Chapter Ten
I didn’t expect to find such inspiration in the ocean, its colour and mood, its infinite vastness – nothing like the fickle streams I battled to capture as a novice. While my fellow passengers played deck quoits or lay in the sun with their eyes closed, I painted: the sea at dawn in shades of blue-rose, the sea at midday in blinding turquoise, the sea at dusk in silver and grey. Sometimes rocky islets appeared to break up the expanse of it, and gulls dived into its midst, but mostly it stretched from horizon to horizon, oblivious of our passage.
Freckles are appearing on my nose despite Mother’s generously brimmed hats.
A few of the young men have tried their luck and I’ve danced with them, or taken tea, but I prefer to paint. The reverend and his wife have little to do other than keep a distant lookout. When we reach the Cape I shall borrow Aunt Mary’s status to find a social circle – and admit to no misfortune back home.
‘Are you a professional, madam?’ a gentleman asked one day after we’d crossed the equator in a riot of high jinks. I see him most days when I’m painting my dawn pictures. He tips his hat to me as he passes on his morning constitutional. This is the first time he’s addressed me. ‘Do you sell your work?’
‘Not yet, sir,’ I laughed. ‘Soon, I hope.’
He reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a card and handed it to me. ‘A very good morning.’ He lifted his hat and continued on his way.
I fingered the card.
A. R. J. Compton.
Kirstenbosch.
The captain encouraged us to rise early for the arrival into Cape Town.
It was still grey as I stepped on deck with a blanket wrapped around my disembarkation clothes, and set up my small easel near the bow, and waited.
How will it be? I’d written before I packed away my diary.
Is the vicar correct to call this place alien?
Will this be where my art becomes my career?
Might I discover love, perhaps, as well? The kind that will make me catch my breath?
So many questions …
Today there were languid swells. Yesterday, a chop of white water that I strained to copy. Brightening stained the east. Other passengers were coming on deck, now. They smiled and nodded.
There! A black ridge resolved itself against a slowly flushing sky. At first it was only an outline: the top of the famous Table, ruler-straight; two peaks, sentinel-like, at either end. The wind rose and foam began to whip off the tops of the swells. The ship’s funnels caught the brightening light. I clipped up a fresh sheet. This time, a notch in the flat table, some kind of gorge. And the left-hand outrider was bulky, while the right-hand one actually consisted of two peaks, the front one a low hill, the rear one looming above it in the shape of an upturned V.
‘May I call on you, Miss Whittington?’ A young man called Phillip Edwards, in a striped jacket, hovered over me. He’d escorted me to the Crossing the Line ceremony at the equator.
‘Maybe,’ I smiled. ‘You’ll have to find me, first.’
I’ve told no one my exact final destination. I could even stay on board, give my chaperones the slip, head up the coast to one of the other cities. I have a little money of my own, passed to me by Mother …
The city came into focus, shining beneath the famous mountain.
But Aunt Mary would be waiting. And a house called Protea Rise.
My fresh start.
Ropes snaked over the side as the Edinburgh Castle was nudged by a pair of tugs towards its mooring. A band on the quayside struck up a brisk version of ‘Rule Britannia’ that waxed and waned in the lively breeze. I felt the heat burn on my skin. And the light! Dancing on the water, glancing off the white buildings at the end of the pier, picking out the grey strata of the soaring mountain.
Whoever arranged for a mountain in the midst of a city?
‘Good luck, Frances!’ My pious nun offered her hand. ‘Put your faith in the Lord.’
We lower-deckers waited while first-class passengers filed down the gangplank. Most of the men wore formal suits and bow ties, and carried furled umbrellas despite clear sky and significant heat. I struggled not to giggle. Yet perhaps it bore out Mother’s insistence about the link between accessories and status. ‘Look!’ shouted a girl alongside me. A sailor was leading an Irish wolfhound down the gangplank. Behind the hound, several gentlemen hovered as if loath to leave the sanctuary of the ship. Maybe, I speculated from my lesser queue, they were well-dressed fugitives from the law, worried they might be arrested. For their part, the disembarking ladies were clad as if for Ascot, one with a hat of teetering ostrich feathers. Children in smocked dresses or sailor suits followed them, shepherded by nannies. ‘It’s flat,’ one boy cried, pointing at the mountain. ‘Flat as a pancake!’
I fixed my simple hat hard onto my head, hefted my suitcase and stepped down the gangplank.
An impatient crowd shouted and surged against the roped walkway that led to the immigration building.
‘Millicent, over here!’
‘Joseph!’
‘Mother dear!’
‘Grandfather!’
The band swung into a boisterous version of ‘Roll Out the Barrel’.
‘Taxi? Best taxi service!’ a brown man yelled, waving a carboard placard. The call was taken up by several other vendors, also with handmade signs.
‘Best price hotel! Quiet rooms! Car to the station!’
A barefoot urchin ducked under the rope and brandished a newspaper in my face. ‘Argus!’
Under the onslaught, ladies clutched at their handbags for security, and at their hats to prevent them cartwheeling into the water. From further along the quay came a squeal of brakes as the mail ship train drew into its siding, ready to take passengers onwards to the diamond fields of Kimberley and the gold mines of the Witwatersrand, where fortunes could be made, according to Father, from a single nugget.
I struggled forward with my case. The Irish wolfhound was barking in the distance. How had the owners exercised it? Many circuits of the first-class deck every morning?
‘Anything to declare?’ asked a harried official. ‘No? Welcome to Cape Town. Move along, please.’
My trunk would be delivered the following day to my Aunt’s address.
We were decanted directly into the waiting crowd, made distinct by the pastel dresses of the ladies, and the range of skins from palest white to darkest black. I glanced back at the ship for a moment. Poorer passengers were now disembarking. They were dressed in dull, serviceable colours that wouldn’t require much washing on a long voyage, and there were far fewer shouts of recognition as they stepped ashore. I felt a lick of shame. They were much braver than me.
I turned back to the crowd and searched for an elderly lady, resembling Father …
‘Frances Whittington!’ an imperious voice called. A cane waved at me. ‘Over here!’
Chapter Eleven
I shall never forget my first view of Protea Rise. Not just because I wanted to paint it straight away but because the place felt, inexplicably, like home.
A home I’d never visited before.
Is that possible?
‘It isn’t classic Cape Dutch style,’ said Aunt Mary Donnelly, with a casual wave at several elaborate mansions as we drove into the leafy suburbs. ‘Only a vestige of a gable and too many other influences. English formality, a soupçon of French Huguenot, even a nod to Irish cottage simplicity. Not classic at all. But frankly, who cares?’
This eccentricity was initially a concern for Uncle, she later acknowledged. He was looking for a solid investment. But Aunt was charmed by the place and – she winked – their relationship was at the point where it was important to be seen to be open to wifely suggestion. I could see what she meant as we approached the front of a rambling house, its green shutters set open against plain white walls and its thatched roof perched atop the structure like some extravagant, prickly icing on a cake. But who cared, indeed, when the property more than held its own
by virtue of its setting. A vast mountain cliff reared opposite – Fernwood Buttress, waved Aunt – flanked by lesser peaks leading off on one side towards Devil’s Peak, one of the outriders I’d sketched on board ship. Determined not to be overlooked, a colourful garden rioted around the house, stuffed with an array of plants I’d never seen. It was surely the most beautiful of eccentric properties.
‘Thank you, Samuel.’ Aunt Mary climbed out of the car. ‘We will not need you further today.’
The black man tipped his cap and carried my suitcase to the door.
In the same way that Protea Rise overturned tradition, so too did its owner. Years at the Cape had weathered Aunt Mary’s complexion to more teak than rose, and below her ankle-length dress of blue cotton she wore sturdy lace-up boots that might have tackled Fernwood Buttress in her younger years. Mother would have been scandalised. Aunt’s hair was white and pulled off her face into a simple bun, her eyes had a glint that reminded me of Father and she had no truck with fools. She’d kissed me briefly at the docks, leant back, looked me up and down and pronounced that I was my father’s daughter, but hopefully more sensible when it came to investments.
‘Come along,’ she’d brandished her walking cane, ‘let’s depart. My driver has the motor nearby. I do not drive. Perhaps,’ she looked back at me, ‘you should learn?’
As we drove around the side of Table Mountain I kept quiet – Aunt, clearly, did not appreciate gush – though I ached to ask the driver to stop so I could grab my pencils … that first impression …
‘Your father says your young man ditched you?’
‘Yes.’ I turned from the window. ‘I was no longer a catch.’
‘Good riddance, I say. So, what are your intentions here, apart from being my companion?’
‘I’m an artist.’ I hesitated, then plunged, as I’d done with Cadwaller. ‘I want to make it my career.’
‘Excellent. You need something to fall back on when I trundle into the sunset.’
I stared at her. She smiled and patted my hand.
‘No intention of doing so just yet. But it’s as well to be prepared, wouldn’t you say?’
‘What are my duties, Aunt?’ I asked later over tea at Protea Rise, brought by a smiling brown lady called Violet, and consisting of leaf tea – I’d handed over the Harrods package – and buttered bread cut into triangles and topped with a fruit jam, the taste of which I did not recognise.
‘You shall read to me in the mornings, and undertake small chores. Dickens, some Shakespeare. Once you’re settled, you might help Violet with the menus. And take over my diary and arrange visits to acquaintances. Your afternoons are free.’ She fixed me with a sharp glance. ‘But I don’t hold with idleness, Frances.’
‘I shall draw and paint in the afternoons.’
‘Very well. I expect to see your work from time to time. Now,’ she got to her feet slowly, ‘I shall rest after that kerfuffle at the docks. Lunch is at 1 p.m. and dinner at six-thirty sharp.’
A piping call came from the garden. I left my unpacking, lifted the sash window and climbed outside. A patio ran the length of the house, valiantly holding back shrubs that had spilt beyond their casual borders, some of their blooms petalled, others composed of pin-like tendrils. There was a tree with strokable silver leaves and shiny cones lodged in its branches. The piping call gave way to a chattering – what sort of bird – I craned upwards—
‘You like flowers, miss?’ Violet was seated on a rock in the shade, with a sandwich from our tea.
‘I do. But I don’t know any of these.’ I pointed around the garden.
‘They’re pincushions, Miss Frances. They live on the mountain. Alfius, the gardener, planted them.’
Thin cloud drifted over the mountain cliff. The rock softened as if beneath gauze.
How will I capture such shifting splendour?
‘We had a gardener in England. Mr Jacobs. He used to speak to the plants.’
She stared at me and I wondered if I’d disconcerted her. Are the locals godly or do they worship magic? I could offend without realising.
‘Miss will like Alfius,’ she smiled. ‘He talks to the garden all the time.’
‘Thank you, Violet.’
I glanced back at my sash window and returned to the house via the patio door.
Over dinner – unsure of the protocol, I changed into a long-sleeved dress in pink and received an approving nod – Aunt announced that she’d taken the liberty of making connections for me with the better families in the area and that a Miss Daphne Phillips, daughter of a friend of her late husband, would be calling on me the following afternoon.
‘You can take outings with the Phillipses. They go swimming, I believe, in the summer. And Daphne will introduce you to her circle. She’s a dizzy girl at times, but means well.’
‘I love swimming. Father used to take me to the coast in the summer. And I don’t mind dizziness.’
Aunt regarded me for a moment. She doesn’t know me yet, so she can’t be sure of my humour.
Daphne Phillips turned out to be a pretty brunette with a smart line in bias-cut dresses. She arrived with her father, a barrel-chested man who, Aunt murmured to me in advance, had grown fat on mining profits since the Boer War.
‘So this is Frances!’ Mr Phillips boomed. ‘Come to find a husband in the colonies, my dear?’
‘Father!’ Daphne blushed and shot him a furious glance.
‘Not at all,’ I replied. ‘I’m here to be a companion to my aunt. And to further my career as an artist.’
‘Well said, Frances.’ Aunt frowned at Phillips. ‘Careers are not the sole preserve of men, Stephen. Women have also earnt the right to vote, sir, in case you’ve forgotten.’
‘Indeed, Mary. How remiss of me.’ He took a bite from a slice of Violet’s chocolate cake. ‘But you’ve come at a difficult time, Frances. The Union hasn’t been spared from the Crash. There’s less money about, so you may find it hard to attract patrons.’
‘I’d be grateful for your introductions.’ I smiled at them both. ‘I know it will take time.’
I will not reveal Father’s losses; neither will I reveal that I have yet to sell a single work.
‘You really are an artist?’ Daphne asked after we left Aunt and Mr Phillips to spar and repaired to my bedroom. ‘I can’t draw for toffee.’
‘You can pick one to keep, if you like.’ I spread out a few paintings from my on-board portfolio.
‘You mean that? Shouldn’t I pay you? If this is to be your career?’
‘You could be my promoter, Daphne. If you like my work, you can tell others.’
She glanced at me shyly. ‘Mother heard you’d come because of a disappointing love affair.’
‘Can you keep a secret?’ Surely she couldn’t. That might be helpful to me. ‘I didn’t want to marry the boy who was keen on me. I decided to break away.’
It was a lie. Or was it? Anyway, it was necessary to forestall any pity.
‘You’re so brave.’ She chose a painting of the Bay of Biscay. Grey water. Charcoal-tipped cloud. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she hesitated, ‘and a little frightening.’
You’re a little frightening, she meant. Tossing aside a suitor. Taking to the high seas. Starting afresh.
‘Please take it, Daphne – if it’s not too unnerving.’ I smiled. ‘In appreciation for showing me around.’
‘You can call me Daph. All my friends do.’
Dear Mother and Father
I am safely in Cape Town in Aunt’s wonderful, eccentric mansion.
There is more here for me to paint than I can possibly manage even if I worked every day for a year!
I met Daphne Phillips, who will introduce me to her set. Cape Town seems about the same size as Southampton but more spread out. I’m working on the geography. Daph often asks me to point in the direction of Table Bay or Hout Bay, say, and you’d imagine it would be easy but it isn’t with a peninsula. Only after I realised that Table Mountain faces north, did I get
my bearings.
The population of the Cape is mixed. There are those called Coloured, and some called Malay, descended from slaves brought here in the past. Some even have Chinese features. The black people are the strongest and they undertake the heaviest work. I imagine it must be hard managing such a disparate country. The Argus newspaper reports disagreements over pay to workers of different colours. South Africa seems like a beautiful, volatile jigsaw. You discover, and add, one piece at a time. The final picture is a mystery until the end.
I’ve been invited to the Races with the Phillipses. My low-waisters are still suitable, Mother, but I’ll need to order one or two brighter frocks with my first earnings. Aunt Mary is sharp-tongued but kind.
I think I can be happy here. Thank you for letting me go, Mother.
All my love
Fran
Chapter Twelve
As with the geography of the peninsula, I need to find my botanical bearings. Leucospermum cordifolium, a shrub with orange-tendrilled blooms, grows outside my bedroom window. It is known as a pincushion protea. The silver tree I saw on my first day is also a protea, but in a group known as conebushes. Then there are proteas with grey beards and proteas with white flowers and proteas with nodding heads that hug the ground …
‘Frances?’
Chatter drifted through the open windows. Sugarbirds, the gardener Alfius, had informed me. ‘They suck nectar from the proteas, ma’am, when they aren’t talking. See how their beaks are shaped?’
‘Frances?’
‘I’m sorry.’ I focussed on the book in my hand. Aunt had requested Shakespeare’s sonnets.
‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments,’ I began.
Aunt is canny. This may be a message to me to find a young man who will love me for myself.
‘Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds. Or bends with the remover to remove.’
The Fire Portrait Page 5
