‘Good afternoon, Mrs Lester,’ Price said, offering his arm to his guest.
Together they entered Hubert’s, and were shown to a table for two, set English-style with white linen tablecloths, and polished cutlery. A cold luncheon was on offer – there was no picking courses off a menu – so the plates arrived without any great fanfare. The noise was bearable, quiet murmurings between couples; the largest group of guests numbered only four – a group of merchants making their way north, selling their wares to the various towns on their way.
Price held Annabel’s eyes. So very green. He had to consciously stop comparing them to Sarah’s. A piece of him desperately wanted her to walk through the door. There’d been a time on the road, that he would have traded his life for another moment with Sarah. But this woman, Annabel, she was casting a spell over him, washing away all but his deepest memories of Sarah, and he was powerless to do anything about it.
‘So, do you come here often?’ Annabel asked, lowering her lashes to hide her fear that this was a regular habit of his, taking strange ladies out for lunch.
‘No, this is my first visit. It was recommended to me by someone I work with. He is more the type to frequent this sort of establishment.’
Annabel took a small sip of sherry which Price had ordered for them both. It’d been ages since she’d last had sherry. Years earlier, when Sarah was little, and even before that, she and Albert would have a glass before dinner every night. It was ‘their thing’, and cheaper than wine. They drank out of tiny crystal sherry glasses, the sort that weren’t in vogue any more, but here she was, drinking out of identical glasses, but with another man.
Small talk dominated their conversation. It was easy enough to get caught up in the minutiae of life in a new town, and they talked about the roads, the new immigrants, the influx of merchants from New South Wales, and the convicts who’d fled the hard slog in Australia, swapping it for an even harder life on the gold fields of Otago. With the weather turning, they theorised about the numbers who’d leave again once they realised how cold it could be.
‘Why anyone would choose to settle here is beyond me,’ Annabel offered, taking another sip of the sherry, savouring the sweet taste on her tongue.
‘But you did, Mrs Lester. You settled here?’
Caught out, Annabel blushed. How am I meant to answer this? ‘I didn’t really have any choice in the matter,’ she offered, picking at the crocheted tablecloth.
‘But you can leave, surely? There’s nothing holding you here, is there?’
Looking him in the eye, she answered sharply, ‘Only a roof over my head, and food in my stomach. In case you haven’t noticed, it isn’t exactly Noddy’s Toyland here. No one’s handing out free houses, and the jobs open to me aren’t exactly that salubrious.’ Waving a hand around the room, she carried on, ‘Look at all these women. Either they’re already married, or they’re desperate to get married – preferably to a man with some money – so they aren’t forced out on the streets and onto their backs.’
‘I don’t know who Noddy is, but there are opportunities out there. I was only asking if you were tied to this town.’ He looked away, his eyes not seeing anything other than an empty future stretching before his eyes, surrounded by thugs and vagabonds, lonely nights in boarding houses or his ramshackle hut in Bruce Bay. ‘I was curious to know if you could leave, or whether you were under some obligation to stay?’ he finally asked, sinking back into Sarah’s, no, not Sarah’s, sinking into Annabel’s green eyes.
‘I shouldn’t think the Bishop really cares whether I’m there or not. Another ten women are waiting to take my place. Ten women who probably have better credentials than I; whose linens actually revert back to their original white colour, and whose hems stay up. Ten women who have references and the right breeding. Ten women who don’t swear, and aren’t gigantic behemoths stomping around the Manse in size eight shoes ...’
Price held his finger up to his lips, ‘There aren’t ten women in this city who can hold a candle to you. It’s true that I probably haven’t heard ten other women swear like I have heard from you on occasion,’ he smiled broadly at his little dig, and once Annabel had returned the smile, he carried on. ‘There isn’t a single woman here as good as you.’
Annabel laughed. ‘You haven’t seen my laundry skills. The number of pillow slips I’ve had to rewash, the tablecloths I’ve hidden in the bottoms of drawers so the Bishop and his smarmy little aide can’t seen the iron marks ...’
Price shushed her. ‘Those things are of no consequence. Surely you know that? They matter not to God, nor to man ...’
‘You haven’t met Bishop Dasent, have you?’ she exclaimed, a little too loudly for some of the diners nearest them, who looked aghast at her words. ‘But no, I’m not tied to him. I could walk out today, and not be beholden to him. Although there are some things I’d like to take with me if I was to ever leave. Why, were you inviting me to run away with you?’
Price shifted uncomfortably in his wooden chair. Do I want her to run away with me? She’s nothing like any other woman I know. ‘I don’t think I have enough to offer you ...’ he started, before being interrupted by Graeme Greene.
Greene rushed up to the table, tripping over chair legs in his haste to get to Warden Price. He landed heavily against the table, sloshing sherry all over the pristine white of the tablecloth.
‘What on earth are you doing here, Greene?’ Price was barely controlling his frustration at the interruption.
‘Sorry, sir, but there’s been an accident. The Watermark has run aground at the entrance to Port Chalmers, there are bodies everywhere,’ He stopped short as he noticed Annabel. ‘Sorry, ma’am, but it’s all hands on deck, so to speak. I knew you’d be here, and I’ve been told we need all the help we can get.’
The moment lost, Annabel and Price exchanged glances filled with things unsaid. ‘You should go, Mister Price,’ Annabel eventually said, gathering up her own belongings, ‘And I should tell the Bishop – he’ll want to be there.’ Under her breath, she muttered, ‘He always wants to be seen at the important stuff.’
Price hesitated, before laying two shillings on the table, to cover their uneaten meal. He clasped her hand briefly, and left the café. Two other constables, off duty themselves, followed him out of Hubert’s, and the four men commandeered the nearest taxi cab, racing off to the port.
Annabel paid no attention to the other diners and, in her haste to leave, failed to notice the weasel-faced Norman Bailey, lurking in the corner, a cup of tea cooling on the table in front of him.
THE BOAT
The scene at the entrance to Port Chalmers was chaos. Men in shirtsleeves waded out as deep as they dared to drag in the survivors, and those not so lucky. Further out in the channel, the wooden sides of the Watermark had split like a ripe tomato, spilling its guts into the icy water.
Customs Officers set to in their small boats, and were furiously dragging survivors over the sides. Weighed down by lashings of petticoats, and heavy woollen trousers, most of the passengers were being pulled under the water.
‘Can you swim, Greene?’ Price yelled, stripping off his outer garments.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Get your boots off, your jacket and your trousers too, and get in there.’
Before Greene could argue, Price had waded out past the other rescuers, ignoring the men they were dragging up to the shoreline. He kept his eye on the patch of water where he’d spied a young lad trying to hold up a girl. Both had disappeared underwater as he’d yanked off his boots.
Powerfully, he swam out to the spot, surrounded by empty barrels and the detritus common to sailing ships around the world. Taking a deep breath, he dived down, past bolts of cloth lurking beneath the frigid waves, past the carcass of a piglet, originally destined for the captain’s table. There. Two figures tangled together, turning like feathers on a spring breeze. He struck out for the top and, filling his lungs once more, dived down again, the water dulling the cacophony
of sound above him. Kicking towards the two bodies, he grabbed handfuls of their waterlogged clothes. He tugged them towards the surface, willing himself to have the strength to bring them both up. They were so heavy – with his lungs screaming, he prepared to make the irreversible decision to let go of one of them before he too drowned, when suddenly Greene appeared beside him.
All skinny legs and wide, scared eyes, Greene grabbed the girl around her waist and wrenched her free from Price’s weakening grip.
They kicked for the top. Breaking the surface, Price gasped for air like a beached whale. ‘There’s no time to waste, Greene, got to get them to land,’ he screamed, coughing up water, hacking his way through the choppy sea, the unresponsive boy towed behind him.
His feet found the soft silt in the shallows, and rough hands reached out to grab the boy’s body, to add it to the growing number of lifeless immigrants, lined up like silent school children. Price refused to relinquish him, ‘No, no, put him down, lay him down here, on his back, the girl too,’ he rasped, spitting out the salty water which threatened to suffocate even him.
Kneeling down, dripping water onto the limp body, he thumped the boy’s chest, again and again, over and over. Greene copied him, fearful he was doing more harm than good to the girl.
‘Harder, Greene, harder, you’ve got to get the water out of her lungs,’ Price ordered, before he lent down to kiss the boy.
Greene’s eyes widened in shock, ‘Are you kissing him?’
Price ignored the question, intent on blowing air into the boy’s lungs. How long was he under? Only a couple of minutes? The boy had a chance. Coming up for air, he turned to Greene, pushing the young man’s face down to the unresponsive face of the girl laying before them, ‘Give her your air, breathe into her mouth.’ With the instruction given, he turned back to the boy. Two more breaths, and another wallop to the chest with the side of his fist, and the boy convulsed, water erupting from his mouth like a geyser. Price turned him to his side, lest he choke on the water coming up. Behind him he could hear the satisfying sounds of the girl doing the same, and the gasps of wonder from the audience.
‘You have a hospital here, right?’
Greene nodded, looking slightly bewildered that the girl was now huddled in his lap, hiccuping and gulping in noisy lungfuls of air.
‘We need to get both of them there. Give that girl your coat, man, she’s freezing.’ Price himself was draping his own coat over the pale boy shivering in the tussock.
Luckier passengers were being rowed to shore in a montage of dinghies, sail boats, even a Maori canoe – a waka. Each vessel disgorged sodden passengers, and bodies, onto the increasingly crowded shoreline.
Together, the Customs staff and the police sorted themselves, and the chaos calmed. Shouted commands settled into orderly instructions, and a mountain of willing hands assisted survivors, and covered the dead.
Price scooped up the young lad, nodding at Greene to do the same. ‘Come on, we must get these two to hospital. They’ll know what’s best to do with them there. Leaving them here’s no good.’ Summoning a carriage, they hurtled into town. The girl refused to let go of Greene, resulting in an uncomfortably damp trip to the recently completed Dunedin General Hospital.
THE PATIENT
Colin Lloyd lay in a pristine white bed, in a long room filled with identical beds. The General Hospital was still new enough that the scent of the floorboards offset the scents of decaying butchered limbs and the dirt poor.
He felt like a thousand stinging bees had swarmed in his throat, before nesting in his chest. Every breath hurt like buggery. He cast a glance down the line of beds trying to find anyone he recognised. He’d no idea if he was the only survivor or not. Every bed was full – full of men in various states of disrepair. A nurse clad in white swished down the centre of the room, crisp efficiency exuding from each pore, as she visually assessed her patients. She stopped once to tuck a wayward sheet more securely round an elderly gentleman, his head bandaged with snow white wraps. With the other patients also swathed in crisp white sheets, the overall effect was as if he were surrounded by fresh snow drifts. Or what he imagined fresh snow would look like, untainted by coal dust. The only snow he’d ever seen looked more like coal slurry.
He pushed himself up, ‘Nurse?’
The woman paused, looking for the owner of the voice. He was rewarded with a flicker of emotion before she reached his bed. Gently pushing him back down she said, ‘So, you’re back with us then, lad?’
‘Do you think I could have a drink please, miss?’
Her skirts swished again as she went to fill an invalid’s cup for him, then returned to hold the beaker to his mouth. He sipped, grimacing as his throat protested at even the most benign of liquids.
‘Is your throat in pain?’ she asked, staring at him.
‘Yes,’ Colin said, his watery blue eyes filling.
‘The surgeon will be back from the barracks shortly. There are more patients there for him to see, we must share him between us. The water will soothe your throat, you should have some more.’ She put the beaker against Colin’s lips. He opened them obediently, trusting her face, her greying hair. She reminded him of his mam. ‘The surgeon will be wanting to know some details about you. We don’t even know your name or your age. No one’s come forward to claim you as their own. I’ll be right back with my folder.’ She swished off down the ward, once again casting her eyes over the rest of her patients.
Colin lost sight of her as she vanished through the doors at the end of the ward. He coughed uncomfortably. This was not how he’d imagined his adventure would start. Although, to be fair, he was warm enough, and they weren’t skeletons in the beds around him. The men looked well fed enough, so he presumed he’d be fed at some stage – hopefully only a broth; he didn’t think he’d be able to manage anything more solid.
When she returned, she wasn’t alone. Warden Price strode up to Colin’s bed, a slight smile on his face as he saw the young lad was awake. ‘Back in the land of the living, then?’ Price pulled up a chair, settling down. ‘So what’s your name, son? The passenger manifest went down with everything else, so we’re waiting on the telegraph service to send through a complete list. Meanwhile, I said I’d help put together a list of the survivors. The police here have enough on their plates without worrying about this.’
‘That’s a big job, sir,’ Colin rasped. Price offered him some water from the invalid’s cup. Colin took a few sips, before continuing, ‘As near as I know, there were about ten score on board – that’s including the crew, sir.’
‘And what’s your name, boy? The nurse here needs it for her records.’
‘Colin Lloyd, sir. I’ve come to see my brother, Isaac. Maybe you know him, sir?’
Price laughed, ‘It’s a big country, boy. We’ve got dozens of immigrants arriving almost every day. There’s a flood of Welsh boys just like you slogging their guts out on every new goldfield the papers hint at. The odds aren’t high I know him. Sorry ...’
‘And how old are you, Mister Lloyd?’ the nurse interjected.
Colin closed his eyes. They couldn’t send him back now, so it’d do no harm to tell them the truth, ‘Sixteen, ma’am.’
The nurse stifled her dismay, her pencil scratching on the form. ‘Your address?’
Colin coughed, and reached for the water, managing it on his own now. ‘My address here, or at home?’
‘Do you have an address here?’ She didn’t sound hopeful.
‘My brother is in Bruce Bay, so I’m on my way there to see him. I’m not that sure where it is. But can I put that down as my address? Or I can give you my mam’s address in Wales ...’
‘No address,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘The surgeon will be along shortly. I’ll be back later. You help the Warden with his questions, but keep sipping that water.’ She then went about her business, already putting the young man out of her mind as she concentrated on the other men in need of her nursing.
Pric
e had been looking at the boy silently since he’d uttered the words ‘Bruce Bay’. The coincidence was too much. ‘What did you say your brother’s name was, boy?’
‘My name’s Colin, sir.’
‘No, not your name – your brother’s name?’
‘His name’s Isaac, sir. He’s been out here a good couple of years now. He was writing regularly to our mam, but nothing for a long time now. So ... well, I thought I’d come find him, and help him on the goldfields ... for the family, you know. It’s either the coal mines or the slate mines at home, and ... well, this seemed a bit more exciting ...’
Price slumped forward, shock on his face. The poor boy. Should I tell him? He was saved from his decision by the arrival of the general surgeon. Giant mutton chop sideburns, the swathe of silvery white on his face completing the snowy landscape of the hospital ward.
‘You had a lucky escape, Mister Lloyd. It’s not many drowning survivors I see in here. You and your lady friend were very lucky the Warden was on hand to pluck you from the hands of Death. Now, I have this instrument here with which I wish to listen to your lungs,’ and he pulled out his flexible stethoscope, applying one end to Colin’s bony chest. Deep concentration filled the surgeon’s face, ‘Pulmonary oedema – put simply, water in the lungs. Rest should cure it. No running off to the goldfields – that is where you were heading, isn’t it?’
Colin’s eyes widened at the surgeon’s uncanny ability to know his mind.
‘I’m not reading your mind, Mister Lloyd, but of the men in these beds around you, there would only be a couple who aren’t in here for gold-related ailments. One piece of advice, get a proper job. Forget the goldfields. You’ve only a couple of months before the temperatures plummet, and we’ll see them all come flooding back into town, looking for work. Find yourself a job now.’ He wound up his stethoscope, and smoothed down his whiskers. He eyed up Price, and added, ‘Perhaps the Warden here can help you find work. After all, he’s the one who saved your life. You must be bound for greater things than dying penniless in the provinces looking for alluvial gold.’ And he took his leave.
The Last Letter Page 32
