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Sport 39: 2011
II
II
Harry was back at Taieri. It was the next day. He’d been returned there for the inquest; it was in the Taieri Hotel, in a backroom that smelled of pub. Harry sat in the middle area, the other witnesses equidistant from him. Reverend Keane was there too, and at the front were the coroner and a policeman; along the side was a jury.
The policeman stood and called the room to order. He explained how it would go. He hoped they would not be detained too long. He called Mr Ryrie’s brother.
This gentleman stood at the desk and confirmed the identity of the deceased, his locality, his profession, his age. He was younger than Mr Ryrie had been—he had more hair—yet the steady certainty ofpage 13 his voice had something of his brother in it, and Harry felt a return of the sick constricting of his throat that he’d felt since the accident. He squeezed his palms tight together and focused on the floor, avoiding what he could see of the brother—his back and shoulders, the collar starching into his neck-hair.
Even though they weren’t watching or listening to Harry, instead craning towards Mr Ryrie’s brother and the sergeant, Harry felt the presence of the jury at the side of the room as the evidence was given. He felt their attention. Of all the people Harry did not want to face in that room, those members of the jury were the worst. They were all ordinary men, all local, all watching and listening obediently.
In a short while he was called and he walked to the front and stood before everyone. He listened as the policeman gave him instructions. His fingers fumbled as he reached into his chest pocket, brought his statement forward and unfolded it loudly.
‘I am Harry Nettleford,’ he said, then paused.
Silently the court waited for him as he cleared his throat and began again. ‘I am a coach driver. I drive the Cobb & Co between Balclutha and Dunedin. I drove that coach yesterday. Before I set out from Otokia I looked over the coach and found everything was in order. There was no problem with the wheels or the axles. I checked them—no one had looked over the coach but the groom and me. The stableman—it was just the stableman and me. We did not oil the axles. There was nothing strange—nothing—’
‘Nothing out of the ordinary?’
Harry glanced at the policeman.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘There was nothing out of the ordinary. There was nothing strange.’ He returned his attention to his statement, his eyes swimming over it. He found the right place. ‘Mr Ryrie was on the far box-seat corner. Another man was in between. I can’t remember his name. We had got along about a mile and three quarters when the crash came.’
As Harry read through his handwritten sentences, he felt the attention of every single person in the room. He was the only person making any sort of noise. He could feel especially the presence of the jurors in their double-row at his right hand side. He felt them pressing towards him. He inched his finger along the page.
page 14‘I went looking for the axle-nut and found it down the side of the road. It was behind where the accident happened. It was about one hundred yards back. Here is the nut. You can check it. You can see it was not faulty at all. There is no way it could have caused the accident.’ Harry drew the axle-nut from his waistcoat pocket and the fresh tissue he’d wrapped it in. He went to hand it to the policeman, but a sharp look passed from the coroner to the sergeant. It seemed Harry had broken some protocol.
‘The court will examine it after the evidence,’ said the policeman.
‘Please take it from me,’ said Harry. ‘Please.’
The policeman glanced at the coroner, who studied Harry’s face, then nodded. The policeman came and scooped it from Harry’s hand.
‘Thank you,’ said Harry. ‘Will you show it to the jury?’
‘We will, Harry.’
Harry shot a look at the jurors. They looked attentive but inexpert. A couple looked like farmhands but some were indoor men—one had a clerkly look, another was very young. They would not know what they were inspecting. ‘The nut is a left-hand screw,’ he said. ‘That means it tightens as the wheel turns round. The thread of the screw is very deep. On Cobb & Co coaches it is deeper than on all other machinery that I know of. You will see that it’s not damaged at all. The axle was perfect too—except it was damaged from where it fell on the road.’
They were staring at him. He dropped his head to his statement again. He found his place. He read on. A deeper silence worked into the room as he eliminated all possible causes for the accident—every passenger was sober; he was driving quietly. Twice he had to hack loudly to clear his throat and continue. He was sensitive to the slightest movement of the jurors out at his right; his eye shot up and searched the men each time, then came down again, his eye skittering over the paper he’d smoothed on the desk to prevent it from shaking.
As he neared the end of his evidence the blockage in his throat made it difficult to continue. He went on lumpenly for a time, then stood over his statement, his hand at his throat, unable to speak.
‘Take your time, Harry,’ said the policeman.
Harry did not look up. He tried to work saliva into his throat. In the quiet behind him he heard someone walking up from behind. Itpage 15 was Keane—the Reverend reached a cup of water forward for Harry.
‘Thank you,’ said Harry. He drank slowly. He set the glass down. He found his place again. ‘I was not driving fast. I was going along quietly. I know that part of the road very well. Where it happened, the road is very good. It is level there.’
He bent his head more, tried to hide his face somehow. The jury seemed to be leaning even closer, as if sensing that something conclusive was coming. ‘I have no idea why this accident happened,’ he said. ‘I can’t explain it at all. There is no reason.’
His voice was shaking; he breathed in slowly. ‘I am very sorry for it. I’ve never had a passenger die. I had got along only about a mile and a bit more. I had checked everything and I was driving carefully. I have never had trouble on that road. I’ve always made Tokomairiro— I’ve never had—’ He broke off. He pushed his palms against the desk. ‘There is no reason at all why that wheel came off. There is no reason why Mr Ryrie died. I am very sorry for Mrs Ryrie.’ He tried to smooth the statement on the desk but his hands were shaking badly.
He faced the officials. ‘That is the end of my statement, sir.’
‘Thank you, Harry,’ said the policeman. ‘The court will examine the coach shortly. You can stand down.’
Harry sensed the court breathing out. They sat back. They waited while Harry stood before the desk, folding his paper. Then they watched him as he walked to the back of the room.
After Harry, Reverend Keane gave his evidence. At first Harry could not lift his face to listen. He could not face anybody. He kept his eyes on the floor. But Keane’s voice pulsed on. It was gentle and pushing forward, as if the Reverend was eager to comfort the coroner and the jurors, to reassure them of something. Tall and lean before the desk he gestured with his hands while his voice went on.
‘I was on the roof,’ he said. ‘I had surrendered my seat to Mrs Ryrie. Harry Nettleford was the driver, as you know, and he was driving slowly. I can confirm he was sober—he is a good driver, I believe.’ Keane did not look at Harry as he said this. He maintained eye contact with the officials and the jury as he spoke, speaking consolingly to them all. ‘We had been travelling a while when the coach fell over. I was thrown from the roof and I landed on my shoulder, but I was notpage 16 hurt badly at all. I was not injured—I make that clear.’
He used his hands and arms then to indicate how the coach had fallen and the path that Mr Ryrie’s body had taken, the way it lay under the box-seat railing. He was always tending forward as he spoke, swaying towards the men with the movements of his hands and the rhythm of his sentences. It soothed Harry to listen to this man as he talked and remembered so carefully.
But soon Keane was dismissed. He hesitated at the desk for a moment—he seemed to have something more to say—then, at a glance from the coroner, he turned to make his way back down. As he walked through the seats he was frowning, his eyes roving over the witnesses. Then he made eye contact with Harry, and it was shocking. In that moment, Keane’s face twisted; it seemed to twitch and flare, and Harry saw that the Reverend was not comfortable at all. The surging reassurance of his voice had been a trick. Keane was distressed.
Harry stared—then Keane had walked beyond him and lowered into a distant chair. Harry returned his attention to the floor.
The evidence concluded and the jury inspected the coach, then retired. A verdict of accidental death was issued, no blame attaching to anyone. The coroner thanked the jury, thanked Harry and the other witnesses, then dismissed them.
Harry left the makeshift courtroom without looking at anybody. He went through the dark of the pub’s main bar, then climbed the stairs. He had been provided with a room in the hotel for the night of the inquest, and he went up there now.
In his room a bowl of water and a towel stood on the washstand. He dipped his hands and scooped a double-handful of water against his face, letting the cold work into his skin. As he washed his face the water dripped from his fingers, making a plain and loud sound. He rinsed his face again and again.
Then he groaned and sank against the washstand. He crouched all the way down to the floor.
‘Ah God,’ he said. Water spilled to the floor as, sitting against the wall, he ground his hands into his eyes. He felt so dirty, so betrayed. He was covered in shame.