiting about discipline for the miners and independence for himself, Mike harking back to original sin and the folly of this world.

Mum would come in with sandwiches as a token of gratitude for their custom, ‘We’ll hold out for months,’ she said, ‘even if it ruins us. They’ll find out.’ But she and Dad were worried; the pub was running at a loss, the few beers they sold to their three customers didn’t pay their overhead expenses, and they didn’t make much out of their boarders. Most of the boarders had left, those that worked in the mine or on the dredge; when they refused to drink Mum told them to go. The other pubs wouldn’t take them, and their workmates took them into their own homes. At the dredge Thompson carried on with repairs and other work that had needed doing for some time. He and Frank and the foreman and Mike made slow progress repairing cables. He called one evening and ordered a bottle though he seldom drank.

‘Would you like to come back to the dredge for a while, Don?’ he asked. ‘We’re short-handed, even for the repairs we’re doing.’

‘You’re short-handed all right,’ Dad said. ‘Why do you need me?’

‘There’s some riveting of buckets to do. Frank and I are busy on the cables. You and Mike could be on the riveting. Then there’s the drum to be overhauled.’

‘A bit of a come-down, isn’t it, Andy? Me heating rivets?’

‘Well, it’s got to be done, Don. You’ll be on your old wage.’

‘I don’t like to leave the pub, Andy. You don’t know what might happen. They might attack us.’

‘Awh, they won’t do that. Your boy’s here anyway.’

‘Tell you what, Don could work for you. He’s got a crook arm, you know. Heating rivets is a light steady job for him. It’ll be a change for him.’

‘Okay. If he’ll agree. On ordinary wages though.’

‘Oh yes.’

Mum talked Don into it. ‘You go out and show them, son,’ she said. ‘You did it once before. It’ll shame them to see a returned soldier doing their work for them. A man who was wounded while they were skulking in the mine.’

‘It’s the dredge you want me to go to, Mum, not the mine. There’s three returned men on the dredge.’

‘Well, this might win them back. They’ll see you’re answering you country’s call again.’

‘Aw, Christ, Mum, go easy. It’s only the company’s call’.

‘No, Don,’ she said patiently. ‘You don’t understand. It’s industry that keeps the country going. Industry and business. And if there’s a stoppage the country suffers.’

‘I don’t want to provoke them, Mum. There’s no sense in risking your popularity for a few quid in wages.’

‘Well, we aren’t making anything out of the pub,’ Dad said. ‘If you weren’t my son I’d have you put off. Redundancy.’

‘It’s not that, Dad,’ Mum said. ‘Don knows we’d be only too glad to have him stay all the time even if he wasn’t working in the bar.’

‘Well, he doesn’t went to be molly-coddled,’ Dad said.

‘You still talk about me as if I was a kid,’ Don said. ‘Do I have to remind you I’m a father too?’

‘You’re not fair, Mum,’ Flora said. ‘The strike’s got nothing to do with Don. You’re exposing him to trouble.’

‘Don’s been exposed to more trouble than those loafers can cause him,’ Mum said. ‘Bullets and mines and bombing.’

‘Well, it’s time he had a rest from it,’ Flora said.

‘There was one thing I learned in the army,’ Don said. ‘You had to stick to your mates.’

‘They aren’t your mates,’ Mrs Palmer said. ‘It’s the public of New Zealand who are your mates. Respectable people all over the country. These people aren’t New Zealanders. Half of them are immigrants. The scum of Scotland.’

‘There are more of them than us,’ Don said.

‘We’re an outpost, if that’s what you mean. It’s up to us to show the flag for respectability and order and every man pulling his weight.’

‘Arh, stop talking rot, Mum. Andy Thompson wants me to do a job for him. I could use the wages. But I don’t reckon it’s worth it.’

‘If there’s any trouble, I’ll get Mr Rae to protect you. He might need extra police here.’

‘I don’t want a bodyguard.’

‘He’s got a mind of his own,’ Dad said. ‘I can’t say I’d be very keen if I was in his shoes. I’d go myself because Andy’s an old workmate, only I don’t want to leave the pub to you womenfolk. Don wouldn’t be any good in a scrap with his arm.’

‘That’s why he can go,’ Mum said. ‘Only a rat would attack a disabled man. Well, son, I thought I’d be able to hold up my head and say, “My son is a man, doing his duty without fear or favour,” but it looks as if I won’t.’

‘All right, I’ll go then,’ Don said, ‘if you want it that way. But I’m not keen.’

‘Make sure you wear your returned soldier’s badge,’ Mum said. ‘Haven’t you got a wound stripe?’

‘Who the hell wants to wear a wound stripe?’ Don said.