‘Do you not care to drink with your companions, Mr Ashleigh?’
‘Certainly, but I care more for music when it is scarcer than wine.’
She smiled in the flameglow. ‘A man with a romantic soul can never become the perfect warrior. How wise you were to abandon the profession.’
He might well have regretted telling her how Colin Steadman’s death at Atbara had affected his approach to his work, but the fact that she remembered his words pleased him. She was very astute. He went into the dim parlour where lace curtains hung over windows curtained by red plush. A chair stood on each side of a huge horsehair sofa; a tallboy in the corner bore a heavy porcelain epergne. There was space for little else but a square table covered with a tasselled red-plush cloth on which stood a tray with crystal decanters. Compared with the rooms in his Wiltshire home it was minute, yet he felt at ease there.
When the piece finished he begged her to continue, adding, ‘You play very well.’
‘I was very well taught.’
‘By whom?’
‘My mother.’ She selected music from a pile beside her. ‘Do you care for Liszt?’
‘Very much. My sister finds his style too extravagant for her taste and has to be persuaded to play it for me.’ Propping the music on the stand, she said, ‘I imagine you have no difficulty in getting your wish.’
He smiled at her words, but a cascade of forceful notes prevented any reply. As he watched her fingers race over the keys he wondered about her mother. Did a family exist out here? He sensed it would not be easy to find out all he wished to know about her, but music was a great softener of moods. He must allow it to smooth a difficult path before venturing on it.
She played two further pieces after the Liszt, then closed the lid and turned to him. ‘Would you care for a glass of port? Most of my guests are people with simple tastes or religious scruples, but I keep a bottle or two for several gentlemen who come regularly and appreciate more sophisticated customs.’
Vere accepted her offer of port, but shook his head when she held out a box of cigars. Having for years been denied them by order of Dr Alderton, he was happy to continue his abstinence. Her generosity deepened his speculation. It was customary for a certain kind of female to pour port and light cigars for a male companion — Floria had done so with surprising sensuality — but he could not believe he was presently in the company of a courtesan. Her manner was too calm, her gaze too frank, her dress too demure. Yet she was clearly accustomed to this masculine ritual. The mystery surrounding this woman intrigued him so much he began probing it as soon as they settled on the two chairs flanking the sofa.
‘You spoke of your mother’s tuition in music. Have you brothers or sisters who play with matching skill?’ After brief hesitation, she said, ‘I have a half-brother who is a mining engineer. I imagine his notion of music is the squealing of winches in a diamond field.’
‘So your mother or father was twice married?’
She gazed at him uncertainly for a while as if fighting an inner battle, then said with the frankness he admired, ‘It’s rare for me to be in the company of a cultured artist, someone with finer manners and deeper understanding than the majority of my guests. As I said before, you have a very persuasive manner, Mr Ashleigh. It must be that, and the influence of this rather unusual evening, which persuades me to satisfy your evident curiosity over an innkeeper you treat as a lady. You spoke most sincerely of humanity. Perhaps you will understand what your carousing friends would not.’
He had expected to be obliged to overcome her reticence with care, but she now appeared ready to tell him all he wanted to know. ‘I’m honoured by your trust, but curiosity is the wrong word. My interest is far more flattering, I assure you.’
She was disconcerted by the compliment, and he feared he had misjudged her mood. However, after a brief silence, she surprised him with her first sentence.
‘My mother was the only child of Sir Ralph and Lady Brinley. She fell hopelessly in love with an actor as handsome as he was talented, and ran off with him because she knew her father would come between them. The Brinleys disowned her, of course, but she found happiness in her new life and believed she needed nothing more. I was born a year later. My grandparents were informed but remained aloof, much as Mama had expected.’ She smiled rather sadly. ‘Papa was attracting much acclaim, and both my parents were determined that I should be reared to take my place in society. I had a private tutor — an impoverished young man willing to travel with us in return for meals, a roof over his head, and a very small wage. I took dancing lessons from a member of Papa’s theatrical company, and my mother taught me to appreciate music. She used to say, “Kitty, you are a Brinley as well as a Kellaway, never forget that”.’
Vere sat forward with rapt interest. ‘You are Monkford Kellaway’s daughter?’
‘You know of him?’
Vere nodded. ‘He died young. Theatres all over England closed that night in respect for a talent lost so soon.’
‘And as soon forgotten, I fear. You must also have been a child at the time. How is it that you are so well informed?’
‘I am closely acquainted with Gilbert Dessinger, the stage designer. He introduced me to a number of people connected with the theatre, and I promise you your father has not been forgotten by them.’
Her smile in the low light was wide and warm. ‘First an artist, then a philosopher, former soldier and now a friend of thespians. What a very surprising person you are, Mr Ashleigh.’
He smiled back at her. ‘No more than you, Mrs Munroe.’
‘I have no claim to renown other than successfully performing a task that was forced upon me.’
‘Forced upon you?’
Her expression suggested that she regretted her words. ‘Dear me, how foolish to suggest a form of drudgery. I haven’t your elegant turn of phrase. Eloquence becomes a dying art when there is little need for it. Please pour yourself another glass of port. I left the decanter beside you for that purpose.’ Silent while he did as she suggested, she then continued. ‘When Monkford Kellaway died the news was widely publicized. My mother waited for her family to offer a home to her child. She had too much pride to beg for their support and, after twelve months passed without word, she married a counting-house clerk who promised her a fortune if she would go with him to prospect for diamonds in South Africa. My half-brother was born in Kimberley a year later.’
‘But the fortune was never forthcoming?’
‘Yes, certainly it was. My stepfather worked like a slave, and we were soon living in a house with four rooms and a stoep away from the hovels and taverns which housed the growing flood of prospectors.’ She sighed. ‘It was like a huge terrible casino, you know, except that those men who gambled all they had in the hope of gaining a fortune were filthy and hungry, scavenging in the blue clay, desperate to find even the smallest hard pebble that glinted dully when polished by a shirt tail. Fortunes were made and lost overnight. Hardly a week passed without the death of someone in an accident, or by his own despairing hand. We were fortunate. My stepfather was a good man who steadily grew richer and looked after his family well.’
Vere was fascinated by all she was telling him, and even more so by Kitty Munroe herself. ‘You did yourself an injustice just now. You are very eloquent. I can see quite vividly all you describe.’
‘You would, because you are a champion of humanity. There was much in Kimberley to inspire compassion in those early days.’
She rose and crossed to fill a glass from the carafe of water. When she returned she sat on the sofa, nearer to him. Vere admired anew her grace of movement; reason stood no chance as he told himself a Brinley who was also Monkford Kellaway’s daughter should not be in a place like Vrymanskop, running an inn for the brand of characters who travelled the remote areas of this land. She had charm, intelligence, wit, courage and greater personality than many women he had met in the social circle he frequented. What was more, her undeniable physical appeal was arous
ing in him a response which had been dormant for too long. It was imperative to discover whether or not there was, or ever had been, a husband named Munroe. He began cautiously.
‘You mentioned a brother who is a mining engineer. Is your entire family presently besieged in Kimberley?’
Her hair gleamed in the lamplight as she shook her head. ‘My mother died when I was eighteen. As the stepdaughter of a wealthy prospector, I was attractive to a number of men eager to share our comfortable home and the patronage of a burgher of stature in a growing town. My stepfather chose William Munroe because his early good fortune suggested that he would have a prosperous future.’ She sighed. ‘My brother could not take to Bill. In truth, Gerald would have resented any husband of mine. He mistakenly believed his position as son of the house had been usurped, and he soon moved out to live with the family of the engineer who was training him. I missed Gerald a great deal. So did my stepfather.’ She gave Vere another of her frank looks. ‘But Bartholomew Jakes needed a housekeeper more than he needed a son, so he would not upset Bill in case he moved out, taking me with him. How little he knew the man he had chosen to be my husband!’
‘It was not a successful marriage?’ asked Vere, burning to know the present whereabouts of Munroe.
‘His early luck gave way to diamond fever. A common affliction, believe me. It takes the form of an obsession to find the one big stone which will make the owner a millionaire and intimate of the great Barney Barnato. Bill spent every penny he earnt buying bigger and bigger claims, disregarding the fact that these claims were sold to him by men who had become bankrupt because there were few diamonds left on them. When my stepfather was killed in one of the frequent landslides caused by underdigging, Bill sold our house and everything in it to buy yet another large claim. He left himself no money to pay labourers to work it, and quickly slid into debt. It was merely a matter of time before he was bought out by Barnato for a pittance.’ She shrugged fatalistically. ‘Only a giant can take on another in this country.’
For a moment or two Vere thought she did not mean to continue, because she fell into a pensive silence which suggested that he had been forgotten. He prompted her with an intense leading question. ‘Where is your husband now?’
When she looked back at him it was as if she was returning from another time. ‘All the mines very soon came under the control of just three men — Cecil Rhodes, Barney Barnato and Alfred Beit — so diamond fever became a disease of the past. All hopes were over of an individual prospector finding a stone so big he would become a diamond baron overnight, but Bill still yearned for the elusive fortune. He exchanged the last of his personal possessions for an old wagon and we set off into the unknown, but he had lost his self-esteem in Kimberley and grew more and more morose as we travelled on.’
She drank water from the glass in calm manner. ‘We finally reached Vrymanskop and Bill chopped wood in return for a meal here at the inn. That night we slept in the wagon, as usual, with the intention of moving on in the morning. When I awoke I was alone. The two horses had gone and I knew I would never see Bill again. He left no note. His self-disgust was too deep to offer more excuses for what he was doing.’
Vere remained silent, anger within him too strong to trust himself with words. Kitty Munroe’s experience was one known by many wives of pioneers but the fact did not diminish for him the tragedy of her story. Admiration for her overwhelmed Vere to strengthen the growing truth that here was the woman he had been seeking.
‘I had never been fond of William Munroe,’ she said quietly. ‘He had gone in the belief that I would fare better without him, and I did. Amos Drurie took me on here as cook and housekeeper, giving me a room and food in return for my work. When he died, he left the inn to me: the greatest piece of good fortune I could have. A month after his funeral I received a letter from a solicitor notifying me of my husband’s death. It provided no details except that he had died a pauper, so there was no estate to settle. I imagine the man had little hope of the letter ever reaching me. There was a request on the envelope for it to be forwarded if another address should be known.’ A small frown creased her brow. ‘In this country people are always moving on. They are swallowed up by the vastness of it. It’s impossible to keep track of them.’
‘Unless one is determined to do so,’ put in Vere, relieved by the news of Munroe’s death. ‘You are still in contact with your brother?’
‘I was until the siege. Gerald wrote that he had joined the Diamond Fields Horse in defence of the town he regards as home. I know I may not see him again. Everything is changing. It will never return to how it was.’ She sighed. ‘An army arrives here by train tonight destined for a war being fought no more than a few miles from Vrymanskop. Peaceable men who have slept in my inn and eaten at my tables are now arming themselves to defend their farms from British troops who have no wish to rob them of what they own. When this conflict ends I may be obliged to move on and be swallowed up by a land that does not contain my roots.’
Vere was driven to say, ‘You should return to that which does, Kitty Kellaway.’
She studied him for several moments, her eyes further darkened by an emotion Vere recognized too well. Then she got to her feet. He did the same, sensing with regret that the evening was over.
‘I have told no one what you have somehow coaxed from me tonight, not even Amos Drurie. He took me in on trust and never probed my past. It must be due to the poignancy of the present times that I was foolish enough to speak as I have to you.’ As Vere moved towards her she halted him with further words. ‘I know little of you save that you have a sister who must be coaxed to play Liszt, and that you once hoped in vain to become a perfect warrior. You will depart tomorrow a stranger still. In the coming days your search for humanity will touch you so deeply you will soon forget a commonplace story told by a widow running an inn in the wild heart of Natal.’
‘No,’ he said urgently. ‘I shall return as soon as I’m free to do so.’
‘That would be very foolish and prove that you do, indeed, see through a rosy glass. In the cold light of morning you will realize that I only spoke about things long forgotten because you will not be here to confront me with my indiscretion.’ At the door she hesitated long enough to say, ‘God go with you in the days ahead.’ The room seemed alien without her presence. He swiftly left it for the chilly night. The ground outside was covered by soldiers wrapped in their cloaks, some asleep and others smoking or talking quietly beneath a spread of brilliant stars. Vere stepped around them with care on his way to where the officers were still enjoying their wine in the railway carriage. Sentries had been posted. A forlorn subaltern on duty wandered back and forth, pistol in hand. A state of war existed and the mobile Boers could appear anywhere, at any time.
If they had come to Vrymanskop that night they would have found Vere awake. He lay on his folding bed alongside the train thinking of all Kitty had told him, cursing the need to leave so soon. She had hinted that there had been little affection between herself and the husband chosen for her, so love was possibly unknown to her. How, in God’s name, was he to induce it in his absence? He must leave with the train in the morning — he had a contract with The Illustrated Magazine to fulfil — and there was no way of knowing when another might pass through and halt at this hamlet. Reason returned with a vengeance to tell him he had chosen an uphill task in deciding to make Sir Ralph and Lady Brinley’s granddaughter the next mistress of Knightshill. The problem kept him awake until just before dawn, so he was in a deeply comatose state when an officer shook him vigorously and advised him to get breakfast before it was all eaten.
Vrymanskop was a daylight surprise. The settlement lay surrounded by flat-topped hills standing in bold relief against a deep-blue cloudless sky. Palm trees grew like sentinels on each side of the dust road running between the hotel, several stores, a church, a bank and a doctor’s surgery. Beyond these was a large building resembling a warehouse, and this was later revealed to be the reason for the e
xistence of the hamlet. While Vere washed and attempted to shave using the carriage window as a mirror, a talkative captain similarly engaged beside him gave out some facts he had gleaned. People from many miles around ordered goods from catalogues kept at Millbrook’s Distribution Centre — the warehouse now visible. Furniture, clothes, books, wearing apparel, cooking pots, farming implements, food and rifles were just some of the merchandise which came up the line to be stored at Millbrook’s until collected. The hotel thrived because customers from distant farms invariably stayed overnight before driving home with their purchases. The war had changed everything. Most trains had been commandeered for military use so goods could no longer be sent. In addition, people were wary about leaving their homes to cross the veld. Farms could be occupied and ransacked by soldiers during even a short absence. This explained why there had been ample food available for so many unexpected diners last night. Times were hard for Vrymanskop, and might get harder still before long.
In the hotel, officers were eating porridge, eggs and fried potatoes. There was no sign of the civilian guests, nor of Kitty. When Vere asked where she was, the two serving girls said she was busy upstairs. He wondered if her absence was deliberate. If so, he could do little about the situation. A note would have to reiterate his promise to return. Half an hour later he abandoned his fifth attempt to write what could be better said, and decided on a different approach. Perching on a step of the railway carriage he made a sketch of the scene before him — the peaceful street of Vrymanskop fronted by soldiers grouped around an open truck containing two light guns. When it was finished, he wrote a single sentence at the foot of the page. I believe strangers should become friends to prevent this from happening.
A Distant Hero Page 13