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Sport 39: 2011

III

page 17

III

Harry was to work the South Road the next day, a young driver delivering him a coach and passengers at Taieri. From there Harry would drive on to Balclutha, the first objective being the horsechange at Tokomairiro—a distance of about seven miles, and already looming up in his mind as a very far one. That morning he’d woken to a nauseating thought of the reins in his hands, the thought that his passengers would know how Mr Ryrie had died. At breakfast he’d sat over his food, unable to force down anything but two mouthfuls of tea.

But he was ready on time. Outside the hotel, freshly washed, his hair and suit brushed, he greeted the coach when it came in, thanked the junior driver and sent him away. He introduced himself to the passengers, and was relieved to find only a small number were travelling. Then he secured the doors and walked among the team, checking the harnessing, their legs and hooves. He circled the coach, bending to double-check the axle-nuts and wheels. Finally he pulled on the luggage to ensure it could not come down.

Then he climbed to the box-seat and settled with the reins, waiting. One further passenger was yet to come. It was Reverend Keane. He had stayed in the hotel too, and over breakfast he’d asked if he might travel up on the box-seat with Harry, changing beyond Tokomairiro at Milton for the Lawrence road. When he had asked this favour Harry had tried not to look too discouraging. In truth he did not want anyone beside him, least of all the Reverend, but over breakfast he’d seen that something was very wrong with the man. The twisting discomfort Harry had seen in his face at the trial had worsened and was now tormenting him. He picked at his food while his eyes, bright and darting, continually sought out Harry’s, then flashed away.

And now he stepped down from the hotel, one hand holding a suitcase, his face searching up at Harry. ‘Can I come up there?’ he said.

‘Of course,’ said Harry. He indicated the seat next to him.

But the older man hovered, his eyes going down the street as if suddenly remembering something down there.

‘I’d be honoured, Reverend,’ said Harry. ‘Please come up.’

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‘Ah,’ said Keane. ‘Yes.’

Harry reached down his hand to help the older man. Keane was light when Harry hoisted him, and as soon as he was seated, he sat with his suitcase on his lap, staring fixedly down the road.

‘Shall I take that from you, Reverend?’ said Harry.

Keane did nothing to respond, so Harry lifted the suitcase and turned to stow it above, taking extra care to secure it properly. When he sat back down again he found the Reverend was still staring ahead.

With this tense, taut shape at his side, Harry’s morning dread returned. He did not want to travel with Keane—but, he was ready to depart. His passengers below were settled. He had to go. It was time to play his cornet. He lifted it from its place beside him. For a moment he could not bring himself to blow into it, to make its congenial sound— but below him he could sense his passengers listening out for it, the pub-owner as well. He forced a single note through the instrument, replaced it at his side, and nudged the team forward. ‘G’dap,’ he said. ‘Get on.’

Then the coach was in motion—and the movement relieved Harry immediately. He almost smiled. Watching over the moving team he surged with gratitude for them. They were good horses. He’d driven many times with the lead gelding and he knew its huge appetite for the work, its hungry taking of the main share of the pull. Harry loved a horse like that, a horse that would pull and pull until its own heart stopped if Harry asked him too. He gritted his teeth now against the memory of that last horse-death, the feeling of that angled stone in his hands as it passed into the wounded horse’s skull.

With Keane beside him Harry went along in the clatter without speaking for some time. The road steepened and narrowed and became more difficult, then levelled and soon they were passing the scene of Mr Ryrie’s fall. There was no indication now that anything had happened there, beyond a wide brown stain where the brokenbacked gelding had been butchered and taken away. Harry felt the silence beside him tighten as Keane re-crossed his legs and squirmed.

For himself, Harry had no appetite for anything—not for conversation, not for Keane’s disquiet. Now that he and his team were underway he wanted only to get to Tokomairiro, to change his team and go beyond. He wanted to drive and drive.

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But it was impossible to ignore the man beside him. He seemed to get more distressed by the quarter-mile.

‘Are you comfortable, Reverend?’ said Harry. ‘Would you like another blanket?’

Keane responded to this by standing to rearrange the blanket that was already under him. He held the box-seat rail and lurched as the coach slid into a rut and corrected; then he fussed over the padding the blanket provided, pulling it this way and that. Then he sat down.

‘You can sit inside, sir,’ said Harry. ‘You must be very uncomfortable.’ Getting no response, he decided to risk a joke. ‘Us whips grow gristle on our chuff, Reverend, if you’ll pardon my language. Gristle and a thick hide—that’s why we can sit up here so long.’

‘Ah,’ said Keane. He did not make eye contact with Harry and the sound he made was not a laugh. It was the sound of someone in disturbing sleep.

‘All right, Reverend?’

Keane re-crossed his legs and looked straight ahead. Then with his right hand he began to worry a patch above his knee, the heel of his hand working in, again not paying attention to the process, as if unaware it was happening at all.

The coach ground its way up the hill, the horses labouring and mighty, and Harry lapsed back into silence, a little drearier than before. It was grim to think of continuing in this tension. There was an hour and more left to run before Tokomairiro, and he did not want to drive all that way with a worked-up passenger beside him. Not today.

He tried one more time. Deliberately talking slow, he looked over the trees they were passing. ‘And how about your trip over, Reverend?’ he said. ‘How was the Lawrence road? Before the accident, I mean.’

Keane twitched but still said nothing.

‘They’ve improved that road, I heard,’ said Harry. ‘Ned was driving you, I suppose? He’s a grand driver.’ Harry watched more trees going by, and he nodded. ‘Yes, he’s a fine driver, our Ned. The best in Otago, I’d say.’

Having done this, having received no reply, he returned his attention to his horses. He began a low whistling to take some of his own tension away—and at that, as if summoned up by the high page 20sound, Keane turned right round to look straight in Harry’s face.

‘It wasn’t your fault. Do you know that? You heard me say that to the coroner. You heard the coroner.’

‘I did,’ said Harry. ‘Thank you for that, Reverend. I’m grateful.’

‘You heard the jury say it was a freak accident. There was no blame assigned to anyone.’

‘I heard that,’ said Harry.

Keane nodded and switched round to the front again and recommenced the worrying of his knee.

Harry hoped for silence now. He hoped that Keane would shut his mouth, having managed to pick up the one subject that Harry did not want to discuss today. But Keane turned towards him again.

‘We could all feel guilty about that accident,’ said Keane. ‘Every one of us. But we have to remember it was an accident. It was nobody’s fault.’ The coach swayed, but Keane remained erect; somehow he didn’t sway as the coach swayed. ‘And there was something of God in it, too,’ he said. ‘I know that—I believe that. God did not turn his head away two days ago. He was there, you can depend on that. There was something of God in it—not in the accident, not the death, but in what will follow. In Mrs Ryrie—her recovery. She will not be abandoned. I know that. That’s certain.’

Harry watched his dependable horses pulling along.

‘Not in that accident,’ said Keane, muttering on. ‘No.’

Harry said nothing.

Keane touched Harry’s arm. ‘You cannot be burdened by it,’ he said. ‘Do you hear me?’

‘I hear you,’ said Harry.

‘It was not your accident. Do you know that?’

‘I do,’ said Harry. ‘Thank you.’

‘Do you?’ said Keane.

‘I do.’

‘So why don’t you say something?’ said Keane. ‘Are you hearing me? Do you hear me at all?’

Harry watched him.

‘Don’t just sit there,’ said Keane. ‘Don’t just sit. You have to hear me. I’m helping you. Have you heard me? I’m saying there is God in your accident. I’m saying it was not your fault. Absolution—I’mpage 21 saying absolution. I’m speaking about a dead man. I’m talking about the dead man your coach killed. Your horses—’ he flung a gesture at them ‘—your horses killed a man.’

This time Harry glared—glared at Keane.

‘Do you hear me?’ said Keane. ‘I say I’m taking it from you. The coach crushed him—it killed him—’ he paused at Harry’s sharp intake of breath ‘—but you are absolved, you are—he died out here. The coach—’

Harry made a sharp movement with his hand. He gripped the reins tight.

‘The coach killed him,’ said Keane, resuming. ‘Absolution—I’m saying—’

‘Stop talking, Reverend,’ said Harry. ‘Stop.’

‘I’m helping you. I’m—’

‘I will set you down, sir. I will put you off my coach. Do not talk.’

‘But there was a dead man.’

Harry pointed directly at him this time. ‘I’m warning you, sir. I will set you down. Don’t make me.’

Keane fell silent. Harry turned again to the road. He tried to relax the reins in his hands. He’d been gripping them so tight. After a hundred yards he glanced at Keane and saw the man was fixated on a point beyond the horses. He looked deeply perplexed by what he saw—as if he’d broken a vase out there, and could not figure out how.

Harry did not care that Keane was uncomfortable. He didn’t care that the man’s journey was spoiled. He was full of bile.

He watched his team as they strained up the incline.

One of his passengers shifted in the coach behind him, adjusting in their seat or swapping places, maybe trading a window seat for the middle one.

The coach rattled on, jolting, jerking.

When at last Harry’s voice came, it was distant to his own ear. ‘It was the worst day of my life, Reverend.’

‘I understand.’

‘No,’ said Harry, ‘with respect, sir—if you don’t mind, let me say this. It was the worst day of my life. It was the worst day I could imagine.’ Again he tasted bile in his mouth. He wanted to spit it out,page 22 to swill. ‘I had a passenger die that day, and a gelding died too. That’s the worst day possible for a whip, Reverend.’

‘I know it was painful.’

‘Mr Ryrie was my passenger. So was his wife. They were on my coach, and the worst thing happened to them. They were my passengers. Don’t try to take that away from me.’

And now Keane turned again in his seat, as if the conversation had resumed in earnest. ‘But you heard the court say it wasn’t your fault. You know that for sure.’

Harry banished this with a wave. ‘He was my passenger. I have to carry that, sir. I have to. I’m not proud of it—it gives me a bloody shame. But it’s mine now. I have to carry it. Let me have it, please. Don’t give it to God.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Keane.

‘Just that.’

‘Pardon?’ said Keane. His voice had a high and panicked sound.

‘You said there was God in the accident. I don’t want that, sir.’

‘I said there was God in Mrs Ryrie’s recovery. That’s what I said. Yes, that’s what I said.’

‘Well, frankly, I think that’s poor, Reverend. I’m sorry to say that to you. I apologise. I know that you’re a religious man. God knows I’m a church man too, sometimes, when I can be. But Mr Ryrie got killed. I can’t see anything in that—all I can see is a dead husband, and I had a hand in his dying. I don’t like it, but it’s what happened, and I don’t want anybody interfering with it. I don’t want God. I’m sorry, sir—I’m a church man, but not in that way. Not in the get-off-Scot-free way. Not at all.’

At this Keane resumed his front-ways, fidgeting vigil, and with a stabbing desperation Harry wished the man wasn’t there. He wanted so desperately to be alone with his team. He did not want Keane. He did not want to spend anything more on him—no more listening, no more sympathy.

The horses strained up a steeper section of road, and Harry leaned forward with them. Keane tended up too, his voice lifting over the coach as it creaked upward.

‘You know, there’s a great risk in marriage,’ he said. ‘A risk—yes. It’s the part that says, Till death do us part. That’s a risk, you know.page 23 Sometimes death rushes up very quickly. It rushed up very quickly for Mr Ryrie.’

‘Bloody hell,’ said Harry.

‘That’s the risk in a marriage,’ said Keane. ‘It’s ordained that it’s risky. Everybody knows that. Oh, yes, that’s true.’ He lifted his hand up as if the certainty was a fleeting one, one he had to catch. ‘Yes it is—it’s true all right. Mr Ryrie knew that, or he should have.’

‘Don’t say that,’ said Harry.

‘Oh, yes—yes it is.’

‘Shut up, sir,’ said Harry. ‘Be quiet, sir.’

‘No, I will not,’ said Keane. ‘I have a right.’

‘You do not,’ said Harry. ‘This is my coach, sir. You are my guest. You are in my care. You’ll do as I say.’

‘No,’ said Keane.

‘What?’ said Harry.

‘Ah.’

Harry turned to Keane; suddenly the man was scratching at his forehead and scalp, the fingernails rasping loud.

Harry’s voice burst out of him. ‘The Ryries were good people, Reverend. They were patient and brave. They’d waited for years. Mrs Ryrie had sailed from Scotland to find him. They’d waited all that time. They had waited and waited, and worked hard. They were married and they were happy for one day, and then they climbed on my coach and Mr Ryrie got killed, and it was over. Their marriage died in a day.’

‘Oh, God,’ said Keane.

‘No,’ said Harry. ‘One day, Reverend. Bloody one. I don’t know what you call that, but I call it cruel.’

Keane did not turn to Harry this time. His head was bent away.

‘They were just married, sir,’ said Harry. ‘That’s important. They’d just got happy at last, and my coach killed the groom. That’s what I’ve got to carry forever.’

‘Oh God,’ said Keane.

‘Ever heard a woman cry like she did, Reverend,’ said Harry, ‘the way she cried that day? You remember that sound? Have you ever heard anything so bad? I don’t think I have. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it, either. Not this side of the grave.’

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Keane whispered something.

‘Pardon?’ said Harry.

‘Ghastly—it was ghastly.’

‘Maybe it was,’ said Harry. ‘I don’t know what to call it—that sound of Mrs Ryrie’s. I don’t think it had a name. I just know I heard it, and I’ll be hearing it forever. That’s what I know. If you want to call that thing God, Reverend, then please keep it to yourself, sir. Don’t bring it up here.’ He spat on the juddering footboard. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I won’t have that. This is my coach. It’s my box-seat. Don’t do that up here.’

‘Oh God,’ said Keane. ‘How did that happen?’

‘One day, sir,’ said Harry. ‘They had one day together. G’dap!’ He whacked the reins with sudden ferocity and felt the surprise of the horses working back through the reins. It wasn’t their fault, but they responded, and the coach jerked along a little further, a little faster, spitting stones to the scrub at the side of the road.

They were within two miles of Tokomairiro before the two men spoke again. At first Harry was too angry to care—indeed for the first while he fed his anger deliberately, hunching away from the Reverend and reliving the worst points of the argument in his mind. But as the road ran on a coachman’s instinct returned and he submitted to it, glancing at Keane to find him in a worsened condition—more withdrawn, sitting in a sickle shape, his forehead showing an uneven red where he’d scratched it, in one place even breaking the skin.

Harry began calling along his team, sending up encouragement in the hope it would pull Keane from his reverie. Then he cleared his throat and began to hum an old driving song. He kept that up for fifty yards or so, and then he began, softly, to speak. ‘I had this driving mate in Victoria, Reverend,’ he said.

Keane jerked as if surprised by the sound.

‘When I whipped there, you know,’ said Harry. ‘On the Bendigo. Now this mate was a diamond, sir. Very rough, though—too rough for the lady passengers. It was his language. But he was a good driver. He was called Jack, sir.’

Keane gave no sign that he was listening. Harry continued.

‘We both whipped the Bendigo route at that time,’ he said. ‘Andpage 25 this was bang in the middle of the gold rush. Our coaches were full to the brim each time—passengers everywhere. G’dap!’ he said, for punctuation. The horses circled their ears back without changing their pace, knowing from Harry’s voice that it was not said in anger or urgency.

‘One of our runs went past the Weymouth Station. Now, I don’t know if you know Weymouth, Reverend, but it’s a huge station.’ Harry lifted his free hand to suggest an expanse of station, and as he did so he noted the pleasant fall of this section of the road they were entering, the slope down over the Tokomairiro Plain to the river. It was a stretch of road he’d loved a long time.

‘Yes, it was just huge—and all beautiful pasture stretching out everywhere. A lovely station. Now at this time Mr Weymouth had a daughter up for marriage, sir. Bear in mind he was a very rich man, very powerful. This was a great run. So with this daughter came eight thousand pounds, plus a share in the station. And every lad knew about this, sir. It was all the talk down the Bendigo line—every miner and whip had a point of view on it, if you get my meaning—but this Miss Weymouth was very high and mighty. It was a grand station, and that young lady was grand too. She was well out of our reaching. She certainly wouldn’t fall for no whip, sir—not in a month of Hail Marys.’

He glanced at Keane, and this time he was not troubled that the passenger was not engaged with his story. He felt better for his own sake—for himself, Harry was pleased his own story was underway.

‘So one day Jack had a breakdown in his coach and I had to come through with another coach and driver, that coach taking the passengers on while I fixed Jack’s broken one, and then we followed along slowly, Jack and I, towards the next horse-change. Now, as we went along, Jack was a mite sore about his breakdown, I can tell you, Reverend. He was wild. Jack was a proud man, sir, and he was near fifty by this time, and he didn’t like breaking down, and he didn’t like riding without passengers, either. Not as a whip, sir—he said it was demeaning.’

Harry felt the beginnings of a demand for a smoke in his mouth and hands, but he decided against it. He’d wait for Tokomairiro now.

‘So we’re riding along together,’ he said, ‘Jack swearing black andpage 26 blue all the way about what he’s going to do when he finds the groom who caused him to break down. He was convinced some groom had made a mistake, you see. Of course I didn’t believe him at all. It was just a breakdown, sir. It was just—’ Harry breathed in sharply ‘—just one of those things. Anyway I was riding along enjoying the scenery while Jack turned it all blue with his bad language. Finally his yapping died down, but only because Jack was getting this other idea. We were coming towards the trail for the Weymouth Station, you see, and I could see an idea working away in Jack’s brain. I could see him straining away at it—just sweating at it, Reverend. I’m sure you can picture what I mean.’

This time Harry saw Keane’s mouth twitch as if he wanted to smile. The Reverend was a little more still now, and he seemed to be listening, or at least registering the rhythmic soothe of Harry’s voice, and immediately that Harry detected that change he felt perversely resentful, as if now that he was easing Keane’s tension he should be able to punish him too. But that wasn’t the purpose of a box-seat story, and they were only half an hour or so from Tokomairiro now. Harry could change the seating arrangements once he got there, somehow ensure that Keane sat inside. He carried on. ‘Sure enough, we’re driving along and making easy time when Jack says, Pull up, to his team, and Whoa.’

Again the near-most geldings of Harry’s team pricked their ears, sending them back to catch what was said, then rumbled on responsibly, knowing the instruction was not for them.

‘Now what’s doing, I say to Jack. Why are we stopped here. I’m going up there, he says to me. I’m going up to the Weymouth Station. And straight away, I’m regretting this idea, Reverend, because I know Jack, and I know his schemes. I just know it’s going to be a bad notion, this one.’

Again Harry wished for a smoke. He wanted to inhale and exhale, pause to hold the smoke in as he told his story. Smoking went so well with a tale.

‘I’m off up to the homestead, he tells me. I’m off up to see about that daughter of Weymouth’s. Now, remember this Jack was a tough little rooster, Reverend. He was near fifty by this time, and all weaselled up from the whip. He had half-a-dozen teeth left in his head, and hepage 27 had hardly any hair. He was one tough bird. Plus he was half-mad from a whole life in the bush and on the route, sir. And I knew only trouble could come of this. So I said, Don’t go up there, Jack. You’ll get in trouble. You could lose your route, Mr Weymouth being such a powerful man, not to mention kin to the owner of our line. He could blacklist any whip off the Bendigo, and that would make life hard for Jack and for me. So that was my advice, Reverend. You can see I was slamming hot brakes on the idea.’

This time Reverend Keane nodded. He was certainly listening now. Harry looked across the plain to the shallow valley that signalled the Tokomairiro River and the few buildings there. He swayed with the movement of the coach as it negotiated a rut, and he thought of standing against the fire. It was not a cold morning, but the stove would be on in the stable kitchen, and there was something about standing with your back to a stove that brought great comfort to a man, even if it was in early summer, and even if it was only for a few minutes in between chores at a horse-change. ‘Get along,’ Harry said, to his team. ‘Almost there, boys. Almost there.’

He eased his position on his seat and continued.

‘But Jack was just busting with this idea,’ he said. ‘Between you and me, Reverend, I think Jack wanted to salvage something from the day. Maybe a little of his pride, having run his own coach off the road that day. Maybe he wanted proof that the world wasn’t always so mean. He’d had a heck of time of it, Reverend, over the years— Tasmania and all. But he was a tough bird, because of it.’ Harry nodded for emphasis. ‘Boy was he a tough one. Anyway, I sat on that empty coach and listed all the reasons he shouldn’t go up there to the station, all the things he’d risk by approaching this famous daughter. But he was all for his plan—he was fair frothing at the mouth about it. I couldn’t persuade him. So he unhitches one of his team and off he goes—bareback, I mean—talking to his horse all the time, just jawing away. Practising his love-talk, maybe.’

Again Harry sensed Keane twitching with a half-smile. Enjoying that effect, Harry leaned back and worked the reins a bit, adjusting their lie across the rumps of the nearest two, getting the tension just so. He couldn’t help it—adding a little flourish to the story with coaching finesse, it was second-nature now.

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‘Now I had nothing to do, so I sat there and waited. In fact, I believe I went to sleep for a while. And when I woke up, Jack still hadn’t returned, and I began to be a little worried about this little caper of his, and what might follow straight after. I was dead certain, you see, that he’d be on the swag again, once Weymouth started trouble. I was a bit concerned for him, sir, but I thought, Well, come what may, and I had another snooze.’

Keane adjusted on his seat. His backside must have been very sore— the box-seat was hell after a few hours for passengers who weren’t used to it—but Harry could see the outline of the buildings at the settlement now. They were getting closer. He pressed on more quickly with his story. ‘So after a while I woke to find old Jack making his way back down the trail on his horse. He was coming along nice and slow, too—no dogs after him, no shotgun up the freckle, if you’ll pardon my French—just Jack nosing along on his own. Now what happened, I say to him. What did you do? And for a beginning he’s playing it all coy like he’s got the secrets of the kingdom in his bag or in his brain. And I can see he’s enjoying it. I can see he wants to keep on keeping it under his hat, sir. So we harness up again and drive away, and for a long time Jack’s keeping mum about his little adventure. I have to press him and press him and it’s driving me mad, and finally he opens up about it, and here’s what he says, Reverend. The first thing he says is: Got us a mutton each, Harry. Paid my respects to the meat safe up there.’

‘And he brings this out of his coat—two hunks of mutton, plus some bread to wrap it in. And he tucks in right away. I don’t want any of that, I say, so Jack just tucks into mine, straight after—and he wasn’t a pretty eater, Reverend. I mean he was a pig-dog, and he just bolted it down. You could fair see the food going down his neck, sir, and soon he was well and truly outside that meat. Then he starts licking his fingers and smacking his lips, making a big show out of how first-rate it tasted. So still I had to wheedle away at him to find out what happened with the daughter. Now what’s the story, I said to him. Come on, Jack, tell me now, I said.’

Harry leaned towards Keane to get his full attention now. ‘Here’s what he told me, Reverend. He told me: It was a while before I could see Mr Weymouth, Harry, him being such a busy man with that highfalutin’page 29 farm and all that wealth just filling up his day. So I waited in one of his fancy chairs until he was ready. And when I got sick of that I made my little foray into the kitchen. And I washed my face and combed my hair to the side.’ Harry paused. ‘Now, that part was a little difficult to believe, Reverend. I don’t think Jack ever combed his hair in his life. He just wasn’t that kind of man, sir. He might have taken his hat off, maybe pushed the sweat and grease around a few times, but nothing more. What was that sir?’ said Harry.

‘What?’ said Keane.

‘Oh, nothing, sir,’ said Harry. He had heard the Reverend make a sound—perhaps a strangled cough, perhaps the beginnings of a laugh; it was impossible to tell.

Harry batted away a fly with his free hand. ‘Where was I? Oh yes—at last Mr Weymouth has time to see Jack. And the first thing he says to Jack is that he’s not hiring men. Did you get that, Reverend— Mr Weymouth took one look at our great romancer and decided Old Romeo was on the swag. He said to Jack, No work here, mate, better luck next time. So in other words, he flat-out dismissed him, Reverend. And soon enough he’s walking away towards his study or billiards room, this Mr Weymouth. But Jack says, No, I’ve not come about work, sir. I’ve come about your daughter. I’ve come about Evangeline.’

Now Harry put some tension on the reins to slow up his team. He had only a few hundred yards to tell this last part of his story. The pub and horse-change were in sight now. It was not time to ease off the team yet, and Harry felt them pull strongly on, not understanding, not used to this rupture in the drive’s natural rhythm, but he couldn’t muff this last part of the story. He kept the tension on the reins, eased them back a way. ‘So that got Mr Weymouth’s attention,’ he said. ‘Mr Weymouth turned all the way round to face Jack, and this time he gave him the long stare. I mean he eyeballed him properly. And here’s what Jack said to him—he said: Mr Weymouth, I understand your daughter comes with eight thousand pounds on the side, sir. Now, I’ll admit that’s a lot of money. If I had that money, it would keep me in food a long time. It’s a generous price, sir—especially to a man of modest means like me. But I can spare you the expense, sir. I’ll take her for four thousand pounds and a feed.’

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Now Harry slapped his knee to mark the end of his story, and Keane laughed outright and loud.

‘Four thousand pounds and a feed, sir,’ said Harry. ‘That’s what Jack told him. He said, Save yourself some dough, sir, I’ll take her for four thousand pounds, and you can keep the change.’

Now that it came, the Reverend’s laughter had a ripping sound of release in it, and it was loud, but it was not a noise of joy. It had something else in it, a groan, and it tore out of him as he bent with his shoulders shaking, ostensibly from amusement at the story, hiding his face in his hands.

Harry talked a little more to smooth things out for the Reverend, to allow him time. ‘It’s good to hear you laugh, sir. It’s a healthy sound.’ He could see the pub-keeper’s wife outside the pub now. She was waiting for the coach and the team. Harry brought his cornet up from beside him. ‘I’ve heard a few stories on the box-seat, Reverend,’ he said. ‘But that’s my favourite story about marriage. I’ll never forget that one.’

Keane had his handkerchief at his eyes. He shook his head as Harry put the cornet to his lips and gave it the first blast. As he played his customary run of notes Harry heard the passengers murmuring inside the coach, perhaps pleasantly surprised at the time they’d made.

‘Jack always quoted that little victory, Reverend,’ said Harry. ‘He always said that when all was said and done, at least he’d tried for marriage, and at least he’d got a decent hunk of mutton out of it. He was always saying that, later on.’

Keane did not respond. He seemed to have emptied out, now. He would find fatigue before long. Harry looked forward to stowing him inside the coach after Tokomairiro; he hoped the man would sleep once inside.

He felt the team surge ahead for the last few yards before slowing. Nearly every team did that—they loved to pour towards a stoppingpoint in one last great show. Harry let them do it now.

The pub-keeper’s wife waved across the remaining distance and— subtly, adroitly—cocked her hip at Harry, and he was shocked to recall that lately a harmless little flirtation had sprung up between them, he and the pub-keeper’s wife, a banter across the bar-room as he took his brief rest at the change. It felt squalid now, and Harrypage 31 ignored it, did not crack the woman a grin in reply. Instead he gave his arrival an extra flourish in the hope it would intimidate her, keep her silent on the Ryrie score. He pulled up grandly, made the hooves and wheels scatter stones. ‘Whoa,’ he shouted. ‘Whoa, boys.’

Then he stepped off and walked round the coach to the doors. It was his custom to open them for his passengers; he did not like people to descend from the coach unassisted. But this time he did not swing the doors open immediately. Instead he stood by the coach with the doors ajar, his eyes on the road-dust at his feet. A deep fatigue was draining through him. He was more than road-weary, but he stood a moment more, until he knew he would be all right. Then he worked his face into a cheery expression, and pulled the doors wide open. He faced his passengers. He grinned at them as they searched his face, then roved out beyond him.

‘Tokomairiro, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Forty minutes only, please.’

Note

Key sources include ‘Inquest’, Bruce Herald. (Volume VI, Issue 342, 16 November 1870, p. 3). Accessed 10 October 2010. <http://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/cgi-bin/paperspast?a=d&d=BH18701116.2.8&l=mi&e=--------10--1----0-all>; and Isobel Veitch, From Wells Fargo, California, to Cobb & Co, Otago (Dunedin: Square One Press, 2003). The fictional story of Jack’s proposal to Ms Weymouth was suggested by a reference to a similar story in Veitch’s book.