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. 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.’
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. ‘And 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 and 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 W
hoa.’
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 he 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.
‘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 high-falutin’ 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.’
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, but Harry felt the man’s eyes flick towards him and his head move in what might have been a nod or acknowledgement of some kind. Keane 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 race towards a stopping-point 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 Harry 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.’
I Got His Blood on Me: Frontier Tales Page 21