morning after her arrival in Dunedin, Mrs. Wells had showed her the downstairs parlour, and Anna had loved it at once: the velvet booths, the green glass bottles behind the bar, the card tables, the gambling wheel, the small confessional with the saloon-style doors where Mrs. Wells occasionally told fortunes for a fee. In the daylight the room seemed somehow preserved: the motes of dust, trapped in the shafts of light that fell through the high windows, had a patient, potent feel. Anna was quite awed. At her mistress’s invitation, she stepped onto the podium, and spun the gambling wheel—watching the rubber needle clack, clack, clack, towards the jackpot, only to fall, with a final clack, past it.
Mrs. Wells did not invite her to attend the evening parties immediately. From her bedroom window Anna watched the men arrive, stepping down from carriages, removing their gloves, striding up the walk to rap upon the door; soon afterwards, cigar smoke began to seep through the floorboards into her room, lending a spicy, acrid tint to the air, and turning the lamplight grey. By nine the hum of conversation had thickened to a hubbub, punctuated by snatches of laughter and applause. Anna could hear only what came up through the floor, though every time someone opened the door to the downstairs passage the noise intensified, and she could make out individual voices. Her curiosity was roused to the point of disconsolation, and after several days she inquired of Mrs. Wells, very tentatively and with much apology, whether she might be permitted to tend bar. She now did so every night, though Mrs. Wells had imposed two regulations: none of the patrons was to address her directly, and she was not permitted to dance.
‘She’s raising your value,’ Wells explained. ‘The longer they have to wait, the more you’ll fetch, when it comes time to go to market.’
‘Oh, Crosbie,’ snapped Mrs. Wells. ‘Nobody’s going to market. Don’t be absurd.’
‘Farming,’ said Wells. ‘There’s an enterprise. I could be a farmer—and you could be my farmer wife.’ To Anna he said, ‘It’s quite all right. My old ma was a whore, God rest her.’
‘He’s only trying to frighten you,’ said Mrs. Wells. ‘Don’t listen to him.’
‘I’m not frightened,’ said Anna.
‘She’s not frightened,’ said Wells.
‘There’s nothing to be frightened about,’ said Mrs. Wells.
In fact Anna thought the dancing girls quite marvellous. They were incurious about her, calling her either ‘Sydney’ or ‘Port Jackson’ if they addressed her at all, but she did not possess pride enough to be offended; in any case, their air of weary indifference was a sophistication to which she privately aspired. They brought up the drinks orders from the gentlemen playing cards, and waited as Anna set out the glasses and poured. ‘A dash and a splash,’ they said, for whisky-and-water, and ‘a hard dash’, for whisky poured neat. When the drinks were poured, they slid the tray onto their hip, or hoisted it high above their heads, and sashayed back through the crowd, leaving behind them the powdery-sickly scent of greasepaint and perfume.
On the 12th of May the inhabitants of number 35, Cumberland-street rose early. The House of Many Wishes was to host a party that evening in honour of naval officers and ‘gentlemen with marine connexions’, and there was much to be done in preparation for this grand event. Mrs. Wells had hired a fiddler, and put in an order at the store for lemons, spruce liquor, rum, and several hundred yards of rope, which she planned to cut into lengths and plait, so as to adorn each table with a knotted wreath as a centrepiece.
‘I shall make the first wreath, as a template,’ she said to Anna, ‘and you can do the rest this afternoon: I will guide you through the steps, and show you how to tuck the ends away.’
‘Waste of a good Manila line,’ said Wells.
Mrs. Wells continued as if he had not spoken. ‘The wreaths look quite arresting, I think; one can never over-decorate at a themed event. If there is any rope left over, we can it pin up behind the bar.’
They were eating breakfast together—an infrequent occasion, for it was rare that Wells rose before noon, and Mrs. Wells had usually quit the place by the time Anna woke. Mrs. Wells seemed nervous; perhaps she was fearful for the success of the party.
‘They will look marvellous,’ Anna said.
‘What’s next?’ said Wells, who was out of humour. ‘A party for diggers—with a riffle-box on each table, and a tailrace from the bar? “In honour of the common man”, you could say. “A party for the unremarkable man. Gentlemen with no connexions whatsoever.” There’s a theme.’
‘Have you had enough toast, Anna?’ said Mrs. Wells.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Anna.
‘One of tonight’s guests is a decorated man,’ Mrs. Wells went on, changing the subject. ‘How about that? I think it will be the first time that I have played hostess to a naval hero. We shall have to ask him all about it— shan’t we, Anna?’
‘Yes,’ said Anna.
‘Captain Raxworthy is his name. He has a Victoria Cross; I do hope he wears it. Pass the butter, please.’
Wells passed the butter. After a moment he said, ‘Have you today’s
‘Yes, I read it already; there was nothing of consequence to report,’ said Mrs. Wells. ‘Friday papers are always light on the news.’
‘Where is it?’ said Wells. ‘The paper.’
‘Oh—I burned it,’ said Mrs. Wells.
Wells stared at her. ‘It’s still morning,’ he said.
‘I am quite aware that it is still the morning, Crosbie!’ she said, giving a little laugh. ‘I used it to light the fire in my bedroom, that’s all.’
‘It’s nine o’clock,’ Wells complained. ‘You don’t burn today’s paper at nine o’clock. Not when I haven’t even seen it yet. I’ll have to go out and buy another.’
‘Save your sixpence,’ said Mrs. Wells. ‘It was nothing but gossip. Nothing to report—I’ve told you.’ She glanced at the carriage clock—the second time she had done so in as many minutes, Anna observed.
‘I like a bit of gossip,’ said Wells. ‘Anyway, you know that I’m looking at making an investment. How am I supposed to keep up with the stocks, without the paper?’
‘Yes, well, it’s done now, and it won’t hurt you to wait until tomorrow. Have you had enough toast, Anna?’
Anna frowned slightly: Mrs. Wells had asked her this already. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Good,’ said Mrs. Wells. She was tapping her foot. ‘What fun we shall have, tonight! I love to look forward to a party. And naval men are so high-spirited. And terribly good storytellers. Their stories are never dull.’
Wells was sulking. ‘You know I spend my mornings with the paper. I do it every day.’
‘You can catch up on the
‘Why didn’t you burn that, then?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Crosbie!’ snapped Mrs. Wells. ‘I’m sure it won’t do you any harm to occupy yourself in some other way. Read a settler’s pamphlet. I have a store of them on the bureau downstairs.’
Wells drained his coffee and set his cup down with a clatter. ‘I need the key to the safe,’ he announced.
It seemed to Anna that Mrs. Wells stiffened slightly. She did not look at her husband, but concentrated on buttering her toast; after a moment, she said, ‘Why is that?’
‘What do you mean, why? I want to look at my dust.’
‘We had agreed to wait until a more prudent time to sell,’ said Mrs. Wells.
‘I’m not selling anything. I just want to take stock of my affairs, that’s all. Go through my papers.’
‘I’d hardly call them “papers”,’ said Mrs. Wells, laughing slightly.
‘What else?’
‘Oh—you make it sound so grand, that’s all.’
‘My miner’s right. That’s a paper.’
‘What need could you possibly have for your miner’s right?’
He was scowling. ‘What is this—a royal inquisition?’
‘Of course not.’
‘It’s what they are,’ said Wells. ‘Papers. And there’s a letter in there I’d like to read over.’
