The Art of Preserving Love

from the study window, Gracie in Paul’s arms. There were about twenty despondent men standing in groups of three or four, sharing smokes and occasionally kicking at the dirt. Men with uneven home haircuts, whose shoulders hunched and limbs hung gloomily. They were men whose egos were battered by never having enough to stand tall.

‘That one’s my brother-in-law,’ said Beth.

‘Which one?’ asked Paul.

‘Oh, you’ll know him,’ said Beth, ‘he’ll be the noisy one.’

‘They’ve been out there since five. What do you need with them?’ asked Edie, looking at the clock. It was now seven.

‘I have a renovation in mind, but I want to keep it a surprise.’

‘Well, don’t you want builders — not miners?’ asked Edie.

‘No, I need miners — you’ll see.’

He took his cup of tea in one hand, and with Gracie still nestling on his other arm, quietly crying as she always did now, he walked down to the front fence, settled his cup of tea on top of the letterbox, gently jostled Gracie into a better position and interviewed the men in his slippers and housecoat right there on the street.

‘Who has children?’ he asked. ‘No, no, don’t all answer at once, put up your hand if you’re a father.’ The younger men smiled — he was going to send the old fellas home for sure and they would be taken on.

‘Okay, those of you that aren’t fathers can go,’ he said, and the younger ones grumbled as they wandered off. Paul counted how many were left. Ten. He had halved the number so that was a start, but he really only needed eight strong men. He looked at the men before him: sad, bedraggled-looking humans. He wondered what their kids looked like, whether they were skinny and underfed, whether their shoes were patched with wads of paper and leather straps.

‘I’ll take all of you,’ he said. He couldn’t bear to send any who were fathers away. They were older-looking miners, the ones with several children and a wife to support; men with dirt in their pores that would never wash out, men with clothes that were patches on patches.

‘Two sovereigns a week for six days; you don’t work Sunday because I am sure like me you will all be in church.’ The men chuckled uncomfortably and Paul continued, ‘Plus overtime. All up that’s got to be at least double what you’d hoped for, and a darn lot more than the one sovereign a week you’d have got before tributes were brought in.’

On hearing this good news the men seemed to grow taller.

‘But don’t go thinking you can drag that two sovereigns out for the next six months. I want this job finished in two weeks, one if you can, even if you have to work around the clock in shifts,’ he said.

‘Yes, judge,’ they chorused, as though they were at school.

‘I’m not a judge, not yet — sir is fine,’ he said. ‘I hope to God that the good wages I’m going to pay you goes home to your families and not to the Bunch of Grapes.’

‘Yes, judge,’ they murmured, wondering how much they could get away with spending at the Bunch of Grapes without sending their wives flying off the handle. The wives would hear how much they were getting paid; there was no hiding anything in this town.

‘You have to start immediately, as in right now,’ Paul said knowing full well they were ready to do so and had nothing else to do.

‘We’re on it, judge,’ Laidlaw said in his booming voice, and the others all put in, ‘Yes, judge — right on it.’

‘What’s your name?’ he asked the loud one.

‘Laidlaw, sir,’

‘Laidlaw, ah yes, our Beth’s brother-in-law. Well, you seem to have the loudest voice, you’re now the foreman. You get an extra sovereign a week.’

The others all wished they had had the balls Laidlaw had and had spoken the loudest.

‘But I won’t stand for any bullying. Any bullies will get their marching orders on the spot. Well — get going. I think you’ll find all the tools you need in the garden shed. Anything else — well, let me know what you need and I’ll get it. I’ll explain to Laidlaw what I want done and then he can direct you as he sees fit.’

The men went to the garden shed and began pulling out tools while Laidlaw stayed behind to find out what the judge wanted that was so special he was willing to pay double rates. Paul pulled an old newspaper article out of his dressing gown pocket to show Laidlaw and Laidlaw stepped back, his eyes wide, considered the enormity of what the judge had just shown him, and then nodded his head.

‘It’s like bloody Noah building the ark,’ said Laidlaw to the other men after he had explained Cottingham’s plan, ‘’cept the other way round.’

‘Do ya reckon he’s gone mad on account of his grief ?’ asked Paddy.

‘What’s it matter to us? As long as we get paid,’ said Barrett, ‘and right on bloody Christmas.’

Paul gave Gracie to Edie. He hadn’t said a word about the doctor’s concerns about Gracie having come so early. He would just make sure that the child had everything she needed; he would give her the best chance possible. He dressed for the office, downed a cup of tea and a slice of toast and butter, grabbed his briefcase and umbrella and went back outside. Laidlaw told him he had sent Simpson off for more tools.

‘Well, I should have given you some money to purchase them.’

‘No need, judge,’ said Laidlaw, ‘some of the fellas have the tools at home already. I’ll let you know if I need to order something special and when we are going to need those supplies I mentioned.’

The rest of the men had started pulling palings off the bottom of the house.

Paul stood and watched.

Edie came out into the garden, Beth following close behind. ‘Papa, what’s going on? It sounds like Armageddon.’

Paul watched the