‘He’s a good man,’ I replied.
‘It was the right decision. For you to marry him.’
I won’t be drawn, so I nod and press her hand. Under my coat I’m wearing the blue linen low-waister with elbow-length sleeves, one of the few trousseau dresses that I haven’t cut the sleeves off. I’m so accustomed to trousers that a dress and stockings feels restrictive and I can’t wait to throw them off. But for Mother, I always wear a dress.
‘You look lovely, Frances.’
I waited a moment, then took her thin hand. The veins stood out like blue cords. If I didn’t distract her, she would ask if I was well and that would lead to whether there was a medical reason why I was not yet a mother. I used to wonder whether a medical reason prevented Mother from having another child but I decided it was because she was choosing to keep Father at a distance. Yet perhaps she did want one but her body betrayed her, wouldn’t stir to her desire.
‘Will you tell me about my brother Gideon?’
It’s the first time I’ve used his name.
Mother glanced out of the window. ‘He liked trains.’ She looked back at me. ‘Your father ordered a set from Harrods. Gideon would set it up in the lounge, and drive it around on the floor making chuffing noises. But most of all, he loved to run. He never climbed like you, Frances, he preferred to run.’
A child ran away from me, beckoning me to follow …
‘I’ve seen him in my dreams, Mother. Running. And laughing.’
She smiled and a single tear slid slowly down her cheek.
‘Then it wasn’t a teenage fantasy? You truly saw him?’
‘I did. Rest now.’ I leant over to kiss her. ‘I’ll be back in a while and we can talk some more.’
I helped her off the pillows and eased her flat.
Her body felt light, breakable. If I held her too tightly, those blue veins might rupture.
I left the door slightly ajar and joined Father in the lounge.
Rain, blissful rain, pattered against the windows.
‘Fran?’ He looked up from his newspaper.
‘She’ll sleep for a while. I’ll go back in again later.’ I paused. ‘How is work, Father?’
He’s told Mother little of the difficulty of building a reputation in the Cape. He let her believe he was in demand, that only her illness was stopping them from adopting a more lavish lifestyle.
‘Business is fair, my dear.’ He removed his glasses. ‘Good enough to support us and employ Violet. I couldn’t manage without her, Fran. And the reverend is most kind. We have much to be grateful for.’
I glanced about. There was no study so Father spread his papers on the dining table when necessary.
‘Where is Kitchener, Father?’
‘Haven’t you spotted him?’ He shot me an amused glance. ‘In the spare bedroom.’
‘Still as an omen? A warning?’
‘Indeed. Ever necessary, I believe.’
‘Don’t be silly, Fran,’ exclaimed Daphne when I had tea with her. ‘Smuts won’t stand for any pro-German trouble. We’re a dominion, allegiance to the king and all that. Maisie! Share those blocks with your brother! Now have you heard,’ she leant forward, ‘Penelope Chisholm’s husband has run off with his secretary! Mary says it was on the cards all along, Penny was too possessive.’
Daph has never visited me in Aloe Glen. She says the climate wouldn’t suit her and, in any case, she was doing me a favour: if she didn’t visit me, then I’d be forced to come to Cape Town to visit her which would be less of a hardship all round.
‘Mrs McDonald!’ The director greeted me with a firm handshake. ‘How is the Karoo treating you?’
‘It’s not quite the Karoo, sir, it’s on the cusp. I see two vegetation types.’
‘Ah,’ said Compton with satisfaction. ‘Variety, then?’
‘Yes. And I think I may have found a rare type of aloe.’
His eyes sparked. ‘Is that what brings you to Cape Town?’
I glanced out of the window. Cloud was wrapping itself around Devil’s Peak. Cloud, mist, fog, drizzle … words that have disappeared from my vocabulary.
‘I’m here to visit my mother. She isn’t well.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ He inclined his head. ‘But you do have something to show me?’
I opened my portfolio case and took out three sheets.
The first showed the complete aloe, pinky-green leaves erupting from an untidy stem clinging to stony ground. The second was a leaf detail, showing the toothed margins and the broad, fleshy connection to the stem. The third was the flower spike, with multiple orange flower heads, incongruously airy above the thuggish whole. I’d waited a further year for those.
‘Enviably precise,’ Compton remarked. ‘We’ll be able to gauge the response to your work at the upcoming exhibition.’
He was being careful not to raise my hopes too high.
I reached into the portfolio again and took out a final sheet and placed it in front of him. It was a risk, of course. I wouldn’t have hesitated with Mr Cadwaller but maybe it was unwise to show it to the director. After all, what could he say? But I have no one else to ask. And it’s time.
‘This is just for me, sir.’
He lifted it and held it to the light. I’d deliberately made it pale, with a wash of colours that met and drifted apart and coalesced again into the central image. Was it an image?
Perhaps it was simply a blend of colour and water that only I would recognise.
‘Mevrou?’
‘Yes, Deon?’
Back in Aloe Glen we’re drawing sunflowers with great yellow heads and lanky stems. And landscapes of emerald-green grass and steel-grey mountains and bright blue rivers …
‘Have you ever seen the sea, mevrou?’
We are, young and old, obsessed with water and the possibility of its abundance.
‘Oh, yes,’ I smiled. ‘I used to swim at Muizenberg. And with my father in England.’
‘My father doesn’t take me anywhere,’ said Deon, bending back over his picture.
I knelt down beside him. We had taught each other, this boy and I, just as I predicted. Since the owl, Deon had deconstructed the world into mathematical shapes in a way I’d never imagined: mountains were interlocking triangles, river meanders described semicircles, railway lines were parallels disappearing into the distance. Deon taught me that art could spring from the most rigid of origins.
‘Well,’ I said quietly, ‘it’s because he’s busy. Soon you’ll be at boarding school in Worcester.’
‘I’m not going there. Pa says I have to leave school.’
The clumsy Engelbrecht boy dropped his crayon and fished for it on the floor.
I got to my feet and clapped my hands. ‘Time to finish up, class!’
The youngsters raced across the playground to their waiting mothers. Truda was there and I waved to her and she waved back but hurried Deon away. I’ve learnt not to be offended when she doesn’t engage. Usually it’s when she’s bruised, which she blames on tripping, but the Truda I know, the one who runs through the veld like a gazelle, is the most sure-footed creature I’ve ever come across.
‘You cannot allow this, Julian,’ I said later, over supper. ‘Deon must stay in school.’
Of the bruising I say nothing and I’m ashamed. But my acceptance in Aloe Glen is still partial, even though I attend church, say nothing controversial, wear the right clothes and endure the same drought. I have not yet gained the right to interfere.
‘Wynand Louw wants his son to join the railways.’ Julian reached for a baked potato. ‘At least we’ve equipped the boy with enough English to make his way in due course. You can’t get too attached, my dear.’
‘Is it money? They can’t afford the boarding school fees?’
‘Perhaps, although there are bursaries available. Deon’s results are far better lately. You may have thought you were only teaching art, my dear, but the children’s English has leapt ahead. You’re our secret weapon, Laet
itia says.’ He nodded at me. ‘Take credit, Frances.’
‘We could help the Louws,’ I said slowly. ‘You and I. Couldn’t we?’
I want to do more than just show Truda sympathy, and pretend to ignore what I see.
‘You have a generous heart, Frances. But we must set money aside for our own family.’
I stared at him. We’d just passed our seventh wedding anniversary.
He looked away and smoothed his thin hair. Julian knows there have been several times when I hoped for good news, but then my cycle returned and our chance was gone. Sometimes I wish he’d rage and shout at the unfairness of it, and I would then rage and shout with him and we’d clear the air and go on again, but that is not his way.
I stared past him towards Aloe Peak, rearing through the window.
Somewhere up there are the aloes I’m drawing for Kirstenbosch.
My legacy, perhaps, if there is no child.
‘It might not happen, Julian. Have you considered that? I might never have a family.’
I thought, later, that this could have been one of those moments that spurred his passion – like the accident with the infant antelope or the time when he told me I’d rescued him – and he could sweep me into his arms and kiss me and we might be lucky. But after we’d done the dishes, he settled down to marking books. I went outside and threw some water on my carrots and sat on the kitchen step. Stars pricked through the darkening sky as if peeking through velvet curtains in a bedroom. I closed my eyes. A child appeared, not the one that I chased through the grounds at Embury and Protea Rise, nor the boy I’d taught to draw, but another child, different from either of those.
‘They say,’ said Mrs van Deventer through tight lips, leaning over her fence, ‘that there will be a war.’
‘Oh, surely not?’
‘Just as long as they don’t take my boys, they can make as much war as they want.’
But whose side, I wanted to ask, will we be on? Will we join the British, still seen as the foe around here?
Or will we make common cause with Hitler and his jackboots?
‘My husband says we need to stand up to Germany, Mrs van Deventer.’
‘Why should we do that?’ she snorted, folding her arms. ‘It’s not our fight!’
‘I suppose,’ I said carefully, ‘that our loyalty as a dominion should be towards Britain.’
She looked at me with displeasure and hoisted her sagging skirt.
‘You stand behind your people in England, I know that. But this is your home now,’ she pointed to the baking veld, ‘if you draw our aloes and take credit for them, you should side with us.’
I stared at her.
‘Anyway,’ she leant over and placed a thick hand on my arm, ‘it will be up to those domkoppe in parliament what happens. But I tell you this, they’re not taking my boys. Or anybody else’s boys round here. We’ll hide them away. And no one,’ she wagged a finger, ‘no one better tell.’
Dear Mrs McDonald
I am happy to report that in our latest exhibition, your paintings attracted widespread attention. We offered them for sale as you directed, and all were sold to collectors and enthusiasts of Karoo flora.
I enclose a cheque for the proceeds.
I hope one day to come and see the Pink, Armoured Aloe. It is indeed a most impressive plant.
Please do continue with the Aloe series, and also if you find succulents in the genus Lithops, formerly Mesembryanthemum. These resemble nothing so much as stones on the ground, until they flower.
Yours most sincerely
A. R. J. Compton
Director
Chapter Thirty-Four
If, as an artist, I am profiting from a landscape, what is the correct compensation for that?
I owe it my respect, certainly. My allegiance, up to a point.
But do I owe allegiance to those who, like my neighbour, believe they own it because they’ve been here longer than me?
Still no rain.
Every day I tap the water tank to monitor its level.
Every day I tap lower and lower.
Germany has invaded Poland.
Father, calling from Cape Town, says it will be war.
It has become, as with the Great War, a matter of honouring alliances. What will our country do? Hertzog’s party in the coalition prefers neutrality or outright support for Hitler, Smuts’s party says we owe loyalty to the king and must ally with Britain.
I don’t want our young men to die on a distant battlefield, either.
But I know that fascism is an evil thing.
‘Please come in,’ I said, holding the door open. ‘Welcome!’
I’d had Truda to tea but never a group, mainly because it took so long for my tentative acquaintances to agree to socialise with me. My previous invitations had been greeted with polite thanks followed by a range of excuses from rug-beating to birthing animals. So I waited inside until I saw them at the gate – shades of Mrs van Deventer – and then flung the door open. Truda Louw, Sannie Metz, Aletta Erasmus, Cora Engelbrecht and Anna Visser trooped in, wiped their velskoens and glanced about, shyly eager to see what the headmaster’s house looked like.
‘Magtig!’ gasped Cora, clapping a hand to her mouth, and began to giggle for I’d kept my truculent promise to paint the furniture. All the dining room chairs bore green vines curling up their wooden legs and creamy jasmine twining across their backs. Julian hadn’t minded, Mother thought it outrageous, and Father chuckled and said it would surely start a trend. Blooming Desert, he called it. Soon they were all giggling at the English woman and her strange habit of painting perfectly good wood in all the colours of the rainbow. I couldn’t have planned a better ice-breaker. Once calm was restored, they expressed their best wishes for Mother’s health and then settled down to lemon cake – Violet’s recipe – and syrupy koeksusters – Sipata’s – washed down with tea. At first there was light talk of children and, inevitably, the prospects for rain.
‘What will happen if there’s a war?’ Anna broke ranks over the second pot of tea.
‘If the drought breaks, our men need to be here,’ Sannie said firmly. ‘There’ll be heavy work.’
‘Smuts doesn’t care about our farms,’ put in Aletta, ‘he only wants to suck up to the British.’
They glanced at me. The local newspaper, prominently on display in Mr Fourie’s store, had been trumpeting similar comments for weeks.
‘More tea?’ I offered the pot around.
‘My husband won’t fight,’ said Aletta, stirring in her sugar vigorously. ‘He says it’s not his business. But what about Mr McDonald?’
I glanced out of the window. Aloe Peak stood proud, but its slopes were brown. Much of the scrub I’d drawn was barely alive. Orange-throated longclaws, flapping herons, birds of prey, were rare. Even my joyful, agile springbok had vanished. Nature was on the cusp of giving up. There’d be death here before there was war abroad.
‘Julian will want to do his bit,’ I said carefully, ‘but he sees his job as headmaster to be the most important contribution he can make.’
‘Do his bit?’ Truda wrinkled her forehead.
‘It means to do his share. To make a difference.’
‘Verstaan, understand. Like helping even if you don’t have to.’
‘We have our own problems,’ said Cora, setting her cup down. ‘Drought, white poverty—’
‘But Wynand is angry,’ interrupted Truda. ‘He says Smuts will call people traitors!’
She was wearing one of her faded dresses that left her arms bare and her neck exposed.
‘Wynand is always angry,’ retorted Sannie to general nodding. ‘Don’t listen to him.’
Truda glanced at me. I knew her fear of Wynand was greater than her ability to ignore him.
‘What will you do if there’s a war, Frances?’ asked Cora softly. ‘Will you support your people?’
‘My people?’
‘Ja,’ she said with quiet doggedness. ‘The English.’
‘But I’m not just English, Cora,’ I replied gently. ‘You are my people, too.’
They nodded and smiled but they didn’t believe me. Mrs van Deventer wouldn’t, either. I’ve earnt their provisional friendship, but when sides are eventually cemented and there can be no fudging, they won’t expect me to take theirs.
‘What will you do?’ repeated Cora. ‘If it comes to fighting?’
I shook my head.
It was weak of me, and they knew it.
For a moment I felt a tremor, a spasm of the unease I thought was gone.
‘Dearly beloved,’ intoned the reverend at St John’s in Wynberg. It was Father Ben, newly promoted to Reverend, who’d led the mountain hike when I stood close to the precipice. ‘We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of Emily Frances Whittington, devoted wife, mother and friend.’
I took my Father’s hand.
Since the Aloe Glen tea party, which broke up with kisses on the cheek and what I hoped was genuine warmth, the world had teetered and then reeled into conflict. It began with the declaration of war, the split in the government and Smuts prevailing narrowly to take the country onto the side of the Allies. Eight months of phoney war followed during which we hoped peace might somehow be salvaged. But then Germany swept across Belgium, Holland and France and within weeks Britain stood alone. The phone call came as Julian and I sat by the radio, listening to news of the French surrender. Father was telephoning to say I should come because Mother had weakened and Dr Reed was not sure how much longer she had, and she was asking for me. I threw a change of clothes into a suitcase and raced for the late train. As the rails clicked, I muttered to myself.
Live. Breathe. Don’t go before I’m with you. There are things to be said.
Don’t go …
Father met me at the station in central Cape Town and we drove as fast as his motor car would allow.
‘War latest!’ shouted the paperboys on the corner. ‘Read all about it! War latest!’
The Fire Portrait Page 16
