The gold, shaken out of the folds, shone gloriously. Anna collected it in the centre of the table. She was careful not to let the dust scatter in the draught. Each time she added another handful of dust, or another nugget, she cupped her hands over the pile, as if to warm herself upon the shine. Gascoigne watched her. He was frowning.
At last she was done, and the dress was emptied.
‘Here,’ she said, taking up a nugget roughly the size of the last joint of Gascoigne’s thumb. She pushed it across the table towards him. ‘One pound one shilling: I haven’t forgotten.’
‘I will not touch this gold,’ said Gascoigne.
‘Plus payment for the mourning dress,’ Anna said, flushing. ‘I don’t need charity.’
‘You might,’ said Gascoigne. He sat down on the edge of the bed and reached into his breast pocket for his cigarettes. He flipped open the silver case, plucked out a cigarette, and lit it with care; only after it was lit, and he had taken several lungfuls, did he turn to her, and say,
‘Who do you work for, Miss Wetherell?’
‘You mean—who runs the girls? Mannering.’
‘I do not know him.’
‘You would if you saw him. He’s very fat. He owns the Prince of Wales.’
‘I have seen a fat man.’ Gascoigne sucked on his cigarette. ‘Is he a fair employer?’
‘He has a temper,’ Anna said, ‘but his terms are mostly fair.’
‘Does he give you opium?’
‘No.’
‘Does he know you take it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who sells you the stuff?’
‘Ah Sook,’ said Anna.
‘Who is that?’
‘He’s just a chink. A hatter. He keeps the den at Kaniere.’
‘A Chinese man who makes hats?’
‘No,’ Anna said. ‘I was using local talk. A hatter is a man who digs alone.’
Gascoigne paused in his line of questioning to smoke.
‘This hatter,’ he said next. ‘He keeps an opium den—at Kaniere.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you go to him.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Yes.’
‘Alone.’ He spoke the word accusingly.
‘Most often,’ Anna said, squinting at him. ‘Sometimes I buy a little extra, to take at home.’
‘Where does he get it from? China, I suppose.’
She shook her head. ‘Jo Pritchard sells it to him. He’s the chemist. Has a drug hall on Collingwood-street.’
Gascoigne nodded. ‘I know Mr. Pritchard,’ he said. ‘Well then, I am curious: why should you bother with Chinamen, if you could buy the stuff from Mr. Pritchard direct?’
Anna lifted her chin a little—or perhaps she merely shivered; Gascoigne could not tell. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.
‘You don’t know,’ said Gascoigne.
‘No.’
‘Kaniere is a long way to walk for a mouthful of smoke, I think.’
‘I suppose.’
‘And Mr. Pritchard’s emporium is—what—not ten minutes’ walk from the Gridiron. Still less if one walked at a pace.’
She shrugged.
‘Why do you go to Kaniere Chinatown, Miss Wetherell?’
Gascoigne spoke acidly; he felt that he knew the probable answer to the question, and wanted her to say the words aloud.
Her face was stony. ‘Maybe I like it there.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Maybe you like it there.’
(For goodness’ sake! What had come over him? What did he care if the whore plied her trade with Chinamen or not? What did he care if she made the trip to Kaniere alone, or with an escort? She was a whore! He had met her for the first time that very evening! Gascoigne felt a rush of bewilderment, and then immediately, a stab of anger. He took refuge in his cigarette.)
‘Mannering,’ he said, when he had exhaled. ‘The fat man. Could you leave him?’
‘Once I clear my debt.’
‘How much do you owe?’
‘A hundred pounds,’ said Anna. ‘Maybe a little over.’
The empty dress lay between them, like a flayed corpse. Gascoigne looked at the pile, at its glimmer; Anna, following his line of sight, looked too.
‘You will be tried at the courts, of course,’ Gascoigne said, gazing at the gold.
‘I was only tight in public,’ said Anna. ‘They’ll fine me, that’s all.’
‘You will be tried,’ Gascoigne said. ‘For attempted suicide. The gaoler has confirmed it.’
She stared at him. ‘Attempted suicide?’
‘Did you not try and take your life?’
‘No!’ She leaped up. ‘Who’s saying that?’
‘The duty sergeant who picked you up last night,’ said Gascoigne.
‘That’s absurd.’
‘I’m afraid it has been recorded,’ said Gascoigne. ‘You will have to plead, one way or another.’
Anna said nothing for a moment. Then she burst out, ‘Every man wants his whore to be unhappy—every man!’
Gascoigne blew out a narrow jet of smoke. ‘Most whores are unhappy,’ he said. ‘Forgive me: I only state a simple truth.’
‘How could they charge me for attempted suicide, without first asking me whether I—? How could they? Where’s the—’
‘—Proof?’
Gascoigne studied her with pity. Anna’s recent brush with death showed plainly in her face and body. Her complexion was waxy, her hair limp and heavy with grease. She was snatching compulsively at the sleeves of her dress with her fingers; as the clerk appraised her, she gave a shiver that racked her body like a wave.
‘The gaoler fears that you are insane,’ he said.
‘I have never spoken one word to Gov. Shepard in all my months in Hokitika,’ said Anna. ‘We are perfect strangers.’
‘He mentioned that you had recently lost a child.’
‘Lost!’ said Anna, in a voice full of disgust. ‘Lost! That’s a sanitary word.’
‘You would use a different one?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your child was taken from you?’
A hard look came across Anna’s face. ‘Kicked from my womb,’ she said. ‘And by—by the child’s own father! But I suppose Gov. Shepard didn’t tell you that.’
Gascoigne was silent. He had not yet finished his cigarette, but he dropped it, crushed the ember with the heel of his shoe, and lit another. Anna sat down again. She placed her hands upon the fabric of her dress, laid out upon the table. She began to stroke it. Gascoigne looked at the rafters, and Anna at the gold.
It was very unlike her to burst out in such a way. Anna’s nature was watchful and receptive rather than declamatory, and she rarely spoke about herself. Her profession demanded modesty of the strictest sort, paradoxical though that sounded. She was obliged to behave sweetly, and with sympathy, even when sympathy was not owing, and sweetness was not deserved. The men with whom she plied her trade were rarely curious about her. If they spoke at all, they spoke about other women—the sweethearts they had lost, the wives they had abandoned, their mothers, their sisters, their daughters, their wards. They sought these women when they looked at Anna, but only partly, for they also sought themselves: she was a reflected darkness, just as she was a borrowed light. Her wretchedness was, she knew, extremely reassuring.
Anna reached out a finger to stroke one of the golden nuggets in the pile. She knew that she ought to thank Gascoigne in the conventional way, for paying her baiclass="underline" he had taken a risk, in telling a falsehood to the gaoler, keeping her secret, and inviting her back to his home. She sensed that Gascoigne was expecting something. He was fidgeting strangely. His questions were abrupt and even rude—a sure sign that he was distracted by the hope of a reward—and when she spoke he glared at her, quickly, and then glanced away, as if her answers annoyed him very much. Anna picked up the nugget and rolled it around in her palm. Its surface was bubbled, even knot-holed, as if the metal had been partly melted in a forge.