A Collapsing Sky

Monday: impossible to imagine any other world beyond the smothering, grey blanket of a collapsing sky.
    
Nellie stands by the front door as Mike pedals off down the road to work. He's soon swallowed up by the low, heavy cloud clinging to the sodden foothills of the Paparoas. She wishes he'd stay swallowed up but he'll be regurgitated again in time for tea.
    
"Good morning, Nellie!"

The sound of Janet Bothwell's voice makes Nellie wince. She takes a deep breath and looks over the falling-down fence that separates their cottages. "Good morning, Janet."

"How's the blushing bride today?"

A tight smile does it. Her neighbour doesn't really expect an answer; she's just getting her sly digs in. The Bothwell's bedroom is only ten feet away from her own and Nellie knows they can hear everything that goes on between her and Mike.

"Mind you," Janet continues, "I suppose after being married for… what? Three months?"

Nellie gives a short, jerky nod.

"I suppose you're hardly a blushing bride anymore." Janet slides Nellie a knowing look before turning back to the limp line of soot-speckled washing strung out beneath the eaves of her porch.

Nellie stares at her own row of pegged-out sheets and clothes. She frowns: two days on and they're still not dry. "Miserable, wet hole," she mutters as she starts taking them down. Time to try the back of a chair in front of the fire but it's a listless day and the chimney's not drawing properly.

As she walks along the passageway with the first armload, Nellie thinks of her family home in Kumara: a real house, with five bedrooms, a coal range and a decent drying rack… unlike the one-bedroom shanty she's ended up in. Shouldn't have married a Blackball miner. She tries to ignore the peeling wallpaper and sagging scrim as she pushes the kitchen door open with her shoulder.

The sheets are soon arranged to her satisfaction and she straightens up. Heaven knows where she's going to put the rest of the washing; they only have three chairs. Maybe she can hang the smaller things on the table. She glances over at the ramshackle piece of furniture and her eyes fall on the empty notebook and house key – weddings gifts, both – sitting on the far corner. They were prized possessions three months ago. Now, she can hardly stand the sight of them but she needs the key, and the paper might come in handy sometime.

Her thoughts turn to the day she'd gotten them. The notebook had been a present from her stepsister – a new diary for a new life, Rose had said, full of false good wishes – and the key had been given to her by Mike, along with some sentimental nonsense about it also being the key to his heart. Of course, she hadn't thought the words nonsense when he'd said them but it had taken only one night to change her mind about that.

She recalls a conversation she'd overheard between her stepmother, Cora, and Rose, not long after she'd said her vows. It hadn't made any sense at the time. Do you think Nellie knows what she's in for? Rose had asked. She hasn't got a clue, Cora had replied, laughing.

After that night, when she'd found out exactly what they meant, she'd confessed to Father O'Reilly that she hated it. You're hardly supposed to like it, he'd said…

And so here she is. Ten Hail Marys for everything else but the marriage bed is her cross to bear. Still, Confession helps and she's increasing her stock in Heaven. She heaves a sigh and heads back to the verandah to get the rest of the washing in.

A rare, light smattering of snow surprises her when she steps out. The biting cold and heavy clouds have managed to produce something almost approaching pretty for a change. There's nowhere near enough of it to disguise the mire of winter though.

… … …

Mike pushes his bicycle past the mine manager's house on the edge of town. The rain has started up again and the few flakes of snow from earlier in the day are dissolving into the muddy ground. A shock of pink catches his eye: an early-blooming camellia. It's an unexpected note amongst the dreary sludge of the season.  On impulse, he reaches over the fence and plucks it from the tree; Nellie might like it.  The last of its snow-crystal frosting falls to the ground. After three month's worth of wedded… something, he knows what his wife doesn't like but maybe the flower will make her smile again, like she did before they were married.

As he carries on down Main Street, he thinks about when it all went wrong – their wedding night. Now she just lies there, stiff and unmoving, refusing to look at him. He's given up trying to get her to open her eyes; it's hard enough convincing her to open her legs. And he knows that in her mind, when she finally comes round to her duty as the church calls it, she's counting her beads and saying her Aves. He snorts. His breath turns to mist in the evening air. He's never had much to thank the priests for.

The Oddfellows' Hall sits silent on his left whilst the faint sound of laughter drifts up from around the corner. He trudges on towards the Dominion Hotel; he can’t help but wonder if perhaps he and Nellie got married too soon. Four weeks after they'd met, they were standing together before the priest at St. Pat's in Kumara. Mike had learnt enough about Nellie by then to know she was a virgin but it never occurred to him that, at eighteen, she was completely unaware of the natural way of things between men and women.

His lips compress into a thin line. He was ten when an older cousin had enlightened him, and he'd gained some actual experience eleven years later when he went to fight the Kaiser's army in Europe. He's been back almost six months now and his new life – his marriage – is nothing like what he wished for during those three long years in Hell. And he has no idea how to fix things; Nellie refuses to even talk about it.

He draws even with the Dominion and stops to listen to the cheerful music coming from inside. The O'Reilly brothers have struck up their fiddles and Tom Fairbrass is playing the piano. Mike taps his toe in time. Another burst of laughter erupts from the hotel, cutting across the music and the low hum of talk. He starts forward, wanting to know what's so funny. However, his bicycle pulls him up short and he remembers his promise to Nellie. That's another thing she doesn't like: him going to the pub. The pinched look around his mouth becomes more pronounced.

At that moment, Johnny Johnston glances up from behind the bar and catches Mike's eye through the open door. He raises his glass in greeting then returns to the warm life around him.

Mike lingers in the late-afternoon gloom, clutching his stolen camellia in one hand and holding onto his broken bicycle with the other. He looks down at the bike's flat tyre. He was going to mend it tonight but decides it can wait until tomorrow. He leans the bike against the side of the pub, jams the camellia into his pocket, and walks into the welcoming light.

… … …

Nellie scowls at the clock on the mantelpiece. Seven o'clock, and Mike's still not home; his dinner has gone cold. She turns to gather up the sheets, which are finally dry, but is startled by a clash and a clang from the coal shed, followed by a string of merry curses. Mike! It's not hard to guess where he's been. Her frown deepens.

He stumbles in through the back door and comes to a swaying halt, steadying himself against the frame. "Nellie, my love! My beautiful, beautiful wife." The thick, slurred compliment ends on a belch as he reaches out for her.

She shrinks back, a needless precaution.

Mike loses his balance again and grabs wildly at the chairs but all they do is slow his fall. He winds up on his arse on the sooty hearth, in a tangle of sheets. The clean, white cotton turns sooty grey as he flails his arms helplessly and laughs his head off.

Nellie can only look on in dismay. All that hard work for nothing… She lifts her eyes to his and the laughter dies on his lips.

Through his drunken haze, Mike realises that he's made some sort of monumental mistake. His brain struggles to come up with an apology though for what, he can't quite work out. He remembers the camellia then, and reaches into his jacket pocket. "For you," he announces, holding out the squashed, battered bloom. A shower of petals falls to the floor.

Nellie stares at it, her face expressionless.  Without a word, she turns on her heel and walks into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

Mike looks down at his offering and, as usual, is overcome by a wave of beer-induced grief.  He does what he always does when it gets like this: follows after Nellie and bangs on the door for a while, crying and pleading to be let in even though there's no lock to keep him out.  He finally gives up and staggers off to sleep in the kitchen.

… … …

Tuesday, and the day could waste away like the one before.

After Mike has left for work, Nellie packs a small suitcase. She puts on her hat and coat, and waits by the front door. When the rain eases up, she walks down Main Street to the train station and buys a ticket to Kumara. Her notebook and house key are still sitting on the table in the cold, empty kitchen. Her wedding band has joined them there now, and the crushed petals of the camellia have turned to brown on the floor.