The Fire Portrait

by Barbara Mutch

  He’d asked me whether there was a particular theme I wished for the eulogy.

  Language skills, I’d replied. And the ability to think and reason independently.

  ‘We all know,’ the dominee went on soberly, ‘that Julian loved the English language. His pupils learnt to love it, too. He believed that, along with their mother tongue, it would take them into the world and help them find their way. The Lord teaches us to love our neighbours. Julian believed we should learn to speak to them, too, in their language as well as our own.’

  I smiled. If he were here, my husband would be smiling too. I didn’t dare look behind me.

  ‘And,’ the dominee paused, ‘as important as language, Julian taught his pupils to think for themselves. To reason and come to their own opinion. To make up their own minds.’

  I fancied I could feel the mixed emotion of the congregation battering my neck.

  ‘Please stand for the next hymn.’

  The organ played the introduction to ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’.

  ‘A great tribute, my dear,’ whispered Father.

  As the grand tune rang out and the singing rose to the roof, it seemed that, for the first time, I was properly at home in this severe church among these stubborn, hard-working people. I thought about Hamish, being babysat by Lena’s teenage daughter. One day, I’d describe this final acknowledgement, the collaboration it had involved, the reconciliation it tacitly encouraged.

  ‘It is fitting that our final reading today is by one of Julian’s pupils.’

  Laetitia had said she would arrange this with the dominee.

  A tall boy in school uniform walked past, stopped and nodded to me, then ascended to the pulpit.

  I felt tears, then. For the first time.

  Deon Louw. If we were searching for a legacy for Julian, this young man embodied it. I reached a hand over my shoulder. Truda was seated directly behind. I felt her take my hand.

  For me, Deon’s slow, careful recitation of the lesson in perfect English – I don’t remember the contents – was the climax, and a blessing that went far beyond the hymns, the prayers, the eulogy.

  Over tea and sandwiches in the hall, the Metzes promised to ask me to lunch. Anna and Aletta looked me directly in the face and said that Julian would be missed, while their husbands nodded. Cora pressed a small bunch of wild flowers into my hand. Toby and Lottie said they were sad for me and slipped away. Deon Louw came over and I reached up and hugged him. ‘He’d have been proud of you,’ I whispered, while Truda openly wept. Mrs van Deventer approached in a voluminous black dress and ancient hat. ‘He did his best, that’s all you can ask.’ The dominee’s wife squeezed my hands and said not a word as she manned the tea table. A considerable number of those who approached me were strangers. They said Mr McDonald had taught their children and they would always be grateful. I smiled through my tears. Father stepped in when I could manage no words. ‘We’re most grateful,’ he said to them and shook their hands.

  By lunchtime it was over.

  ‘Thank you, Dominee,’ I said. ‘You did well for Julian. And for me.’

  ‘I shall pray for you and your family, Mrs McDonald.’

  I wonder what goes on in his heart. I wonder how he judges his flock.

  ‘Aloe Glen does have a certain attraction,’ Father remarked as we walked home, gesturing at the endless bush, the rearing mountains. He’s trying to distract me.

  ‘It’s a harsh beauty, Father. It only rewards grit. And persistence.’

  ‘Qualities you possess, my dear.’

  I linked my arm with his. Dear Father. We slowed for a moment as a pair of guinea fowl scuttled ahead of us across the road and towards the station. They roost in the pepper tree on the far side of the line and their chicks learn to hop onto the platform to peck at discarded crumbs.

  ‘Will you scatter Julian’s ashes in Aloe Glen, Fran? It would be fitting.’

  ‘I think on the Peak where we walked, Father, do you remember? Where you told me about Mother.’

  ‘I do,’ he paused, ‘and where you showed me that extraordinary aloe.’

  Later, as we sat down to supper, I turned on the radio.

  Julian always liked to hear the evening news.

  A sonorous voice filled the air.

  ‘From the headquarters of the Supreme Commander in Europe, General Dwight D. Eisenhower, in Reims, northern France. Germany has signed a document of unconditional surrender.’

  ‘Mama?’ Hamish lifted his fork. ‘Can I have more ’tatoes?’

  ‘Hush! Listen …’

  ‘The Ministry of Information in London has confirmed that an official statement declaring the end of the war will be made simultaneously in London, Washington and Moscow tomorrow.’

  There was a pause, as if the newsreader needed to gather himself.

  ‘I repeat, Germany has surrendered.’

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Hamish misses Julian more than I do.

  I wonder if he dreams of Julian, like I dream of my brother.

  Since Father returned to Cape Town, he’s stayed in the bed next to mine.

  He says he’s keeping it warm for Dada and I don’t have the words – or the heart – to explain that Dada will never return and that the bed will always be cold.

  My weekly newspaper showed grainy photographs of crowds singing outside Buckingham Palace.

  Father said there were celebrations in the centre of Cape Town and that the ships in the harbour hooted long into the night, and flares were set off.

  In Aloe Glen, the end of the war was greeted with no particular fanfare.

  It has always been seen as a foreign nuisance that was bad for business.

  There is no longer any reason to hide this diary away.

  I shall keep it at my bedside from now on.

  Is Mark alive?

  I checked the postbox on Marico Road and then walked into the veld, sat on my folding stool and got out my sketchbook. Sipata had arrived before breakfast to stay with Hamish. I pulled my coat tighter and watched my breath frosting. I’ve come to capture the mountain in its winter mood against a sky flushed by weak sun. It’s an oddly gentle sight. The outlines are familiar but the colours are particular. They must convey both granite permanence and soft flux. I’m thinking of slate grey for the rocks – a shade called ardoise, named after the place where the rock is mined in France – and a highly diluted mix of cadmium red and yellow for the sky.

  A movement caught my eye.

  Grey against grey-green, only becoming apparent when it moved. It was walking towards me, long-legged, a gait of extraordinary elegance. It turned side-on and I saw a crest of feathers. A secretary bird. Mainly earthbound, though it will fly if it can’t outrun its pursuer; named after the habit of human secretaries to tuck quill pens behind their ears. I quietly turned to a clean page in my book and began to draw. An eagle-shaped beak, black along part of the wing, a tail that extended at least half its length and brushed the ground.

  It turned – did it see me, smell me? – and strode away across the veld.

  I watched until it disappeared. I’ll show Hamish the sketch when I get back, then we’ll look up the bird in our reference book. I’ll bring him here to see if we can spot the elegant creature again.

  But I know it won’t be enough.

  We need to leave Aloe Glen and make a fresh start for my son’s sake.

  And for my own. Now Julian’s gone, the fierce inspiration of the veld is not enough. I will miss my true friends – Truda, Sipata, Lena – but they will understand. I turned at a thudding behind me.

  ‘Frances!’ Truda raced towards me, her feet ungainly in boots. ‘You weren’t at home—’ She skidded to a halt. Her hair was bundled beneath a woollen cap and she wore builder’s dungarees. I’ve tried to paint her but she’s too transient to pin down, too fragile to capture.

  ‘It’s Wynand. They let him out!’

  ‘He’s here? In Aloe Glen?’

  ‘Ja. He came last
night.’

  I couldn’t help looking at her neck. Her face. We haven’t ever spoken out loud about the bruises.

  ‘Deon is home. He slept outside our bedroom door.’

  She looked down and twisted her fingers. Truda’s nails have been whole for some time. She’s become warmer; she even teases me sometimes. And she doesn’t look over her shoulder as much.

  ‘Deon won’t always be here, Truda. If Wynand hits you, you must tell someone. Me. The dominee. The police.’ But I may not be here either. I may not be here to save her, as I promised her son I would be.

  ‘He said he’s sorry for what he did. And I must keep quiet. He’s going to stand for parliament.’

  I stared at her. The other war, the one I believe is waiting in the wings, has begun.

  And this time, we’ll all be at the fighting front.

  ‘Mr Field,’ I said on a hastily arranged visit to Cape Town, ‘I have a particular property in mind. Is it possible to find out if the owners would sell?’

  Field regarded me cautiously. ‘It’s not currently for sale?’

  ‘I don’t believe so.’

  ‘Then you risk driving up the price, if I may say so, Mrs McDonald.’

  I nodded and glanced out of the window. No troopships in the harbour. And, on the street, no cries of ‘War Latest’. Now it was all about the forthcoming election.

  ‘I can’t afford to buy just yet, sir, but I’d like to plan for the future. Even if it risks escalating the price.’

  ‘You’d like a third party to engage with the owners, sound them out?’

  ‘Yes, I’d be most grateful.’

  ‘When do you intend to come back to Cape Town for good?’

  ‘Soon, sir.’

  Hamish and I will stay with Father; he’s already said that his home will always be our home. The more Hamish laughs with Grandad, the more the memory of his father being taken away on a stretcher dims.

  But I’m also ambitious for our small family.

  ‘Major Jefferson? Good morning. It’s Frances McDonald.’

  ‘Ah, Frances.’ His warmth came down the telephone line. ‘Are you in Cape Town?’

  We know each other well enough, now, for first names on his part.

  ‘Yes. I wonder if I could visit you. I have some new work you may find interesting.’

  ‘I would be delighted. Come for tea.’

  The major is a wealthy man. He lives in a splendid house in Constantia which appears to serve as an informal gallery, or perhaps a clearing house. Its interior walls are covered in art, its tables groaning with miniature sculptures and artefacts destined for collectors around the world. I dressed for the occasion: a blue dress with a fuller skirt than the previous dictates of wartime austerity. Violet swept up my hair and pinned it in the latest style.

  ‘You’re still offering botanical art to Director Compton?’ he asked over tea and Victoria sponge cake.

  ‘Yes, but this particular work is different. A single piece, not part of a series. And a departure from my normal style.’

  I reached down and drew the fire portrait out of my portfolio and handed it to him.

  He took it carefully. For several minutes he said nothing and I wondered if he was disappointed and didn’t know how to break it to me. I realise it is unconventional. Mr Cadwaller always said art was about taking risks and I have done that. First with the exhibition. Now, potentially, with this.

  ‘The medium?’ he murmured.

  ‘Charcoal, from the fire. Ash. And blood.’

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  We’re back in Aloe Glen. The pace is quickening. Major Jefferson says the fire portrait is ‘remarkable’. He has taken a photograph of it. He will send it to London to the gallery owner who is keen on portraits. So often, remarkable things spring from blows.

  To the head. Or to the heart.

  I left Sipata that evening with strict instructions that she open the door to no one. Maybe I was being overdramatic. But it wouldn’t hurt to be careful.

  Aloe Peak glowed in the moonlight. I could attempt a painting in the style of Van Gogh. The sharp outline of the peak against the moon, the grand sweep of the Milky Way. But I don’t work in oils, and you need their density to invoke the hard glitter of the stars, the thick flow of their reflections.

  I smiled.

  Shall we consider oils, Mr Cadwaller?

  By the time I arrived, the hall was almost full. In place of the school flag, huge National Party banners swung alongside the flags of the former Boer republics. A display of rifles and vintage uniforms decorated one side of the stage, while the other was occupied by a group of young boys in khaki shorts and shirts, leading a rousing chorus of ‘Sarie Marais’ – the Boer War anthem. I didn’t recognise any of them; they were not local. And neither were the men seated on stage, with the exception of the speaker and the dominee, who sat with folded hands, nodding at the enthusiasm of the crowd.

  ‘Frances.’ Truda appeared at my side. ‘Sit with me?’

  ‘Don’t you have to be on stage?’

  ‘I won’t go there,’ she muttered.

  She was wearing a new dress, a severe navy affair, not at all like the flowing ones she wore when she ran across the veld. I was in red, made for my latest exhibition in Cape Town. ‘So you’ll be seen,’ insisted Violet’s sister. ‘You need to stand out, Miss Fran.’

  The boys finished, came to attention, and gave salutes. The audience roared.

  What would Julian make of this?

  It was certainly patriotic, but a narrow patriotism.

  ‘Dames en here, ladies and gentlemen.’ The chairman stood up and clapped his hands. ‘Welkom!’

  The noise abated. He spoke mostly in Afrikaans and I translated it in my head.

  ‘It gives me great pleasure to introduce the speaker this evening, our candidate for member of parliament for this constituency in the upcoming general election. Please welcome Wynand Louw!’

  Wynand stood and held his arms aloft like a boxer celebrating victory. Truda shrank into her seat. Despite his years in detention, he appeared prosperous. I’d only seen him at a distance since his release. Truda says – with relief, I suspect – that he’s been away in Cape Town and Pretoria for political meetings. So far, none of the previously detained men have been charged with crimes related to sabotage, or individual acts against their fellow citizens.

  In fact, in some quarters, they’re being feted as heroes.

  I glanced around and caught the eye of Sannie Metz, sitting with Abel and Magda.

  Wynand Louw began to speak. The resentment that I remember so well was still intact, but better presented. He’d clearly been schooled in a particular way to address a crowd: identify yourself as a victim, show how you overcame the odds, promise to fight for the similarly victimised in your audience. But while these might be noble sentiments for any aspiring leader, from Wynand’s mouth they emerged loaded, bent on vengeance.

  Yet am I any different? I’ve wanted my own, private redress. But since Julian died—

  ‘Like many of you, I was raised hard,’ he shouted. ‘We were poor! The land was dry. We went hungry!’

  He moved on to his family’s travails in the Boer War. ‘They took my grandmother, put her in a camp!’

  Later, he struggled to find work on the railways; then he was unfairly incarcerated during the war.

  ‘I was a patriot and they locked me up!’ He struck his fists.

  ‘Shame! Skande!’ yelled the crowd.

  It spurred his devotion to the cause of Afrikaner nationalism.

  ‘I’m a Bittereinder,’ he cried, ‘and proud of it! This land is for the Afrikaner! We are the chosen ones, the only chosen volk! I will fight for you!’

  People clapped Truda on the shoulders and shouted their congratulations as he ended. She cowered next to me. If Wynand was elected, there’d be no more running barefoot across the veld. Deon, at university in Stellenbosch, would have to answer those who praised – or questioned – his father’
s path from disgraced saboteur to mainstream politician. I listened to the ecstatic applause and glanced down the row at Abel Metz. He’d been ashamed of Wynand Louw. Surely he’d want a less divisive vision of the future?

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ the chairman held up his hands, ‘Mr Louw will now take questions.’

  ‘What if he wins?’ Truda whispered. ‘What will I do?’

  ‘You’ll manage,’ I said. ‘I’ll help you. We’ll still be friends.’

  She won’t survive. It will be like confining a wild animal to a circus enclosure.

  ‘Blacks are taking our jobs!’ someone yelled. The audience rumbled in assent.

  ‘What about wages?’ a man called from the back of the hall.

  Wynand Louw now became less confident, less practised. He ducked several issues and didn’t appear to understand land title, a crucial matter for an MP representing a farming community. The chairman began to sense that the momentum was being lost.

  ‘Last questions,’ he called.

  I stood up. So far, members of the audience had stayed seated while shouting out their questions. A murmuring filled the hall. They recalled my previous intervention, folded their arms and looked at me with resignation and some sympathy. The headmaster’s odd wife, now a widow, I could imagine them sighing. The one who paints and refuses to leave.

  I waited.

  ‘You have a question, madam?’ the chairman asked with a hint of irritation.

  I knew it wasn’t wise, this old hankering for a challenge, for danger. Julian would call it my ability to say or do things he would never have tried.

  ‘You wish to speak?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  I reached down and touched Truda’s shoulder in mute apology.

  ‘Mr Louw, why did you throw two petrol bombs into my house in 1941?’

  For a moment there was complete quiet. Then the noise crashed about my head and I thought I’d be swept from my feet. All sympathy gone, the crowd screamed for me to leave, to never come back, that I was a disgrace. Hands clutched at me, trying to pull me down onto my seat but I twisted away from them. A man whom I didn’t recognise lunged at me. Truda got up and shoved him away.