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to give the woman a reason to live. Did Con send her? Some, remembering the great heart of the man, said Con the Brake had wandering in his bloodstream, was powerless to remain longer in the isolation of Denniston, but sent his Rose to fill the gap he had created in Bella’s heart. Others hinted at darker motives, whispering that there was no need to look further than that mad seductress Eva Storm, who was Rose’s first mother. Surely Con chased after the woman, not the child. Weren’t the two of them seen together down at Hokitika? If Con had gone to protect the child, as Bella insisted, why did Rose return on her own, unaided by any parent or grown man? Oh, Rose knew where her real friends were. The log house was her safe haven, no doubt of it, and Bella a better mother than a dozen Eva Storms.
    For the best part of fifteen years Rose has been known as Rose Rasmussen. Only a handful of older residents remember the story of Rose’s childhood. Most accept Bella as the mother. And aren’t they made for each other, Bella and Rose? What a pair! They are a walking tonic on the Hill. If you need something outrageous to gossip over, or a good laugh, or just a bit of colour to lighten the drab, Rose and Bella Rasmussen will do the honours in spades.
    These days Mrs C. Rasmussen styles herself as a widow, but, as her friend Totty often says, the variations that woman can achieve from one colour — and that one black — would defy a magician! Black silk, black sateen, plain black bombazine, delicate black lace at her more than ample bosom, on fine occasions a bodice embroidered all over with sparkling black jet that catches the eye of far younger men; Bella is an artist when it comes to black. Her figure, larger than ever, appears on every public occasion, meticulously clad to flaunt the mood Bella feels is appropriate. Dignified, celebratory,modest (not a favourite), outrageous, powerful, even coquettish: Bella can do them all, spectacularly, in black. Rose loves the dressing-up, and eggs her on. Rose herself is a flamboyant dresser, and would dress like a peacock if such colours were available. Rose has no need of stays: her waist is narrow and her bosom sits firm and high without artificial support. Often she will pin a brightly coloured silk flower into her boil of hair. It sits there like a tropical bird among sunlit foliage, and gives Rose a gypsy look that marks her out from her more sedate peers. Bella and Rose often arrive for a dinner or an entertainment arm in arm, pausing in the doorway for effect, then sail in, laughing and lively, to lift the spirits of any evening. They are loved — Bella unreservedly, Rose with some caution. Those few who remember Rose’s dramatic early years look at her with pride. ‘Look what our plucky lass has made of herself! Shows what’s possible up here on the Hill.’ Others admire Rose for her fine looks and her many talents, turning a necessary blind eye to her more difficult ‘little ways’. The truth is, if you want to invite Bella to anything (and everyone does), you must include Rose.
    They fight, though. Bella, for all her colourful past, is an authoritarian mother, Rose a headstrong and unorthodox young woman. Their battles, always conducted inside the house but often audible many houses away, are legendary.
    This evening Henry Stringer, arriving to discuss with Rose an interesting newspaper article criticising the conduct of the Boer War, pauses at the gate. Voices are raised inside. As he waits for matters to settle, the front door crashes open and out roar Rusty McGill and Inch Donaldson. Rusty runs McGill’s Barber Shop up on Dickson Street. Inch Donaldson’s drapery is next door. Both board at Mrs C. Rasmussen’s recently built annex for ‘paying gentlemen’. Undignified in their haste, they are half out of their coats, Rusty’s brush of flaming hair lacking its usual fashionable bowler.
    Rusty rolls his eyes in mock terror, flaps his scarf to shoo Henry away.