Eleanor Catton - The Luminaries

‘Halved, and halved again,’ said Staines.

‘Yes; I’m afraid you will find that a common theme with legal expenses. There’s more. You have also been sued for damages by a great many diggers, in both Kaniere and the Hokitika Gorge. I don’t have the exact sum for you yet; but I’m afraid it’s likely to be dozens of pounds, perhaps hundreds.’

‘Is that everything?’

‘In terms of official expenses, yes,’ said Frost. ‘There are several unofficial matters to discuss, however. Do we have time?’

‘Do we have time?’ said Staines to Devlin.

‘We have until the carriage gets here,’ said Devlin.

‘I will be quick,’ said Frost. ‘As you may be aware, the gold extracted from Anna’s orange gown is still stowed beneath Mr. Gascoigne’s bed. Anna owes a debt of some hundred and twenty pounds to Mr. Mannering, and she had thought to repay this amount with the pure colour extracted from the orange gown. I had the idea, however, that you might like to take on her debt to Mr. Mannering, and arrange for Mr. Mannering to be repaid out of your share of the bonanza, as an itemised expense. That way Anna will have something to live on, you see, during the months where you’re in gaol.’

‘Good,’ said Staines. ‘Yes—do that. Just as you say.’

Frost made a note of this. ‘The second matter,’ he said, ‘is the bonus owing to Mr. Quee. We must keep up the sham that the fortune originated on the Aurora, you see, and every man who comes upon a bonanza deserves a reward.’

‘Of course,’ said Staines. ‘A bonus.’

‘I am given to understand,’ Frost continued, ‘that Mr. Quee is desirous to return to China once his Company indenture expires; furthermore, he wishes to return with exactly seven hundred and sixty-eight shillings in his pocket. According to Mr. Mannering, he has long set his mind upon this precise figure. I believe it is of some personal or spiritual significance to him.’

Ordinarily this curiosity would have tickled Emery Staines extremely, but he did not smile. It was Devlin who exclaimed, ‘Seven hundred and sixty-eight shillings?’

‘Yes,’ said Frost.

‘What a fastidious thing,’ said Devlin. ‘What does it augur—do you know?’

‘I am afraid I do not,’ said Frost. ‘But if I might make a suggestion’—turning back to Staines—‘perhaps your bonus payment to Mr. Quee ought to be enough to realise this ambition.’

‘What does it come to, in pounds?’

‘Thirty-eight pounds, eight shillings,’ said Frost. ‘Roughly one percent of four thousand, and one percent is a reasonable rate for a goldfields bonus, especially given that Mr. Quee is Chinese. As a gesture of good faith, you also might wish to consider buying him out of his indenture, and facilitating his passage home.’

Staines shook his head. ‘I never thought of him, did I?’

‘Who?’ said Frost.

‘Mr. Quee,’ said Staines. ‘I simply never thought of him.’

‘Well, he did us all a very great favour this afternoon, in keeping our secret, and now we have a chance to do him one, in return. I have spoken to Mr. Mannering already. He is content to accept an early termination of Mr. Quee’s contract, and has costed it at my request. If you pay Mr. Quee a bonus of sixty-four pounds, then all expenses should be adequately covered.’

Staines brought his shoulder up to his cheek, and sighed. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘All right.’

‘Now: the third financial matter.’ Frost coughed slightly. ‘When we first—ah—came upon the fortune, back in January, Mr. Clinch made me a present of thirty pounds, as a gift. I’m afraid I spent it, and I have not the means to repay even a penny of it. I wonder if I might impose upon your generosity, and list those thirty pounds as bank expenses.’ He said all this very fast, and then added, ‘As a loan, of course: I’d repay it by the time of your release.’

‘Here’s the carriage,’ Devlin said, rising.

‘That’s fine,’ said Staines to Frost. ‘Pay it out—just as you say. It doesn’t matter.’

Frost exhaled, full of relief. ‘Thank you very much, Mr. Staines.’ He watched as Devlin escorted Staines from the cell. When they reached the doorway he said, raising his voice a little, ‘First thing to-morrow, I’ll send you up an itemised receipt.’

The chapel bells were ringing out seven o’clock as Walter Moody folded the last of his fine clothes into his trunk, closed the lid, and secured the hasp. Rising, he checked the flies of his yellow moleskin trousers, tightened his belt, touched the red kerchief that was knotted about his neck, and finally, reached for his coat and hat—the former a plain woollen garment, cut almost to his knees, and the latter, a heavy soft-crowned thing with a wide waxed brim. He donned both, slung his swag onto his back, and left the room, removing the key from the lock as he did so.

During his absence his trunk was to be kept at Clark’s Warehouse on Gibson Quay, to which place his private mail, if he received any, would also be directed. To finance this relocation, he left three silver shillings at the Crown front desk, along with his key. He slipped a fourth shilling into the hand of the Crown maid, folding her small yellow hand in both his own, and thanked her very warmly for the three months’ service and hospitality she had provided him. Quitting the Crown, he turned down the narrow path that led to the beachfront and at once began walking north, his swag clanking on his back, his tent roll bumping the backs of his legs with each step.

He was no more than two miles out of Hokitika when he perceived that he was walking some ten paces ahead of another man, similarly clad in the digger’s habitual costume; Moody glanced back, and they acknowledged one another with a nod.

‘Hi there,’ said the other. ‘You walking north?’

‘I am.’

‘Heading for the beaches, are you? Charleston way?’

‘So I hope. Do we share a destination?’

‘Seems we do,’ the other said. ‘Mind if I fall into step?’

‘Not at all,’ said Moody. ‘I shall be glad of the company. Walter Moody is my name. Walter.’

‘Paddy Ryan,’ said the other. ‘You got a Scottish tongue on you, Walter Moody.’

‘I cannot deny it,’ said Moody.

‘Never had any trouble with a Scot.’

‘And I have never quarrelled with an Irishman.’

‘That makes one of you,’ said Paddy Ryan, with a grin. ‘But it’s the truth: I never had any trouble with a Scot.’

‘I’m very glad of it.’

They walked on in silence for a time.

‘I guess we’re both a long way away from home,’ said Paddy Ryan presently.

‘I’m a long way from where I was born,’ said Moody, squinting across the breakers to the open sea.

‘Well,’ said Paddy Ryan, ‘if home can’t be where you come from, then home is what you make of where you go.’

‘That is a good motto,’ Moody said.

Paddy Ryan nodded, seeming pleased. ‘Are you fixing to stay in this country, then, Walter? After you’ve dug yourself a patch, and made yourself a pile?’

‘I expect my luck will decide that question for me.’

‘Would you call it lucky to stay, or lucky to go?’

‘I’d call it lucky to choose,’ said Moody—surprising himself, for that was not the answer he would have given, three months prior.

Paddy Ryan looked at him sidelong. ‘How about we share our stories? Make the road a little shorter that way.’

‘Our stories? Do you mean our histories?’

‘Ay—or the stories you’ve heard, or whatever you like.’