“There’s the native town – their stadt.” Lyall pointed to a large but scattered accumulation of thatched, round huts standing at some distance from the town proper, each with an outer wall encircling it, where smoke rose into the air from cooking fires. Beyond it, a streak of silver at the bottom of a slope showed the river, the Malopo, in its deep creek. “The location’s actually much bigger than the white town – in fact, about six thousand natives live there, mainly Barolong and a few others, to our sixteen hundred or so.”
“So all the natives are not hostile?” I asked, mindful of that conversation in the train about the fearsome Matabele warriors.
He smiled. “We live amicably.” Apparently the Barolong, who counted their wealth in cattle and raised crops to support themselves, were a people who had been settled on the banks of the Malopo long before the white settlers arrived, and were peaceful enough, though they could fight when they had to. “And look,” he added, scarcely pausing for breath, “here’s the new Catholic church, just erected, and St John’s, where we worship.” Mudbrick again. We continued on our way, puffs of red dust rising at every step, with Lyall pointing out such sophistications as Riesle’s, the best hotel in town which, despite such an accolade, appeared dismayingly primitive, as did the clothing store and the fishmonger’s, and the haberdashery shop.
This, then, was the end of my great adventure. I’d hoped to broaden my horizons and though I hadn’t been so foolish as to imagine I would be coming within striking distance of the sort of culture I’d once dreamed of experiencing, I hadn’t expected quite such a God-forgotten sort of place. I pulled myself up short …how silly I was. It was surely the people who lived here, thrown together for whatever reason, who were the community, not these chancy-looking buildings of mud brick and corrugated iron – and I had to admit that attempts had been made, within limits, to turn the little town into somewhere tolerably smart. Shade trees had been planted at intervals along the streets and the houses had gardens. There were several churches and chapels, a school, a racecourse, and even a Masonic Hall. The townspeople were obviously fostering a community spirit, making the best of it. I was sharply reminded that I’d better do the same for the time I was here.
I could hardly wait to see Lyddie, but Lyall was walking slowly, almost dawdling, one might say, raising his hat every few yards to some acquaintance, pausing to show me some new sight. Once or twice he’d seemed about to say something to me, and then changed his mind. I quickened my pace. “Take it easy, Hannah. You’ll soon learn not to rush about in this country. Look around you and get your bearings.”
“Lyall, I shall have plenty of time for that later,” I said, swatting flies. “What is it you want to say?”
After some initial hesitation, he answered, “I’m afraid you might think you’ve been brought out here under false pretences.”
And then he went on to tell me that Lyddie had lost the child she was carrying, the doctor giving it as his opinion that this was entirely due to the arduousness of their escape. “She’s taken it badly,” he said abruptly, “hasn’t shed a tear, but she’s so listless, and depressed, she takes no interest in anything – all quite unlike Lyddie, as you well know. She wasn’t like this last time. She was even riding again within a few weeks.”
“Last time?”
It seemed that there had been another premature baby the previous year. “She didn’t want to worry you people at home by telling you, especially since she was very soon well again. This time, however …” He shook his head. “I’m forced to leave her from time to time, out of necessity, and now – well, it’s something I can’t do anything about. I don’t mind telling you, I’m hanged if I know what to do.”
Lyall, strong and independent when it came to coping with the big things was, like most men it seemed, helpless in the face of life’s eternal verities.
Not that I felt much less helpless. “I suppose,” I said lamely, “you must give her time.” Admittedly, no one could be less of an authority on this sort of thing than I, but women having miscarriages weren’t exactly an uncommon occurrence, even in Bridge End, and I’d picked up enough to know that the experience could be mentally demoralising as well as physically enervating, perhaps for quite some time.
Lyall stopped and turned to face me, his hands on my arms. “Your coming here is a godsend, Hannah,” he said quietly. For a moment he looked as though he’d like to say more but, like me, found nothing to say.
Chapter Fifteen
She was browner and had lost her plump bounciness. In fact, she looked ‘nesh’, as we used to say, pinched and peaky; her cheekbones had sculpted hollows beneath. Her smile was still the same, but her eyes were empty.
When the first emotional greetings were over, Lyall tactfully stated he had business to attend to, and wobbled off down the stony street on the bicycle the boy had brought back from the station, leaving Lyddie and me to begin the business of catching up with the news.
At last, we broke off to enjoy a lunch she’d prepared with her own hands. “It’s no good leaving this to the boys, they’re all alike, no idea,” she said impatiently. Though the meal comprised unfamiliar ingredients, I enjoyed it and did it full justice. Lyddie ate little, but talked non-stop, her hands restless. Suddenly, she paused in the middle of what she was saying, then went on in a rush. “Ought I to have telegraphed you, Hannah, when I lost the baby, and stopped you from coming? Perhaps I should have done, but I – oh dear, I so wanted you here – Lyall, dear man, doesn’t know how to begin to deal with me, now I’m being so difficult.” And with that she burst into tears.
“Lyddie.”
In the short space of time since I’d arrived, I’d already asked myself countless times how I might to be able to help her, and each time my heart had failed me when I thought how little I knew of what it must be like to lose a little scrap of humanity, before it was even a real baby. I knew of course that there wasn’t anything I could do, save hold her hand and let her have her cry out, as her mother would have said. Lyall had said that up to now she’d shed no tears, so perhaps this storm of weeping was what she needed.
Presently she dried her eyes and became calmer. Although she was dry-eyed now, she’d visibly drooped, and I was about to suggest she took a nap when she did so herself. “I’m supposed to rest – and you must be exhausted – I know what that journey’s like.”
I was quite glad of the opportunity to snatch some rest, after my sleep-deprived nights on the train, and in fact after I’d undressed and laid down, I slept deeply for several hours. I woke hot and sticky, to find the dusk gathering and to hear music being played on the gramophone Lyall had managed to pick up from somewhere – a thin, scratchy sound which presently, after some difficulty, I identified as the Jewel Song from Faust. How very odd it sounded, Nellie Melba singing in the swiftly gathering dusk of an African night.
I found water in a jug on the wash stand, and by the time I’d dressed, splashed my hands and face and tidied my hair, shaken my shoes before putting them on as I’d been warned to do, in case of scorpions lurking inside, the darkness was almost complete, the clouds of flies had settled, and outside the insect noises of the night were rising to a crescendo. I picked up my lamp and made my way towards the source of the music.
The house had a corrugated iron roof and as far as I could judge was little different from any other that I’d so far seen in Mafeking, a one storey building of sunbaked clay bricks, but it was quite comfortable. It wasn’t very big, to be sure, but the roof had wide eaves for coolness, a striped awning at the front and a veranda out at the back overlooking a garden shaded by a pawpaw tree and a jacaranda. Sweet-smelling jasmine grew by the door. Doves cooed and an exuberant purple-flowered bougainvillea draped itself over the walls and veranda.
Inside the house, the walls were papered and the red concrete floor was polished – under the layers of dirt and grit that had piled up, that is. There were family photographs on every wall and surface, but their frames were tarnished. Lyddi
e had attempted homeliness by hanging lace curtains at the windows, but they hung crookedly and it was obvious they needed a wash. She had never been much addicted to housework, but she was Edith Crowther’s daughter. That she hadn’t noticed – or didn’t care – about the general disorder told me more about Lyddie’s state of mind than anything else could have done.
Later, that night, I heard the story of their escape.
When disturbing rumours had begun to circulate that the native tribes in Matabeleland and Mashonaland were said to be again raising impi, or groups of warriors, Lyall had immediately despatched some of their personal belongings to Mafeking, where he had established a depot for his stores some time before. He made hasty preparations for himself and Lyddie to follow as soon as they were able. They had almost left it too late and were forced to escape into the bush on foot, with but a few provisions and the clothes they stood up in, the Kaffirs in pursuit and the house behind them looted and in flames. The story of how they’d eventually been able to make their way to a wayside staging post, a rudimentary place where the proprietor had sheltered them until they could board the next coach for Mafeking, was a story of desperate adventure. At one time, as they lay concealed, they could hear their pursuers within a few yards searching for them.
It had cost Lyddie the life of her baby – but at least they themselves had survived. Someone had been doing sums recently and had estimated that at least ten per cent of the white population had been butchered.
Now, once again, the tribes were said to be on the move in a concerted onslaught to wipe out the remaining white settlers entirely. “Who are determined to sit tight and see this thing out,” added Lyddie, with a glance at Lyall, “which we should have done, too, had Lyall not been so concerned for my safety. The whole place is in turmoil – the women are terrified of venturing out and being cut up into little pieces, yet terrified of staying put and being burnt to death in their beds.”
“It’s what the tribes call a chimurenga,” Lyall explained to me, “a war of liberation. Liberation from the white usurpers, as they see us. So it goes without saying that every available man will be needed to fight them.”
No one said anything. The breathless, thrumming night was filled with the endless chirruping accompaniment of the cicadas. Lyddie said at last, her colour high, “But this new commander from Britain will be here any day. He’s going to waste no time when he arrives in sending up his reinforcements to deal with the situation.”
“I have no doubt, my dear, but meanwhile, the horror goes on, as you know. The only thing to do is to take this thing by the scruff of the neck immediately and deal with it.”
“That need not mean you.”
“Every man has his duty in a case like this.”
“And are there not duties at home?” she murmured, looking down at the table.
Lyall stretched out his hand and held hers, forcing her to look at him. “I must. And I can go with a lighter heart now that you won’t be alone. Hannah will stay here and take care of you for as long as you need her, will you not, Hannah?”
I watched as the lamp flickered, and huge winged insects immolated themselves in the flame. I thought of the trooper I had met on the station and what might be in store for him. I thought of Captain Osborne, exhilarated at the prospect of a good scrap. And what of myself? Lyddie was dearer to me than a sister; I was bound to her with ties stronger than blood or family. But had I not walked from one trap into another?
Lyddie didn’t rise with her old, accustomed alacrity the next morning, and I was left alone after Lyall had gone to his company stores near the railway. I waited for some time and then made a cup of tea. Mrs Crowther’s heart would have rejoiced to see that her rose-patterned service was still intact, having survived all the vicissitudes its owner had been through – apparently one of those precious possessions Lyddie had fortunately been able to send on ahead.
I thought she was asleep when I took the tray into her bedroom, but as I tiptoed back to the door, she stirred and spoke. “Goodness, you’re up early, Hannah.” She sat up as I handed her a cup of tea. The soft, dense mass of hair, no longer quite so bright, fell over her shoulders like a cloak. “You’ll have to learn to sleep as late as you can – that way the day doesn’t seem so long.”
I poured tea for myself. “What does one do, all day?” I asked, after a while.
“Do?” She grimaced and then laughed shortly. “Oh, there’s ever so many things to do in Mafeking. We have bazaars and Sales of Work. There are tea parties and tennis parties, when it isn’t too hot – though when isn’t it? The men have their cricket matches, and the racing up at the racecourse, and there’s the Masonic lodge. And when the officers aren’t away up there over the border, fighting, there are polo matches. Last week, the operatic society put on The Mikado - oh, there’s no end to the fun.” She laughed, a brittle sound; the teacup rattled on the saucer and for a moment I thought she was going to burst into tears again. But instead she blinked and after a while said, in a queer, blank sort of voice, “I’ve made a mistake, Hannah. I’m simply not equipped with the constitution to endure this sort of life.”
Maybe this wasn’t the bold adventure she’d set out upon, what she had come out to Africa for – not being able to share Lyall’s adventurous pursuits as she had done at first, and forced into what I could see for her was the much more difficult and dull path of enforced domesticity in an unsympathetic environment. Last night, even when she was recalling that desperate escape, the awful consequences, she’d been animated and her eyes had shone with remembered excitement. But, as Lyall had stressed, their mode of life at the moment was only temporary – and as for Lyddie not having the constitution to endure any kind of hardship … I simply did not believe that.
I sat on the bed and held her hand. “Life in Mafeking doesn’t sound so very different from Bridge End to me. Come on, buck up! Whatever happened to that daughter of Empire?”
Perhaps reminding her of how we’d giggled at her father’s injunction was not the most tactful thing to have done, but it brought the ghost of a smile. “I’m sorry, I should be ashamed of myself. Don’t scold me, Hannah, though you’ve every right. But I shall be better directly, now that you’re here, you’ll see. Poor Lyall, he’s been so patient with me …” She gazed into the dregs of her tea. “And he did so want a son. Well, better luck next time.”
Next time? How could she contemplate going through all this, for a third time?
After that I never saw her cry again, though there was a strained look around her mouth sometimes, shadows in her eyes – but not when she thought anyone was looking at her. Tread softly, I told myself. Give it time.
Meanwhile, bringing the small house back into some semblance of order was better than doing nothing. There were servants – a native houseboy, and one for the garden, who worked when they were pushed, and escaped back to the location whenever possible. They were Barolongs, known respectively as Lemuel and Amos, since their native names were as unpronounceable as their melon-shaped smiles were infectious, even when they were being scolded. We set them to sweeping and polishing the floors, washing the windows, which they did in a lackadaisical fashion, obviously not seeing the point of it. Lyddie and I cleaned the photo-frames. I washed the lace curtains, we shared the cooking. After that, we had nothing to do but sit and talk, put another well-worn cylinder on the gramophone, or pay calls on other ladies, similarly placed. Lyddie despised needlework, and all her books had long since been read. She missed her piano, which had necessarily been left behind when they fled Bulawayo, along with most of her trousseau. What remained of those pretty dresses hung behind a curtain in her bedroom, their bright folds dimmed with the eternal dust that filtered everywhere, even into the food.
Dust and flies. Oh, how I hated those disgusting armies of flies, which had to be constantly swatted away from one’s face! Even worse when they landed, torpid, on my damp skin, and had to be picked off.
“We’ll have to see about you having rid
ing lessons – you can’t live here without riding. Everyone does,” said Lyddie. “Then we can ride together as soon as Dr Smyth allows me to.” She was dying to get once more on the beautiful mare which Lyall had given her on their arrival here, as an incentive to get better; a shrewd move, for riding had become her passion. I thought it was the enforced inactivity, in a nature as active as Lyddie’s, that was contributing to her malaise more than anything.
“You’re not making any plans to go home again just yet, are you, Hannah?” she asked me anxiously several times over the next few weeks, reminding me that I’d originally promised I would stay, not only for her confinement but at least for three or four months after the new baby was born – so there was no need for me to think of leaving just yet, was there?
I didn’t hesitate. I told her I was in no hurry. “But if I’m to be here so long, I’d better find something to do. Other than painting pretty flowers on ostrich eggs.” Which seemed to be a favourite occupation.
“Let’s ask Sarah.”
The Whiteleys were the people from Dewsbury whom Mrs Crowther had been delighted to hear were living in Mafeking. Frank, a man in a similar way of business to Lyall, had been elected the town’s mayor, and Sarah’s Tuesday At Homes I’d discovered to be one of the highlights of Mafeking society. She had proved herself a good friend to Lyddie, a cultured and charming woman with a great deal of energy and organising ability, and she immediately suggested a little teaching as an occupation for me. “There’s a sad lack of anyone to do that – for the girls at any rate. In fact, there’s no one at the moment.”
The idea appealed to me. “I’m not trained for it, but maybe some of the younger ones – and what about the native children?”
Shadows & Lies Page 19
