‘Miss Whittington, once Protea Rise is sold and all outstanding loans are repaid, you will perhaps have sufficient funds to afford a small property of your own.’
‘Thank you, sir. I’m grateful.’
He straightened up. ‘My firm will appoint an agent to handle the sale. In terms of the contents of the house, I suggest you choose any items of furniture or personal effects that you wish to keep. These could be placed in storage until you move into your own property.’
Dearest Fran
Your mother and I are heartsick at the passing of your Aunt Mary. We have not seen her for many years but I know, from your letters, that she became a loving confidante for you. This is a cruel blow, especially as you were starting to find your feet socially.
We have thought long and hard about the position in which you find yourself. I know you stand to inherit from your aunt which should allow you to find accommodation to tide you over. You may choose to return to England, of course, but if you wish to stay in the Cape – ideally marry there – then your mother and I may very well come out ourselves and find a small property of our own near to you and any future family. I realise this is all up in the air at the moment but I want you to know that we will support whatever decision you take.
You’ve done so well, Fran. We are proud of you. Thank you for laying my sister to rest with such care. I heard from Julian McDonald. He said it was a well-attended service.
All our love
Father
Julian McDonald has been kind. I suspect he is contriving visits to the city in order to check that I’m in good health, and that the winding up of Aunt’s estate is proceeding efficiently. He sits on the couch, clasping and unclasping his hands, his face set in a mould of concern.
‘These matters always take time, Frances. Patience is required.’
A lack of patience is not my problem. I long for time to slow down.
‘I’m in no rush, Mr McDonald.’
He looked at me with surprise. ‘Do you not wish to have some certainty?’
‘Oh, I have certainty. Protea Rise will be sold. It’s just a matter of when.’ I looked away from his pale gaze. I didn’t wish to explain further.
‘I imagine you’ve grown fond of it.’ He swept a hand around the lounge. ‘It will be a wrench to leave.’
Why is he telling me what I already know? I mustn’t be rude. Yet I’d rather be left alone to wrestle with a future from which Aunt and this special place will be missing.
‘Will you excuse me, Mr McDonald?’ I rose to indicate I had other pressing duties.
‘Julian, please.’ He gave a shy smile. ‘We surely know each other well enough for first-name terms.’
My pressing duties are artistic.
I’m painting furiously, attempting to capture what I’m leaving behind. My fingers are permanently stained, I rise in the middle of the night to work, I fall asleep at my easel in the grey hour before dawn. And I’m tormented by the story of my life so far: a pattern of leavings.
‘Use this tragedy, Frances,’ Mr Cadwaller wrote, after hearing from my parents. ‘Let this charge your brush with greater determination, greater ambition. Find refuge in art!’
But my hands shake at times, like during the Great Depression. ‘Go slowly, ma’am,’ says Violet, retrieving my crumpled discards from the bin. ‘Ma’am’s fingers will come back.’
Last night a long, liquid, bubbling call drifted through the open window.
A coucal, I registered, my eyes straining through the darkness. A secretive bird, heard if there was moonlight, a graceful, low-flying blur of black, cream and burnt orange that I’d yet to paint—
Mr Field called after two months.
‘We’ve received an offer, Miss Whittington.’
‘Yes?’ I pulled off my apron. I could refuse the offer, stall for ever …
‘It’s not as much as we would like but I suggest you accept it.’ He named a figure.
‘Why so low, sir?’
‘It is the conditions of the market.’
‘And the house is eccentric,’ I murmured. ‘Not true Cape Dutch.’
‘Not at all. It’s charming. The interested party is keen. Miss Whittington,’ he leant forward, ‘we could wait, but the imperative is to wind up the late Mrs Donnelly’s estate in good order, in good time.’
Rather accept an offer now, Father had said, than wait for one that will not come.
‘Very well, sir. Let us go ahead.’
Samuel, whom I’ve kept on temporarily, drove me into Cape Town to the Field and Sons offices. As we rounded the side of Devil’s Peak, gale-force wind tore at the motor car. The cableway was surely grounded. These days I see signs in the weather—
‘Miss Whittington. How nice to see you.’
The lawyer’s office looked directly at the shrouded face of Table Mountain.
‘I have the final accounting of your inheritance.’ He gave a tight smile. ‘All outstanding loans and charges have been settled and you will inherit the sum of one hundred pounds. Your aunt’s wishes have been fulfilled. Congratulations, Miss Whittington.’
Cloud was lowering over the city like a theatre curtain descending after a performance.
‘One hundred pounds won’t be enough for me to buy a place of my own, Mr Field.’
He gave a sympathetic smile. ‘Perhaps not.’
‘Definitely not. I’ve looked at the property listings in the newspaper, sir.’
He blinked. Women weren’t expected to search out answers for themselves. But in that respect Father has trained me well. My research also showed the going price for a house such as Aunt’s. Mr Field is correct. We’ve done the best we could. We’ve sold for a fair price given the circumstances.
‘We are,’ Mr Field inclined his head, ‘at the mercy of forces outside our control. But this settlement will, at least, give you sufficient funds to cover temporary accommodation while you make other plans.’
What other plans, Mr Field?
I am out of plans.
I am homeless.
Chapter Eighteen
‘You will come to us,’ declared Daphne’s father. ‘I won’t hear of anything else. Then, with your father, we shall consider your options, Frances.’
‘Do, Fran.’ Daph took my arm. ‘We’ll have so much fun! You can help me with the wedding!’
They are generous. But behind the scenes, Mr Phillips is surely wringing his hands at the convergence of Mark’s withdrawal and Aunt’s death … and wondering if I am jinxed.
Before any move, however, there is the clearing of Protea Rise.
I sort through Aunt’s unfashionable but practical cotton frocks, the sturdy shoes – I shall keep one pair of lace-ups to remind me that mountains can be climbed – and the shawls she’d wrap around her in the cool of evening. I finger each item but without her sharp presence they’re imposters, hinting at what she was, a pale reflection of the real person. In her study I find poignant letters in a carved ebony box. My dear, Uncle scrawled in faded India ink, our position is difficult, the Boers are fiendish but we soldier on. I think of you constantly. I dream of being back at Protea Rise.
I keep the letters, alongside the lace-ups.
And I wander the neighbourhood, sketching anything I find: non-eccentric houses with Cape Dutch gables, brilliant yellow succulents, the purple undersides of Plectranthus leaves. Some turn out well once I add paint, some show lamentable skill, all are crammed with a harshness of colour and style that is new and a little frightening. Was it determined distraction? Or the refuge Mr Cadwaller recommended? I’m becoming someone I don’t quite recognise.
‘Ma’am?’ Violet found me one day on my knees, leafing through Aunt’s collection of ancient magazines.
How to sew an invisible seam. New ways with parsnips.
‘Ma’am? Mr McDonald is here to see you.’
I scrambled up.
‘Frances?’ Julian McDonald leant through the doorway. He always appeared a little stooped, perhaps fr
om years of bending down to his young pupils.
‘Mr McDonald.’ I pushed my hair out of my face. I struggle to call him Julian. ‘Good morning.’
‘Shall I make tea, ma’am?’
‘Thank you, Violet. We can still offer tea,’ I smiled ruefully, ‘our cups will be the last to be packed.’
Julian McDonald was formally dressed in a dark suit and a matching tie. His eyes were pale blue, like the trickle of seawater that remains when a wave retreats.
‘What are your plans, Frances, now the house has been sold?’
‘I hope to take a small flat,’ I said, lifting my chin. ‘And pursue my art over the next few years.’
He glanced around at the depleted lounge. ‘You must miss how it was.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve been in touch with your father, Frances.’
‘I believe so. He said you remarked favourably on Aunt’s funeral.’
‘I corresponded with your father more recently, Frances. He shared with me your likely circumstances.’
I found myself blushing at my bold words about finding a flat, pursuing my art. Father’s candour would mean that Julian knew it was mostly wishful thinking.
I am out of plans.
‘Frances – my dear—’ He came across and crouched in front of me as Mr Field had done. ‘I have the consent of your father. Will you marry me, my dear?’
‘What?’ I jumped from my chair.
You’re too old, I wanted to shout. Too old for me! Too reluctant to express an opinion, too quick to defer to those who do – nothing like the young men who’ve courted me—
He stood up, reached for my hand and squeezed it.
We stood facing one another, he anxious, myself poised to bolt.
‘Frances?’
His skin was hot, I felt stifled, I wanted to be outside.
‘My dear?’ His voice faltered slightly.
I stared into his face. Julian McDonald was a casual visitor, never a candidate for husband. He possessed a benign face, it was true, with a chin that would soon become a little jowly, and lips that were usually creased into a slight smile. His expression was invariably one of kindness or whimsy, occasional bewilderment, but never ill-temper. I felt no quiver for him, no stirring at all.
‘Why do you want to marry me, Julian?’
Confusion flickered across his brow.
‘I care for you, Frances. We’ve known each other for several years.’
I found myself without words. Was casual acquaintance enough for a lifetime?
‘I know I’m older,’ he gave a tentative smile, ‘but I will love you and cherish you as if I were a young man again.’
Shame rushed through me. He didn’t deserve to beg. He was honourable, he had enough money to own a good motor car and his own home; he could, presumably, dance … even if the setting might be a world away from the Kelvin Grove and the smart folk who peopled it.
‘Will you give it some thought, Frances? I know it’s a lot to take in.’
He let go of my hand. We remained standing, an awkward distance between us. ‘I’ll return the day after tomorrow. Will you be here in the afternoon?’
I nodded.
What do you say to a man who has just proposed, when you have no words to respond either way?
He bent down and kissed me on the cheek, then turned and walked away, carefully avoiding the cardboard boxes and the stacked gramophone records that Aunt used to sway to.
I sank onto the chair and listened as his motor car departed. Love, Mother once said when she sensed my indecision over Brian Harris, has nothing to do with marriage.
‘Ma’am?’ Violet came in with the tea tray. ‘Mr McDonald’s gone already?’
‘Yes. Thank you, Violet. I’ll take my tea into the garden.’
Cirrus clouds traced high patterns in the sky, a sure sign, Aunt used to say, of fine weather to come.
Julian used to call on us whenever he came back to town from his upcountry posting. If I happened to be home, he’d talk to me, admire my drawings, and I’d ask him about life as a teacher out of politeness. Nothing more. He’d always been my parents’ acquaintance and Aunt’s acquaintance, not mine. ‘Come now,’ Aunt once teased with an arch glance, ‘I always expect you to arrive with a bride, Julian! You’re doing well, time is marching on!’ And he’d grin sheepishly and scratch his sparse hair and say that he’d never really found the right girl.
If Aunt knew he had his eye on me, she never let on. And I never considered the possibility.
A band of cloud was drifting over Fernwood Buttress.
My spark comes from here …
And also, I realised with a tremor that recalled the fall, from the laughing child I still chase in my dreams, and who’s somehow followed me across the sea to Protea Rise, to this enchanted garden, to the budding future I imagined with Mark.
Julian lived in a hamlet many miles away. He made his way amid thorn trees and dry riverbeds and people who worked the land and slept with rifles at their bedsides.
What will I do, Julian, in the small town where you live? Who will be my friend?
My sea-green chiffon will be as out of place as a flood in a desert.
And what of my art?
A woman married to a man in a distant, rural area would never gain recognition or attract commissions, or even have time to paint. I would be taken up with running a home, feeding a family – for Julian would want children, maybe a whole pack of them – and my art would wither like the flowers I try so hard to catch at their peak.
Is that to be my fate?
And yet I would be loved, surely. Julian would be kind, wouldn’t he?
This could be a loving rescue. Or it could be a trap from which there’d be no escape.
Chapter Nineteen
When I think back, I wrote some years later in my diary, this proposal of marriage comes to me in colours and textures. The colours are pale and the texture is, I’m afraid, as thin as an over-diluted watercolour. It reminds me not of dawn and the stir of new life but rather of sunset and leave-taking; an ending rather than a beginning.
I’m ashamed it should be so.
And I’m still sad for my younger self that I didn’t rebel and find my own way when I sensed – though I tried to persuade myself otherwise – that it was more trap than rescue.
Why was I not bolder?
And should I have anticipated there would be other proposals that would carry more fire? My experienced heart says yes.
But when you’re young and the road ahead seems to be narrowing, you can’t imagine there may be detours that send you in a direction you could never have dreamt.
‘Ma’am!’ Violet shouted. ‘Trunk call! Mr Whittington says to come quick!’
I threw down my brush and rushed to the telephone. Calls from abroad were prohibitively expensive; not even Aunt Mary’s death had warranted one. ‘Father?’
‘Dear Fran.’ Father’s voice cracked slightly. ‘We’ll have to be brief. Your mother is listening in. We know you’re considering Julian McDonald’s proposal.’
‘You must marry him, Frances,’ Mother chipped in. ‘He’s a good man.’
‘He may be a good man but I don’t love him!’
‘He’s prepared to overlook the lack of … support,’ Father hesitated, ‘and we’ve no doubt he’ll be an honourable husband.’
‘Why does he want me, Father? Fifteen years younger and mostly a stranger?’
‘Because you’re beautiful and accomplished,’ Mother asserted, ‘and he wants a wife who’ll be a fit companion.’ Her voice rose. ‘This will assure your future, Frances!’
The telephone line crackled with silence.
‘Fran.’ Father’s tone was gentle. ‘It is your choice and we will support whatever you decide.’
‘Thank you, Father. And Mother. I will write and let you know.’
‘God bless you, my dear. We miss you dreadfully.’
There was a final crackle and he was gone. I replac
ed the receiver and walked into the garden.
Mother was right about my being a fit companion. I’m slender, I’ve inherited her abundant hair in a shade that turns heads, I can hold my own in conversation thanks to Father making sure I’m more than a decoration. I read the papers, I draw and paint. But, equally, Julian McDonald could find any number of fit companions if he chose to look. There were several young women of my acquaintance who were more beautiful and probably better equipped to be wives than myself.
I picked a silver tree leaf and smoothed its delicate skin.
He returned two days later in the same dark suit and carefully knotted tie. This time I was prepared. Violet brought tea onto the verandah and we sat side by side in the shell chairs and talked about the weather – unseasonably cool – and the garden – particularly lush.
‘I’m grateful, Julian,’ I began. ‘I hope you’ll forgive me if I appeared ungracious the other day.’
He smiled and shook his head. Perhaps he had prepared, too, for he seemed more assured.
‘I’ve given your proposal a lot of thought.’
I expected him to nod and make some suitable comment on the wisdom of careful consideration but instead he reached across and took my hand and murmured, ‘I love you, Frances.’
How can you say that when we hardly know each other?
But I have no choice other than to believe him. I’ve made the necessary calculations. Rental and living costs will quickly eat up my inheritance if I have no other income. I visited Director Compton and I telegrammed Mr Cadwaller. I asked the same question – abbreviated in Cadwaller’s case, more lengthy for the director.
Can I make a living right now as an artist?
And both replied that it was too soon to say. Art was an uncertain business. The director reiterated that there was interest, as shown by the two sketches I’d been remunerated for in an upcoming publication, but not, as yet, an ongoing demand. Mr Cadwaller telegrammed to say Kew was keen but constrained.
I confided in Daph who said Julian was a good man – is that the only adjective people can find to describe him? – and that I might have more opportunity for adventure in the country than the city.
The Fire Portrait Page 9
