No Place For a Lady

by Ann Harries

  ‘I’ll have to follow her.’ Sarah is shivering suddenly. ‘I must join the celebrations.’

  ‘Don’t go.’

  ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Will you wait for me Sarah?’

  ‘Of course.’ She pauses. ‘But only if you’ll write to me.’

  ‘I’m no great letter writer.’ He laughs nervously. ‘But if you write to me I’ll reply – but don’t expect much from me.’ Spelling has never been his strong point.

  ‘I will write to you.’ She begins to drift away. ‘Goodbye, Patch.’ She glides back to the lamps and candles, her gauzy skirt held out like two pale moth wings.

  A rocket screeches up into the sky and explodes into falling stars. The whole of Bloemfontein seems to be singing the British national anthem as a thousand champagne corks punctuate the night air. ‘To Colonel Baden-Powell, hero of Mafeking!’ calls out Theodore Chappell as Louise clings to his arm and raises an unsteady glass.

  Cape Town, May 1900

  Dear Patrick,

  I told you I would not write to you and I would not but now I bave sometbing to tell you. You are going to be a father, Patch. The baby is due in October (add up the months if you like). They say the war will be over by then. If it is a girl I want her to be called Fancy. If it is a boy you can choose the name. Write and tell me which name you want. Love from your Fancy fionsay!!!

  Telegram from Mr Chamberlain to Sir Alfred Milner

  08/06/1900 In view of possible early annexation of the South African Republic what are your suggestions as to the name? I should like if possible to associate future name with Her Majesty. What do you think of Queen’s Colony?

  London, 13 June 1900

  The Queen’s Hall is filling up with women. The balconies are in danger of overflowing as mothers, grandmothers, aunts, sisters, nieces and cousins, greet each other and exchange stories about their long journeys from all over Britain. The circle is already crowded. A long, entirely female queue curls out into Upper Regent Street and into a neighbouring square. The women are conversing animatedly. The accents of Yorkshire, Scotland, Wales, Cumberland, amaze the Cockney tradesmen and stall holders who have never seen so many ladies in one place nor heard the entire country so represented on their streets. Miss Griffen and Sophie are distributing leaflets; Miss Hobhouse stands beside one of the great doorways, exultant. The three of them glance at each other now and again, barely able to believe what they have achieved. Members of the press hover in the street, affecting world-weariness. Only female reporters will be allowed in. There will be no heckling, only the dignified protest of resolute women.

  And then the entire hall is full. Some of the women remove their hats, splendid milliners’ concoctions – a flare of ostrich feathers here, a cluster of brilliant cherries there, froths of net foaming within wide brims tilted at an angle. Emily is tall, poised; very fine in her feathered hat and intricately striped skirt. She has a feeling for fashion which in itself uplifts the atmosphere of the hall. Now she strides up the stairs with the guest speakers to the stage door, her practical, powerful gait suggesting a woman with a clear head and abundant vitality.

  The hall is thundering with patriotic themes played by Mrs Holloway on the great, ornate organ, whose massive pipes occupy an entire wall. It is fitting that this historic meeting takes place in a hall built for queens; and, as they wait, the audience acquires a certain majestic authority. The strains of a Pomp and Circumstance march fade, and the organ blower (the only male allowed in) retires. The speakers, including Emily, take their positions on the stage. Then Madame San Carlo appears on the platform, a formidable figure in black lace and flashing jewellery. She begins her recitation of the verses written by Mr Watson for the occasion:

  Yet being brave, being women, you will speak

  The thought that must be spoken witbout fear …

  Madame’s arms shoot out, her hands spread beseechingly, palms upwards. Her voice is a trumpet of defiance; with each new line she takes a step forward and assumes a new, more dramatic stance, so that it is possible to be mesmerised by the theatre of her delivery and to forget to listen to the words.

  Now it is time for the resolutions and the speeches. Before she proposes the first resolution Mrs Scott, dressed in tastefully muted colours and possessing a gravity of demeanour that at once quietens the excited audience, lifts her chin and says, ‘You will be aware that on 24 May Lord Roberts annexed the Orange Free State and renamed it the Orange River Colony. We can expect annexation of the South African Republic before long. But do not think this meeting is therefore in vain. Even if we can achieve nothing practical, we, the women of Great Britain, are coming together to express our combined protest against injustice. The two former republics will know that we have publicly expressed our outrage, and take some comfort from this.’ She pauses. ‘History will prove us right, of that I have no doubt.’ In the stillness of the hall she says, ‘I now propose resolution number one.’

  Her quiet voice carries easily: the acoustics of the hall, only five years old, are said to be the finest in the world. One by one the women on the stage rise to read out their resolutions; one by one the resolutions are unanimously passed. Emily will be the last to speak, when she proposes the fourth resolution. Her heart is racing as she hears Lady Symington, a small, animated aristocrat, delivering the third resolution which protests against the annexation of the Boer republics ‘whose inhabitants, allied to us by blood and religion, cling as passionately to their separate nationality and flag as we in this country do to ours.’

  It is Emily’s turn to speak. She rises and looks at two thousand female faces gazing back at her, faces old and young, expressing interest, intelligence, indignation. She has attended several of the new Promenade concerts and sat on the stage seats looking down at the mixed audience, smiling with pleasure as the young Henry Wood conducted his ‘lollipop’ favourites, but this is utterly different. She has never spoken to so many people at once.

  At the end of the long central aisle, just beyond the curtained doors, she can see the dome of Leonard Courtney’s head against the portière. The sight of the familiar head protruding above the curtain rim agitates her. He is her pillar of strength. Without him none of this could have happened. Yet, perhaps he will sit in judgement. He is such a distinguished statesman and she – she is nothing by comparison.

  Emily Hobhouse draws a deep breath and reads out in a solemn voice:

  ‘Resolution Four: That this meeting desires to express its sympathy with the women of the Transvaal and Orange Free State, and begs them to remember that thousands of English women are filled with profound sorrow at the thought of their sufferings, and with deep regret for the action of their own Government.’

  She looks up from her paper with its strong words written by herself. ‘Please raise your hands if you agree to pass these resolutions.’ The hall blossoms with uplifted hands, some gloved, some calloused, some smooth and white, some holding programmes. Unanimously passed. ‘God save the Queen!’ cries Emily.

  The women stand to sing out the national anthem. For this is no pro-Boer meeting, whatever the journalists might think, but an affirmation of Britain’s Honour which must not be marred by an unjust and unworthy act. Emily, singing, stares up at the great rafts of dignified women, and her heart swells with the music.

  ‘This is a magnificent assemblage, nothing less,’ she thinks as she sings the thrilling words of the anthem. ‘We women have spoken without fear and our message of support will reach the women of South Africa and give them heart. And there have been no fish-heads or rotten eggs thrown. Only decorum and courage. It has been worth all those hours of work.’

  The women leave the hall, elated. Outside, Leonard Courtney is being guided through the throngs by his wife. Emily lays an anxious hand on his shoulder. ‘Well?’

  He beams. The brass buttons on his blue frock coat twinkle as brilliantly as his sightless eyes. Kate Courtney is laughing. ‘Wonderful Emily!’ he cries. ‘An historic occasion! Con
gratulations is too pale a word. Perhaps we should have more meetings without gentlemen.’ Miss Griffen and Sophie hover. ‘Griffy! Sophie!’ Emily throws an arm round the shoulders of each woman. ‘Without the two of you none of this would have been possible. And now—’ she exclaims in triumph, ‘we can begin preparing for the meeting in Liskeard next month. My home town in Cornwall. That should be a challenge!’

  Telegram from General Roberts to General Kitchener

  14/06/1900: Let it be known all over the country that in the event of damage being done to the railway or telegraph the nearest farm will be burnt to the ground. A few examples only will be necessary, and let us begin with De Wet’s farm.

  Louise’s Diary

  15 June 1900

  Ever since I caught Sarah in the arms of that scarecrow, things have been different between us. She didn’t even show much interest in the Mafeking celebrations, refusing a glass of champagne as we toasted B-P. (I was very sorry not to have been in London that night – apparently the whole city went wild and a new word ‘mafficking’ was coined.)

  I must confess I didn’t really know how to react to Sarah’s treachery; horror that she could be in love with someone so far beneath her socially, though I could see at a glance that he is a remarkably good-looking man, in spite of the ravages of enteric; anger that she had not brought herself to tell me how far her relationship with him had advanced; misery – why? jealousy? – perhaps. Although Theodore and I are now officially engaged and I wear his ring, I have to admit he is no Adonis. I have already had to tell him to lose a little weight round his midriff. Yet if the most handsome Tommy in the world made eyes at me I know I would turn my nose up at him, so why do I envy her?

  I suppose I have got so used to Sarah’s not falling in love that it is quite difficult for me now that she clearly has at last been pierced by Cupid’s arrow. Would it have been any easier for me had she fallen for one of the many good-looking officers who admire her? She keeps sending me little notes suggesting we meet up at the Railway Hotel and talk things over, but so far I have not responded. We no longer share our bell tent. I asked for a private room in the Raadsaal and because I am now the ward sister, and Theo’s fiancée, the request was granted. Now she asks me in her notes why I am punishing her. I cannot answer that question yet. There are too many answers.

  Orange River Colony, June

  After a week of tramping round the northern reaches of the Orange River Colony with his column, Patch receives another letter. Two months have passed since he heard from Fancy; he has thrust her news to the back of his mind and has not been able to bring himself to write a reply to her.

  He recognises at once Johan’s exquisite copperplate handwriting:

  Dear Patch,

  Fancy is now very pregnant and you are the father. She waits to get a letter from you, man. I had a accident with Luthando’s hair. I try to die it red white and blue stripes which he asked for but it come out green and orange, then he got a rash, then it all fall out. Sies, man, he make such a fuss, after that no one wants to come to my salon no more. Then I see a sign in the Gateway to Africa window asking for someone with good handwriting for a clerical job on the south arm of the docks. So now I am busy there recording how much hay comes in from all over the world for the war horses. Yeerah, there’s a lot of hay here. The docks is full of haystacks.

  So us coloureds have our uses in the white man’s war.

  Yours sincerely,

  Johan

  Patch feels a sudden nostalgia for the District. For a few minutes he savours the unique District aroma of horse manure and rotting fish and curry spices and sweet syrups; hears the call of the imam curling over the city like audible smoke; kicks at a couple of rats; treads among the children absorbed in their pavement games … Of the first two lines of the letter he will not allow himself to think.

  His column had returned to base in some Boer village when the mail arrived; he was beginning to dread the post, what with Sarah writing to him all the time and dropping hints about wanting a letter back. But how can he write back when every day he helps to set fire to farmsteads, now that Bobs is taking sterner measures with the Boers. She will not understand that this is the only way to stop the Boers fighting for their land, because they don’t understand that the war was won by Britain when Roberts took their capital, Pretoria, and Kruger fled. If the Boer guerrillas don’t have their homes to return to for food and fresh horses and stocks of rifles and bullets hidden under floorboards or in holes out on the veldt, then they won’t be able to continue fighting, it’s as simple as that. He could explain all this to Sarah, so logical, but she has sentimental feelings for homeless women and children and he had as well to begin with but the lieutenant said if the women refused to aid the enemy they wouldn’t lose their homes, it was the women who were keeping the war going, that was his argument and Bobs’, but Sarah wouldn’t see the larger picture.

  The next day the column arrives at a farmhouse near a damaged railway bridge. There is a pattern now: burn all the crops, either stored in barns or growing in the fields; slaughter the cattle, pigs, horses, sheep and chickens, or herd them off to the nearest army base; chop down the orchards – before finally setting fire to the house. Patch is sent to demolish the orange groves.

  It is a long time since he has chopped down a tree, let alone an orchard, but his body feels the better for it. The axed tree trunks, their branches laden with ripe oranges, lie on the ground, a sudden sweet-smelling undergrowth that he enjoys wading through after the emptiness of the veldt. The oranges glow like little suns and moons among the dark leaves. They remind him of Christmas decorations in the orphanage, hanging from a pine tree donated by the Cape Town Catholics. What a hero he will be when he returns to the men, his pockets bulging with the sweet juicy fruit! The troopers will be getting plenty of fresh meat from the farmstead: the abundance of livestock and crops in this desolate interior continues to amaze them every time. Cartwright was once a butcher’s boy and hooted with joy at the sight of all this live meat. He’d grabbed Patch’s axe and split a piglet in two then and there. The sleepy mother pig had stumbled to her trotters but she’ll be pork chops by now. Even though Patch certainly enjoys a pork chop he knows he would rather hack down trees than animals.

  He feels a sweet well of saliva spring up under his tongue. All this food, meant to sustain the Boer commandos, not the likes of him. He has put on some weight at last, in spite of roaming across miles of veldt every day with his column, in search of guilty farmsteads. He swallows the last lukewarm drop of water in his bottle and hopes the men haven’t done anything stupid to the well, like piss in it so the Boers can’t drink it. You can go too far with this scorched earth business.

  He is hungry now and strides back to the farmhouse to get bread and fruit. Tonight they’ll burn up some furniture or a few fence posts and roast a mountain of meat. Maybe there’ll be bread fresh from the clay oven in the yard. Chickens all over the place so there’s bound to be eggs. Then tomorrow they’ll burn down the farmhouse. They’ve given a lot of time to the women and old people to pack their things in the ox wagon, not like yesterday when they had to do six houses in one day.

  There’s something disturbing about the women: they wear these frilly sun bonnets called ‘kappies’ which make them look like the nuns at the orphanage. They move about in the same quiet way, as if praying and singing hymns is what the body should really be doing. Do they have normal emotions? He thinks he might make a fuss if he was turned out of his home, but as he has never had a home except for the orphanage he doesn’t know for sure. The Boer children cling to their mother’s skirts, he can understand that. Sometimes the grandmothers get emotional, shouting and weeping, but the mothers tend to remain grim-faced and silent.

  Last night the children had stood motionless in their big cotton hats, gazing as the fire burst out of their bedroom windows with a loud roaring, and black volumes of smoke rolled overhead. ‘That’s a sight they’ll remember till the end of their l
ives,’ said the captain. The women clasped their young ones to their breasts or hid their faces in each others’ laps. An old hag screamed at them in English, ‘Yes, you’ve made a mighty fine blaze now, but nothing like the blaze you’ll burn in hereafter!’ Well, it’s her fault they’re having to do this dirty work.

  He hopes the women and children have finished moving their bedding and sticks of furniture out of the house and on to the ox wagon. There are plenty of farm kaffirs to help, all screeching and howling because they too are losing their homes. The kaffir scouts who accompany the columns like to be cheeky to the Boer women: ‘We are the bosses now!’ they laugh as they pat their rifles. ‘Soon we will have your farms.’ The captain doesn’t really like what he has to do. ‘Madam, I regret to tell you we must burn your house down.’ The woman draws herself up and stares over his shoulder. ‘We’ve done nothing wrong. My husband has signed …’ The captain explains about the railway, the wrecked bridges, the buckled girders. Within ten miles is the rule. Are there Republican flags in the house?

  The captain sometimes tries to reason with them: ‘If your men stopped their pointless fighting we wouldn’t have to do this, you know.’

  The women look at him in surprise. ‘We won’t stop fighting. It is an honour to suffer for our land.’

  ‘But how long can you suffer like this?’ He points to a group of Tommies setting fire to a barn full of grain.

  ‘Oh, as long as may be necessary. Till you go away. The Lord is our shield. He has saved us many times before.’

  ‘At this rate your race faces extinction,’ mumbles the captain, who has no faith in the Lord’s shield. He gives the order for the men to storm the house.