The Luminaries (94 page)

Wells’s nugget, banked by Staines, fetched over a hundred pounds in cash money. While the buyer completed his evaluation, and the banker made his notes, Staines was interrogated from a great many quarters about the nugget’s origin. He gave vague replies to these inquiries, waving his hand in an easterly direction, and mentioning general landmarks such as ‘a gully’ and ‘a hill’, but his attempts to downplay the yield were unsuccessful. When the nugget’s value was chalked onto the board above the buyer’s desk, the banker led a round of applause, and the diggers chanted his name.

‘If you like, we could have it copied, before it’s smelted down,’ said the banker, Frost, as Staines made to depart. ‘You could paint the copy gold, and keep it—or you could send it home to a
sweetheart
, as a token. It’s a handsome piece.’

‘I don’t need a replica,’ said Staines. ‘Thanks anyway.’

‘You might want to remember it,’ said Frost. ‘Your luckiest day.’

‘I hope my luckiest day is yet to come,’ said Staines—prompting another round of applause, and more admiration, and propositions to ‘go mates’ from at least half a dozen men. By the time he had extracted himself from the crowd and returned outside, he felt more than a little annoyed.

‘I have been declared the luckiest man in Hokitika,’ he said, as
he handed Crosbie Wells his envelope. ‘I have been advised to keep hold of my luck, and to share my luck around, and to confess the secret of my luck, and I don’t know what else. I fancy that the story you told me was not at all true, Mr. Wells; you simply knew what would happen to a man foolish enough to walk into the Reserve Bank with a nugget of that size at this hour of the day.’

Wells was grinning. ‘The luckiest man in Hokitika,’ he said. ‘Quite an expectation. I trust you’ll bear up.’

‘I will do my best,’ said the boy.

‘Well, I’m very much obliged to you,’ said Wells, thumbing through the paper notes quickly, and then tucking the envelope into his vest. ‘The Arahura Valley is where I mean to buy. Some ten miles to the north. The river crosses the beach—you can’t miss it. You’re welcome any time, and for any reason.’

‘I’ll remember,’ said Staines.

Wells paused. ‘You still don’t quite believe my story, do you, Mr. Staines?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t, Mr. Wells.’

‘Maybe you’ll spill the beans to your man Carver.’

‘Carver’s not my man.’

‘But maybe you’ll drop my name. Casual mention. Just to see.’

‘I won’t.’

‘It would be as good as murder, Mr. Staines. He’s got a score to settle. He wants me dead.’

‘I can keep a secret,’ said Staines. ‘I won’t tell anyone.’

‘I believe it,’ said Wells. He put out his hand. ‘Good luck.’

‘Yes—good luck.’

‘Perhaps I’ll be seeing you.’

‘Perhaps you will.’

Staines remained on the steps of the Reserve Bank for a long time after Crosbie Wells stepped down into the street. He watched the other man thread through the crowd towards the land agent’s office, where he mounted the steps, removed his hat, and stepped inside without a backwards glance. Fifteen minutes passed. Staines rested his elbows on the rail, and kept watching.

‘Shipwreck—shipwreck—shipwreck on the bar!’

Staines watched the bellman approach. ‘What’s the name of the craft?’ he called.

‘The
Titania
,’ said the bellman. ‘A steamer. Run aground.’

Staines had never heard of the
Titania
. ‘Where was she coming from?’

‘Dunedin, by way of Auckland,’ the bellman replied. When Staines nodded, dismissing him, he continued on: ‘Shipwreck—shipwreck—shipwreck on the bar!’

At long last, the door of the land agency office opened, and two men walked out: Crosbie Wells, and a second man, presumably a land agent, who was putting his arms into his coat. They stood
talking
on the porch for several minutes; presently a small two-horse cab came clopping around the side of the building, and stopped to let Wells and the land agent climb aboard. Once they were seated, and the doors closed, the driver spoke to the horses, and the small vehicle clattered off to the north.

Mr. Edgar Clinch proved a guide both solicitous and thorough. During the short walk from Gibson Quay he maintained a constant and richly detailed commentary upon everything they passed: every shopfront, every warehouse, every vendor, every horse, every trap, every pasted bill. Anna’s responses were few, and barely uttered; as they approached the Reserve Bank, however, she
interrupted
his chatter with a sudden exclamation of surprise.

‘What is it?’ said Clinch, alarmed.

Leaning against the porch railing was the golden-haired boy from the
Fortunate Wind
—who was gazing at her with an expression likewise incredulous.

‘It’s you!’ he cried.

‘Yes,’ said Anna. ‘Yes.’

‘The albatrosses!’

‘I remember.’

They regarded one another shyly.

‘How good to see you again,’ Anna said after a moment.

‘It is perfectly serendipitous,’ said the boy, descending the steps to the street. ‘Fancy that—us meeting a second time! Of course I have wished for it, very much—but they were vain wishes; the kind one makes in twilight states, you know, idly. I remember just what you
said, as we rounded the heads of the harbour—in the dawn light. “I should like to see him in a storm”, you said. I have thought of it many times, since; it was the most delightfully original of speeches.’

Anna blushed at this: not only had she never heard herself described as an original before, she had certainly never supposed that her utterances qualified as ‘speeches’. ‘It was only a fancy,’ she said.

Clinch was waiting to be introduced; he cleared his throat.

‘Have you been in Hokitika long?’ said the boy.

‘I arrived this morning. Just now, in fact—we dropped anchor not an hour ago.’

‘So recently!’ The boy seemed even more astonished, as though her recent arrival meant that their chance reunion was even more remarkable to him.

‘And you?’ Anna said. ‘Have you been here long?’

‘I’ve been here over a month,’ said the boy. He beamed suddenly. ‘How good it is to see you—how very wonderful. It has been a great age since I have seen a familiar face.’

‘Are you a—a member of the camp?’ said Anna, blushing again.

‘Yes; here to make my fortune, or at least, to chance upon it: I confess I do not quite understand the difference. Oh!’ He snatched off his hat. ‘How outrageously rude of me. I haven’t introduced myself. Staines is my name. Emery Staines.’

Clinch used this opportunity to interject. ‘And how do you like Hokitika, Mr. Staines?’

‘I like it very well indeed,’ replied the boy. ‘It’s a perfect hive of contradictions! There is a newspaper, and no coffee house in which to read it; there is a druggist for prescriptions, but one can never find a doctor, and the hospital barely deserves its name. The store is always running out of either boots or socks, but never both at once, and all the hotels along Revell-street only serve breakfast, though they do so at all hours of the day!’

Anna was smiling. She opened her mouth to reply, but Clinch cut across her.

‘Gridiron does a hot dinner,’ he said. ‘We’ve a threepenny plate and a sixpenny plate—and the sixpenny comes with beer.’

‘Which one is the Gridiron?’ said Staines.

‘Revell-street,’ said Clinch, as if this destination were address enough.

Staines turned back to Anna. ‘What has brought you to the Coast?’ he said. ‘Have you come at somebody’s request? Are you to make your living here? Will you stay?’

Anna did not want to use Mannering’s name. ‘I mean to stay,’ she said cautiously. ‘I am to take my lodging at the Gridiron Hotel—at the kind request of Mr. Clinch.’

‘That’s me,’ said Clinch, putting out his hand. ‘Clinch. Edgar is my Christian name.’

‘I am delighted to meet you,’ said Staines, shaking his hand briefly; then, turning back to Anna, he said, ‘I still don’t know your name … but perhaps I won’t ask for it, just yet. Shall you keep it a secret—so that I have to make inquiries, and find you out?’

‘Her name is Anna Wetherell,’ said Clinch.

‘Oh,’ said the boy. His expression had suddenly given way to astonishment; he was looking at Anna very curiously, as though her name bore a significance that he could not, for some reason,
articulate
aloud.

‘We’d best be getting on,’ said Clinch.

He leaped aside. ‘Oh—yes, of course. You’d best be getting on. A very good morning to you both.’

‘It was very nice to see you again,’ said Anna.

‘May I call upon you?’ said Staines. ‘Once you’re settled?’

Anna was surprised, and thanked him; she might have said more, but Clinch was already leading her away, seizing her hand where it was tucked beneath his elbow and drawing it, firmly, closer to his chest.

The Maori man carried a greenstone club upon his hip, thrust through his belt in the way that one might wear a crop or a pistol. The club had been carved into the shape of a paddle, and polished to a shine: the stone was a rippled olive green, shot through with bursts of yellow, as if tiny garlands of kowhai had been melted and then pressed into glass.

Carver, having delivered his message, was about to bid the other man goodbye when the stone caught the light, and seemed
suddenly
to brighten; curious, he pointed at it, saying, ‘What’s that—a paddle?’

‘
Patu pounamu
,’ said Tauwhare.

‘Let me see,’ said Carver, holding out his hand. ‘Let me hold it.’

Tauwhare took the club off his belt, but he did not hand it to the other man. He stood very still, staring at Carver, the club loose in his hand, and then suddenly, he leaped forward, and mimed
jabbing
Carver in the throat, and then in the chest; finally he raised the club up high above his shoulder, and brought it down, very slowly, stopping just before the weapon made contact with Carver’s temple. ‘Harder than steel,’ he said.

‘Is it?’ said Carver. He had not flinched. ‘Harder than steel?’ 

Tauwhare shrugged. He stepped back and thrust the club back into his belt; he appraised Carver for a long moment, his chin lifted, his jaw set, and then he smiled coldly, and turned away.

‘Bother,’ said Löwenthal. He was scowling at his forme—reading the text both right-to-left and backwards, for the type was both
mirrored
and reversed. ‘I’ve got a widow.’

‘A what?’ said Staines, who had just entered the shop.

‘It’s called a widow. A typographical term. I have one too many words to fit into the column; when there’s a word hanging over, that’s a widow. Bother, bother, bother. I was in such a rush, this morning—I let a man pay for a two-inch advertisement without tallying his letters, and his notice won’t fit into a two-inch square. Ah! I must put it aside, and come back with fresh eyes later: that is the only thing to do, when one is in a muddle. What can I do for you, Mr. Staines?’ Löwenthal pushed the forme aside and, smiling, reached for a rag to wipe the ink from his fingers.

Staines explained that he had banked his competence that morning in exchange for cash. ‘I was meaning to invest in a claim,’ he explained, ‘but I don’t want to do that—not just yet. I’m still—well, I’m still of two minds about a number of things. I would like to know what’s on offer in the camp instead. Hotels, dining halls, warehouses, shops … anything that’s for sale.’

‘Certainly,’ said Löwenthal. He moved to the cabinet, opened the topmost drawer, and began to thumb through the files;
presently he extracted a piece of paper, and handed it to Staines. ‘Here.’

Staines scanned the document. When he reached the bottom of the list, his expression slackened very slightly; in surprise, he looked up.

‘The Gridiron,’ he said.

Löwenthal spread his hands. ‘It is as good a venture as any,’ he said, ‘Mr. Maxwell is the current owner; Mr. Clinch, the acting
proprietor
. Both are good men.’

‘I’ll take it,’ said Staines.

‘Oh?’ said Löwenthal. ‘Should I inform Mr. Maxwell that you would like to look it over?’

‘I don’t want to look it over,’ said Staines. ‘I want to buy it
outright
—and at once.’

Carver held little hope that the notice he had placed in the
West Coast Times
that morning would bear fruit. He doubted that anyone would be so foolish as to surrender a wanted trunk unopened, still less when a fifty-pound reward was offered for that trunk’s return. The very best that he could hope for was that the trunk would be opened, the contents rifled, and the dresses presumed to be of sentimental value only, in which case the finder—if he or she had read the
Times
, and was aware of the reward offered—might surrender them; but that contingency, itself unlikely, depended upon the still more unlikely contingency that the trunk had been sent to West Canterbury, of all possible destinations in the world! No: the fact that it had been removed from
Godspeed
’s hold on the night of the 12th of May could mean only one thing: someone must have been aware of the
colossal
fortune the trunk contained. It would hardly have been recalled at the last minute, only to be shipped at hazard, elsewhere. If it had been Crosbie Wells who had recalled the trunk at the last moment—by far the most likely guess—then he would surely have quit the country as soon as he was able, using the gold to bribe the
customhouse
officials, or perhaps, paying another man for his papers or his name. The fortune was gone for good. Carver cursed aloud, and, to accent his frustration, slammed the base of his glass against the bar. 

‘Amen,’ said the man nearest him.

Carver turned to glare at him, but the man was beckoning the bartender.

‘Pour that man another drink,’ he said. ‘We’ll both have another. On my tab.’

The bartender uncorked the brandy bottle and refilled Carver’s glass.

‘Pritchard’s my name,’ said the man, watching as the bartender poured.

Carver glanced at him. ‘Carver,’ he said.

‘Took you for a sailor,’ Pritchard said. ‘Salt on your jacket.’

‘Captain,’ said Carver.

‘Captain,’ said Pritchard. ‘Well, good on you. I never had a stomach for the sea. I might have gone back home, otherwise; only I’m put off by the thought of the journey. I’d rather die here than suffer that again. Arse end of the world, isn’t it?’

Carver grunted, and they both drank.

‘Captain, though,’ said Pritchard presently. ‘That’s good.’

‘And you?’ said Carver.

‘Chemist.’

Carver was surprised. ‘Chemist?’

‘Only one in town,’ said Pritchard. ‘A true original, that’s what I am.’

They sat in silence for a time. When their glasses were empty Pritchard signalled again to the bartender, who refilled them both as before. Suddenly Carver rounded on him, and said, ‘What have you got in the way of opium? Have you a ready supply?’

‘Afraid I can’t help,’ Pritchard said, shaking his head. ‘Nothing but tincture, that’s all I’ve got, and it’s poor. Weaker than whisky, twice the headache. You won’t find anything south of the Grey. Not if you’ve a real thirst for it. Go north.’

‘I’m not buying,’ Carver said.