‘Dada,’ he tried to say, to copy me, but he’s not used to the word or the possibility of a father.
Hamish loves the station.
He loves to shout at the whistle and jump up and down as the brakes squeal.
I’m nervous; it’s been more than two years. Will Julian like this version of me … the version that carries a secret so deeply, yet so brazenly by my side, jumping up and down at the arrival of the train?
I stood up.
A carriage door opened.
Few passengers get off at Aloe Glen on a Monday so this must be him.
I lifted Hamish and hurried along.
I knew the moment he took his first hesitant step down. Julian was using a stick. Not a walking stick for the mountains, but a stick to help him on the flat. His hand fumbled slightly on the door. His uniform hung off his frame in folds. He turned, his eyes lit up and I ran to him and he shakily swept Hamish and me into his thin arms.
‘Dear Fran,’ he muttered, burying his head on my shoulder. I felt his chest heaving against mine.
I pulled away gently, and lifted Hamish to him. Julian gathered the boy and stroked his head, tears coursing down his face. I expected him to be sunburnt from the desert sun but he was pale. He put Hamish down. I knelt beside my son. ‘This is Daddy,’ I said and pointed. ‘Daddy.’
Dark-haired, dark-eyed Hamish looked up at Julian for a moment and then hid his face against me.
‘Give him time,’ murmured Julian, ever the patient schoolmaster.
I carried Julian’s bag and he took Hamish by the hand.
Father should have told me. Julian had spent a day in Cape Town; Father should have sent me a telegram to warn me but perhaps Julian insisted there was no need.
The boy’s toddling pace was perfect for Julian’s difficulty and we slowly made our way the short distance to the flat above the petrol station. ‘Welcome, sir!’ boomed Tifo, bounding across the forecourt to shake Julian’s hand and take the bag. ‘Let me, I will carry the boy upstairs for you. Miss Frances has been painting, right here!’ He pointed to my spot around the side of the garage, to where he directs passing motorists to view the famous artist, as he calls me.
‘Thank you,’ Julian said, and I took his arm to help him up the stairs. He had to stop a few times to catch his breath. ‘Why, this is charming, Fran,’ he managed when we came through the front door. I’d hung more pictures, and I’d paid Lena to crochet a bright blanket to cover the small couch.
‘Mama?’ said Hamish and tugged on my hand.
‘Why don’t you rest? Through here. I’ll bring you tea—’
‘Mama?’ Hamish looked at me and then at Julian. He’s only ever seen women here.
I knelt down to him. ‘Why don’t you show Daddy your ball?’ He grinned and ran into his room and came back and held out his knitted ball.
Julian sat down on the bed and smiled. ‘Can you throw it to me?’
Hamish threw it and Julian caught it and threw it back to him. Hamish giggled.
Julian has always needed me more than I will ever need him.
I turned away to put the kettle on, to hide my tears.
Julian slept for much of the next week.
He said his weakness was due to a bout of seasickness on the troopship that left him unable to eat or sleep. That, he smiled wearily, explained the weight loss. He’d be fine, he told me, touching my hand, once he was rested. Sipata made soup and I cleaned Mr Fourie out of eggs and made nourishing omelettes and roasted a chicken and cooked green vegetables and made scones from Violet’s recipe. Julian tried to eat but his stomach was often upset and he returned from the bathroom grey and sweating. Hamish took to lying down beside him for his nap.
‘Dada’s tired,’ he would say. ‘So tired, Mama.’
‘Frances!’ Laetitia appeared at my door with a pot of honey. ‘You’re hiding Julian away!’
I pulled the door closed behind me. ‘He’s not well,’ I murmured. ‘He needs to rest a little longer.’
She stared at me. ‘Can I help? Do you need the doctor? He’s coming next Wednesday.’
‘Maybe. Will you keep this quiet at school? I’ll be back at art class next week.’
‘Sterkte, Frances.’ Her heels clattered down the stairs.
Strength. Fortitude against the odds.
But I don’t know what the odds are.
‘It’s because of the cold,’ diagnosed Truda, after visiting briefly. ‘The winter here after the hot desert.’
The dominee made a formal call and sat on the couch beside Julian and said he prayed every Sunday for an end to the war and the restoration of peace both abroad and at home.
‘As we all do, Dominee,’ I said. ‘To heal the divisions.’
He inclined his head. I can read the dominee’s reactions these days. Perhaps he realises he’s on shaky ground. He may have discovered that Frans van Deventer either has identified – or is about to identify – Wynand Louw as the fire-bomber. His congregation could be on the edge of notoriety.
‘I shall pray for you, Mrs McDonald,’ he said as I showed him out after we’d had tea.
‘Pray for my husband, Dominee. And Aloe Glen. Not for me.’
It was provocative, I know, but irresistible. He’d said there’d be a reckoning. Perhaps not in this world, he’d added. But, to my mind, justice ought to come sooner. Or at least genuine remorse.
Is there a cost? I reflected once more. A cost to whatever – or whoever – will follow? My child. Frans van Deventer, Magda, Toby, Lottie …
I must not let rancour take over my life. Or my art.
Each night, as Julian drew me against him, I pondered whether to tell him the truth.
But his body felt worryingly frail and I kept silent. And so did he, revealing nothing about the war or the real reason for his illness. We were caught in a trap of our own making, I realised: both of us with so much to tell, yet so little that could be shared without consequence or hurt. I’d been shaken by tragedy and new life; he’d been devoured by another war, as I feared.
Yet who was I to hold it against him? He felt he had no choice.
And neither did I, Julian. Under different circumstances.
And neither do the youngsters.
Toby came to our door. ‘Frans van Deventer has told the police.’
He stumbled back out and down the stairs before I could respond.
A month went by.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Mrs van Deventer when I came across her at the store. She’d told me earlier that it was no surprise to her that Julian’s health had been ruined in the wilds of the Middle East.
‘Your husband is better?’ asked Cora Engelbrecht with a penetrating glance.
‘You aren’t painting, ma’am,’ observed Sipata. ‘Leave Mr Julian with me. I will take care of him.’
My hands were becoming stiff and out of practice. I could start with the quick Cadwaller Sketches that sell easily by the side of the petrol station. We could do with the extra income.
And my husband retches in the bathroom every morning.
‘Tell me what’s wrong, Julian. Please. It’s time I knew.’
This was no brief illness. My husband has become an old man; his remaining hair is completely white.
‘It’s my stomach. I ate something in Egypt that didn’t agree, my dear. The doctor said it would resolve itself in time. I feel better already just being home.’
His tone was mild. I detected no fear. That was the essence of Julian: quiet acceptance, no fuss. Julian would never smash the china, as I’d once wanted to do. Instead, he spent each day in our tiny lounge, reading to Hamish, who fetches book after book until Julian falls asleep.
‘Dada thleeping,’ Hamish lisps and lies down beside him.
‘Let’s go to Cape Town,’ I said after another long fortnight. ‘Dr Reed will recommend a specialist.’
Hamish stared up at us. Julian stroked his hair and smiled at me.
‘I’m getting better, Fran. I’ll be
back at school in a month or so.’
I lie awake at night and listen to his restless breathing. Once he’s asleep, I creep out of bed and open the curtains so I can watch the stars wheel slowly across the sky. I wonder if Mark looks up from whatever battlefield or ocean he traverses, and remembers our single afternoon together. I pray – yes, I do – that he’s safe. His daughters deserve to know their father into old age.
‘Can we look at the house?’ Julian asked one winter day. He’d shown no interest so far so perhaps it was a positive sign. We left Hamish with Sipata and drove there because he’d struggle to walk the distance, and also because I didn’t want others to see the extent of his weakness.
‘Oh, Fran,’ he muttered, and passed a hand across his forehead as we approached. I stopped the car and leant across and kissed his cheek. This was his house before it was mine. He’d worked hard to pay for it, he was proud of its good size.
‘Shall we go in? Or would you rather not?’
The lone tree was doing well but I’d allowed the vegetable patch to go fallow. And, after two years, the boarded-up windows have sunk into the walls with a permanence that seems irreversible.
He stood on the wispy grass, leaning heavily on his stick, and I wanted to weep for him.
‘Let me see,’ he said, struggling up onto the verandah.
The ash, debris and glass had been cleared away but that didn’t lessen the shock.
I followed him as he made his way slowly from room to room, his stick tapping the floor grimly, his shoulders bowed. When he came to my studio, he turned to me with horror.
‘Your pictures? Oh, my darling—’ He let go of the stick and bent over, his head in his hands.
I remember when I got angry that he didn’t call me darling. I put my arms around his thin frame. ‘I’ve painted new ones,’ I murmured against his bent back, ‘and exhibited some of the damaged work.’
He straightened, took up his stick and pointed at the trails of melted paint on the floor. It’s as well Studio with Glass Shards was bought by a private collector. I wouldn’t want him to see it displayed.
‘How, Fran? You never said how it caught fire.’
Maybe I’d been wrong to protect him. Maybe he needed to be taken out, pushed beyond what he appeared capable of.
‘It was foul play, Julian.’
‘What?’ he gaped. ‘How? Who?’
I took his arm and led him to the single dining room chair that remained. He sat down heavily.
‘Someone threw petrol bombs, one through this window,’ I pointed, ‘and one into my studio.’
I could see he was unable to conceive that anyone could do such a thing.
‘The police found the culprit?’ he asked eventually, his voice shaking.
‘Not yet.’
If the truth fails to come out, I will not tell him. Seeing the damage has been enough of a shock. I will bear it alone. He once called me his better half; now I must be his stronger half.
The cracked mirror is still on the opposite wall but I don’t dare look at it.
I don’t want to see either of us reflected in its unsparing surface.
‘We should sell, Fran. Get rid of it. Let someone else make repairs. It’s too upsetting—’
A pair of cries reaches us through the open door. Crows foraging in the bare vegetable patch.
‘Let’s wait and see.’ I helped him up. ‘Let’s get you well before we make any decisions.’
I have an idea. Crazy. Provocative, again. Part of the unfinished business before we move on.
And I will need the house to bring it to fruition.
Chapter Fifty-Three
Julian is convinced that Hamish is his biological child. And so, it seems, is everyone else. Only Daph, puzzling over the infant’s jet-black hair, shot me a questioning glance. Julian even recognises traits of his own in Hamish: the boy’s attention to words, his earnestness. I play up each tenuous connection. Hamish is my gift to Julian.
For my part, I find Mark in Hamish’s every feature, every movement. And I secretly rejoice. The long fingers. The fascination with blocks, with building. I hope he’ll also have Mark’s acuteness – his wiring – for danger.
And I adore him, he is funny and serious. He puts his arms around me and I give him my whole heart.
I’m still waiting for the reckoning which is to come in Aloe Glen, when my ammunition may be needed. But I wonder if the moment has passed. I used to be much more impatient than I am now. Mother, dear Mother, would be relieved. I’m on to the third volume of my diary. The other two remain safely in their hiding place, along with the fire portrait. Sometimes I take out an earlier one and open it at random. The words are often more relevant now than ever: There are parts of me that my husband doesn’t know.
‘Ma’am!’ Tifo shouted. ‘You have a visitor!’ He led a tall man around the corner of the building.
‘Mrs McDonald? Please don’t get up.’ Major Jefferson, newly unrecognisable in civilian clothes and a deerstalker hat, came over and held out his hand. ‘Forgive me for interrupting you.’ He peered down at my sketch. ‘That is most impressive. Aloe dichotoma?’
‘Yes.’ I put down my pencil and shook his hand. ‘For Kew Gardens. What brings you to Aloe Glen, sir?’
‘Why, this, of course!’ He held out his arms to the landscape. ‘I’m in Worcester for a few days.’
He unfolded a shooting stick, pressed its point into the ground and settled onto the leather seat.
‘One of your paintings is in a gallery in New York – were you aware there were overseas collectors at your exhibition? And they contacted me about new work. I thought I’d visit you.’
I stared over the veld. It was shaping up to be a hard year. Rainfall was low and dust devils were frequent. I don’t know if I have the patience, the resilience, for another drought. For the waiting.
‘Are you no longer in the army, sir?’
‘Put out to pasture,’ he chuckled, ‘not before time. And with the war grinding to an end I’m happy to say the art world is reviving, hence the queries from abroad.’ He paused and watched a black-and-yellow butterfly with scalloped wings. ‘In civilian life I’m a curator-cum-consultant for hire, so to speak. Helping my clients build collections.’
‘Could you make me famous, Major?’ I murmured with a half-laugh. ‘Surely my desert plants, my chronicling of drought and scarcity, are too niche? Too stark?’
‘That’s where you’re wrong. The plants you paint are so unusual they’re an instant talking point.’
I glanced up in the direction of the flat.
‘My husband hasn’t been well. I haven’t painted as much recently, but I’m hoping that will change.’ Julian was back at school twice a week. It’s a start. ‘Do you wish to commission specific work, sir?’
‘Well,’ he folded his arms, ‘they’re highly impressed with your botanicals, of course. And the landscapes. But a Mr Cherriot, the American owner of the famous Cherriot Gallery in London, wonders if you’ve ever considered portraiture?’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘Never.’
Major Ferguson nodded. He contemplated Aloe Peak, cocked his head at the distant sound of a whistle.
This is a strange conversation.
He’s come all this way to talk about a genre in which I have no experience.
‘I’m working on a Dawn-to-Dusk series, Major. I’ve completed one pair, a stand of eucalyptus trees planted at the time the railway line was being built.’
‘Mrs McDonald, I must come clean.’ He extended his hands in apology. ‘Your father kindly invited me to tea last month and he showed me a work you painted some time ago. It was part of the Fire series, on display but not for sale. An extraordinary piece. That’s why I’ve come to see you.’
‘Gideon,’ I murmured. ‘My brother Gideon, who died before I was born. It’s not for sale.’
‘I understand. But if you paint more—’
I packed away my sketches and my pencils, and collapsed the easel. �
��May I offer you tea, sir?’
‘That is most kind.’
If Major Jefferson was surprised at our modest accommodation, he was too discreet to say. Sipata kept Hamish amused in the bedroom while we spoke. I showed him the eucalyptus and he said he’d be interested in any other paintings I made of the quiver trees that were not earmarked for Kew.
A key scratched in the door. Julian stopped on the threshold in surprise.
‘Julian, may I introduce Major Owen Jefferson? He’s a collector. He’s interested in my recent work.’
‘Mr McDonald, your wife’s desert subjects are highly regarded. But perhaps,’ he looked at Julian with a brisk compassion, ‘you’d be more comfortable in Cape Town?’
‘Frances loves the veld.’ Julian looked across at me and smiled. ‘It’s her inspiration. And Aloe Glen is where we can make a difference. Where our son can run free.’
‘Indeed.’ Jefferson rose. ‘Thank you for the tea, I must be getting back to Worcester. Do let me know if you contemplate portraiture, Mrs McDonald. In the meantime, I look forward to your new work.’
‘Portraits?’ Julian looked across at me as the door closed. ‘Whatever is he talking about?’
‘He was misinformed. How was your day?’
Julian sank onto the couch. ‘I think I’ll rest for a while. It went well, just a little tiring.’
‘Dada,’ shouted Hamish, racing out of the bedroom, followed by Sipata. ‘Let’s throw, Dada, throw!’
‘Daddy’s tired.’ I scooped him up in my arms. ‘We’ll go throw your ball outside.’
I grabbed my smallest sketchpad and a pencil and stuffed them into the pocket of my bush trousers. Sipata gathered her bag. Hamish and I often walk her home. It’s rather a long way for his little legs and sometimes I have to piggyback him, but he’s getting stronger. There are no trees for him to climb, so his challenge is one of stamina rather than altitude. He skipped along between Sipata and me as we deviated through the church grounds. I don’t think the dominee minds; sometimes he comes across us and pats Hamish’s head and says that the Lord looks kindly on all those in His garden.
The Fire Portrait Page 26
