Now I must say farewell to Father. He will not understand, of course. He does not comprehend his own situation, let alone mine. I find him, as ever, in the hop garden, staring intently at the new buds just starting to show on the greening bines. I sail tomorrow.
No signs of trouble yet, he says, smiling at me. New growth looks healthy, very healthy.
Father, I say. I am going away.
To Whitstable?
No, Father. I am going on a ship to Africa. Caleb Crowe is in trouble and I go with Charlotte to help him.
He has drifted already, fingering the buds. God willing, we’ll have no sorrow this year.
I raise my voice and say, Listen to me, Father. This is important.
He looks up from the hop plants and stares at me.
I say again, I am going to Africa, Father. Caleb has been accused of murder, but I know that he is not guilty. I know it with every fibre of my being, as does his sister and all his family. We go to prove his innocence. We go to free him. I hope I have your blessing, Father.
He seems to smile his approval. But I know it is the new growth that pleases him, not me.
I love you, Father. Goodbye.
Goodbye, my dear.
For a moment, I felt almost as if it were old times and he were Father as he always was. But he is not Father. I have said farewell for myself, not for him. Goodbye, my Father.
It will be harder to take leave of Mother, for she is flesh and blood and has a hold on me no Visitor will ever have. When she looks into my eyes on the morning of our departure, she seeks there some assurance that I will be well. I hold her hands tight. I kiss her cheek. I sign to her, ‘Do not fret for me, Mother. This is something I must do.’
‘I understand,’ she says. ‘You go to save the brother of the woman who saved you.’
‘Oh, Mother,’ I cry and hold her tight, my eyes filling with tears. She is right, so utterly right, in a way I had never thought to voice it. Yet she cannot know she is short of the mark too, that my love for Caleb is beyond what even his sister knows, it is something no one knows but Caleb and myself. It is a painful love, a love of loss and want, but it is more powerful than anything else I could feel.
We sail for Cape Town on the SS Majestic, the afternoon of 7 April. We leave Southampton under leaden skies and a vigorous wind. Our voyage will take almost a month. Before long, we sight the Needles. This is the last landmark of England we will see, as we turn in for the night. We wave farewell to the tall, rocky forms as they recede and the dark sea bites at their ankles. Goodbye, England. In the morning we enter the Bay of Biscay and later spy the Ushant Lighthouse, which belongs to Brittany. A taste of France. Then comes our first storm and the ship rocks so violently we retire to our cabin and moan in a haze of nausea all the following night. The next day we wake to calm seas and discover we have at last cleared the Bay of Biscay, then we see the lighthouse off Cape Finisterre and know we are leaving France behind, waving farewell to our dreams of Paris. Another time. We sail steadily on, the sea surprisingly calm now, glassy and broad.
We near the Canary Islands. We have passed Spain and visions of broad-skirted ladies dancing the bolero and farruca, and our Iberian plans vanish as the ship steams on towards Africa. We see several vessels sail by, including a troop-ship returning with the wounded. I wish my Caleb were on that ship, that he had suffered the one fate I wished against, injury or sickness, only so that he would not have got mixed up with that woman and her dangerous life. I look down at the tireless seas and spot flying fish defying their undersea destiny and assuming the life of birds for a few magic moments. I understand they do it to escape predators. So there they are, leaping for their lives as we admire them as picturesque. What can they make of us? Some great grey sea-monster that ploughs stupidly through the ocean. One can never know the truth of another’s life by looking.
For the next two weeks I stay in my cabin. I have contracted some kind of infection of the chest. I have a fever and the chills, my ears ache and my eyes stream. I am terrified that it is the scarlet fever again and that I may lose my sight, or worse. I am hysterical with Lottie, who bathes my eyes with precious clean water.
I fear I will die. To become a Visitor, tied to this ship for eternity or lost at sea as Tom was, never to see my Caleb more; in the way of Visitors caught in this moment, blind and deaf again to everything but this day, but not even with such as me to offer consolation, utterly alone. So I pull Lottie close, finger spell that I have to tell her something.
‘You must rest,’ she says. ‘No talking.’
But I must. I sign weakly to her.
‘When I was sixteen, Caleb and I were lovers for one night, before he went to war.’
‘I know that,’ says Lottie. She dabs my brow with a cool cloth.
‘How?’
‘There was blood on your shift the next day. And you wouldn’t say goodbye to him.’
‘Were you angry with us, Lottie?’
‘No. I was worried.’
‘Why?’
‘That he would disappoint you. And you would have to carry it alone. Perhaps even a child would come and the shame of that. I hoped you might share it with me. But I understood why you did not. I was the same with Tom. I spoke to no one.’
‘Oh, Lottie. I wish I had told you.’
‘You are telling me now and I am glad of it. But you are your own person, Liza, and deserve your secrets, as we all do.’
‘Thank you, Lottie.’
‘Rest now,’ she says and I close my eyes.
Despite my fever, my soul is buoyant. To think, I have imagined that scene cast in every shade of drama, yet never so simply. I should have known Lottie would find the heart of it and set it right. How could I have doubted the deep-driven foundations of our friendship? Talking with her is like going home.
The ship’s doctor is quite calm and tells us it is not scarlet fever. He says I need rest, fluids and a little food once I am cooler. He is right, and I do recover. I have missed all of our passage past the west coast of Africa, as has Lottie, my devoted nurse, as ever. When I am stronger, I dress and come out to promenade one late April morning. I am told the ship will soon sight Cape Town. We are within hours of docking, of stepping down on to the same land Caleb inhabits, a step closer to him.
We watch as the land mass assumes the shape of Cape Town. A tumble of a city down luxurious slopes, topped by the gravity of Table Mountain, an unyielding presence over the city, its white brows of dense cloud flanked by a brooding range of steel-blue mountains. Their immensity dwarfs anything I have seen in little England. The enormity of our coming task assaults me and weighs heavy on my heart. My first thoughts upon landing are of the motley diversity of people in this British corner of Africa. There are the blacks to be sure, skin the colour of which I have never seen, a quick strength in the movements of the black men loading on the docks, a surety I know from the Whitstable dock workers. Working men are the same the world over, it seems, regardless of colour. I see black men dressed in vulgar rainbow costumes, while others wear suits of striped flannel and bowler hats. I had assumed they would all look like the barbaric savages from my books. My ignorance amazes me.
The pungent pot-pourri of Cape Town is spiced with Malays in their eastern clothing and high umbrella hats, all jostling with the others to carry our luggage. If only I could hear, I am sure it would be a cacophony of competing lingos – Lottie puts her fingers in her ears one moment as we laugh at the harlequin madness of it all – skin about us a medley of black, brown and bronze, spattered with the wan faces of other whites. Lottie says she can hear a muddle of languages – from European tongues to something that might be Hindoo – and the welcome English shouts and calls of our compatriots as we approach the roads by the docks. The pavements are thronged with British and colonial soldiers, talking and laughing, trotting and slouching, buying trinkets; sinking their teeth into watermelons and devouring bunches of grapes as they perambulate along, all around beset by the patchwork people of
this strange city, shouting and selling to make their living.
I am reminded of watching the flying fish beneath our ship, that it is easy to see the exotic as scenic, but these are real men and women with vital lives of their own, with fears and hopes just like mine, not a mere snippet of local colour for the amusement of English ladies. I must remember that, if I am to navigate my way fairly through this foreign land. Mingling with these fleshy lives are the thousands of Visitors that turn within the boiling crowd and seek out my gaze. Oh, so many, so many of them, so diverse, so many nations and childhoods mingling like ingredients stirred in a thick stew of humanity, and they all look so lost. Some reach for me and stare in desperation, hoping for a friendly face, a voice to guide them in their confusion. I am overwhelmed with them, their blue-white halos glaring as my already dazzled eyes struggle to cope with the colourful chaos of Africa. Before they can speak to me, I banish them. They turn and vanish, and I apologise to them, but I have other business this day.
Our bags are carried by a Malay man who directs us to a line of hansom cabs. He places our Gladstone bag and small tin trunk on the roof, and we get in. Lottie asks for us to be taken to the railway station and no sooner is it said than we are off, careering through the anarchic streets, thick with military trucks. Some British soldiers notice us and wave, one puts two fingers in his mouth and blows hard. We arrive at the station and pay the man in English money, then ask him to telegraph ahead to Pretoria station, that the military prison must be contacted so that we can be met at the station. Before long we are seated in the train headed for Kimberley. We have to change at De Aar, before travelling straight up to Pretoria. We are here in the autumn, and the climate is pleasant enough with a cooling breeze. Yet there is a dense heat layered within the air which is decidedly foreign and unlike any English summer’s day.
The land outside the train window trundles by and I am reminded of Caleb’s first letter, the flat veldt stretching away from the train broken up by the odd black-stoned kopje or clutch of thorn trees. Kent is a land of red and green: the red-tiled conical roofs of the oast houses and the red ragstone ridge that borders the Weald; the vibrant green of hop cones and the pale green sheaths of ripening cobnuts. This is a land of yellow and brown, sandy and scorched. I see many Visitors wandering that landscape: Zulus striding in their loincloths, eyes on the horizon; the Dutch dead, the white bonnets of the women glowing brightly in their ghostly haze, turning to follow the train with their eyes as they sense my presence. We see animals darting about, identify them from our book learning; leaping springbok and white-faced blesbok stop and stare at the mechanical beast puffing through their territory. Far away, we spy monkeys on the mountains. Above, we are watched by wheeling Cape vultures, and once we see white-necked ravens hopping over carrion beside the track.
One evening at a stopover to buy supplies, we spy something digging ferociously beside a bush behind the station restaurant and think it is an aardvark, that wonderful word meaning ‘earth-pig’ which should begin any dictionary. It is a shy, nocturnal creature and scampers away as soon as it registers our presence. We are visitors here and it does not know us. How I would like to touch its coarse-haired back and feel the snuffle of its muzzle in my hand. I am exhausted (our journey has taken two days and nights so far), worried about what will happen when we reach Pretoria, bothered by South African ghosts everywhere I turn, and weary of the dust and charged air, so unlike my pleasant England. But I am vibrant with the newness of everything, my first journey into the heart of another world, an experience I have dreamed of since my deaf-blind fingers felt their way across the bumpy geography of my first globe, since my first train journey to London, moving through the English landscape. And now here I am, in that vast triangle Africa, my senses drinking in its beauty and strangeness. I am a true traveller now.
It takes another two days to reach Pretoria. On arrival, we detrain and find our luggage, handed to us by two unsavoury black men in red caps. We stand dishevelled and expectant, hoping our telegraph has been received or even sent.
I sign to Lottie, ‘If no one comes, we must make our way to the prison ourselves.’
She replies, ‘If we can navigate Cape Town, we can manage anything.’
The two blacks watch us sign, gesturing dumbly with their hands and mocking us. Then a British soldier appears, striding purposefully towards us. He stops and removes his cap.
‘Are you the Misses Crowe and Golding? You must be Charlotte, Caleb’s sister. And you are Adeliza, have I said it right? My name is Wallis. I’m to take you to Caleb. Here, Kaffir! Carry these bags, quick smart!’
15
Wallis escorts us from the railway station to a small horse and cart, and the luggage is stowed. A native is to drive us, and we settle ourselves behind, Wallis opposite. The driver cracks the whip at the pathetic pony harnessed to the cart and off we trot.
Wallis looks at Lottie and says, ‘May I enquire, Miss Crowe?’ He tips his head at me. ‘Can she understand me?’
Lottie describes my talents.
‘The things they can do nowadays,’ says Wallis, wide-eyed. He turns to me and moves his mouth in a ridiculous fashion, exaggerating every sound. ‘Amazing! Quite amazing!’
I sign and Lottie translates, ‘Please speak normally, Mr Wallis. It is easier for me.’
He nods his head and grins. ‘Righto then.’
I like Wallis. Lottie does too, I can tell. He talks to us all the way in the cart, shouting above the noise that must emanate from the clopping hooves and the busy streets.
‘Now, please don’t alarm yourselves, ladies. But I have to tell you that Caleb is in hospital. He’s been suffering from dysentery for the last month. It got so bad they’ve delayed his trial for a couple of weeks. He’s all right, never fear. But a bit weak, you know. Not contagious or such any more, but on the mend. I haven’t frightened you, have I?’
We assure him not. I am glad Caleb is in a hospital bed instead of a prison, cared for by nurses rather than ignored by guards. And crucially, it gives us more time to investigate.
Wallis goes on: ‘How much do you know about his situation?’
Lottie signs and speaks for us. ‘We know he has been arrested and charged with murder, that it was a guard at a camp and that he hasn’t talked about it since his arrest. Is that right?’
‘Yes, that’s about the size of it. There’s some other stuff though, you probably don’t know about. I think I ought to tell you.’
‘Is it about that woman?’ I sign.
Lottie gives me a quick shake of the head. I sign it again, adding, ‘Translate!’
Wallis frowns as he listens. ‘If you mean Maria Uitenweerde, then yes. You know about her?’
Lottie explains about Caleb’s letters.
‘Ah, yes. Well, if you ask me, I think she did it. I think she’s the one who killed that guard. I reckon she did it and Caleb is saving her skin.’
Our faces are so shocked, Wallis interjects, ‘But that’s only me. Caleb won’t have none of that.’
‘Mr Wallis …’ says Lottie.
‘Call me Walter.’
‘Walter, do you have any evidence of this?’
We have pulled up at a low brick building. The pony shakes its head and stamps its feet. Walter glances around, aware our impassive native driver might listen in.
‘I don’t have any evidence for none of it, ladies. I just know she was a bad one and I never trusted her. And Caleb, well, he was always defending her. From the minute he met her and took her to that camp, he went on and on about her and her boy. Then when he went back and saw how she was living, well, he was full of it. He was going to write to so-and-so and complain to Kitchener himself. But nothing come of it. And he went back there every leave. Then one time, he didn’t come back. He was AWOL for a night and there was a big stink. Next I knew he was holed up in a cell at Frankfort. I asked permission to see him and he says nothing, nothing at all. I says to him, was it her, Crowe? Was it that woman did this t
o you? And he just shook his head and wouldn’t say nothing to me, nothing, to his best friend in the army. He saved my life, did you know that?’
We nod.
‘I’d walk through fire for him I would, Miss Crowe, Miss Golding. But I can’t help him if he won’t help himself. That’s why I insisted I come to pick you up. I wanted to converse with you both, before you see him. Maybe you can talk some sense into him, get him to give up that woman.’
‘Does anyone else think she did it?’ asks Lottie.
‘She was accused, right off the bat. Everyone in that camp knew that Jackson was after her. That was his name, Private Arnold Jackson. Well, he wouldn’t leave her alone. Very pretty thing she is. Rumour was, he … had his way, you know. Sorry, ladies. You know what I’m saying?’
Lottie nods. I am not sure. Does he mean Jackson ravished her? I sign it. Lottie thinks a moment, then says, ‘Do you mean that the guard had relations with this Boer lady … against her will?’
The Visitors Page 18
