‘To what end? Why does he wish to meet?’
‘Mr Louw is the Member of Parliament for Aloe Glen. He wishes to seek your views on its progress.’
‘Where will this meeting be held?’
‘In parliament, madam. In his office.’
I stared out of the window. My studio is now where Aunt’s study used to be. It looks directly towards the face of Fernwood Buttress. I paint the mountain constantly, in every mood.
‘Very well. I will meet with Mr Louw. But only if the door to his office is left open. Good day.’
I will not give him the chance to insult me in private.
I wore red, my talisman colour. And the hat I bought in London.
‘Mrs McDonald.’ Wynand Louw came around his desk as his secretary ushered me through the door. He’s grown even more prosperous. I heard he had the ear of the prime minister and was destined for a departmental ministry. He held out his hand. I looked down at it, smiled, and briefly gave him mine. He gestured to a seat and went back behind his desk.
‘It’s been a while. You are very successful – if I may say so, Mrs McDonald.’
‘Thank you.’
Under the suit and the good haircut, he still carries resentment. I can tell. It’s in the overly broad smile. And he’s nervous. I felt it in the dampness of the palm that I so reluctantly clasped. I wonder—
‘Why have you asked to see me, Mr Louw?’
He glanced at a photograph on his desk, angled slightly towards me. Truda and Deon. Nervous smiles.
‘I would like to apologise. I think it is time.’ He creased his brow, nodded to himself.
‘For what, in particular, Mr Louw?’
‘The unfortunate incidents that occurred in Aloe Glen during the war.’ He smiled again.
‘You mean when you bombed my house?’
I said it clearly, so that it would carry through the open door.
His lips tightened for a moment. I’ve always got under his skin. Don’t teach my son kak, he’d spat.
‘I’m grateful for what you’ve done for Aloe Glen, ma’am. Jobs have come to the town because of you.’
I waited for a moment.
‘Are you worried, sir, that I still have the ability to expose you as an arsonist?’
Rage flickered briefly over his face before he beamed as if I’d complimented him.
‘That was in the past!’ He waved a hand. ‘We’ve all done things in the past that we regret!’
‘Indeed. Thank you for your apology. I will accept it under certain conditions.’
He stared at me.
‘What conditions?’
‘That you treat your wife kindly, Mr Louw. Do not beat her or belittle her. And do not harm the prospects of the young people who called you out.’ I paused. ‘Not now. Not ever.’
I could see the calculation going on in his head. Dismiss her with contempt? Or use her?
‘Of course,’ he said, colouring. ‘I’m a different man, Mrs McDonald. They have nothing to fear. Now, shall we have a photograph together?’
‘Good day, sir.’ I stood up. ‘This has been interesting.’
I held out my hand, and left.
Chapter Sixty-Two
In the end it’s taken three years, I wrote in my diary.
I’ve always had to wait … for the veld to bloom or for life to turn – just a little – towards me.
Three years while I painted intensely and tasted increasing success.
Three years while my son grew into a fine young lad.
Three years while my country turned against its own.
‘Mr Venter,’ I said down the telephone. ‘Can you do it by September?’
‘Let me confirm, Mrs McDonald,’ I heard the rustle of paper as Henry Venter got out his workbook, ‘you want the wooden boarding taken down, the windows put back in, the ceiling panels replaced and the whole place painted?’
‘Yes, that’s right. I’d like the interior to be a light cream colour.’
‘And the floorboards?’
‘You can leave them as is.’
‘But some are scorched, ma’am. And there’s paint all over one of the floors. It won’t look good.’
‘I know. But it will add,’ I hunted for a word, ‘character.’
I could almost hear him scratching his head. And then deciding all artists were probably a little daft.
‘You can pick up the keys from a lady called Sipata who lives on the edge of town. Once you’ve finished, she will go in and clean. I trust her completely.’
‘The police know who did it, ma’am?’
‘Yes. But he was never brought to justice.’
‘It’s a disgrace, Mrs McDonald. But I will fix the house as you say. You should get a fair price.’
The light was striking the mountains at a low angle as I drove with Father and Hamish to Aloe Glen on a mild September morning. I’d chosen spring so that – if there’d been rain – we might see vygies in bloom, or even irises waving fragile wands above the scrub.
‘Look, Hamish,’ I pointed, ‘see how the rock folds and splits? Aloes can grow up there.’
‘Can we go to the top of the peak, Mama?’
He hasn’t forgotten we were meant to go there on the day Julian died.
‘Yes, perhaps we can.’
I could show him the spot where Father and I scattered Julian’s ashes. He’s old enough, now.
‘There’s a particular aloe high up,’ Father turned to Hamish in the back seat, ‘that your mother has painted many times. We’ll see if we can find it.’
I glanced in the rear-view mirror. Thick, tousled black hair, lively eyes. Does he ever sense, somewhere inside, that he’s missing a part of himself? I understand what it’s like to be deprived of someone at a young age. Gideon meant so much to me even though I never met him. Will I be judged for depriving my son of a unique, loving father – if he’s alive?
‘Hamish! Over there, see? A secretary bird!’ Father leant out of the window. ‘What a sight!’
‘He’s almost as big as me!’ shouted Hamish. ‘Slow down, Mama!’
I braked and we watched the bird pace languidly across the veld.
The road curved, and the familiar cluster of houses emerged at the base of Aloe Peak.
‘Ah,’ Father exclaimed as we jolted down a dirt track on the outskirts. ‘How charming, Fran! Authentic farm living! This belongs to Julian’s colleague?’
Laetitia had offered us accommodation in the cottage-for-hire her parents had built.
Stay with us, Frances, she’d written. You’ll be most welcome. I will bring you dinner.
Later, when Hamish was asleep and Father was reading the paper, I sat outside on the small verandah and watched the mountains succumb to the night and smelt the herbal tang of the bush.
I miss it, I miss the starkness. This place will always unsettle me. Draw me in and then push me away.
Streaks of cirrus cloud flew high above Aloe Peak as we drove into town the following afternoon.
‘No rain,’ I said to Father, glancing out of the window. ‘Trust me.’
‘The clouds are teasing us!’ Hamish grinned.
The roads were busier than I remembered. An extra pump had been installed at the petrol station – I rolled down the window and shouted hello to Tifo – and there was a new shop selling knitted goods and souvenirs next to the cafe. Cars and lorries were parked along the side of Marico Road as we turned.
The gate to number 10 was open.
I slowed down and drove up the earth driveway. Henry Venter had done a fine job. Glass gleamed in the windows. The outer walls were clean. The central tree was now encircled by a wooden bench around which milled a large and disparately dressed crowd.
‘Why,’ exclaimed Father as I parked, ‘it’s a triumph! And you were worried no one would turn up!’
‘Fran!’ Daphne waved, picking her way across the thin grass, followed by Trevor and Maisie.
I hid a smile. It was Daph’s first – a
nd probably last – visit to Aloe Glen. Her pink silk tea dress and delicate heels might never survive. I was in a white blouse, a full khaki skirt, block heels and my hair was loose. ‘It’s so different,’ Daph murmured after we hugged, casting a nervous glance at the men in sturdy trousers and shorts and their wives in variations of the same, interspersed with the odd frock. Cora in plain blue, Aletta waving at me self-consciously in a print skirt and velskoens.
‘Congratulations, Frances.’ Owen Jefferson, impeccable in a light linen suit, elbowed his way through and kissed me on both cheeks. ‘I’ve been given a preview. Stunning. Thought provoking. As I expected.’
‘Ma’am?’
‘Oh, Sipata!’ I hugged her. ‘How can I thank you?
‘My pleasure, ma’am. And Hamish?’ She gasped and took his hand. ‘So grown up!’
They embraced, a white boy and a coloured woman who’d cared for him from before he was born.
‘Welkom.’ Mrs van Deventer hobbled over and grabbed my hand in a fierce grip. She’d jammed her purple hat onto her head for the occasion. ‘I thought you were gone for good.’
‘Not quite, Mrs van Deventer.’
‘Frances!’ Truda hugged me and offered a pair of mauve flowers, the product of the bulbs I’d been drawing when we first met. ‘God bless you for what you’ve done!’
‘Who planted those?’ I pointed at a small collection of aloes in a simple rockery.
‘Truda and I did.’ Lena appeared at my side in a cream shift that accentuated her height. ‘We thought you should have aloes.’
‘Thank you.’ I gathered the women to me. ‘Thank you.’
‘Oh, ma’am,’ Sipata whispered, ‘we’re so proud to do this!’
Folk I recognised – and some I didn’t – came forward and reached out their hands to clasp mine. Mr Fourie had a new, less Hitlerian moustache; the dominee’s wife was still silent; Abel and Sannie Metz wore warm smiles. A group of poor whites edged in, alongside Lena’s coloured partner.
‘Shall we start?’ she whispered.
I nodded and led the way.
I’d sworn Henry Venter to secrecy, so no one was expecting the scorched but polished floorboards, or the single, blistered chair now varnished to a shine and, in the bedroom, a collapsed roof beam as a horizontal mount for a line of landscapes.
A rising clamour followed me.
I glanced across the lounge.
There it was, on the opposite wall: the mirror, cracked on the vertical.
‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ Raymond Cadwaller raised his arms. ‘Your attention please!’
Director Compton was too infirm to travel, so I invited Mr Cadwaller to South Africa as my guest, and to preside if he felt strong enough. The dominee glanced at me and stepped alongside Cadwaller. ‘Will you help, Dominee?’ I’d asked. ‘If you’re involved, then it will be a success.’
‘My name is Raymond Cadwaller. I was Frances McDonald’s first art teacher and I’m delighted to say she has surpassed all my expectations. Frances spent more than fifteen years in Aloe Glen, painting the scenery and the flora of this magnificent region, to international acclaim. On these walls you can see the results.’
He paused and the dominee translated.
The crowd murmured and stared at the paintings.
Aloe Peak from Marico Road.
Eucalyptus Trees at Dawn.
Lithops: Four Pencil Studies.
Aloe Microstigma in Flower.
Father, by my side, put a hand lightly on my shoulder.
‘I’m honoured to be in your vibrant community,’ Cadwaller beamed at the farmers, labourers, railway workers, housewives and probably a few of my residual enemies, ‘to open the Marico Road Gallery.’
Light applause.
‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, thank you. This gallery will be used not only for the display of Frances’s art but also as a working space. Classes will be held here for schoolchildren to develop their interest. Frances has endowed a bursary scheme to support promising students.’
They clapped more enthusiastically.
‘The gallery will be managed by Lena Fuller, assisted by Sipata Pumile,’ he enunciated carefully.
I sensed a slight stiffening among certain of the guests. But I don’t intend to lend them any comfort. This space is also designed to disconcert.
‘We’re privileged,’ Cadwaller kept his tone neutral as I’d insisted – but why, Frances, the man is a criminal – ‘to welcome here today the local member of parliament, Wynand Louw.’
The audience gaped. The man who bombed the place, I could hear them think. Is Frances crazier than we supposed? They craned around. Wynand Louw, who’d slipped in at the back, gave a tight nod.
When I invited him, I made it clear he would play no active role in proceedings.
‘Frances,’ Mr Cadwaller gestured to me, ‘will you say a few words?’
I took my place alongside him.
‘Thank you for coming, ladies and gentlemen.’ I smiled. ‘When we see drought, poverty and war all about us, art can seem unimportant. But I hope my pictures show the triumph of nature over some of those troubles. Life may be harsh at times, but nature has the power to lift and inspire us.’
No haranguing, I reminded myself. No Bekeer! Repent!
Instead, a subtle nudge.
‘I want to pay tribute to this community. You made my years here memorable – and productive.’
They exchanged glances. I think I heard Mrs van Deventer sniff in the front row.
‘I must also thank my father and my son, Hamish, for their love through difficult times.’
Father flung an arm around his grandson’s shoulder. Hamish grinned and I saw Mark in his face.
‘This gallery will be a meeting place for people who love art, and who love the veld that surrounds us. I hope it will bring more visitors – and more jobs – to town. Now, you may wonder why the house has not been completely restored. My studio, in particular,’ I motioned for Lena to unlock the door, ‘has been left almost the way it was after the fire.’
Surely they knew enough of me by now to know there’d always be a twist?
‘I left it like that deliberately.’ I paused to give the dominee’s translation extra weight. ‘I hope its destruction will show the price of discord and the need for reconciliation.’
From the back of the room, burly Henry Venter lifted his hands above his head and clapped. Poor Henry, I’d duped him into thinking he was preparing the house for sale.
Mr Cadwaller glanced about at the smarting audience and encouraged the applause.
The dominee joined in, his face flushed. I stepped away from the centre.
The crowd pushed towards the studio.
I knew what they’d find.
Trails of paint swirling across the floor, melted and smeared by the fire. A series of singed paintings hanging on the wall including a new version of Studio with Glass Shards. My easel, its wooden struts scorched, reconstructed and standing by the window. The blackened cupboard that once housed my paper supplies and hid the portrait of Gideon, left open and empty.
Some guests bent down to touch the solidified paint, and then read the captions on the wall in both English and Afrikaans. Cora had her hand over her mouth. Anna Visser, with the latest baby on her hip, glanced back at me and nodded. Sannie Metz stood before one of the paintings and wiped away tears. Lena moved through the crowd, guiding and explaining. She once used to hide her erudition out of shame for her poverty. No longer.
Truda turned to me and smiled. I invite her regularly to Protea Rise when parliament is sitting in Cape Town. We don’t speak much; it’s enough for her to be away from her husband. And we’ve mostly said all there is to say. She still wears floating, escapist dresses, but these days they are un-frayed. She spends time with Deon who’s doing postgraduate studies in America. Julian’s bursary has stretched a long way. Truda likes the Americans; she likes their open spaces.
I glanced around.
So many d
ifferent souls. Wealthy Owen Jefferson. The poor men who fought my fire. Obstinate Ellie van Deventer. Dear, frivolous Daph. And others who aren’t here, like Frans van Deventer and Toby Engelbrecht, ever-cheerful Tifo on duty at his petrol pump. Deon Louw. Aunt Mary. Julian. Mark.
The diverse colours of Africa.
Epilogue
The painting hangs on a side wall in my Dallas office, but always draws attention.
It’s become a reference point for me, and an incitement to break boundaries. It shows, without compromise, the ability of nature to take circles and lines and twist them into a shape that holds not only life, but beauty within its distortion. A rare thing.
If I can harness that odd, thorny symmetry, I can design structures that will both challenge the mind and lift the soul.
Astrid knows it was painted by the ‘flapper girl’, as she calls her. But she doesn’t care, even though Frances is now world-famous. Not for the aloe and similar, exquisite work, but for the Fire Portrait. It hangs in a gallery in London. I went to see it on a recent trip and had to queue.
It’s been widely reviewed in the global press.
A modern classic, is the consensus.
A Mona Lisa for the age of the Cold War, budding civil rights, uncertain freedom.
Haunting Portrait Hints at Turmoil, headlined one newspaper.
Fractured Society, says another.
An Omen, says a third …
Is Frances happy? She said she would never leave her husband, but I know he has died and that she has a son.
I’m tempted to go back.
Acknowledgements
The Fire Portrait required background research that ranged from steam trains to The Great Depression; from wartime politics to the finer points of botanical illustration. Aloe Glen, the fictional town at the heart of the novel, is set along the railway line between the lush town of Worcester and the vast semi-desert of the Karoo. Heading in the latter direction, the Railway and Transport Museums in Matjiesfontein helped me to understand the role of the fledgling Cape railway in rural communities, while the Marie Rawdon Museum offered a glimpse of historical family life. Railway specialist Jamie Hart offered advice on the development of the early Hex River tunnel system and its later enhancements. For a sense of Cape Town in the early-to-mid twentieth century, I’m grateful for the assistance of the National Library of South Africa, the South African Maritime Museum and the Iziko South African Museum. For advice on house fires and the evidence left behind, I was guided by an officer at my local Fire Station.
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