Otahuhu was a long journey on foot. The bends of the Great South Road changed beneath his heavy tread, from wet clay tracks, to shingle stretches, to swampy dips, to dry terracotta dust. Many of the road’s rises and bends carried memories of days working side by side with Abel. Shovels and picks, sore backs and blisters, and always Abel’s joy. They were content back then, building together, the army, friends, the road that took them so far away from the men they once were.
James’s stomach growled from the pressure of missed meals. He slapped it to stop the complaints. ‘No point bothering me ’bout it. Know what it’s like to do without, just get on with it.’
It could have been worse. The best the Queen’s army could do was prosecute him for sly-grogging and brawling at the front. No evidence of foul play against the surgeon or Abel held up, and they’d had to release him, though not without tattooing his shame on his wrist first. BC it read in bold black letters on his forearm – Bad Character. James gripped the bloodied patch of sleeve and felt the fresh sting of it. Tattooed, scarred and dishonoured – he hadn’t seen any of it coming.
Several supply carts passed him by. Drivers no longer whipped their horses with urgency. The Maoris were retreating deep into the belly of the Waikato. Still, James wasn’t keen on spending another night out there alone and he waved at every cart. None of them stopped. He was obviously injured, but each one, full or empty, rattled on by. In one cart a dog sat tall, swaying to and fro, open-mouthed, tongue flopped to the side. It wasn’t the first time James wished he were a dog.
He tucked a piece of loose bandage back into place. Not a soldier any more – he remembered with slicing disbelief. The drum-roll of yesterday’s humiliation still reverberated. The tug of buttons cut from his jacket in front of the entire assembly; being marched out of camp. The drums that rolled with anticipation and finished with a bardump-bump as two soldiers from his own company disarmed him and turned back. Bardump-bump: felt like his own heart could have stopped.
Five battles and nearly done – he couldn’t believe it. He should have joined the bushrangers when the others did. No Major Paul, and an allotment of land at the end of it. What an idiot: he’d been loyal to the army, and ended up with nothing but a few weeks’ pay.
He kept walking. Stretched his eyes to the farthest point of the road, focused on a tree or a rock, then set another marker as he passed each one. He tried to forget, but his hands had the habit of touching the naked edge of his jacket. Small tears cut into the fabric where brass buttons used to be. Shame slammed him again and he knew he’d have to take hold of it once and for all, lock it away where it wouldn’t bother him. He knew how to block things, stop them from hurting – his father had taught him that much.
‘No more,’ he said to himself. He was brave, a soldier, whether he wore the uniform or not.
Just as confidence began to return, a cold southerly rushed from behind and passed right through him. Mary-Jane. The question of her kept him walking.
James held his hands out in front. He’d never really noticed how they looked, but Mary-Jane liked them. Capable hands, she’d said. Capable of slapping your arse, he’d whispered in her ear.
Money, he decided, he needed money. DeRose owed him, owed him big for abandoning him too. Well, if he was anywhere, he’d be in Drury, and if he was in Drury, James knew where to find him.
The snorts of a bullock team came up behind; their hooves thumped the ground and red dirt feathered the air, coating everything. James moved to the side, holding the corner of his shirt over his mouth as they passed.
‘Whoa,’ the driver said, and it took some time for the team to respond.
James cupped his hands to see him against the lightness of the sky.
‘Driven a team before?’ the driver asked.
‘I have,’ James said, though he never had.
‘Heading to Drury. If you take the reins, you got a ride.’
James threw his swag into the back and sat up front. The bullocks were slow to start, so he snapped the reins on their backs the way he would a horse.
‘Heyup,’ the driver called, and the bullocks pulled harder. ‘Wake me when we’re there,’ he said, then climbed over the seat into the tray of the cart.
James motioned for the water bottle, and the man passed it up, along with his wide-brimmed hat, as if James was an old friend. The hat sat awkwardly on his head, so he tucked the reins under his boot and removed the bandage. Still the hat sat strangely, lopped to one side, fitted to the shape of another man’s troubles.
James took a good swig of water and ran his grit-laden tongue around the scaly edge of his lips, but it made little difference: the dirt the bullocks kicked up was going to keep him company the entire journey. After a while he got used to it and ground the dirt between his teeth for something to do. Hills rolled in on each other, blocking the view, and bloated clouds crept from the north, covering anything blue. On steep climbs it felt as though the sky bore down, narrowing the space between heaven and hell, claiming the space he needed to breathe.
Driving the team was easy enough; the bullocks knew the road and James could feel the anticipation in their eager pull for home. By evening, Drury came into sight and the warmth of oil lamps outside Farmer’s Hotel welcomed him. James flicked the reins on the backs of the bullocks as if to hurry them, but they needed no encouragement. The driver stretched and climbed to the front, taking the reins first, then his hat. There were no words. He simply sat smoking his pipe, and James found the silence of it somehow comforting. He jumped from the cart, retrieved his swag from the deck and tossed it over his shoulder. The driver pointed to the hotel as he passed. James waved for the driver to join him, but the man had no choice but to keep going: the bullocks had the smell of home and weren’t stopping for anyone.
Slanted light leaned away from the windows of Farmer’s Hotel. Rectangles of invitation widening into the street, warming the dusty path of passing men with the promise of refuge, light in the darkening sky. James pushed the door and stepped into the hum of induced happiness.
Molly Cummings worked the bar. She was a beauty, her fair hair piled in high loops, full breasts pushed up by corseted red velvet.
‘Lord, look what the cat dragged in,’ she said, waving him to the end of the bar. ‘In there.’
James moved into the side room, where Molly lit a lamp and closed the door.
‘Aren’t you a sight,’ she said in the honey-drip voice she put on for customers.
‘Bradford?’ James asked, unsettled by Molly’s closeness inside Bradford’s own bedroom.
‘Away till the end of the week. Visiting one of his other ladies, no doubt.’
James didn’t even try to look shocked; they all knew Bradford was no one-woman man.
‘Anyway, all the other rooms are full. Don’t worry, he’ll never know.’
James hesitated, understanding full well it was some kind of payback – Molly letting a nobody do the bold thing in Bradford’s bed while he did it in someone else’s.
Molly looked him over and tsked. She put her hands on his shoulders and flipped him around so she was at his back.
‘Over there –’ Her arm stretched past his face to a wash basin. ‘Clean yourself, then we’ll see about a girl and a drink, yes?’
‘DeRose about?’
‘Was here earlier in the week, I’ll see if I can find him,’ she said as she opened the door and left the room.
James carried the lamp to the basin. The lace-framed mirror showed a strange red dust-covered face. He lifted a piece of the lace just slightly. It was fine and silky against the thickness of his fingers. He held it out so the light caught it from behind and drew filigree patterns across the ceiling. James crossed himself and prayed, remembering Aileen.
His eyes opened and shifted back to his reflection. The lace fell back against the mirror with a fresh smudge from the dirt of his fingers. Was that really him? That rugged, hairy thing with the darkened skin? His father’s eyes looked back, and he knew the regiment had done nothing to tame the wildness of his blood. He turned side on and lifted his hair to see the track of stitches knotted together, tufts of hair like small plants growing from cracks. He reached down and scooped water onto his face, soaped himself and rinsed again, but even washed he looked dogged.
Molly opened the door awkwardly, her hands full of whiskey, bread and cheese. James came around to meet her.
‘Here, missus.’ He took the bottle and glasses, let her decide where to put the rest.
She pulled a table from behind a chair and placed the food down, then held her hand out for the coins. He was usually good for a room, but it had been a while and she wasn’t waiting for payment this time. James gave her enough for the whiskey and food, said he’d settle the rest depending on what he used. To Molly that meant one of her girls, and money for girls always made her happy.
‘Send one in, shall I?’
‘Soon enough.’
‘Don’t worry, we girls don’t mind a bit of dirt. Oh, and no sign of DeRose. Up in Auckland, they say, but you never know with that one.’ She swung the door open to leave again. ‘He could be anywhere.’
One of Molly’s girls slipped into the room like a quick breeze and settled on the bed beside James’s swag.
‘Help yourself,’ James said, and motioned towards the whiskey.
The girl jumped up, pulled the cork and drank straight from the bottle. Corner by corner James untied his swag. Inside a tin was the stolen razor.
‘I’ll do it for you if you like,’ the girl said.
‘Do it fine meself.’
The girl moved over to a chair and poured two glasses of whiskey.
‘My name’s Annie, in case you wanted to know.’
James nodded without looking; he’d seen her before, but she obviously didn’t recognise him. She placed a glass of whiskey and a chunk of cheese beside the basin for James, downed her own glass, then walked over to the window. The night air sucked the curtains out as she opened the sash. James bit into his cheese as Annie undressed in front of him. She was perfect, her body just as he remembered: firm, careless in its nakedness, seemingly unaware of its magnetism – or was that just a ruse?
The whiskey was good, not like the rubbish DeRose made. James felt the warmth rising with every mouthful. He turned to face the mirror again and groaned. Annie would have to wait. It was time. He removed his jacket and threw it on the floor like a disloyal friend. Piece by piece he grabbed at the thickness of his hairy face and razor-sliced ponytails of beard. Then he lathered up to finish it off. The blade skated down the naked skin of his cheeks until nothing was left, not even a mutton-chop, nothing to suggest he was ever a Royal Tiger.
He’d been wrong about being a born soldier: none of it belonged to him really, not the badges, the pack or the money. He touched the scar on his top lip. He hadn’t seen it for years, had almost forgotten about it.
‘Ugly bastard you are,’ he said.
He removed his trousers and shook them, sending dust clouds drifting. He wiped them down with the wet cloth as best he could, then dusted off his boots.
Annie seemed to have nodded off. She lay across the bed, the whiskey bottle still in her hand. James took the bottle and corked the top before she stirred. Half of it was gone already.
He knew he shouldn’t, but it would be the last time. He wouldn’t come down this way again, no need to go south any more, and Mary-Jane would never know. James spread Annie’s legs wide and had a good look before he crept across the top of her. Her eyes were still shut and he thought he heard a slight snore, but he didn’t care, she didn’t have to do anything, he was already aroused. Her body didn’t care either; it jerked to his thrusts but never once tensed in reaction to him. It felt good, the clean disconnection, the freedom from an overladen mind. It was over too soon, his feet firmly back on the floorboards, his eyes open to Bradford’s bedroom inside Farmer’s Hotel.
Annie rolled over in sleep and James covered her nakedness with the bedcovers. He put his pants and shirt on, but was reluctant to get back into the jacket that lay crumpled on the floor. He picked it up to remove his remaining coins, and counted the clinks as they landed one on top of another inside his trouser pocket.
There were too few of them to spare for the room, for Annie. What money he had he needed for Mary-Jane, if she’d still have him. Without DeRose to pay what he was due, he had no choice but to make a run for it, and if he was going to make a run for it, he may as well help himself to one of Bradford’s clean shirts.
At the end of the room the free-standing closet stood firm against James’s efforts to force the lock. As quietly as he could he chipped at the wood with his pocket-knife until the lock broke free. Inside were several white shirts and a blue jacket. James threw off his own shirt, pulled the starched freshness of a new one over his head and rolled the too-long sleeves into two casual cuffs. The jacket was fine and new – he could feel the stiffness of fresh wool – and the smell of fancy cologne tickled his nose. It would have been nice to own, but too much of a risk. Bradford would come looking for a jacket, and Otahuhu was too close for that. James tucked the ends of the new shirt into his trousers and moved away.
The corners of his swag came together awkwardly, covering the extra bulk of whiskey and bread. James checked the sleeping girl, then made for the window. Rising noises in the bar hid the sound of his clumsy exit. Something tore as his leg stuck halfway out and he fell into the garden.
‘God damn it,’ he said, lifting himself, but it wasn’t him that had ripped.
A flap of torn curtain caught in the evening breeze above his head, a white ghost illuminated in the glow of the room. James reached for his swag, which had landed safely in the bush beside him, and ran, not slowing until the sounds of Farmer’s Hotel dwindled away behind him.
The whiskey kept him company on his trek, steadied his nerves, warmed him in the coolness of the night. It was enough to keep him going, to reach Otahuhu before dawn. Six hours by foot – he knew that from the many times the regiment had marched it. He hated that he missed it – the regiment. He looked at his hands in the moonlight and remembered Mary-Jane’s words. Capable hands.
By the time he reached the cottage gate, he was beat. Mary-Jane caught sight of him through the front window. Beneath the tangle of pohutukawa limbs the morning sun lifted everything. Even her face with its wide-open surprise seemed too bright to be real. He had never let her see his emotions before, but his chin crinkled and his eyes fogged right there in front of her.
He dropped his swag and turned away, closed the gate. He felt her hands on his back, pulling him around. Such small delicate hands that cupped his face. He leaned down and felt her sweet kiss on his bare cheek.