Eleanor Catton - The Luminaries

Upon clambering out of the skiff that had conveyed him from the steamer to the beach, Moody senior took a moment to stretch his back, shake out his aches and cramps, and pat his body down. He directed his luggage to a hotel on Camp-street, shook hands with the customs officer, who was standing by, thanked the oarsmen gruffly for their service, and finally set off down Revell-street with his hands locked behind his back. He walked the length of the street, up one side, and down the other, frowning into each window box he passed, scanning the faces in the street very closely, and smiling at no one. By now the crowd that had gathered outside the Courthouse had dispersed, and the armoured carriage containing Francis Carver’s body had returned to Seaview; the double doors were shut and locked. Moody senior barely glanced at the building as he passed.

At length he mounted the steps to the Hokitika Post Office, where, inside the building, he joined the queue to the postmaster’s window. As he waited, he retrieved a piece of paper from his wallet, and unfolded it, one-handed, against his breast.

‘I want this to find a Mr. Walter Moody,’ he said, when he reached the front of the queue.

‘Certainly,’ said the postmaster. ‘Know where he’s staying?’

As he spoke the bells in the Wesleyan chapel rang out five o’clock.

‘All I know is that he’s been in Hokitika these months past,’ said Moody senior.

‘In town? Or in the gorge?’

‘In town.’

‘At a hotel? Or is he tenting?’

‘I’d guess a hotel, but I couldn’t tell you. Walter Moody is the name.’

‘Mate of yours, is he?’

‘He’s my son.’

‘I’ll have a boy look into it, and charge you collect once we find him,’ said the postmaster, making a note of the name. ‘You’ll have to put a shilling down as surety, but if we find him to-morrow we’ll likely reimburse you sixpence.’

‘That’s fine.’

‘Would you prefer an envelope, or a seal?’

‘An envelope,’ said the other, ‘but hang a moment: I want to read it through one more time.’

‘Step aside, then, and come back when you’re ready. I’m shutting the window in half an hour.’

Adrian Moody did as he was bid. He smoothed the letter flat on the countertop, and then pushed it, with his finger, closer to the light.

Hokitika. 27.Apr.66

Walter—I beg you to read this letter to its very end, and to reserve your judgment upon me until you have done so. From my postmark you will have perceived that I am in Hokitika, as you are. I am to take my lodging at the TEMPERANCE HOTEL on Camp-street, an address which will no doubt cause you some surprise. You have long known that I have the Epicurean temperament. Now I am also of a Stoical cast. I have sworn that I will never take another drop of liquor in this life, and since this oath was made it has not been broken. It is in the spirit of repentance that I set down a brief account of those true intentions that my enslavement to the drink has occluded, even perverted, in recent years.

I left the British Isles on account of debt, and debt alone. Frederick your brother had an acquaintance upon the field at Lawrence in Otago, and by his report the prospects there seemed very good; Frederick had determined to join him. You were in Rome, and meant to winter on the continent. I decided to make the journey in secret, in the hope that I would return as a rich man before the year was out. I confess this was a decision made with shameful provocation, for there were several men in London and also in Liverpool whom I desired very much to escape. Before I left I portioned a sum of £20 for my wife—the very last of my savings. Much later I learned that this provision never reached its destination: it was stolen, and by the very man who was to be its bearer (the blackguard PIERS HOWLAND, may he live in shame and die in squalor). By the time I discovered this I was in Otago, half a world away; furthermore, I could not make contact without risking pursuit, even conviction, on account of crimes unpunished and debts unpaid. I did nothing. I counted my wife as abandoned, prayed that God would forgive me, and continued with Frederick on the fields.

We made only pay dirt during our first year in Otago. I have heard it said that the men of the comfortable classes have the worst of luck upon the diggings, for they cannot bear privation as the lower orders can. This was certainly true in our case. We struggled mightily and despaired often. But we persevered, and seven months ago your brother struck upon a nugget the size of a snuffbox, caught between two boulders in the elbow of a stream. It was upon this nugget that we were able to begin to build our fortunes at long last.

You might ask why we did not send this nugget home with our apologies and blessings; that question would be a good one. Frederick your brother had long been in favour of writing to you. He had urged me to make contact with my abandoned wife, and even to invite her to join us here, but I resisted. I resisted also his intimations that I should quit the devil drink and mend my ways. We had many arguments along this theme and finally parted on less than civil terms. I am sorry to say that I do not know where Frederick is now.

You have always been the scholar of the family, Walter. I am ashamed of a great many aspects of my life; but I have never been ashamed of you. In taking my oath of temperance I have confronted my true soul. I have seen myself truly as a man of weakness and of cowardice, easy prey to vice and sin of all description. But if I am proud of one thing it is that my sons are not like me in these degenerate respects. It is a painful joy for a father to say of his son: ‘That man is a better man than I’. I assure you I have felt this painful joy twice over.

I can do no more than to beg for your forgiveness, as I must also beg for Frederick’s, and to promise that our next reunion, should you grant me one, will be conducted ‘dry’. Good fortune, Walter. Know that I have confronted my true soul, and that I write this as a sober man. Know also that even the briefest reply would greatly cheer the heart of

Your father

ADRIAN MOODY

He read the letter twice over, then folded it into the envelope, and wrote his son’s name in large letters upon the front. His hand trembled as he capped his pen.

‘A Mr. Frost for Mr. Staines.’

‘Send him in,’ said Devlin.

Charlie Frost had a piece of paper in his hand. ‘Expenses,’ he said, looking apologetic.

‘Have a seat,’ said Devlin.

‘What’s the damage, Mr. Frost?’ said Staines. He was looking very tired.

‘Extensive, I’m afraid,’ said Frost, drawing up a chair. ‘Justice Kemp has ruled that Francis Carver’s dividend of two thousand and forty-eight pounds must be honoured. There’s a catch—the Garrity Group is to be repaid in full for the claim taken out against Godspeed —but the rest will go to Mrs. Carver, as Carver’s widow.’

‘How is she?’ Devlin said.

‘Sedated,’ said Frost. ‘Dr. Gillies and Mr. Pritchard are waiting on her, I believe; last I saw her, she was being escorted back to the Wayfarer’s Fortune.’ He turned back to Staines, flattening his paper on the desk. ‘May I itemise the expenses, briefly?’

‘Yes.’

‘As the party found guilty, you are responsible for all legal fees, including those incurred by Mr. Fellowes these months past, and including, also, Mr. Nilssen’s commission, since invested in the Seaview gaol-house—as you might remember, the Magistrate ruled that because it had been charitably donated, it would not be revoked. In total all of this amounts to a little over five hundred pounds.’