Coal Flat
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The sun was low and its light faded, and there was already a promise of frost in the air, as Truman Heath walked briskly from the school. His case was heavier than usual since he had foraged through his office collecting the last odds-and-ends of his possessions—books, rulers, a whistle, celluloid set-squares, an old pair of goloshes. His pace slowed a little when he saw his son ahead of him; he was in his class and he had never outgrown the dim embarrassment of having to teach in the witness of his son. He wished Ronald would run ahead.
There had been an air of disappointment over the whole day. It had started bright but by noon the sun had gone behind cloud, only to reappear for an hour or so before its setting. There was a frustrating lack of climax in his departure from the school. It was as if he was only a visitor letting himself out quietly from a party where no one had recognized him, as if he didn’t belong to the school. He had an unusual sensation of not belonging anywhere.
The reason was intangible. There had been the expected farewell
presentation. He had roughly rehearsed what he would say and
there were no hitches in the proceedings. Yet they had never quite
warmed up. Perhaps it was because there were only three others
present—the committee had sent Mr Rae. Fred Lawson had stood
up at morning tea. His speech, in words designed for a larger
audience, but subdued and apologetic in tone in deference to the
smallness of their number, fell flat and a little ridiculous. He said it
fell on him to take this opportunity of expressing on behalf of the
staff of the school an appreciation of what Mr Heath had done for
the school, and to say how sorry each of the staff would be to see
him go; this small appreciation was a small token by which Mr
Heath might remember his days in the Flat; he wished Mr Heath
every success in his new position. Rae spoke in similar words. Mrs
Hansen sat through it impassively, and when Heath blushed, de-
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murred and simpered, and unwrapped a fountain-pen, looking before he realized it for its trade-mark, and began himself to speak, she
stared politely and blandly at his face, coldly hostile, putting him off,
so that he kept losing the thread of his speech. Her stare made him
more conciliatory in tone and at least he did attempt a speech more
suited to the circumstances than Lawson’s. He said that on the
whole he had enjoyed his stay at Coal Flat. It would be foolish to
deny that there had been some unpleasantness, particularly during
the recent strike. He wanted to thank the committee for its help and
co-operation. He hadn’t always seen eye to eye with them, but, just
as he had always put the school first, so he knew that the committee
too had been inspired by a loyalty to what they sincerely believed
were the best interests of the school. It was unfortunate that the
term should close with two members of the staff away, one ill, but
he hoped shortly to recover, one under a cloud of suspicion and
again he hoped—here the occasion moved him to generosity—that
that suspicion would prove unfounded and that that teacher’s
career would proceed without any impediment. In fact he was only
sorry that Mr Rogers was not there to hear those sentiments—and,
well, shake hands, make amends as it were, and part friends. He
wanted to thank the members of the staff for their loyal support and
co-operation. It was true that they had had their differences, there
had been argument and clash of opinion, but he had always maintained that a headmaster who never had any rows with his staff at
some time or another wasn’t doing his job properly. It was a normal
process in the workings of a democratic society, in fact a very
healthy sign. Indeed those differences—and he had no wish to belittle them—had always been resolved to the satisfaction of all
parties (here Mrs Hansen raised her eyebrows above that bland
stare), and he on his side could say that he was leaving the school
bearing ill will to no one, but carrying only kind and grateful
memories of the staff and committee, and that he hoped—in fact
Mr Rae’s and Mr Lawson’s words had assured him, and the gift
was token of it, so there was no need to hope, he knew for certain—that the same applied to the staff and that he could gratefully accept
their kind wishes for his new position. Though he was sorry to
leave Coal Flat, he was looking forward to his new position in Central Otago. It would be a bigger school than Coal Flat, and it was an
advance in his career. He had only one regret, and that was that he
hadn’t been able, as he had thought, to pick his next position. His
ambitions seemed to have been higher than his actual status in the
eyes of the Otago Education Board. He might as well be frank about
it. Never mind. He had no doubt that in his new school he could so
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consolidate his position that in a few years he would be able to get
whatever school he chose to apply for. He hoped too that in time, by
loyalty and conscientiousness and industry, both the male members
of his staff would be able to do the same, and if they did he would
feel amply repaid if he could feel that he in some small way had
contributed to their success by his, well, precept and example. At
this stage of his speech he was warmed up and would have talked
for many more minutes, only Mrs Hansen conspicuously staunched
a yawn, and though he looked to Fred Lawson for support he found
none—only a sullen determined stare which there was no penetrating; and he would up his speech as gracefully as he could. Had
he had another five minutes he might have led himself to believe
that the parting was amicable on both sides; but as he sat down,
flushing, he felt let down, frustrated, and a quiet anger began to
smoulder in him.
Yet, as he thought of his speech now on his way home, what else
could he have said? He had been honest; he hadn’t evaded the fact
that they had had their differences. Couldn’t they see that clashes of
opinion were unavoidable? Couldn’t they make allowances, especially at a time like this?… Well, that was over now and unalterable.
What had been had been. There was the future to think of—the
school at Cromwell—hadn’t the Palmers come from somewhere
near there? But again he felt disappointed and cheated. Now that
the appointment had been announced in the Education Gazette,
now that he had been reassured by the advancement, there seemed
to be nothing to look forward to for years till the next move. What
lay ahead but packing, shifting into a new house, getting to know
new people, new children? It didn’t attract him at all. Truman
Heath, walking for the last time home from Coal Flat school, felt
terribly tired. He was going home—home to the wife he had lost
contact with when Ronald was born, to the bitchy silences over the
meal-table, allying only in the rearing of their boy and often disunited over him, to mutual distrust and petty rivalry suppressed
only for the sake of appearances to be kept up before the boy and
the neighbours. Yes, they were well and truly married to each other.
Neither would have been able to face the effort of living without the
other—she needed his pay-cheques, he needed her to do his cooking
and washing and mending, just as he needed the goodwill of her
father on the Otago Education Board. The boy needed them both.
He had lost contact with Ronald as soon as he was of school age.
Perhaps he never really had made contact—hadn’t she always come
between them when he was a baby, taking him from his arms,
standing by as if a man could never be trusted with a baby, con-
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tinually hoisting the moral advantage of motherhood? There hadn’t
been others, he had taken good care of that, and she didn’t seem to
want another. He was going home now to her insolent reproving
stare—even Mrs Hansen’s stare couldn’t make him feel so impotent
—to pack up under her supervision, to carry out her orders and not
fight back, only nurse little schemes of getting his own back on the
sly.
Ronald looked back and saw him coming, and hesitantly, as if afraid to do otherwise, stopped till he caught him up. He didn’t speak to hi, only grinned lifelessly. ‘Well?’ Truman Heath said, and they walked uneasily together in silence.
Then Heath said with a brisk infusion of heartiness, ‘Looking forward to helping with the packing?’
‘I s’pose so,’ Ronald said; and there was no more said, till Heath tried again.
‘Cromwell. I was born there, you know.’
This more personal confession only embarrassed his son, as if it demanded that he too should lower his defences and open more freely his thoughts—but what was he thinking? He didn’t know himself, when his father was with him, what he felt or thought. He didn’t comment, and his father said, ‘Did you know that?’
‘No.’
‘I thought you knew…. Yes, born and bred there. Know it like the back of my hand. I’ll be able to point out all the places of interest to you….’
There was a brief sound of breath being expelled simultaneously from Ronald’s nose and mouth; it was a comment of complaisance, as if to humour his father and keep him talking and save those dreadful silences, yet it was at the same time an expression of distrust. And Heath took it as a sneer and gave up trying to fathom this strange unapproachable son he had never known.
What was this life? he wondered. Didn’t everything in the end turn out to be a hoax? You saved towards marriage and marriage failed you, a family failed you. You slaved out of ambition for the jobs of greater responsibility and higher salary, and you found yourself in charge of an obstructive staff, working with an unco-operative committee, living at a cold distance from the parents of the town. You were imprisoned, a squirrel in a cage, sweating your heart out and getting nowhere; imprisoned by a contemptuous wife and an impenetrable son, slaving for them without even their gratitude in return. All his life he had been straining after mirages.
The sun faded in a wintry glow behind the hills at the back of the
gold dredge, and a frost crept into the air. There was a nostalgic
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blue over everything—the hills, the Grey Valley and the ranges
behind it, over the town, even over Heath’s house behind the
macrocarpa hedge. Truman Heath, walking unwillingly with his son
to his front gate, feeling terribly alone and unloved, was newly
touched with an old knowledge of the bitterness of life, of the
futility of all effort, all action, all living, the universe, everything.