James could not speak, but stared at Dr. Morice. Dr. Morice cleared his throat a couple of times, and said, “You have a new son, Mr. Inspector James.”
He felt the rush of relief that resembled a fresh coming down the Grey. “A son?”
Morice nodded. “Yes…a son. But I’m afraid I have something I must tell you…”
“Harry died,” said Louisa in a flat voice that he hardly recognized. “He was sleeping and I went up to his room, and when I touched him he was cold…”
“Harry? Harry is dead?”
“I’m very sorry, Mr. James, but I’m afraid he is. It happened on Friday, and the shock brought on your wife’s contractions early. She gave birth early this morning”
He pushed past Morice and towards the door of the bedroom. Harry, little Harry Timaru, who had been conceived in sorrow when Mary and Henry had died within weeks of each other in Timaru…they could scarcely think of a name to give him, and had used another form of Henry and the name of the town where they lived. James had been away at the goldfields and had come home to find his lovely Mary Elizabeth dead of pleurisy, at just eight years old. And Henry, not long past his second birthday had died a few weeks later. His body had swollen up until it was unrecognizable—dropsy—something he had never heard of in a child, a disease that affected men who drank too much, not an innocent child. The doctor had said it was his heart.
“I think it must have been his heart,” said Dr. Morice, echoing his thoughts. He had his hand on James’ chest, preventing him from entering the bedroom.
“His heart? Henry…”
“Your son,” said Dr. Morice. “Harry, was it not? Had he been tired, languid…?”
“Yes…yes, he had,” said James. Why had he not realized that it was not natural for a two-and-a-half-year-old boy to be sleeping constantly?
“And perhaps you noticed a blue tinge to his lips on occasion?”
James remember the blue he had seen in Harry’s lips when he carried the child home from the coach, and how cold he had felt. “Yes, once at least.”
“Ah then,” said Morice. “His heart, I expect. Not a strong heart. At least you can take comfort from knowing that there was very little we could have done. A child born with a weak heart is not likely to survive…”
“I take no comfort from that,” said James. He brushed away Morice’s hand and pushed open the bedroom door.
Elizabeth lay in the bed, her face away from him, looking at the wall. Beside the bed, Mrs. Bain and the other woman he had seen with her—a wet nurse he realized now, as Mrs. Heron had also recently given birth—were tending to the baby, trying to get it to attach itself to the breast of the wet nurse.
“William,” said Mrs. Bain sadly. “I’m so sorry you have to come home to this. Elizabeth has refused to hold or feed the child…”
“Elizabeth…”
She turned to look at him, her eyes dark and empty like stones.
“He’s just going to die William,” she said. “This boy is just going to die like all the others. I knew Harry was going to die, I knew he was ill…” She turned her face back towards the wall and began to cry.
He could no longer stand to be in the room. Pushing past the doctor he ran out onto the verandah and down the steps. His chest felt constricted, as if his own heart was about to fail, like Harry’s. He hurried along Richmond Quay, away from his house, the police camp, the Criterion Hotel, from everything he wanted to forget. At the end of the quay a rocky spit jutted out into the ocean and he made his way along it, stepping from rock to rock. When he had gone as far as he could he sat and looked back up the river to the town.
A barber, a dark mist that presaged an icy blast of wind down the river, was forming between the ranges and he could already feel the chill in his bones. He put his hands under his arm pits and huddled down. The tide was coming in, and dark waves crested in front of him, the same incoming tide that had slowed him on his way from the Teremakau less than an hour ago, but a lifetime past. This was how it felt when all emotions had been drained from you. He understood why Mr. Rees had cut his own throat, and why so many other men—and women—had commit suicide when all alternatives seemed impossible. The dark water drew him forward, and he imagined himself sinking into it, and into forgetfulness. But he did not move towards it. How would Elizabeth manage without him? And what would happen to Louisa, already wounded by the loss of her sister and brother in Timaru, and now another brother? He could not leave Elizabeth alone with Louisa and their new son.
Five children he had lost.
The newborn James in fifty-five, up in Carisbrooke, and then one-year-old William in fifty-eight, in Korong, of diarrhea. They had left the gold fields and the force, taking Henry and Mary Elizabeth, their surviving children with them, and gone south to Melbourne. Louisa was born in Sale the following year. Then Shearman had recruited him to the new Canterbury force, and they’d come to New Zealand, with the two girls and Henry, to start afresh.
But in Timaru, less than a year after they arrived, Mary Elizabeth had died of pleurisy, followed within weeks by an already-weak Henry with dropsy. Elizabeth had been desperate to leave Timaru, had wanted to return to Victoria to be with her sister Susan. But he wouldn’t return to Australia. He would get ahead in New Zealand, he knew he would. Eventually she’d agreed to him requesting the posting to the gold escort. Now, here they were in Greymouth and another child had died. Where could they go? Could he start anew one more time?
The cold wind of the barber had started to intensify. If he sat here much longer he would die of pleurisy himself. He looked back at the town, with the half-built seawall already crumbling from the constant onslaught of the river, Mawhera Quay lined with hotels overflowing with drunken diggers, smoke rising from iron chimneys that might catch fire at any minute, and everywhere, normal working people going about their business who needed to be protected from the likes of Burgess and Kelly. It was not the most beautiful town in New Zealand, but the sense of responsibility he felt for it was overwhelming. He would stay in Greymouth and he would continue to do his very best to make the town another Ipswich, or Plymouth, or Swansea or Blackpool. He would see a newer, better England built in this new land of his. Once more, he would make Elizabeth understand.
He walked briskly back towards his house. Elizabeth would endure, as she always did. And he would do his best to make sure his two surviving children led better lives than their parents.
Dr. Morice and Mrs. Heron had left, and Mrs. Bain was seated awkwardly in the kitchen holding a tiny bundle in her arms, rocking him from side to side.
“Hello William,” she said. “Did you want to see your new son?”
For a moment, he felt the way Elizabeth must feel. Why should he hold the boy? He would just die. But he fought off the feeling and held out his arms. The boy looked up at him for a few seconds, with an intense blue gaze that he recognized as his own, then his eyes drooped and he was asleep.
“Thomas,” said James, looking down at his son. “Thomas Harvey. That’s a good honest name.” He took the baby into the bedroom where Elizabeth lay, now fast asleep with Louisa beside her, pressed against her mother’s back, and sat on the seat by the window. When Elizabeth awoke, he would hand her the boy, tell her the name he had chosen, and insist that she put him to her breast. He would remind Elizabeth how strong she had always been and how she must continue to be strong. She might not love the boy, but she would do her duty to him, to both of them. She always did.
30
Wanganui, 1888: Memento Mori
He was home finally. His legs were aching again and his stomach churned as it tried to digest the cheese and onion sandwich and the ginger beer. As he had half expected, Elizabeth was sitting on the steps of the verandah of the new house on the corner of Halswell Street, a stone’s throw from the old house, a shawl around her shoulders to keep out the cold. Her hair, steel grey now and held back in a loose bun, had kept its colour more than his, but her face was deeply lined from the stron
g New Zealand sun. She looked beautiful. Charlie, as always, was flopped by her side…not the same Charlie he had owned in Greymouth, but his seventh Charlie: an Australian Shepherd, as the dogs were now called.
“There’s Mrs. James,” said Crozier. “She looks very contented.”
“Would you like to join us for…” he had been going to say a drink, but remembered Crozier’s dislike of alcohol, so said instead, “for a cup of tea?”
Crozier shook his head. “I’d best be getting back,” he said. He nodded and smiled at Elizabeth and placed the testimonial beside her on the step. “Best of luck for the future, Mr. Inspector James. And I hope I didn’t bother you with all my questions.”
“Not at all,” said James. “I enjoyed talking with you. Thank you for carrying the testimonial home. I shall think of you every time I see it. And…take care of those boys of yours now.” He sat down beside Elizabeth.
Elizabeth turned the testimonial towards herself. “This is very nice,” she said. “And look—everyone has signed it. You must feel better, William, knowing that your men hold you in such high regard.”
James caught her eye, and she smiled. She was laughing at him. She, more than anyone, knew how much he felt the irony of receiving a testimonial when he’d been pushed from his job.
“Well old girl,” he said. “You’re going to see a lot more of me for the next while.”
She put her hand through his arm and squeezed. “You know I’ll enjoy having you at home with me. You can work on the new garden…there’s a lot to be done. Oh…there’s a letter for you from the council…I put it on your Davenport. Perhaps they have some work for you.”
“I did request an appointment as Justice of the Peace,” he said. “I’ll look at it later.”
She reached behind herself and pulled out an old newspaper. “I found this on your Davenport. An old Lyttelton Times. Have you been reading it? It seems so long since we were in Timaru. Twenty years, it must be.”
“Twenty-three,” he said. “Yes, I found it this morning when I was clearing out the desk. I put it there when we were in Timaru, found it again in Greymouth, and put it back, intending to read it later. It’s an old report to the government on the best route for the road across the mountains. Written by George Dobson, before we went to Greymouth, before we had any idea that we would be going there…”
She looked at the date on the paper. “You must have put it there just after Mary died,” she said. “When I was so desperate to go back to Victoria, and you thought we should move forward not backwards.”
He took her hand in his. “It hasn’t been so bad since then, has it?”
“Not so bad, no,” she said. “Although it seemed that every time I fell pregnant we moved somewhere, so I hope this move…”
He laughed. “We’re getting a bit old for that.”
“Anyway, I was reading this paper…have you read it yet?”
“Read it to me,” he said.
She folded the paper in half and held it away from her face. “I’ll try. My eyes aren’t what they were. I’ll read the part at the end. It’s his daily notes I think, and reads like an adventure—something from King Solomon’s Mines
March 7. After breakfast Anderson asked if I would give him enough provisions to carry him to the diggings, which I consented to do, knowing the uselessness of arguing with a man touched with the yellow fever. Russell, however, determined to stay with me, and see me back over the range. I was much pleased with his conduct, as, had he left me, I should have been obliged to give up all further explorations and return alone. Taking with us a week’s provisions, we followed up the east branch of the Otira, where for a long way up we had easy walking; but the hills at last closing in, a rough scramble of about two miles, over boulders and through bush, brought us to the foot of a saddle, up which we had to climb on our hands and knees. On reaching the top I saw by the character of the bush, that we were looking down the east side of the range, so followed down the creek, which rises from the saddle, until we came to the bush where we camped. This saddle, which I have called the ‘Goat’s Pass,’ must be immensely high, as the bush does not grow to within several hundred feet of the summit.
She stopped and looked at James. “Shall I continue? There’s more…”
He nodded, his eyes closed, and she read on:
March 8, —Followed the creek bed as far down as possible, and then took to the bush, but, unfortunately, taking the wrong side of the creek, became entangled amongst a mass of cliffs covered with thick bush out of which we had some difficulty in extricating ourselves, having to throw our swags down through the bush, and lower ourselves after them by the branches of the trees. On getting into the open river-bed, I saw that we were in the east branch of the river Bealey, and throwing away the remainder of our provisions, we started off at a good pace, determined to reach Messrs. Goldney’s station that evening, having walked from the Teremakau in two days. From this place, I was obliged to drive to town, having lost my saddle horse, and being delayed by heavy rain on the 9th and 10th, which caused an unusually high fresh in the river Kowai; did not reach town until late in the evening of Saturday, the 11th of March.” Dobson’s Exploration., Lyttelton Times, Volume XXIII, Issue 1372, 14 March 1865
“He goes on to recommend Arthur’s Pass—the route he named after his brother,” she said. “He sounds like a bright young man, doesn’t he? And very brave and strong.”
“I think he was,” said James. “I wish I’d know him. I always felt drawn to him, almost as if he was my son. I’ve been thinking about his…”
Elizabeth squeezed his hand. “Best not to dwell on the bad parts of the past. I saw him, you know, when he was alive.”
“You did?” asked James, surprised. “You never said…”
“Didn’t I? I suppose we had some other things to think about then, didn’t we? Yes, I saw him with his crew. There must have been twenty or thirty of them. They were passing through town towards the lagoon…going to repair the Hokitika road, I think. Or perhaps that was when they were building it, I’m not sure. Some of the men were on horseback, and some in drays with the equipment. Mr. Dobson was walking with another man at the rear of the procession. They were talking very animatedly, and he was waving his arms around. I thought he looked like such a lively, confident young man. He had his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and he was wearing a broad brimmed hat, and his face was quite rosy from the sun…but the thing I noticed the most was that although he seemed so much younger than the man he was talking to, that man, whoever it was, seemed to be deferring to him. You could tell that he…Mr. Dobson…was the man in charge.”
He wanted to talk to her about the past, about all the dead boys, and Mary Elizabeth. They had never really talked about it. “We had some hard times…” he began, and he saw her frown.
The door behind them opened and a young woman came out. She was dressed in a pink muslin dress with a morning wrapper on top, and was carrying a large feather duster.
“What on earth are you two doing, sitting on the step holding hands. I quite thought it was a pair of young lovers I saw here.”
“Annie,” said James. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“I came to help mum clean out the cupboards, but I sent her outside. I can work faster by myself,” she said. Elizabeth Mary James, known as Annie, born two years after Thomas, when Elizabeth was forty-one. Their miracle daughter.
Elizabeth reached up and pulled at Annie’s skirt. “Sit with us for a minute,” she said. “We were about to get maudlin, thinking about the past, and you must stop us.”
Perhaps it was for the best. He moved over, and Annie sat down between them.
“Now, you can each hold one of my hands, and stop looking like a pair of foolish old lovers. Just so wrong at your age.”
“Just wait until you and your Mr. Field reach our age,” said Elizabeth. Annie blushed scarlet and pulled her hand away. “Frederick…Mr. Field means nothing to me,” she said. “Just becau
se I danced with him…”
“We’ll see,” said Elizabeth.
James could see his daughter biting her lip, her cheeks still red. A wedding coming up. Better get moving on the Justice of the Peace request. He was clearly going to need the money.
“Here comes Thomas,” Annie said suddenly. “You can tease him about who he’s been dancing with…”
James eyes weren’t as sharp as his daughter’s. He put his hand over his eyes to shade them and peered down the path along which he had so recently walked. The sun was in his eyes but he could see the faint outline of a man walking towards him. He was walking briskly, and carrying something over his shoulder. A compass case? No, it was an architect’s blueprint tube, held on a leather strap. He smiled to himself and thought, “Neither man nor boy.”
It was his son, coming home.
31
Afterword
William Henry and Elizabeth James moved to Auckland a few years after he was forced into retirement, first selling most of their furniture at auction. My impression of him grew partly from the two pianos and the many paintings and sculptures he owned and put up for auction. I also found several mentions of his pen and ink sketches and an article about him painting scenery for a backdrop of a play his daughter Annie was involved in. Notably, Louisa’s son, and the James’ grandson, Sir Erima Harvey Northcroft, was one of eleven judges on the International Military Tribunal for the Far East after the World War II.
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