mother?’
‘You’ve never liked her, have you?’
‘She was a whining, puling schoolmarm, afraid of the world, who dragged a good man down to her crawling level. Now she’s a whining, puling woman, old before her time because she’s always been afraid of the world and of living, and she’s trying to do the same to another man.’ Ben was harsh. ‘Why do you think I call you “boy” and “lad” when you’re a grown man of thirty-five? Because that’s all you are yet. For Christ’s sake, make a decision of your own for once in your life.’
Ian was silent. At last he said, ‘All right, I’ll go to Hukahoronui.’
‘Alone – without her?’
‘Alone.’
Ben did not appear to be elated; he merely nodded his head gravely. He said, ‘There’s quite a town there now. I doubt if you’d recognize it, it’s grown so much. I was there a couple of years ago before my damned doctor said I shouldn’t travel any more. The place even has a mayor. The first mayor’s name was John Peterson. Quite a power in the community the Petersons are.’
‘Oh Jesus!’ said Ian. ‘Are they still there?’
‘What would you expect? Of course they’re still there. John, Eric and Charles – they’re still there.’
‘But not Alec.’ Ian appeared to be addressing the back of his hands.
‘No – not Alec,’ Ben agreed.
Ian looked up. ‘You’re really asking for something, aren’t you? What the hell do you expect of me? You know damned well that putting a Ballard into Huka is like putting a detonator into a stick of dynamite.’
Ben’s eyebrows rose. ‘The Petersons being the dynamite, I presume.’ He leaned forward. ‘I’ll tell you what I want. I want you to run that bloody mine better than it’s been run up to now. It’s a tough job I’ve handed you. That old fool, Fisher, couldn’t keep control – that’s one thing. For another, Dobbs, the mine manager, is a chronic fence-sitter – and, for number three – Cameron, the engineer, is a worn-out American has-been who is holding on with his fingertips because he knows it’s the last job he’ll ever have and he’s scared witless that he’ll lose it. You have to put some backbone into that lot.’
Ben leaned back in his chair. ‘Of course,’ he said musingly, ‘the Petersons won’t welcome you with open arms. It’s not likely, is it, when it’s a family tradition of theirs that they were robbed of the mine? A lot of poppycock, of course, but that’s what they believe – and, Ian, always remember that men are not governed by facts but by what they believe.’ He nodded. ‘Yes, I can see you might have trouble with the Petersons.’
‘You can stop needling,’ said Ian Ballard. ‘I said I’d go.’
The old man made as if to rise, then paused. ‘There is one thing. If anything serious should happen – to Ballard Holdings or to me – get in touch with Bill Stenning.’ He thought awhile. ‘On second thoughts, don’t bother. Bill will get in touch with you fast enough.’
‘What’s this about?’
Don’t worry; it may never happen.’ Ben got slowly to his feet and made his way to the door. He stopped halfway across the room and held up his blackthorn. ‘I doubt if I’ll want this any more. I’ll send it to you tomorrow. You’ll need it. When you’ve finished with it don’t send it back – throw it away.’
He paused outside the door and raised his voice. ‘You can come in now, Harriet. No need to listen at the keyhole.’
The great hall was unexpectedly and floridly magnificent. Built in the mid-nineteenth century at the height of the Gothic Revival and designed by an architect who was, equally unexpectedly, a direct descendant of Simon de Montfort, it brought medieval England to the Southern Hemisphere and to that more-than-English city, Christchurch. Lofty, with an arched ceiling, painted and carved, it abounded in corbels, pillars, lancets and wood panelling, and every surface that could possibly be carved was carved to a fare-thee-well. There was also a lot of stained glass.
Dan Edwards, doyen of the Press of Christchurch, was blind to the incongruity of the scene; he had seen it too often before. He was more concerned about the floor which creaked abominably as the ushers walked beneath the Press gallery setting out note-pads and pencils. ‘The acoustics are lousy,’ he said. ‘And that bloody kauri floor doesn’t make things better.’
‘Can’t they oil it or something?’ asked Dalwood, who was from Auckland.
‘They’ve tried everything but nothing seems to work. I’ll tell you what – let’s do a pool. If I miss anything I’ll take it from you – and vice versa.’
Dalwood shrugged. ‘Okay.’ He looked over the edge of the Press gallery to the dais immediately beneath. Three high-backed chairs were set behind the rostrum, and before each chair was a new foolscap note-pad with two ball-point pens to the left and three newly sharpened pencils to the right. Together with the water carafes and the glasses, the whole looked remarkably like place settings at a dining table.
Edwards followed his glance and then nodded towards the public gallery, already full, at the north end of the hall. ‘They’re going to make a meal of this.’
Dalwood nudged him and indicated the door beneath the public gallery. ‘There’s young Ballard. He’s brought a legal army with him.’
Edwards studied the young man who walked at the head of a phalanx of older, soberly dressed men. He pursed his lips. ‘The question is whether they’re representing him or the company. If I were Ballard I’d be keeping a tight sphincter.’
‘A sacrificial lamb?’
‘A lamb to the slaughter,’ agreed Edwards. He looked down at the rostrum. ‘Things are happening.’
The hum of conversation died as three men took their places at the chairs behind the rostrum. One of the two stenographers looked up and held his hands poised expectantly over the keys of his machine. There was a rustle as everyone arose.
The three men sat down and a fourth came forward and sat at the desk in front of the rostrum. He laid a sheaf of papers before him and consulted the uppermost document. The man above him, in the centre of the rostrum, was elderly with a shock of white hair and deeply lined face. He looked down at the virgin pad in front of him and pushed it away. When he spoke he spoke quietly and in an even voice.
‘In the winter of the year, on the eighteenth of July, a disaster occurred in the township of Hukahoronui on the South Island of New Zealand in which fifty-four people lost their lives. The New Zealand Government has appointed a Commission of Inquiry, of which I am Chairman. My name is Arthur Harrison and I am Rector of Canterbury University.’
He moved his hands apart. ‘With me are two assessors, both well
