by Ann Harries
‘They don’t.’ The doctor cleared his throat vigorously, a sign, Patch would later learn, that there was a quotation coming. ‘They also serve, who only stand and wait. Or lie and wait.’
Patch ignored this. They were walking towards a male pavilion now. A fearful stench filled the salty air. ‘Kelp,’ said the doctor quickly. ‘Rotting seaweed.’
The kelp looked alright to Patch, swirling near the rocks like the tangled brown hair of some prehistoric monster.
‘There’s also the women’s huts for those who seem to be self-cured. You’ll see some fine vegetables growing out of this sea sand. Carrots, cauliflowers, and the like. Even an English country garden or two.’ He glanced at the young man as if waiting for a response; then lapsed into silence. They walked past the evil-smelling hospital. Next came the lunatic asylum. A couple of men were digging out potatoes in the grounds of the building. ‘They all suffer from delusions. Either they’re the Tsar of Russia, or someone is out to kill them. I know little about madness. It’s not my field.’
It was a relief to get back to the coastline and scramble along a rough path. A flock of black cormorants rose gracefully from the rusting hull of a shipwreck. In the far distance you could see Cape Town, pale and shrunken beneath its towering trio of mountains. The sea that lay between the Island and the mainland looked so calm you’d think you could easily swim the distance. If you could swim, that is.
The air began to thicken and cool and a mist descended swiftly, seeping into their clothes, blotting out the bushes just ahead. A foghorn started to howl. The doctor began to declaim. ‘Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flowed among the green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great and dirty city. Read any Dickens, Mr Donnelly?’
‘What’s aits?’ enquired Patch cleverly.
‘An ait is a small island in a river or a marsh. You find them in the mouth of the River Thames.’ Doctor Simmonds stopped walking. ‘We won’t see much in this Dickensian smog. Let’s get back to the jetty. Watch out for snakes.’
Snakes? Should he tell his cobra story?
‘Mole snakes mostly,’ continued the doctor. ‘They live underground most of the time but they like stealing seabirds’ eggs. You sometimes see them sunbathing on the beaches. Their venom won’t kill you.’
The mist was melting as suddenly as it had arrived. ‘Look at that!’ exclaimed the doctor, pointing at a turbulence in the sea.
The air above the movement of waves was suddenly alive with flying creatures: gulls spiralled above a ring of exultant dolphins who soared and dipped around a hump of barnacle-encrusted rock, which now heaved itself upward before plunging deep below the water’s surface. A gigantic forked tail emerged, twitched, then plunged as well. In the minutes that passed a small black shape surfaced, new and shining. The dolphins leapt higher. Patch’s sharp eyes could see their grinning snouts, and he could hear their high-pitched song, borne on the chill wind.
‘Protecting the whale while she’s calving. Scaring off the great white sharks.’ The doctor was whispering. ‘You don’t see that often.’
Patch stared at the circle of celebration, all foam and frenzy and flight. For a hot moment he felt he might grow wings himself and join the mother and child.
‘I’ll take the job,’ he said hoarsely. The Blessed Virgin had signalled.
Lord Ramsay’s Country House, England, August 1899
‘And then he lifted the finger bowl to his thick, purple lips, and drained it to its dregs!’ announced Lady Mary Fenwick.
‘Quel horreur!’ Louise screamed, half-covering her eyes with her monogrammed table napkin and glancing hopefully at the young captain beside her. Further down the table Sarah sat polite and still among her startled neighbours.
‘And how did Her Majesty respond?’ If his daughter’s screech had caused a flicker of impatience across his features, Lord Ramsay spoke in his usual measured tones from the head of the table, his expression impassive.
‘Just as you would expect.’ Lady Mary raised her fingers to her lips and swallowed an imaginary liquid, her face even more expressionless than that of her host. In fact, Lord Ramsay had heard this story many times but never, as it were, from the horse’s mouth: Lady Mary had actually been present at the infamous dinner at Buckingham Palace where the Boer president, Paul Kruger, had gulped down the water in his finger bowl, eschewing the champagne (Veuve Cliquot 1860) which bubbled in the crystal glass at his right hand.
‘And how did the table react, my dear?’ prompted Lady Ramsay, hoping that this would not bring on another shriek from her intemperate daughter. Oh, if only Louise could be more like calm, angelic Sarah. What a shame that none of Sarah’s seriousness – to say nothing of her quiet beauty – had rubbed off on Louise, whose face was now red with hilarity as she prepared for Lady Mary’s reply. And just look at that décolletage! Louise’s plumpness was flagrantly exposed in the plunge of her neckline, where her large, powdered breasts seemed likely to break their banks at any moment. Whereas Sarah … A pale gauze shimmered at her bosom as if a cloud had floated down from heaven and settled round the ivory shoulders of this gentle creature who smiled wanly as the entire company, imitating Lady Mary, lifted imaginary finger-bowls to their lips and swallowed in unison. Louise’s high-pitched giggle soared above the wheezy chuckles and snickers that broke out across the table.
‘To the shape of the earth!’ called out some wag, for the Boer president was known to believe the planet to be not only round as a cake but also flat as a pancake. This sally was greeted with yet further mirth, and raised glasses.
‘I should not make fun of my fellow countrymen,’ murmured the elderly representative from the Dutch embassy to Sarah, whose melancholy expression suggested disapproval.
‘Oh, is Mr Kruger a Dutchman?’ There was no hint of censure in the young woman’s face. What lovely eyes she had, dark and brimming as the canals of Amsterdam, though much purer. And in their depths, some unfathomable sorrow which made him want to crush her to his chest, to comfort her.
‘I believe his ancestry is German.’ The under-secretary sighed. ‘But these Boers all speak some sort of ancient Dutch now. Most of them are the descendants of gardeners who settled in the Cape over two centuries ago. They have become a savage race, like plants grown wild. How different from our sober Dutch burghers.’
‘I lived in Holland as a child,’ ventured the quiet young woman. ‘My father is a botanist with a special interest in tulips.’
‘His name?’
‘Robert Palmer,’ said Sarah modestly.
‘Mr Palmer! I am a great admirer of your father’s scientific papers. I believe he is writing an exciting new book about the history of our tulips.’
‘Yes, indeed, he is halfway through it.’
Mynheer de Haas smiled. He could sense that this young lady would not care to engage in botanical discourse but, being reluctant to end the conversation, he enquired with a fatherly interest, ‘And do you speak Dutch, Miss Palmer?’
‘Ik kan een beetje onthoun.’
‘Well I never! That is very impressive. You must speak Nederlands every day!’
Sarah blushed at the extravagant compliment. ‘I learnt to speak it when I was three years old. Or rather, I heard it, then spoke it – like any child.
The arrival at Lord Ramsay’s side of the white-gloved butler holding a silver tray upon which lay a telegram distracted Mynheer de Haas, though he very much wished to continue this discussion about the early acquisition of linguistic skills with this charming young lady. Lord Ramsay opened the missive then muttered something that could not be heard, though the word ‘war’ slithered down the table. ‘Sham!’ roared several Members of Parliament simultaneously; others bellowed ‘shame!’ and, within seconds, the dignified dinner table was transformed into a replica of the House of Commons, with several of the younger gentlemen leaping to their feet and shaking their fists, while every male person seem
ed to speak or shout simultaneously. For their part, the ladies began planning war-time meals and arranging knitting circles to provide spare socks for the poor Tommies, even though it was by no means clear that war had actually been declared. Foremost among the women was Louise, excitedly offering her services to nurse the wounded in South Africa, and calling upon Sarah to join her: ‘And we’ll insist on a field hospital, won’t we, darling?’
Sarah very much wanted to tell Louise that one of her pads was visible beneath the yellow hair which her maid had struggled in vain to twist, curl and pin in such a way that the innate thinness of the strands was disguised. But a couple of pads – or rats, as Louise called them – were necessary to give the coiffure extra volume so that it bulked out fashionably all round the head, the upward sweep of the hair culminating in a hidden knot. Sarah patted the back of her thick dark hair, twisted into a simple chignon, in an effort to mime the warning message, but Louise had already turned her attention to the military gentleman at her side.
‘So – it is war with South Africa then?’ Sarah could make no sense of the gabble all round.
No, in fact, war had not been declared, but that wily old Kruger, he of the purple lips, had conceded a five-year franchise and ten seats in his parliament to the British immigrants on his goldfields: the very concessions the High Commissioner, Sir Alfred Milner, had been demanding from Kruger three months earlier at the Bloemfontein conference! Sarah was puzzled. Surely everyone should be delighted? But no. It seemed that Kruger was not to be believed, he would bluff up till the cannon’s mouth. What about the unfair tax and tariffs? Milner and Chamberlain must show their strength; fifty thousand Boer troops equipped with the most modern artillery and ammunition were gathering in the Natal colony with the intention of capturing the ill-defended port of Durban; ten times that number of British troops must be sent immediately; there were no end of reasons why this gesture of conciliation, this step-down, must be dismissed out of hand.
Thank heaven it was now time for the ladies to leave the table and allow the men to drink port, smoke cigars, and pronounce on how the war could be won before Christmas. How much better everything would be if they, the house guests, rather than Chamberlain and Milner, were running things, thought Sarah as she slipped her hand into Louise’s; their opinions seemed founded in rock, and their abilities almost godlike. Yet (the disloyal thought lurked in her head), as the mines actually belonged to the Boers, surely they could do what they liked about franchises and taxes and dynamite monopolies and all those topics which had been discussed ad nauseam all through dinner? But who could answer this question without making her feel absurd? Sarah could think of no one; Louise had only contempt for Boers, though knowing absolutely nothing about them other than that they drank from their finger bowls and believed the world was flat.
Once the women were together, they fell to discussing more immediately relevant matters such as upcoming weddings, outrageous legacies, disappointing children, ridiculous Paris fashions, plans to landscape the garden or sack the gardener, or buy a second town house. It was with some relief that Sarah accepted Louise’s suggestion that they slip out on to the balcony which led from the drawing room. The night air was deliciously cool and scented with jasmine.
But something had happened to Louise. All her vigour and excitement had vanished. Instead, large tears rolled down her cheeks, carving a trail blackened by kohl through the powder.
‘Darling, what is it?’ Sarah blotted her friend’s face with the edge of the silk shawl she had sensibly thrown round her shoulders.
‘He ignored me! He scarcely looked at me!’
‘Who? Captain Marshall?’
‘All he could talk about was blooming old South Africa. I tried and tried to attract his attention, joking and teasing and so on, but no, that fat old baggy-eyed president was far more interesting.’ She wrenched the ‘rat’ from her head and allowed her hair to sag about her face. ‘As for this wretched thing – why can’t my hair stay up neatly like yours? I do believe that not even a hurricane would ruffle a single hair on your head.’ But she pressed Sarah’s hand warmly, and managed a sniffly smile.
‘But what about your plans to go to South Africa if war breaks out?’ Sarah was skilful at diverting negative thoughts. ‘It’s a wonderful idea. You’re just the right sort of nurse for the wounded soldiers – the life and soul of the ward. Anyway, Captain Marshall looked very dull to me.’
‘He kept staring at you, didn’t you notice?’ Louise gulped.
‘I was too busy trying to speak Dutch to the old man next to me.’ Sarah put her arm round her friend’s hot shoulders. ‘You looked lovely tonight, you really did. He’s just a boring old officer. Let’s walk in the garden for a while.’
‘I was serious about going to South Africa,’ said Louise as they strolled through the shrubbery together. She was calmer now, and ready to plunge into some new excitement. ‘If only to escape from Ma and Pa and their never-ending nagging. But you must come with me, dearest, or I shan’t go.’
‘Let’s wait for war to be declared first,’ suggested Sarah, experiencing a tremor of alarm. What if Louise really did leave the country? She had become dependent on her friend’s madcap temperament to shake her out of her lethargy; she basked in the warmth of her vivacity, and felt her own mysterious melancholy evaporate in her company. The two young women had known and loved each other since Sarah’s return from Holland, when they attended the same school for young ladies. Then, a few years ago, thinking that hospital wards were inhabited by eligible young physicians, Louise had decided to train to become a nurse. Sarah, who had no idea of what she wanted to do with her life, rather lamely followed suit. Though her inclinations tended towards poetry and dreaminess, she felt the need to be useful without becoming a ‘do-gooder’ – the type of bossy woman much despised by her family. Now the two friends nursed in the same London hospital, and Sarah felt her deficiencies even more keenly. Although patient and capable at her work, she knew she lacked flair. Nurses should be jolly and try to cheer their patients up, and Louise’s laughter could be heard from one end of the ward to the other; she could rush down the long aisles between the beds like a hurtling bullet; she had already been promoted to ward sister, her talent and energy having been recognised very early. She seemed so sure of what she wanted, and who she wanted, and – perhaps more importantly – who she was. If only Sarah had a tenth of Louise’s exuberance … but try as she might, she could not infuse her own spirit with enthusiasm. Yet Louise, for her part, would gladly exchange her hearty laugh and social confidence for her friend’s doe eyes and slight figure upon which even a nurse’s uniform draped itself elegantly. How painful it was when the apprentice surgeon or the junior physician sought out Louise just so that he might find favour with Sarah. It was maddening that Sarah felt nothing for these attractive young gentlemen, whose interest Louise tried vivaciously but unsuccessfully to divert to herself. Perhaps a war was the answer: going abroad to an exotic foreign land under such dramatic circumstances would surely offer opportunities rich in romance.
Extract from Telegram: Sir Alfred Milner to Mr Chamberlain, Colonial Secretary
30/9/99 I would urge sending out troops themselves as fast as possible, even if on first arrival they cannot move far for want of transport. Every reason to think we shall be fighting in Natal in a couple of days, and at considerable disadvantage at first in respect of numbers
Chamberlain to Milner
5/10/99 Every provision for the Army Corps is now going on as rapidly as possible. The real sticking point of the whole business was the necessity for purchasing an enormous number of mules. Of course the animals will have to be raked up in all parts of the world. It is unfortunate that our troops, unlike the Boers, cannot mobilise with a piece of biltong and a belt of ammunition, but require such enormous quantities of transport and impediments. I hope your health continues to bear the strain well.
Milner to Lord Selborne
11/10/99 War dates from today,
I suppose. We have a bad time before us, and the Empire is about to support the greatest strain put upon it since the Mutiny.
London, November 1899
Three weeks after Boer forces invaded Natal, a newly qualified young nurse arrived on Sarah’s ward. Sophie Harris was of a Quakerish disposition and considered to have an unhealthy interest in politics, but her connections with Liberal grandees ensured that her position in the hospital was secure. Besides, she was dedicated to her work with an almost religious intensity. Other nurses were efficient, reliable, kind, clever, considerate, but Nurse Harris was devoted to duty and overflowing with love. She raced up and down the ward aisles with her patients’ bedpans as if she were bearing gifts of frankincense and myrrh; she bathed old women and soothed them sweetly as she cleaned their smeared buttocks; with a bright smile she pushed fallen wombs and bladders back into tired bodies. In fact, so much did she seem to take delight in these scatological and gynaecological tasks that nurses on her ward contrived to leave such operations to her as often as possible while they washed the patients’ upper torsos or administered medicine or bandages or meals.
Louise disliked Nurse Harris intensely, partly because she did not laugh sycophantically at her jokes or ward banter, but also because the new nurse made no effort to disguise the plainness of her features; surely she could dab a splash of colour to those sallow cheeks, and pluck away the excesses of her ferocious eyebrows? On top of everything she was known to be pro-Boer, which meant her instincts were treacherous. How annoying that she was so blameless in her work and actually enjoyed the tasks which Louise as her superior would have given her in revenge. Sarah, on the other hand, began to take an interest in young Sophie Harris, whose purpose in life was so clearly defined but who apparently still had time to hold strong opinions about the war – no doubt very different from the ones she had heard at Lord Ramsay’s dinner table two months earlier. How enviable to hold a strong opinion; Sarah’s head was awash with indecisions, queries, doubts and riddles which were unable to resolve themselves into the relief of certainty.