‘It’s gathering pace,’ Julian said with quiet satisfaction. ‘I knew we wouldn’t be found wanting.’
But few trains stopped at Aloe Glen. And the dominee said nothing to his flock about their Christian duty to fight fascism, or, at least, to oppose its cruel agenda. Repent, repent, was what we got on Sunday mornings, but for no particular sin.
Julian’s orders arrived.
‘It’s Intelligence,’ he said with quiet satisfaction. ‘To Durban for initial training, then we sail for Cairo.’
I fingered his new khaki uniform as we sat on the verandah, the flashes proclaiming his South African regiment rather than his Scottish one from the Great War.
‘You’ll continue our good work with the art and literacy classes, my dear?’
‘I should do more,’ I said restlessly, ‘not just paint or teach English.’
‘But you’ll be keeping alive what I started, Frances.’ He knelt by my side, his pale eyes looking at me tenderly. ‘My radical project, as you call it. It’ll be your contribution, your war.’
He was right. It could be my war. I touched his cheek in a kind of apology. He was so decent, so reliable, while my own emotions see-sawed with every fugitive memory of Cape Town.
The last thing Julian did before he left was to arrange a bursary for Deon Louw.
‘Our job is to present the opportunity, Frances. It will be their decision as to whether to take it.’
So, one early evening, he took off his tie and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to convey informality and we walked to their cottage by the railway station. I was wearing bush clothes and carrying a tiny mountain aloe for Truda to plant. She’d never invited me to her home because, she said with a blush that reached through her tan, it was too plain. And it was: a shoebox of a place, a bare patch out front, burglar bars prominent against the permanently drawn curtains. No wonder she ran away into the veld whenever she could.
‘Headmaster?’ Wynand Louw opened the door halfway, suspicion clouding his face.
‘May we come in?’ Julian put on his broadest smile. ‘We have some news for you.’
‘Truda!’ He turned and yelled into the gloomy interior. ‘It’s the headmaster.’
She appeared, followed by Deon. I’m always struck by the way she visibly shrinks in her husband’s presence. She folds that gloriously rangy body in on itself until she’s almost crouching. Deon stands upright but says nothing at all when his father is nearby.
‘Good evening, Truda. How are you? And Deon?’ I smiled at them both. ‘I’ve brought you an aloe.’
‘Thank you.’ Truda’s eyes briefly flickered with warmth.
‘Invite them in,’ Wynand Louw said to his wife gruffly.
‘Come,’ Truda cast me a desperate glance, ‘please come this way.’
We sat down on a small, sinking couch. They sat opposite, on separate chairs, Wynand lounging in his, Truda on the edge of hers. Deon hovered in the doorway.
‘I’m happy to report that Deon,’ Julian inclined his head to the boy, ‘has won a bursary to board at the high school in Worcester. Congratulations, Deon!’
There was silence. I smiled and clapped my hands. ‘Well done!’
Julian got up and went over to the boy and shook his hand and then re-joined me on the couch. My husband was the best kind of schoolmaster: ambitious for every child. But he’d gambled with these parents. He’d congratulated Deon as if his departure for high school was already a foregone conclusion.
‘Who says he’s going to Worcester?’ Wynand duly turned to glare at Truda. ‘Did you do this? Did you?’
‘It’s standard practice, sir,’ Julian interrupted smoothly. ‘Promising pupils are always put forward.’
That was a lie. An application was usually initiated by the parents in agreement with the school.
Wynand Louw flexed his fingers. A clock ticked loudly.
I felt the place closing in on me; its darkness, the barely concealed rage from the man opposite.
‘He must go!’ Truda jumped up and rushed over to Deon and put her arm round him. ‘It’s his chance!’
From outside came a volley of barking and Wynand Louw burst out of his chair and wrenched the curtains open and screamed voetsak! before turning back to us. Deon shrank against the door jamb.
‘It’s a wonderful opportunity.’ I forced the words out quietly. ‘You must be so proud of your son.’
‘What else must be paid? For the school?’
‘Nothing else, Mr Louw. The bursary covers uniform, tuition and accommodation. My wife and I,’ Julian looked across at me and smiled, ‘would like to sponsor any sports kit Deon may need.’
‘Asseblief, Wynand,’ Truda’s voice trembled, ‘let our boy go. These people are kind. Let him go.’
Wynand made to march towards the doorway where his wife and son stood. I tensed and moved forward on the couch. I wanted to run to her and promise to look after her when Deon went away; I’d find a means to divert Wynand’s savage attention. Let her go, too …
‘You must leave,’ he growled, turning to us and gesturing towards the front door.
‘We understand,’ I said, rising. ‘You need to discuss this as a family. The Inspector of Schools is keen for Deon to progress. Have you met him, Meneer Louw?’
‘No,’ he replied sharply and again gestured towards the door.
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘His brother is chief of the railways.’
He gaped at me. I put a hand on Deon’s shoulder, smiled warmly at Truda and offered my hand to her husband. He took it briefly, nodded to Julian and pushed open the front door.
‘Good evening,’ Julian said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Deon.’
‘And I’ll see you too, Truda,’ I added, ‘don’t forget it’s your turn in the library.’
We walked down the path. The door slammed shut behind us.
I don’t often pray, even in the Dutch church where the dominee watches us closely. But as we crunched over the gravel I prayed that Truda would not be hurt that night.
‘Inspector?’ Julian stopped and stared at me. ‘Railways chief? Whatever are you talking about?’
‘If it encourages him to agree, I’m prepared to tell any lie that is necessary.’
‘And the library? She works in the library? I had no idea—’
‘She doesn’t. But if he thinks she’ll be on display and therefore refrains from beating her, then a phantom job will have served its purpose.’
‘Frances.’ Julian shook his head and permitted himself a sly smile. ‘You’re shameless.’
On the day Julian left, the railway station was crowded with farmers and their families travelling to Worcester to a stock sale. The generous rain meant that grazing had recovered enough for the land around Aloe Glen to be restocked. His military uniform stood out among the bush clothes, and murmurs followed us as we made our way down the platform. At first no one came over to wish him well and I felt like shouting at them for being so ungrateful, so callous towards a man who’d taught their children. Julian brushed a hand over his head, his face set with its usual gentle smile.
I said nothing, just stood by his side and stared, daring them to ignore him.
‘Veels geluk.’ Abel Metz eventually broke away and approached us. He gripped Julian’s hand, clearly torn between respect and dismay. Several others took his cue and came over as well although with no great enthusiasm. The cafe men only nodded from a distance.
Cowards! my younger self wanted to shout. Cowards!
‘Frances?’ Laetitia Snyman linked her arm with mine.
She’d made no judgement on Julian’s choice, she simply said she would carry on until he returned and he was not to worry; and that she would encourage the continuation of the art and literacy classes.
‘Thank you for coming,’ I said with feeling.
The train rolled in, the station staff bustled to refill the water tank and check the coal. The farmers and their families got on board with much jollity. Laetitia shook hands with J
ulian and retreated a few steps away. Julian bent and kissed my cheek and I put my arms about his neck and felt the steady beat of his heart. For a moment, I was back on the side of the road and he was kissing me under a broiling sun. ‘Goodbye, my dear,’ he whispered against my cheek.
On the night he volunteered, when we left the dishes for Sipata, I hoped for a similar meeting of heart and body, but he was tired from the strain of his decision and fell asleep before I got into bed beside him. I lay awake for hours as the roof creaked.
He picked up his bag and climbed aboard the train. The conductor shouted and waved his flag. A gust of wind brought a flurry of raindrops that splattered onto the platform like soft bullets. I watched him find a seat by a window and turn to me. The engine exhaled steam and the train began to move in a squeal of metal. He touched a hand to his lips and mouthed something and then the train gathered speed and he was gone.
The platform emptied.
I watched until the rear light disappeared into the greening veld, and turned away.
At the far end of the platform, Wynand Louw was watching me.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I lied to my diary. I have never done that before. So, I must set this record straight, although no one will ever know.
I did calculate.
Mark was leaving.
No one would discover. How could they?
And if it produced an unexpected outcome, Julian would rejoice along with me. I got out of the car in front of Bella Vista Mansions. The forested slopes above Kirstenbosch were falling into afternoon shadow. I examined the front windows of the block for a twitch of lace curtain, a curious face at a window. I locked the car, and walked up the path. I told myself that I could always stop him, and stop myself, but I knew I wouldn’t.
Why? Why did I do it? Perhaps it was the buildup of emotion from Mother’s death. Or perhaps it was the sense that my life needed at least one moment of defining passion.
They came together as I knocked on his door.
He opened it and said nothing, just held out his hand and drew me inside.
Julian’s departure coincided with the transformation of Aloe Glen.
We have grass on the school playground, the river in the valley flows at speed, the scrub has erupted into colour. Lilac vygies sparkle in the sunlight, unknown bulbs wave delicate spires of blue and white, eagles soar, kites hover, weaver birds appear where before there were none. The wild sage and rosemary float their invigorated perfume about my legs as I wander in their midst.
‘It’s a miracle, Mrs van Deventer!’ I called as I passed her house. ‘The veld is alive!’
‘Ja,’ she sniffed and went inside.
With no husband to care for and only my weekly lessons to organise – although the numbers at the literacy class have dropped – I’ve been painting constantly. No more scrubby ochre and sienna but shades unused since Cape Town: fuchsia pink, magenta, the palest primrose yellow. I know the bounty won’t last so I’ve been up at dawn to catch the early light and stayed out all day, shifting my folding stool every hour or two to a new location and fresh subjects. Mr Cadwaller would be proud of my diligence. Truda appears silently behind me, watches me sketching, touches my shoulder, and runs away. She doesn’t speak but I know she comes to tell me that I’m not alone. I’ve never had a friend who is so special to me and about whom I know so little, and she so little about me. My hands are brown, my hair is being bleached like hers, I’m stiff from crouching over. Sipata watches with astonishment and makes me soup that I heat up whenever I return.
‘Ma’am must eat. The flowers must wait while ma’am eats.’
‘Where have you been, Fran?’ shouted Father over the telephone. ‘I never find you at home.’
‘Father!’ I caught my breath, for I’d rushed in only moments before. ‘You won’t believe it!’
‘It’s Julian? He’s not going after all?’
‘No, no! It’s the veld, Father, it’s a miracle!’
Sometimes families of springbok pronk – a kind of kicking up of heels – as they race past me. Perhaps they see me so often they now accept me as part of the landscape.
‘But what news of Julian, Frances?’
‘He’s arrived in Egypt. I received a letter. He can’t say where he is, exactly. Father, the flowers—’
‘But not near the front lines?’
‘No.’
‘Just as well. The Italians are attacking.’
My weekly newspaper and the evening broadcast on the radio kept me in touch, but news reached the town at large only belatedly and the locals maintained a stoic indifference because none of their own were involved. Julian, it seemed, did not qualify.
‘I heard from my husband, Mr Fourie,’ I said when visiting the store. ‘He sends his greetings.’
He gave me a brief nod. Perhaps newly aware of his resemblance to Herr Hitler, he has shaved off his moustache. ‘What is it that you need today, Mrs McDonald?’
He is not usually so brusque.
And my tea party ladies have failed to reciprocate my hospitality. Aletta and Sannie wave from a distance but do not come over to talk to me or enquire after Julian’s well-being. Cora Engelbrecht is busy with a creche for toddlers in the poor white area on the outskirts of town.
‘Can I help, Cora? I could do a morning or two?’
‘Thank you,’ she said, colouring slightly. ‘But I have enough help. And you’re busy with your pictures.’
I am being shunned. Ever so slightly. But shunned nevertheless. It’s a feeling I’m familiar with. In this case it may not be a concerted action, one that the ladies have discussed amongst themselves and which has led to a collective decision, but rather something more opaque: they don’t know how to deal with me now we are clearly opposed over this war. My husband, who gave us both legitimacy in the community, made his choice and is gone. I’m on my own and the barriers I broke down are being raised once more, slowly and steadily.
‘Frances?’
Truda materialised beside me on bare feet. Lately, she is miraculously unbruised and Deon is to go to high school in Worcester. Julian’s tactics and my lies worked. I laid down my pencil and she squatted beside me on the ground.
‘No one wants to talk to me any more, Truda.’
‘Ja,’ she nodded. ‘They say you’ll leave.’
‘But why? This is my home.’ And it is, for all its testy drawbacks.
Truda picked a stem of grass and nibbled on it. I’d like to paint her one day, although I know little about portraiture. She is so wild, a creature almost always in flight.
‘They say you’re different. They know you’re clever,’ she pointed at my sketch, ‘and so you’ll leave. They say you’ll take with you what you got from us, and leave.’
You’ll take with you what you got from us and leave.
I stared at the page. My art and literacy classes, my determined engagement, my devotion to Julian and the school …
Truda placed a sunburnt hand on my head. ‘Your hair,’ she murmured, ‘it’s getting like mine. And you’re kind, Frances, you’re the kindest in the world.’
She jumped to her feet and ran off.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
He drew me inside and we kissed and I was back at the Mount Nelson, his lips warm on mine.
We did not speak of his wife. We did not speak of his children.
We did not look at my painting on the wall.
I said nothing about why I’d come. There was no need.
Even though it had been ten years, there was no hesitation, no awkwardness. It was the consummation I’d longed for on my wedding night, tender, urgent, overwhelming, and the tears that flowed were drops of gold I wanted to hoard for ever.
We talked afterwards, when I lay in his arms and the sun painted shadows on the opposite wall and I told him that love was surely the colour of the sea we once swam in, a rich turquoise tinged with cerulean.
‘I dream of you constantly,’ he murmured. ‘I dream I propo
sed to you, and that you said yes.’
‘I would have.’
He bent down and kissed me. As he lifted his face from mine, I could see there were tears in his eyes, but they were tears of sorrow rather than the ones of joy that had earlier mingled with mine.
‘What is it?’
He brushed his eyes. ‘I’ve never forgiven myself,’ he looked down at me, ‘for not telling you why. And sooner.’
‘Then tell me now, and never again.’
‘My family also lost money in the Crash. My mother needed expensive medical treatment abroad that my father couldn’t afford.’ He grimaced.
‘They made me choose. My father agreed with Astrid’s family that if I married her, the Fairbrothers would fund the treatment in the United States.’
I caught my breath. It was an arranged marriage. Both of us supposedly rescued or obligated. Both of us entrapped.
‘At first I refused. I said I loved you. But I could see my mother was deteriorating.’
‘You don’t have to say any more.’
He kissed my neck, my breasts …
Later, he told me he loved his children – two girls – but not his wife. And that he would enlist on the British side if America stayed out of the war.
And I told him that I was fond of my husband and would never leave him because he needed me. I also said that I had a brother called Gideon who died before I was born but I see him when I dream.
I said nothing about why I had no family, and he did not ask.
When I write these words, I am filled with a glow that is him, and will be him for the rest of my life. I know that what I have done is wrong, but I cannot regret it.
And I couldn’t help it.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
‘Ma’am?’ Sipata came over to where I sat in front of my easel. ‘Ma’am must eat.’ She put down a plate of sliced melon. Since the rain, there is fruit in abundance.
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