Gwenna the Welsh Confectioner

by Vicky Adin

  Gwenna said Johnno had driven off in the cart on the Thursday before Easter. Jack hadn’t seen him since the Monday before that. The boy had been missing for at least ten days, and Jack’s wagon now lay at the bottom of the gully.

  Elias hoped against hope that Jack had caught up with Johnno on that Sunday when he’d galloped away from the house – and that Jack had been driving when it went over – but Elias struggled to convince himself such a miracle had happened. His gut feeling told him the grisly remains would be identified as Johnno’s, never mind how many times he tried to rewrite the scene in his head.

  Maybe he should take the easy way out now – go home, and forget about the whole business. He felt sick at the thought of it all, but who was he kidding? Telling Gwenna and Bethan he’d found a rotting body he thought was Johnno’s was hardly the easy way out. In fact, he hoped he wouldn’t have to tell them at all. He hoped the authorities would get there first. It wouldn’t take the police long to put two and two together. They’d soon be knocking on the door of Jack’s house in Onehunga, and learn that Gwenna was married to the son. Mavis Milligan, if no one else, would be sure to tell them.

  “Stop being a coward, Elias Hughes,” he said out loud as he urged his horse into a canter. All he had was rumour and speculation. He needed to be sure of his facts, to know what had happened before he said anything to anyone. The question was: where should he start?

  If he went south to Mercer, or west through the small settlements of Franklin, searching for a solution, he could be away for weeks – if he could get anyone to tell a stranger anything. If he returned to Auckland, Dan might be more forthcoming; he owed Elias a debt of gratitude. Or he could leave the whole sorry affair to the police. Except the tingle that crept down his spine at the mention of Jack Jones remained.

  Indecision weighed heavily on his shoulders.

  In Auckland, he would have to face Gwenna.

  The dairy-farming town of Pokeno held little interest for him. While its monthly sales brought people from all around the district, the main sources of employment were the creamery, the railway station, where the post and telegraph offices were, and at William Dean’s flax mill. Although it had three churches, a town hall and a school, there was little else of note for travellers – apart from the general store. He didn’t expect the storekeeper to recall his name. All the confectionery was sold under the G Price & Family brand, and Hugh had done the deliveries.

  “Good afternoon,” said Elias to the man behind the counter. “My name is Elias Hughes.”

  “Brown. James Brown.” The storekeeper extended his hand. “And how can I help you?”

  “Do you know a man by the name of Dan Davies?”

  “I do, aye. What’s Dan been up to this time?” he chuckled.

  “He’s had a bit of an accident.”

  Elias proceeded to explain to James Brown what had happened at the top of the Razorback, and where he’d find his goods and the damaged, but movable delivery vehicle.

  “Thank you for telling me. I’d better get it seen to right away,” said James, untying his long white apron and calling for his wife to take over the store.

  Mr Brown, Elias learnt, was a member of the local road board, a piece of information that might be of use, even if Elias couldn’t yet see how.

  “That corner is treacherous,” said Mr Brown. “It’s been giving us cause for concern for a while. I guess we’ll have to look into it more thoroughly after this.”

  Elias wasn’t sure anyone should be ferreting around while Jack’s wagon was still in the bush – not until the police turned up – but he didn’t say anything. It wasn’t any of his business.

  “Before you go, can you tell me where Dan lives, or where I might find any of his acquaintances?”

  James Brown’s face darkened. “I can tell you where he lives, but his acquaintances are people I would prefer not to know. Davies is my odd-job driver. Ask at the Mercer pub. They might be able to help you better. Here.” James scribbled Dan’s address on a scrap of paper and handed it to Elias.

  Elias thanked him, and was about to leave when another question popped into his mind. “Do you employ other carriers sometimes then?”

  James Brown confirmed he did.

  “Any chance you know Jack Jones?”

  If Elias thought James Brown’s reaction to Dan’s friends was uncompromising, his response to the name Jack Jones was downright hostile.

  “I have nothing whatsoever to do with that man. He is despicable beyond words and is banned from entering these premises. Now, if you’ll excuse me ...”

  Outside on the verandah, Elias weighed up his options. He was no closer to finding Dan’s friends, nor learning what any of them might have heard about Black Jack or the accident. Someone definitely knew something. Bill had been adamant. Given the angle of the wagon, the lack of damage and the way the body lay face down underneath the tail end, Bill swore he’d not been alone at the time.

  * * *

  Elias glanced at his fob watch: three-thirty. He sighed with relief. It was too late to travel far and he could delay his return home for another day without any remorse. He remounted and turned his horse towards Tuakau, the town he liked best in this area. A smile creased his face. The Tuakau tavern attracted travellers from every direction.

  Back in the 1840s, when the place had a vibrant flax-milling industry – long before the wars with the Maori in the 1860s and the construction of the nearby Alexander Redoubt – the main landing area had been situated on the banks of the Waikato River. The centre of town had since moved a mile and a half or so inland where they’d built the railway station, which suited him better.

  Within the hour Elias had settled into his room, taken a bath and now stood in the bar room with a glass of whisky in his hand. The day was still not quite done, and he had the bar mostly to himself. Outside, the gathering clouds obscuring the setting sun had turned day into a gloomy twilight, which soon turned to darkness. Inside, while not as up to date as the Star in Otahuhu, the two-storey pub was comfortable, and he intended to make himself very snug. In fact, if the weather turned bad, he might stay another day.

  Ordering another whisky and ale, he sat in the armchair by the fireplace, letting his head fall against the wingback, and contemplated his day. His whole body ached, and his heavy limbs and tired mind cried out for rest, but he felt ill at ease. He didn’t care about Johnno Jones one way or the other, and less about his father, but finding a body like that had turned his stomach. And Bill’s comments worried him. It had looked like an accident, clean and simple, except he, too, sensed there was more to it.

  The bar started to fill and Elias recognised some of the men. The night ahead could be more interesting than he’d first anticipated. Soon after, seated in the dining room with half a dozen others, tucking into a hearty roast dinner with lashings of gravy and slabs of freshly made bread, Elias listened to the local gossip and waited for an opportunity to talk about Jack Jones.

  “Frost was lucky all the engines and machinery were saved from the fire at the flax mill back in February,” said Jim, the man opposite him. “At least he’s managed to keep everybody on while he rebuilds the sheds. Wouldn’t do to lose employment around here at the moment.”

  Elias had read about the fire but said nothing. The other men nodded and muttered about what little enough work was available.

  “Did you see the advertisement in the paper last week?” asked Frank from the end of the table. “The government is calling for tenders to build a bridge over the Waikato River just a couple of miles from here. Whoever wins the contract will need men to do the hard grunt.”

  Most of them had seen the notice; it had been the talk of the town. A few wild guesses were tossed around as to who might win it, and everyone hoped it would go to a local.

  “Bet it doesn’t,” muttered Will Cunningham, next to Elias. “I’ve heard that Orlando Wells bloke from Auckland is putting in for it. If he is, he’ll undercut anyone around here. Bet you any
thing he’ll win it.”

  More nods as the others agreed and contemplated what it would mean. Elias watched their spirits droop at the thought of outside workers coming into town and taking their jobs, until someone mentioned the local rugby match. Elias had little knowledge of the sport or the people involved, but was content to listen. In time, when everyone was relaxed and in a happy frame of mind after a few more drinks, he could start asking questions.

  He was beginning to think he’d been wasting his time when the conversation turned to a show the musical theatre group in Pukekohe had put on, the dance at the Pokeno hall, and the Papakura races, but none of it lasted long and his luck turned.

  Dinner finished, Will suggested they move to the lounge. Three men declined and said their farewells, which left Jim McFadyen and his brother Arthur, who hailed from Waiuku, Will Cunningham, whom Elias had come across before, and Frank, whom Elias didn’t know at all.

  With a fresh round of drinks lined up in front of them, the conversation turned to trade. Frank was a cabinetmaker, and Elias itched to talk about how he treated certain woods or the way he turned a shape or made a dovetail drawer, but such a conversation would have to wait. Jim and Arthur ran the local blacksmith and ironmongery, and Will Cunningham was a carrier. If anyone could tell him something, Will was the most likely candidate.

  “Don’t know’s as if I can survive much longer,” said Will, who was getting on in years. He had been a carter in the heyday of Mercer, when the boats brought the goods down the river as far as the township and travelled the rest of the way by land. “What with the railway through all the way now – and being extended every time I look – and the roads being improved, there’s more competition than ever. I’m getting past it all.” He shrugged and took a swallow of beer.

  The story was the same everywhere. The railway could ship goods faster, and the more places it went, the quicker and easier it became for people and their wares to get from place to place. In the early days, carriers had been needed to disperse products to farms and villages, and transport goods to and from the steamers calling in to the small harbour ports. These days, with more railway stations available, people could collect their own goods or hire a local man. Old-style, long-distance carters like Will and Jack Jones were in less demand than ever before.

  “Yeah, and a few of those cocky young ’uns who know nothing about carting get me mad,” said Frank. “The way they stack the goods is enough to make you cringe. It’s how things get damaged.”

  Elias agreed with him. Some woods, like kauri, although beautiful when turned into furniture, were soft and easily dented or scratched. Whatever the owner did with their furniture after delivery was their responsibility, but they wouldn’t accept goods which arrived damaged.

  “Although, it’s not so much damaged goods for us,” said Arthur. “It’s hard to damage most of the items we send out, but we have lost stock. The worst one for that was Jack Jones. Total scumbag. Don’t ever trust him.”

  Elias’s ears pricked at the name. His chance had come. His heart rate increased, but he took care not to show how important the answer was to him.

  “Did you have any dealings with Johnno Jones?”

  “Some,” said Jim. “He’s a nice lad. Not cut out to be his father’s dogsbody, though. He should get hisself away from his ol’ man.”

  “Yeah. I’ve met him a few times,” added Frank. “Got a right cheeky grin. Unlike his old man, grumpy, bad-tempered bugger that he is.”

  So far, Elias had learnt nothing he didn’t already know. “Yeah, even in Auckland I’ve heard rumours about Jack. Didn’t know if any of ’em were true or not.”

  “Believe me, whatever they are, they’re true.” Arthur sounded distinctly testy.

  “How d’ya know if you don’t know what they are?” Elias hoped the leading question would draw out the information he needed, but Arthur would not be drawn. His lips tightened and deep frown lines creased his brow.

  His brother Jim answered for him. “Trust us. We know – he swindled our poor aunt. I won’t go into the details, but we’re more than willing to make sure his reputation goes before him and he never works in our area again.”

  Elias didn’t want to sound too inquisitive but, needing to keep the discussion going, he pushed the brothers. “I’d heard he was a hard-nosed moneylender. Why did your aunt need money from the likes of him?” said Elias, interlacing his fingers to steady his nerves.

  Arthur sat forward in his chair, pointing his finger, and snarled. “Are you accusing us of neglecting our family? Because if you are, I’ll call you out on that.”

  Hands up in surrender mode, Elias tried to pacify the man. “Not at all, mate. Not me. There’s no love lost between ’im and me neither.”

  Arthur and Jim visibly relaxed. The brothers eyed each other and then glanced at the other men. Arthur nodded.

  “We’ve heard a few stories,” said Jim. “’Twas thanks to Johnno he got any carting work at all. But nobody’s seen neither one for weeks now. The boy’s done himself a disservice there, he has. People aren’t gonna hang around waiting for him to turn up to get their goods sent off.”

  “From what I hear, it’s not unusual for Black Jack to disappear,” said Frank. “If he’s not been seen in a while, you can count the days before you hear about another swindle.”

  Elias considered this new information. If Jack Jones was as devious as everyone said, was there a chance Jack had sent his own wagon over the top and he and Johnno were in hiding together somewhere? But then who was the body lying underneath? The more Elias thought about it, the more unlikely it became, but he was grasping at any idea to avoid telling Gwenna he thought Johnno was dead.

  “Someone’s going to get him one day, that’s for sure,” said Arthur. “I’ve heard lots of talk about it. Sooner or later the talk’ll stop. Someone will get riled up enough to take the law into their own hands.”

  “As long as it’s not you, Art,” said his brother.

  “That’s fighting talk,” said Elias. “Do you honestly believe someone would attack him?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me if they did,” said Will. “He’s cheated too many people for too long. He’s done for, one way or the other. He won’t work around here again. He’ll have to move to new pastures.”

  Jack Jones was more disliked than Elias had thought, but none of this was helping him find out what or who had forced Jack’s cart off the road. “Do any of you know Dan Davies?” Elias threw out another hook.

  “The guy who drives for Jim Brown in Pokeno sometimes?” queried Frank.

  “Yeah, that’s the fellow. Me and a few others just fished him out of the bush up the Razorback.” Elias explained about the accident, which sent the conversation off track while they discussed the dangers of the road, and that corner in particular, and what the road board should do to improve matters. Everyone had an opinion on the state of the roads and the conversation turned to the chaos cyclists caused.

  “Ridiculous things,” said Will. “Give me a horse any day.”

  “I like cycling,” said Frank. “It’s more convenient.” Will grunted, but Frank ignored him. “A bicycle has lots of advantages over a horse: it’s easier to store, you don’t need stables, or have to go out and catch it when you want it, and it doesn’t need feeding.”

  “Yeah, but they get in the way, and those bells scare the horses,” said Will, unconvinced. “Useless things. And you can’t carry anything on them, neither. Maybe around the towns they might work, but not on the open roads. I nearly ran one off the side the other day – wobbling around all over the place it was.”

  “I’ll agree with you on that one, I suppose,” growled Frank. “Bloody horses. But it’s the ruts created by the wheels on your wagons what causes the problem. Not t’other way round. Get stuck in one of those and you know all about it.”

  Sensing an argument brewing, Elias jumped straight in. “Talking about ruts, I spoke to Dan Davies before he got taken off by the doctor,” said
Elias, dragging the exchange back to the topic. “He was saying he’d heard rumours about Jack Jones getting his comeuppance, and now you fellas are saying the same thing. You got anything more specific to go on?”

  Suspicion appeared on Will’s face. “What’s with all the questions? Why d’ya want to know?”

  Elias shrugged as nonchalantly as he could even though his insides were churning. “Just curious. A man in the pub in Otahuhu warned me there’d been an accident on the same spot a week or two back. When we rescued Dan, we found a wagon down the bottom of the gully as well. Strange to have two go over in the same place, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. It’s a treacherous piece of road, specially in the wet,” said Will. “Whose wagon was it?”

  “Jack Jones’s,” answered Elias.

  “What!” exclaimed Will, spluttering over his beer.

  Disbelief echoed around the table.

  “So where’s Jack?” asked Frank.

  Elias tossed back his whisky. “Dunno,” he said and shuddered, either from the sharp taste of the alcohol or because of what he’d seen, but he hoped the distressing images he carried in his head would fade soon. “But there was a body lying underneath it.” His voice was almost a whisper.

  While all the talk had been going on around him, Elias had debated whether to tell the men about the body or not, but the story would come out soon enough and he could see no reason to keep it a secret. And he might get more information if he did. The shock on the men’s faces achieved what Elias had hoped for.

  “Are you saying Jack Jones is dead?” asked Arthur, almost gleefully.

  “No, I’m not. I’m saying we saw a body. The police’ll have to identify it. At least they know where to start.”

  Will checked to make sure no one else was listening. Leaning forward, he lowered his voice. “You’ll not get anyone admitting to knowing anything – and it might not mean anything – but ...” He tapped the side of his nose. “I overheard someone in the Drury pub say we wouldn’t have to worry no more. Him and his mates had made sure a certain scourge wouldn’t bother us again. They’d clinked their glasses together and toasted each other, and started talking about something else. No names were mentioned; nothing to give a hint about what they were talking about, but it’s got me wondering, that’s all. When you put it all together.”