The Sea Cave

by Alan Scholefield

  A labourer called Hans was persistently late in the mornings and was often drunk by mid-afternoon. She warned him several times, but he seemed to treat her warnings as a joke. She thought of sacking him, in fact, she discussed it with Smuts, who was in favour of it. However, when Hans worked, he worked well, and she was loath to dismiss him. Instead, she went to Tilly, his wife, who sometimes helped Lena in the house. Betty, according to Lena, had contracted a fever and was still at her aunt’s house in Caledon.

  Tilly and Lena got on well enough together and, after consulting Lena, Kate offered Tilly a permanent place in the house, but only on condition that she controlled her husband.

  ‘I want him on time, and I want him sober. If you can manage that, then you both work here. If you can’t, neither of you does. Do you understand me, Tilly?’

  Tilly was almost square, with arms like hams and, again, the curious barracuda-like jaw with the missing front teeth.

  ‘I understand, Miss Kate,’ was all she said, but her voice had an ominous ring to it.

  From that day, Kate had no more trouble with Hans.

  ‘My God, that’s a woman’s trick,’ Smuts said, laughing. ‘I never heard anything like it.’

  ‘It worked though,’ Kate said.

  One morning in March she was crossing the yard after checking the incubators when she saw a cloud of dust on the cliff top, which signalled the approach of a motor. It was not Friday, so it could not be Charles. For a moment her heart raced at the thought that it might be Tom, but as the car drew nearer she saw that it was a large limousine and was driven by a black chauffeur. The car drew up and the chauffeur opened the back door. A small, birdlike man emerged. He took off a long white dust-coat and gave it to the chauffeur. He was elegantly, almost fastidiously, dressed. He wore a pearl-grey Homburg, a light grey suit with a cream waistcoat, black pointed shoes of Russian leather which twinkled on his tiny feet, and grey spats. In his button-hole was a red rosebud. He carried a pair of yellow chamois gloves and a walking stick with a silver top. When he saw Kate, he bowed and took off his hat. His bald head was nut brown, as was his face, the proportions of which were narrow and pointed. His nose was thin and the bones of his cheeks pronounced.

  ‘Mendel,’ he said.

  It was so unexpected that for a moment Kate was confused.

  ‘Isidore Mendel.’

  ‘You mean . . . Mr. Mendel? The Mr. Mendel? From London?’

  ‘My dear, you flatter me.’ He put out a hand and she felt the cool dryness of his skin. He had an attractive, slightly goatish smile and she noticed that his brown eyes were darting and quick and again she was reminded of a bird.

  ‘You have the advantage,’ he said.

  She introduced herself and took him into the house.

  ‘Mrs. Preller isn’t down yet, but I’ll tell her you’re here,’ she said.

  She rang for Lena, sent her upstairs and then went to the kitchen to order coffee from Tilly.

  She had shown Mendel into the drawing-room, but found him standing in the hall looking up at the sculptured prow of the Saxenburg. He seemed tiny under the Amazon-like woman whose white bosom dominated the room.

  ‘Very robust,’ he said. ‘I remember her. Yes, she is not easily forgotten.’

  ‘This isn’t your first visit?’

  ‘I was here about fifteen years ago. In the big boom. Now it is a little boom, but getting better – I hope. So I said to myself, Mendel, it’s time to go out.’

  They walked back past the stirring ostrich feathers into the drawing-room.

  ‘I tell you, my dear, travel is not my favourite occupation.’ He brushed a little invisible dust from his coat sleeve. ‘Ships I don’t mind, but the hotels . . . Oi!’

  ‘I think you’ll find the one here quite good.’

  ‘I hope so. I arrived last night. For dinner, barley soup, stockfish, mutton chops, treacle tart . . .’

  Kate smiled. ‘I think we can do better than that. You’ll stay for lunch. I’m sure Mrs. Preller . . .’

  ‘Of course. We have to talk.’

  For only the second time since Kate had been at Saxenburg, Mrs. Preller came downstairs to eat. Smuts was also there and they lunched at the refectory table in the big dining-room. Kate herself had not eaten there since Christmas.

  Lena had done well at short notice and the main course was grilled yellow-tail served with parsley butter. Mrs. Preller had told Smuts to bring up two bottles of Spätlese to go with it.

  Mendel had courtly manners and was consistently gracious to Mrs. Preller. Kate noticed that while she and Smuts were reserved at first, he soon broke this down. It transpired that he loved gossip, especially about people in high places, and his talk was laced with the indiscretions of the rich and titled. Mrs. Preller’s eyes soon shone with amusement and even Smuts laughed and said, ‘That’s a good one!’ at the end of each story.

  Kate watched as he took his first sip of wine and was pleased to see a look of reverence come into his eyes.

  Over coffee, they began to talk business.

  ‘Is it going to be a real boom, Mr. Mendel?’ Smuts said, asking the question that was in all their minds. ‘Or is it just a flash in the pan?’

  ‘If I knew, I would tell you. Believe me. I personally, think it is going to last, though not so big as before. There are problems we didn’t have last time and we have been greedy. We have wanted more and more feathers, more and more wild-bird feathers. You never saw such feathers: scarlet ibis, parakeet, lyre-bird, bird of paradise, orioles, humming-birds, even larks. Everyone has been shooting and trapping birds. I’ve seen whole wings, sometimes whole stuffed birds on ladies’ hats. Look in Cape Town, you’ll see the same. Little yellow finches, the heads of small owls, sea-birds.

  ‘I kept out of that trade as much as I could, but other dealers bought and finally I was forced to buy too. My customers wanted sooty terns and blackbird feathers. If I didn’t have them, they would go elsewhere.

  ‘Well, I mean, what can you expect? The outcry began. The Audubon Society and others grew stronger and stronger. So now we have the Anti-Plumage Bill.’

  ‘We’ve read about it in the papers,’ Mrs. Preller said. ‘But will it affect ostrich feathers?’

  Mendel shook his head. ‘Never. At the moment, some people believe you slaughter the ostriches to get the feathers, but the hysteria won’t last.’

  ‘Bloody fools,’ Smuts broke in angrily. ‘Forgive my French.’

  ‘Germany is taking more and more, so are France and New York. Queen Mary has said she will not wear feathers any more, but we’ll see. I think the end has come for exotic feathers, but not for ostrich feathers, and that makes it even better for us. Without the wild birds, the ostriches will take the market.’

  Kate had hardly spoken and now she said, ‘So the Anti-Plumage Bill could really be good for us?’

  ‘In that way, maybe yes. But the real problem is what it has alway been: you ladies. If you want to wear feathers, then everything is all right, but if you don’t . . . It’s the same with diamonds. I mean, what is a diamond? A piece of coloured crystal. Who needs it? If you ladies said, we don’t like diamonds, De Beers would go bust. That’s where Rhodes was so clever. He knew that if he could control the amount of diamonds going onto the market he could maintain a scarcity and keep the prices up. Open the flood-gates, and down would go the prices. It’s the same with feathers. But we have no Rhodes in feathers.’

  He accepted more coffee, then said, ‘This is good! No chicory.’

  ‘We have it sent from Cape Town,’ Mrs. Preller said. ‘It is Viennese.’

  ‘Have you been back there?’

  She shook her head. ‘One day. But in a way I am frightened. We lived in such luxury. What will things look like now? Is there still luxury since the war? Maybe it is better not to go back.’

  ‘Talking of going back,’ Mendel said. ‘You know that Sachs will no longer be coming back here to buy? Such a tragedy.’

  ‘They say he’s in Cap
e Town with his sister,’ Smuts said.

  ‘I saw him three days ago; looks eighty and like a pencil, so thin.’

  Kate was fascinated by the fastidious way he picked up his cup, the small, birdlike sips.

  ‘I must appoint a new agent. Do you know Lippman from Oudtshoorn?’

  ‘I’ve heard of him,’ Smuts said. ‘I believe he’s a good man.’

  ‘For twenty years I’ve known him. Nothing bad. I’m going to see him in Oudtshoorn tomorrow. We’ll talk.’

  An idea had been forming in Kate’s mind. She had pushed it aside once or twice, but it forced its way back. She found herself breaking into the conversation: ‘Mr. Mendel . . .’

  ‘My dear?’ He watched her over the coffee cup. She groped for the right words.

  ‘Mr. Mendel, this may sound stupid, but it’s something I’ve just thought of.’

  ‘Please . . .’

  She saw Mrs. Preller turn to look at her. Mendel’s eyebrows rose as he waited.

  ‘You were talking about the way diamonds are controlled. Well, it just seemed . . . as though we might be able to do something similar.’

  ‘How, my dear?’

  Again she searched for the words. ‘Say you didn’t have an agent. Say we worked directly with you in London. Exported directly to you. We could agree a price between us, no need for agents or middlemen of any kind. So we’d save those commissions. But the most important thing would be, we would know how much to produce, because you could tell us.’

  There was silence around the table as the three stared at her.

  ‘Go on, my dear.’

  ‘That’s all, really. It’s just that Mr. Smuts has often told me it’s boom or bust, glut or famine in this business. You’d get the pick of our feathers at prices agreed between us. And we’d know how much to produce.’

  ‘But what if we agreed on a price and the market fell?’ Mendel said.

  ‘What if it rose?’ Kate said.

  He smiled. ‘What do you think, Mrs. Preller? You’ve got a real business lady here.’

  ‘The point is, what do you think?’ Mrs. Preller said. ‘You are in the centre of things.’

  Mendel turned to Smuts. ‘Such a pupil!’

  ‘I better get back to work soon, or she’ll have my job for good.’ Smuts said it with mock irritation, but Kate could see he was pleased.

  Later, as Mendel was pulling on his gloves and donning the white dust coat, he turned aside to Kate and said, ‘Let me think about it. Maybe there is a way. Maybe if we formed a company between us, with contracts binding us together . . . maybe it would work. The only problem is, what about the other farmers? Maybe they would try to undersell us. What then?’

  ‘You’re the biggest dealer in Europe and we’re the biggest farm in the world. We’d break them in the end.’

  He looked at her approvingly. ‘You’re going to do well, my dear. Very well. Even if this comes to nothing, we’re going to work together, you and me. We’re going to make profits.’

  She watched the dust trail along the cliffs as the car sped back to town. She felt a hand on her arm and turned to see Mrs. Preller. She was suddenly embarrassed at what she had done, and began to say so.

  But Mrs. Preller held up her hand. ‘Boss Charles used to say, “Never apologise, never explain.” You had something to say, you said it. He listened. Mendel is no fool. He listened.’

  They walked through the gate that led into the old garden and she took Kate’s arm as they went slowly up the ruined paths. She seemed older and more frail than even a few months before. ‘Yes, he listened,’ she repeated.

  ‘I liked him.’

  ‘He’s the best kind of Jew. Come, take me back to the house now.’

  *

  March turned to April and the fine, calm weather held. The interest of Helmsdale was still centred on the forth-coming trial of Jonas, though no one knew when it was to be. It was said that Professor Fleischman had pleurisy and he would have to recover before it could be held. There was another interest: two of the old ostrich houses had been bought by farmers from the interior and one of them was already being refurbished.

  ‘It’s not the Berrangé place, is it?’ Kate asked Smuts.

  ‘It’s the old Williamson house. My God, it’ll be good to see those places put right. We’ve been living with ghosts for too long.’

  In April, Charles came back for good. Kate had been in Helmsdale and when she arrived at Saxenburg she saw the red roadster in the yard. It was not a Friday, or a public holiday, for Easter was past, and she wondered why he was there. As she went into the house, she saw Lena.

  ‘Is that Mister Charles back?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Kate.’

  ‘Anything wrong?’

  Lena did not reply, but went through the door into the kitchen. Kate started up the stairs to Mrs. Preller’s apartments with the overseas mail, and heard raised voices: the deeper voice of Charles and the high tones of his mother. She paused, turned, and went down again. Then she heard a door bang as Charles went into his own room. She let Lena take up the overseas mail and went on with her work. She had no wish to become embroiled in a row between Mrs. Preller and her son.

  She was lunching alone in the small dining-room when Charles came in. She greeted him warily. He refused anything to eat, perched on the window-sill and took one of Smuts’ cigarettes. He smoked for a while, then said, ‘I’ve come home.’

  She waited, but when he offered no further explanation she said, ‘You mean, on holiday?’

  ‘No. For good. I resigned. Got fed up. I’m not cut out for office life.’

  He stubbed out the cigarette and left the room as abruptly as he had arrived.

  *

  Kate had developed the pleasant habit of visiting Smuts after she’d had her bath at about six o’clock. He had a big room on the seaward side of the house, with easy chairs and a low table near the windows. It was the part of her day that she enjoyed most and she had become fond of the little, elderly man who had, in his own curious way, been kind to her from their first meeting. He had quickly corrupted her into having first one brandy and water, then two. ‘Spots,’ he called them. ‘It’s time for spots,’ was one of his phrases. She would have a drink and talk over the events of the day and pick his brains about problems she knew were looming.

  He had not really recovered from his accident and he was beginning to look his age. He walked with a marked stoop, as though by straightening he might stretch and hurt the muscles and tendons which had been injured by the ostrich. Now, as he poured them both their first drink of the evening, he said, ‘What do you think about Charles?’

  ‘He told me he’d resigned. He said he’d got tired of the job.’

  ‘If you believe that, my friend, you’ll believe anything. Cigarette?’

  She took one. ‘You lead me astray. First brandy and now cigarettes.’

  ‘If you’re thinking of anything else, you’ll be disappointed,’ he said. ‘I’m too old for that sort of game.’

  She smiled. ‘What happened to Charles?’

  ‘If you ask me, I think he got the push. Times are bad. The market crashed a while back. Anyway, Charles was never the boy for an office.’

  ‘He said as much himself.’ She thought of Jerry and Charles and the other young men she had met in Cape Town. Golf and tennis, riding, swimming. All the hard work done by coloured people. It was a strange, anachronistic kind of life. When Mrs. Preller spoke of that kind of existence she was recalling her childhood, long before the war. Here, it still existed.

  Her feelings about Charles’s permanent return to Saxenburg were ambivalent. On the one hand, it renewed the tensions she felt when he was around, but on the other it helped her to cope with a problem that had begun to loom larger and larger as the brief autumn ended.

  Helmsdale lay in the winter rainfall area, and as the golden days petered out, the storms gathered from the north-west and rain lashed down as she had never seen it in Scotland. The squalls followed each other,
battering at the windows, flooding areas of the farm and making the ostriches generally unhappy and irritable, especially if they were sittng. Sometimes nests were washed away and, although Kate tried to tempt the birds back, they ignored the eggs and she had to try to hatch them in the incubator.

  ‘In the old days they used to make a coloured woman go to bed for a couple of weeks and hatch them,’ Smuts said. ‘Don’t you believe me? It’s gospel.’

  Mostly the eggs did not hatch and they also lost a good number of chicks in the cold, damp weather. Sometimes she would look at the bedraggled birds with their wet, drooping feathers and wonder how they would ever return to the magnificent black and white plumes of the summer.

  The house had been built to withstand heat and the clammy weather penetrated to the farthest rooms, and Lena and Tilly spent part of each day bringing in coal and wood and seeing to the fires. There were beautiful days when the sun shone and everything had a washed look and the sea was tranquil and light green. On these days, because the work of the farm had slackened considerably, Kate went for long walks along the cliffs or the dunes that lay on the far side of Helmsdale. The walks tired her out and helped her to sleep. Her problem had become loneliness.

  She would have her two brandies with Smuts, by which time it would already be dark, and the evening would loom ahead. Smuts, she knew, had one or two more brandies after she left him and would then doze by his fire. Lena would give her a plain supper, often on a tray, then she would lock up. Kate would be left to her own devices.

  She did her mending, she did the farm accounts, she read some of the farm journals that arrived in the mail pouch, she wrote her diary and she read book after book. Then she would go to bed. She had never been lonely before. In Edinburgh, living in a teeming warren, she had longed for solitude. And even when she had first come to Saxenburg there had been the strangeness and interest of this new world to keep her mind occupied. And then there had been visits from Charles and Jerry and Freda and other friends who came from time to time. Now visitors were rare. There was not even Mr. Sachs. Dr. du Toit came regularly, but he was always closeted with Mrs. Preller and Kate was not invited to join them. She would even have been pleased to go up to the old lady’s room and read to her in the evenings, but Mrs. Preller had never asked for her.