The Fire Portrait

by Barbara Mutch

  I saw scorched paper, seared trousseau dresses and blackened wood …

  ‘Frances?’

  I jerked awake.

  ‘Frances, I’ve got tea.’ Truda stood in the doorway in a short cotton nightgown, her white hair cascading, a cup in her hand. ‘And I fetched your bag from school.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I whispered and levered myself up. The nausea rose in my throat. I rushed down the corridor to the bathroom and retched. Truda’s hand stroked my back.

  ‘It will be alright,’ she murmured. ‘It’s a good sign.’

  ‘You know?’ I wiped my face and raised it to her.

  ‘Ja,’ she whispered and gave me a gentle smile. ‘When you came back from Cape Town.’

  I sat down on the floor and leant back against the wall. ‘Where is your husband? I can’t stay.’

  Truda’s gaze slipped away from mine.

  ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘Ja. He said it’s work up the line. The railway tunnels. You can stay.’

  ‘Only for a day.’ I got up slowly. ‘Thank you, Truda. Then I’ll find somewhere else.’

  ‘Come drink your tea. Then I make eggs.’

  Truda still struggles with the small words, the pronouns, the definite and indefinite articles. But I secretly enjoy her English. It’s plain and all the more expressive because of that.

  She held out her arms and embraced me.

  ‘Thank you,’ she muttered before releasing me, ‘for being my friend.’

  After breakfast I put on my smoky bush clothes, ignored Truda’s pleas to rest, and walked to my house. The baby felt heavy in my stomach.

  Hush, I whispered, stroking the gentle bulge, trying to calm us both. You and I are well …

  Is this fire a tragedy or an opportunity? I’ve seized opportunities before.

  In daylight, the house appeared almost intact until I went closer and saw the glassless windows. The front door was ajar. I knocked – why? this was my house after all – and went in.

  Ash stirred around my velskoens. Ceiling panels were strewn across the floor or propped at odd angles against half-burnt furniture. The corrugated underside of the iron roof was exposed, like human ribs stripped of their covering of skin. In front of me, three chairs had somehow survived and their decorations were still visible in blistered paint: a bunch of sepia jasmine, a twist of pockmarked vine.

  A sob caught in the back of my throat. Is this God’s punishment for my sin with Mark?

  The once-beige curtains lay in a charred heap beside the windows. The fireplace was as empty as it had been yesterday, for we only laid fires in the winter. The table, sideboard and sofa were blackened hulks, not quite destroyed but surely unrecoverable.

  I shook myself. I had to get to the bedroom.

  The door was jammed and I kicked it until it yielded. The brass heading on our bed had been broken by a descending roof beam. Debris littered the bed linen but my bedside oil lamp stood curiously untouched. I rushed into the corner and stared down at the floorboards, then looked about and grabbed a broken stick and levered one up. It was there – unburnt, intact. I pulled it out and pressed the floorboard back.

  Thank you, thank you—

  ‘Hello? Anyone there?’

  ‘Yes,’ I shouted, shoving the diary into my pocket. ‘In the bedroom.’

  ‘Mrs McDonald?’ A young man stood in the doorway. ‘Peter Webb, ma’am, engineer. Abel Metz called me. I’m here to assess the damage.’

  I spread my hands towards the chaos.

  ‘It always looks worse than it is,’ he said cautiously, ‘but if the structure is sound, you can rebuild.’

  ‘Thank you for coming so quickly, sir.’

  I picked my way to the kitchen where a single upturned saucepan lay on the floor, surrounded by a stain that was perhaps the soup Sipata usually left for me. I pushed open the back door and went down the steps and lifted a small rock. There, underneath, was her key.

  And now, the studio – my refuge – which I’d left until last.

  The door opened reluctantly, its lower edge grinding. I stopped on the threshold, my fingers shaking on the handle. If I’d come upon the room as a stranger, I might have wanted to paint the bizarreness of it.

  A snowstorm of charred paper was spilling from the open door of the cupboard, eddying around the pile of sticks that was once my easel. My paintbox had sprung apart from the heat, scattering single cakes whose melted trails marked the floorboards in a random, abstract pattern. I stepped inside and picked up a pot of carmine red that I’d brought back from Cape Town. It was slightly warm. I rolled it into the corner and watched the contents ooze.

  I’m not quite right in the head at the moment, even though I haven’t fallen or been in an accident.

  What about the painting I showed the director?

  I scrabbled frantically through the fallen papers but it wasn’t there. Instead, my hand fell upon glass. Two distinct heaps, one on the floor by the window and one scattered in the centre of the room. Some of the shards were curved, not flat. I went over to the window and examined the frame. It still had a few pieces of glass clinging to it. They were flat.

  ‘Mrs McDonald?’

  Why did it matter? My paints were melted. My work was destroyed. The special picture I sought was gone. I was back in England, searching for glass from Father’s smashed binoculars as a way to atone—

  ‘Mrs McDonald.’ Peter Webb stood in the doorway. ‘I’m happy to say the walls are sound, but the roof beams need examining and new ceilings must be installed. The floorboards can be sanded down, apart from where they’ve been too badly burnt.’ He looked up from his clipboard. ‘The priority is to replace the glass to render the property watertight.’

  I fingered the curved shard in my hand and held it out to him.

  ‘Where did you find this?’

  ‘Here.’ I gestured. ‘In the middle. And in the centre of the lounge. It’s not window glass, is it?’

  ‘No, ma’am. It doesn’t appear to be so.’

  He left the room. I followed and found him bent down over the half-burnt maroon rug, probing shards of glass with the point of his pencil.

  ‘You can contact me at my office, Mrs McDonald.’ He stood up and handed me a card. ‘In the case of house fires,’ his kept his tone neutral, ‘the police are obliged to investigate.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’m most grateful.’

  ‘Mevrou McDonald!’ came a call from outside.

  ‘Take some time, ma’am, to decide what you wish to do. But get the place glassed as soon as possible.’

  ‘Mevrou McDonald.’ The dominee lifted his hat and crunched over the uneven floorboards.

  Mr Webb nodded to me, glanced at the dominee and stepped away.

  ‘So very sorry for what happened.’ The dominee reached out and clasped my hands. ‘The ways of the Lord are not for us to question.’

  ‘Thank you, Dominee. Why are you here?’

  ‘To give comfort.’ He looked at me in surprise. ‘To pray with you, mevrou.’

  ‘I don’t need prayers, sir, I need somewhere to stay.’

  He looked uneasy. ‘I will ask my congregation. But you could return to your family in Cape Town.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘This is my home. And I’m having a baby.’

  His eyes widened. I imagined the thoughts whirring through his head. The outspoken English woman, whose husband had sacrificed himself to go and fight for the British, was expecting a child and her house had just burnt down … I saw a flicker of shame cross his face. He’d never defended Julian’s dedication to the town, he’d never spoken out from the pulpit against prejudice at home or abroad. And now he was being asked to house the tricky wife.

  ‘You should return to Cape Town, Mrs McDonald. It would be sensible.’

  That’s the adjective Mother deployed when advising me to marry Julian.

  ‘I don’t wish to be sensible, sir. I’ve learnt to appreciate Aloe Glen. I want to have my ch
ild here.’

  He looked doubtfully at the tumbled ceiling panels, the blackened furniture.

  ‘I’d also like to know how the fire started, Dominee.’

  ‘Fires are often acts of God, Mrs McDonald.’ He raised his eyes skywards. ‘Not for us to understand.’

  ‘On the contrary, I believe we should try to understand.’

  He regarded me with narrowed eyes. The dominee is used to being the fount of all ecclesiastical wisdom, so he finds dissenting opinion difficult to absorb. ‘I don’t follow, ma’am.’

  ‘According to the engineer, the police are required to investigate all house fires.’

  ‘Only if there’s evidence of foul play, Mrs McDonald.’

  I bent down and picked up a piece of the rounded glass.

  ‘The police may have an opinion about this, sir. I have no glass like this in the house.’

  ‘A milk bottle, surely?’ He smiled. ‘A simple but sad explanation. Shattered in the fire.’

  ‘I don’t drink milk, sir. I take my tea black. We have not had milk in the house since my husband left.’

  He stared at me. The dominee is not a bad man, just a blinkered one.

  ‘I will contact the police, ma’am, on your behalf. I am sure, however, that the fire was an accident.’

  ‘Possibly it was. But I’d like an opinion. Thank you, Dominee.’

  He lifted his hat and turned towards the front door, but halted and turned back.

  ‘Please join my family for dinner this evening, Mrs McDonald.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘That is kind of you but I’m staying with Mrs Louw. She will give me a meal.’

  I went back into my studio and touched the empty spaces on the wall where my paintings used to hang.

  Am I safe here? I’ve asked my diary repeatedly.

  No, I’m not.

  ‘Sorry!’ shouted Tifo from his petrol pump as I hurried past. ‘Sorry for your fire, ma’am.’

  ‘Mrs McDonald,’ Mr Fourie came out of his store, his hands clasped together as if in prayer, ‘a tragedy, especially with Mr McDonald away. At least you have a home in Cape Town, ma’am.’

  I kept going until I reached the outskirts, the vantage point Father and I had looked down upon from Aloe Peak, where tin-roofed shacks and mud huts and simple cottages crowded close to one another. Small children of all colours were playing on the bare earth. I counted the dwellings down a rutted path and knocked on the door of a modest cottage.

  ‘Ma’am!’ Sipata gasped, looked beyond me fearfully and then pulled me inside.

  ‘What is it, Sipata? Why are you afraid?’

  She shook her head and gestured to the only chair. ‘It is not safe, ma’am.’

  ‘What happened yesterday? When did you leave the house?’

  She looked down for a moment and then back up at me.

  ‘I laid a place for ma’am at the table. I left soup in a pot, off the stove. The sun was going down. I closed the door like always. I left the key under the stone at the kitchen door.’

  ‘I know. It’s still there.’

  ‘I walked along the road, ma’am, and then I heard a noise. I looked, ma’am, but I saw nothing.’

  ‘What noise?’

  Her eyes became defensive. ‘I don’t know, ma’am.’

  I leant back and closed my eyes. Nausea rose in my throat.

  I felt Sipata’s hand on my arm, gently. ‘The baby, ma’am? Ma’am has eaten today?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve had breakfast, thank you Sipata.’ I opened my eyes. ‘What did you hear? Or see?’

  ‘I don’t want trouble, ma’am,’ she murmured. ‘I only saw smoke when I was nearly home, ma’am.’

  There was a knock on the door. A white woman I didn’t recognise came inside, carrying a small paper bag. She nodded to Sipata and held the bag out to me. ‘I’m sorry about your house, Mrs McDonald.’ Her voice was hesitant but her English was good. She wore tattered khaki trousers and a man’s shirt. She was very thin. I opened the bag. Inside were two small apples. ‘For you, ma’am. To help.’

  I got up and embraced her. Hot tears spilt onto my cheeks. Sipata and the unknown woman guided me back to the chair.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I managed, wiping my face. ‘Thank you for the gift. You are too kind.’

  ‘What is your name?’ I asked the woman when I left.

  ‘Lena Fuller.’

  ‘Thank you, Lena.’

  A small crowd had gathered. A barefoot girl ran up and clutched at Lena’s leg as she went to stand next to a coloured man. I recognised him, and several others, too. These were the men who rushed across town to throw buckets of water on my fire.

  ‘Thank you.’ I shook hands with each in turn. ‘Thank you for saving my house.’

  I found myself wanting to paint them, to tell the story of their lives written across their worn faces.

  And I think I know why Sipata is frightened.

  ‘Fran, my dear, how lovely to hear from you. I have news!’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘Indeed! You’ll be proud of me. I’ve volunteered!’

  ‘But aren’t you too old, Father?’

  He chuckled. ‘I shall never take up arms, my dear. More likely to shoot my own side than the enemy. No, I’ll be joining Logistics, here at the Cape. Managing the flow of troopships through the harbour, organising hospitality for the young men while they’re on a stopover.’

  A black crow alighted on the railway track and began to rifle in the dirt.

  I saw, once more, the ash, the melted paints, the scorched paintings.

  ‘Fran? Are you there?’

  ‘There’s been a fire, Father.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, my dear. I thought the veld was green after all the rain.’

  ‘It wasn’t the veld. It was our house.’

  There was silence down the line and Father’s voice, when it came, was clipped of its earlier cheer.

  ‘You must come home, Frances. You cannot stay there. I will come and fetch you and bring you home.’

  ‘No, Father,’ I said. ‘Not yet. I need to be here to see what can be saved.’

  I’m not succumbing to distraction, Father.

  I want to find out what happened.

  How a house could burst into flames on its own without a lightning strike or an overturned lamp. And with an oven and a fireplace that were both stone cold.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  My dearest Frances

  As ever, I cannot say where I am. I can only say it is very hot. But your artist’s eye would be intrigued by the endless sand, the stars at night, the palm trees by the river.

  Morale is good despite the reverses you surely know about. The enemy is dogged but so are we.

  This is hard terrain to fight over. Just providing the forces with enough water to drink – let alone to shave – is a mighty task. Here, drought is permanent.

  I think of you so often, my dear. I know that you’ve grieved over not having a family but I want to reassure you it no longer matters. We have each other, and our work, and a comfortable home, and that is surely more than enough.

  I love you. I know that it has taken a while for you, but I do believe that we are now one.

  Ever your

  Julian

  ‘Good day, Mrs McDonald. Can I get you anything, ma’am?’

  ‘I’ll take some tinned fruit and ham. And a half dozen eggs. Please put it on our account.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, ma’am,’ Mr Fourie muttered. ‘I will not charge you.’

  I waited a moment before replying. I think I’m becoming a tiny bit vengeful.

  ‘That is very kind, Mr Fourie, but I insist. The bank did not burn down, sir.’

  I left the store and looked up and down the road.

  Where are my tea party ladies with whom I believed I was reconciled? My literacy students? They ran home to check on their own fire preparedness – as I would have – but they never returned and their husbands never offered help. Of all our ac
quaintances, only Truda and Abel Metz assisted me in the aftermath. The flames may have been doused but a different fire is stifling Aloe Glen.

  Shame? Embarrassment?

  The dominee called to say that despite putting out an appeal for accommodation, he’d received no offers as yet from the townsfolk or from those on nearby farms. Laetitia Snyman apologised that she couldn’t offer me a place because her parents’ property had no spare room for guests.

  ‘Stay, Frances,’ repeated Truda. ‘I will look after you.’

  Lena Fuller appeared in Truda’s doorway and said she had a fold-out bed if Mrs McDonald required it and though her shack was small, I was always welcome.

  ‘Mrs McDonald, are you there?’

  I came out of my burnt kitchen where I’d been sorting pots and pans. The young policeman ran his eyes over my blackened bush trousers and stained shirt.

  ‘Ma’am, I’m here to investigate the fire. The dominee said it might be foul play.’

  I blinked. Perhaps I was misjudging the dominee.

  ‘Yes. Come this way, officer.’

  I led him to the lounge and showed him the pile of thick, curved glass; then led him to a similar pile in my studio, hidden among the loose papers strewn across the floor. I’d left the mess in place, to avoid disturbing potential evidence.

  ‘Both windows were broken, sir, when I arrived on the scene. If you go into the other bedrooms, where the firefighters smashed the windows deliberately, you’ll find only window glass.’

  The officer knelt down and felt the shards between his fingers.

  ‘I don’t drink milk, sir. There are no glass bottles or vases of that sort in the house.’

  ‘Was anything missing, ma’am? Was anything stolen?’

  ‘You mean, was the house burgled first and then set alight?’

  He reddened slightly. ‘Robbery could be a motive, ma’am. A fire would cover the robbers’ tracks.’

  ‘Nothing was stolen, officer.’

  I rescued my most valuable possession, sir, although a second – but lesser – treasure is still missing.

  ‘If it wasn’t robbery,’ he held his pencil above his notebook, ‘who would want to set fire to your house, ma’am? You have a maid?’