They were staring at him. He dropped his head to his statement again. He found his place. He read on. A deeper silence worked into the room as he eliminated all possible causes for the accident—every passenger was sober; he was driving quietly. Twice he had to hack loudly to clear his throat and continue. He was sensitive to the slightest movement of the jurors out at his right; his eye shot up and searched the men each time, then came down again, his eye skittering over the paper he’d smoothed on the desk to prevent it from shaking.
As he neared the end of his evidence the blockage in his throat made it difficult to continue. He went on lumpenly for a time, then stood over his statement, his hand at his throat, unable to speak.
‘Take your time, Harry,’ said the policeman.
Harry did not look up. He tried to work saliva into his throat. In the quiet behind him he heard someone walking up from behind. It was Keane—the Reverend reached a cup of water forward for Harry.
‘Thank you,’ said Harry. He drank slowly. He set the glass down. He found his place again. ‘I was not driving fast. I was going along quietly. I know that part of the road very well. Where it happened, the road is very good. It is level there.’
He bent his head more, tried to hide his face somehow. The jury seemed to be leaning even closer, as if sensing that something conclusive was coming. ‘I have no idea why this accident happened,’ he said. ‘I can’t explain it at all. There is no reason.’
His voice was shaking; he breathed in slowly. ‘I am very sorry for it. I’ve never had a passenger die. I had got along only about a mile and a bit more. I had checked everything and I was driving carefully. I have never had trouble on that road. I’ve always made Tokomairiro—I’ve never had—’ He broke off. He pushed his palms against the desk. ‘There is no reason at all why that wheel came off. There is no reason why Mr Ryrie died. I am very sorry for Mrs Ryrie.’ He tried to smooth the statement on the desk but his hands were shaking badly.
He faced the officials. ‘That is the end of my statement, sir.’
‘Thank you, Harry,’ said the policeman. ‘The court will examine the coach shortly. You can stand down.’
Harry sensed the court breathing out. They sat back. They waited while Harry stood before the desk, folding his paper. Then they watched him as he walked to the back of the room.
After Harry, Reverend Keane gave his evidence. At first Harry could not lift his face to listen. He could not face anybody. He kept his eyes on the floor. But Keane’s voice pulsed on. It was gentle and pushing forward, as if the Reverend was eager to comfort the coroner and the jurors, to reassure them of something. Tall and lean before the desk he gestured with his hands while his voice went on.
‘I was on the roof,’ he said. ‘I had surrendered my seat to Mrs Ryrie. Harry Nettleford was the driver, as you know, and he was driving slowly. I can confirm he was sober—he is a good driver, I believe.’ Keane did not look at Harry as he said this. He maintained eye contact with the officials and the jury as he spoke, speaking consolingly to them all. ‘We had been travelling a while when the coach fell over. I was thrown from the roof and I landed on my shoulder, but I was not hurt badly at all. I was not injured—I make that clear.’
He used his hands and arms then to indicate how the coach had fallen and the path that Mr Ryrie’s body had taken, the way it lay under the box-seat railing. He was always tending forward as he spoke, swaying towards the men with the movements of his hands and the rhythm of his sentences. It soothed Harry to listen to this man as he talked and remembered so carefully.
But soon Keane was dismissed. He hesitated at the desk for a moment—he seemed to have something more to say—then, at a glance from the coroner, he turned to make his way back down. As he walked through the seats he was frowning, his eyes roving over the witnesses. Then he made eye contact with Harry, and it was shocking. In that moment, Keane’s face twisted; it seemed to twitch and flare, and Harry saw that the Reverend was not comfortable at all. The surging reassurance of his voice had been a trick. Keane was distressed.
Harry stared—then Keane had walked beyond him and lowered into a distant chair. Harry returned his attention to the floor.
The evidence concluded and the jury inspected the coach, then retired. A verdict of accidental death was issued, no blame attaching to anyone. The coroner thanked the jury, thanked Harry and the other witnesses, then dismissed them.
Harry left the makeshift courtroom without looking at anybody. He went through the dark of the pub’s main bar, then climbed the stairs. He had been provided with a room in the hotel for the night of the inquest, and he went up there now.
In his room a bowl of water and a towel stood on the washstand. He dipped his hands and scooped a double-handful of water against his face, letting the cold work into his skin. As he washed his face the water dripped from his fingers, making a plain and loud sound. He rinsed his face again and again.
Then he groaned and sank against the washstand. He crouched all the way down to the floor.
‘Ah God,’ he said. Water spilled to the floor as, sitting against the wall, he ground his hands into his eyes. He felt so dirty, so betrayed. He was covered in shame.
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 horse-change 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.’
‘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 be
side 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 it 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 animal’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 broken-backed 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.
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 sound, 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 freakish 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 that God sees—that He does not turn his head away. I’m saying it was not your fault. Absolution—I’m 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, 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 way that lets me off scot-free. Not at all.’
At this Keane resumed his frontways, 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.
I Got His Blood on Me: Frontier Tales Page 20