No Place For a Lady

by Ann Harries

  ‘Stop!’ I commanded. ‘You are growing hysterical. Come and sit in my nice armchair and I shall sit on my bed and persuade you that there is no way a few nurses are going to stop Roberts in his tracks.’ She obeyed me without resistance, and I seated myself on my soft mattress. ‘I’m sorry to say that your Patch is probably rather enjoying himself right now. The troopers all start off feeling sorry for the women and children; then they start getting a thrill from their extraordinary power – you know, building the fire, lighting it, watching the house go up in flames while the family pours out …’

  ‘Don’t!’ cried Sarah. But she blew her nose and appeared to compose herself. ‘And to think we sailed to South Africa on the same ship as Roberts. He seemed such a gentleman then, such a hero. Little did we know.’

  ‘I know something rather unheroic about Roberts,’ I said mysteriously. ‘I promised him I would tell no one. I can’t breathe a word until you promise me you will keep it completely to yourself.’ In fact, I had told Theodore, but we are engaged after all. Normally Sarah would be too high-minded to listen to gossip, but this time she merely accepted a second clean handkerchief, blew her nose, wiped her eyes, and settled down to listen. I plunged into my story of how, about six weeks ago, the Raadsaal Hospital prepared itself for a formal visit from Lord Roberts in which he would shake hands with the patients, distribute tobacco and other delicacies, no doubt from the trunks of his redoubtable Norah, and raise the morale of the bedridden, that sort of thing.

  He arrived without too much pomp and ceremony, then requested to use a water closet before visiting the men (probably has a prostate problem). Well, we all waited for him to re-emerge; the minutes accumulated, and after half an hour a medical officer was asked to tap delicately on the WC door. No sign of Bobs. Perhaps he had decided to visit the patients without us – but no. A search was ordered. Had he been captured by a Boer ambush inside the hospital, which, after all, was the one-time Boer parliament? We branched out in all directions. I was sent to the little offices and washrooms that adjoin the WC area. As I prowled about, not really expecting to find anything of interest, I heard a whimper coming from the private study of ex-President Steyn. In fact, a series of whimpers, uttered by a male person. I marched into the study, a gloomy place with portraits of extremely ugly Boer men, including Kruger with his quadruple under-eye bags (strange, as all the Boer men I’ve met have been very attractive …) and odd bits of heavy mahogany furniture.

  To my utter astonishment, I found Bobs cowering in the corner, uttering the very whimpers I had heard from the corridor. ‘Your Lordship!’ cried I. ‘Are you ill?’ he seemed quite unable to speak, staring at me with huge, frightened eyes. ‘Can I help you?’ I asked anxiously. He at last began nodding his head and rolled his eyes in the direction of a large leather armchair near the door. In it reclined our beloved mouser, Katie, the tortoiseshell cat. ‘Hello darling,’ I greeted her fondly, and ran my hand over her silky back. A flurry of purrs broke out beneath my fingers and Katie began licking a paw rather ostentatiously. In the midst of all this, I became aware that Bobs was trying to speak to me. ‘N-nurse!’ he croaked. ‘Yes, your Lordship?’ said I, now tickling Katie under the chin. ‘C-can you remove that monster from this room, please?’ ‘Katie?’ replied I, in astonishment. He straightened himself up to his full five foot. ‘I have what I believe is called a phobia about cats.’ He stared straight ahead as he delivered this information, not meeting my eye. ‘Oh, of course.’ I oozed as much sympathy out of these three words as I could manage; then picked up an indignant Katie and carried her, hissing and spitting, to an outside door.

  Once she was safely seen scratching herself on the Raadsaal lawn, Roberts strode out of the study, a stern look upon his weathered face. ‘I would ask you not to repeat this incident to anyone.’ he snapped. ‘I hope I can trust you, Sister.’ And gave me a very severe look that was meant to suggest ruthless punishment should I repeat the story. Then off he strutted, the very image of a fearless general, which of course he is – as long as there is no cat near him.

  At the end of this story, which I had related with all the appropriate sound effects, dialogue accents and facial expressions, Sarah rewarded me with a tremulous giggle. She laid her pale, pretty hand on mine and said, ‘We are friends again, aren’t we, Louise?’

  Her voice and eyes were so beseeching that I mumbled, ‘Why, of course, my dear. Whenever weren’t we?’

  Her face visibly flooded with relief. For good measure, I added, ‘And have you heard from your Patch?’

  The light went from her eyes as I had expected and, biting her lip, she shook her head. She could not bring herself to speak.

  ‘Well?’ I prompted.

  She gazed at me in her soulful way. ‘Perhaps I have made a mistake,’ she whispered.

  ‘Perhaps you have,’ I said softly. ‘But there are many more fish in the sea, as well you know.’

  ‘I am so glad to speak to you again.’ Her voice was still faint as she stood up. ‘It has made all the difference in the world to me.’

  And yes, I too am pleased to have her as a friend again, as long as that bag of bones keeps away.

  Orange River Colony, July

  Cartwright was getting worried about Patch. Ever since that day a few weeks back when he’d gone off to chop down some orange trees while the rest of them had rounded up cattle and such, Patch had begun acting strange. He’d come back from the orchard looking a bit pale and smelling of vomit, but hadn’t said anything. Cartwright was pulling the piano out of the house with some of the lads at the time so he didn’t get a chance to ask his pal if he was all right.

  But later, when they sat round the camp fire munching fresh pork and chicken (the Boer woman even baked some bread for them in the big clay oven outside the kitchen), Patch seemed to be in another world. Normally he’d’ve been capering about, trying to flirt with the sombre Dutch girls, singing his favourite ditties, and enjoying the lovely pile of smoky meat. That night he’d excused himself from the celebrations and gone back to their tent early, claiming exhaustion. Yet when Cartwright had himself reeled back into the tent hours later (one of the lads had found fifty demijohns of home-made peach brandy in the farmhouse cellar), Patch was lying on his back with his eyes wide open, his hands clenched behind his head.

  ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost, old chum,’ said Cartwright.

  Patch shifted his gaze to his friend. But he didn’t look at him, he looked through him which made Cartwright feel a bit creepy. ‘Tell you what,’ he said in a jovial sort of voice, ‘I’m going to get you some of Mynheer Boer’s peach brandy. That’ll sort you out.’ Because the way Patch looked was beginning to remind him of the way some of the troopers had looked after the Tugela disaster, as if they no longer belonged to this world and were faintly puzzled to find themselves fighting a war in a foreign land. Some of them started acting really weird – couldn’t walk straight and talked to themselves out loud – but it was generally felt that they were trying to get out of the army by pretending to be mad.

  On the way back to the farmhouse he nearly collided with Captain Smithers, a decent chap though a bit squeamish about the house burning. He kept his eye on the well-being of his men too.

  ‘Oh, Cartwright – stand at ease, man – how is Private Donnelly? Is he sickening for something, do you know?’

  ‘Wouldn’t be surprised if he ate too many oranges, he didn’t even bring any back,’ said Cartwright who had formed this opinion to explain the vomit. ‘I’m just getting him a little pick-me-up, sir.’

  ‘That should do the trick.’ The captain didn’t look too well himself. A mummy’s boy at heart, Cartwright thought, from some la-di-dah family, like all them officers. Posh. A different world.

  Patch had a posh sweetheart now, that stuck-up Nurse Palmer who looked at Cartwright as if he was something she’d scraped off her dainty little shoe. You’d think she’d have gone for an officer and a gentleman, being upper class and a bit prim and proper, bu
t she’d fallen for Patch’s good looks and humour, just like all the girls did. Cartwright thought he had seen that give-away look in her eyes even before Patch confirmed his suspicions.

  When he returned with a mug of brandy he found his friend pacing about outside the tent. ‘Here’s your medicine,’ grinned Cartwright and handed over the mug.

  Patch gave the brandy that weird, unseeing look then said, in a slow, heavy voice as though he were trying to remember how to speak, ‘Have you ever seen a dead baby, Fred?’

  Well, as a matter of fact, Cartwright had seen a dead baby, or a dead foetus, more like. He’d found it wrapped in a brown paper bag addressed to him. A little boy, not much bigger than your hand. THIS IS YOURS, said the note in shaky capitals. Well, he’d disposed of it pretty quickly down the docks and though old Mrs September upstairs had asked him what was in his parcel, her wizened old face alight with malicious curiosity, he’d just laughed and said wouldn’t you like to know.

  But now, as Patch fixed him with that strange look, he decided he wouldn’t admit to that particular episode and said in an encouraging voice, ‘Well, I’ve seen a dead baby seal, old chap, but that’s probably not what you mean!’

  Patch’s face darkened; this was the wrong answer, clearly.

  ‘Drink up, my friend,’ urged Cartwright.

  Patch did as he was told but the brandy didn’t seem to help him much. From the look of him the next day he hadn’t slept a wink, purple circles round his green eyes. He looked a sight, really.

  Yet as the days progressed there was a change. For nine consecutive evenings he was seen on his knees behind a karee tree or a thorn bush, praying. From a slender twig of tree or bush hung his miraculous medal.

  For Patch had remembered from his orphanage days a guaranteed method of getting what you wanted from God: he was making a Novena for the soul of the Boer baby boy, who would have no chance of entering heaven otherwise, not having the necessary Papist qualifications. Now his own soul could be at peace.

  Telegram from Colonel Kelly-Kenny to General Roberts

  08/09/1900 General MacDonald refers to me for a definition of the expression lay waste. I suggest the following answer. Gather all food, wagons, Cape carts, sheep, oxen, goats, cows, calves, horses, mares, foals, forage, poultry. Destroy what you cannot eat or remove … Burn all houses and explain reason is that they have harboured enemy and not reported to British authorities as required. The questions of how to treat women and children and what amount of food and transport to leave them will arise. As regards the first part, they have forfeited all right to consideration and must now suffer for their persistently ignoring warnings against harbouring and assisting the enemy. As regards the second give them the bare amount to reach Winburg and there confiscate all transport. The object is to destroy or remove everything which may help the enemy or his horses or oxen to move or live.

  General Roberts to Colonel Kelly-Kenny in reply

  Fully approved. I think you should add that kaffirs who are reasonably suspected of having assisted the enemy should also be made prisoners.

  The more difficulty the people experience about food the sooner will the war be ended.

  Chelsea, London, September 1900

  Leonard and Kate Courtney have not yet risen from the breakfast table when Emily arrives, breathless. ‘I’m so sorry to barge in like this,’ she cries, handing her coat to the maid. ‘I’ve been up for hours and forgot that sensible people are still eating their breakfasts at this time.’

  ‘We finished eating some time ago,’ says Kate, in some trepidation for Emily’s cheeks are flushed and her eyes blazing. ‘We like to go through the post at table, as you can see. But perhaps you’d like a kipper? Cook can grill you one in a minute.’

  Emily feels the familiar order and warmth that the Courtney household always emanates, even in times of great crisis. She sinks down on to the chair which Leonard smilingly pats, and refuses the kipper.

  ‘You don’t mind if we finish reading these letters,’ says Kate. ‘We’ll be finished in a minute. We get so many letters of support from Leonard’s old Liskeard constituency.’ Emily pulls a sardonic face. Kate notes this and adds, ‘I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear that Liskeard isn’t entirely composed of rabble-rousers and warmongers.’ Both Courtneys laugh tolerantly.

  In the soothing ambience of the breakfast room, Emily feels the fierce beating of her heart begin to slow down: she fingers her pulse to verify that she is now calm. After exclaiming in delight at the expressions of loyalty in the letters which Kate reads briskly to her blind husband, Emily opens her reticule. ‘I too have some letters,’ she says.

  Emily’s eyes shine with a warning intensity, and the Courtneys wonder if they are about to be presented with a fait accompli or a fait about-to-be-accompli.

  ‘I have to tell you,’ says Emily, ‘I now have a new idea. But I must be sure of your support before I go any further. These letters here’ – she slaps a bundle of them on to the table so that blind Leonard can hear how very many there are – ‘express horror at the farm burnings in the ex-Boer republics, and at the distress of the women and children who are left behind. Many of them send money to feed, clothe and shelter these burnt-out people.’

  ‘Roberts will be returning to England soon,’ frowns Leonard. ‘And Kitchener will become Commander in Chief. He will of course continue with Roberts’ scorched earth policy.’

  ‘So what is it you want to do, Emily dear?’ enquires Kate Courtney.

  ‘I want to open a public fund for those burnt-out women and children who are the shame of England!’ says Emily in the fervent tones the Courtneys have come to recognise. ‘People have already sent me donations without my asking. Others like these (she taps the pile meaningfully) write to ask to whom they can send their contributions.’

  Leonard rises from his chair and begins to pace the length of the room in silence. The autumn sun catches his waistcoat buttons; his unseeing eyes gleam; he tugs at his little Abraham Lincoln beard, always a sign of intense concentration. Kate pours Emily another cup of coffee while they patiently await the verdict. Emily is watching a tiny wren flutter among the pansies, pecking at invisible insects inside the yellow and black petals. The little creature’s rapid movements reflect the dartings of her own brain, pecking at this, fluttering at that – then, suddenly, swooping like an eagle on its prey.

  Finally Leonard speaks. ‘I agree in principle, of course.’ His voice is gentle, friendly. ‘But there are a myriad practical implications. For instance, how much information do you have about these burnt-out women and children? Where are they going once their homes have been destroyed? Are they left to wander round the veldt, or do they go to relations in the Cape Colony?’

  ‘Oh, I am now in touch with many of the loyal Dutch families in the Cape,’ exclaims Emily. ‘Some of the dispossessed families come to the Cape and tell their terrible stories. It is rumoured that a refugee camp is being established for less fortunate women and children in the city of Bloemfontein.’

  ‘And what is happening to the black servants and farm labourers?’ demands Leonard sharply. ‘When the farms burn, it is not only the Boers who suffer.’

  It is on the tip of Emily’s tongue to say, ‘When I get there I’ll find out’ but for the moment she withholds this plan. At this point it is crucial for her to form a distress committee to receive and distribute funds to Boer families. ‘I will make enquiries,’ she says. ‘You know that I have always been concerned with the plight of the native peoples of South Africa.’

  For an hour Leonard raises objections to Emily’s scheme: how much does she hope to collect? No more than ten thousand pounds most probably, and what use could such a small sum be? And would the Military allow such a fund? Emily has anticipated all these objections and can reply with a fluency which she can see is impressing her mentor. As she swallows her third cup of coffee – and how quickly her heart now beats! – she feels she has convinced him. She knows she has Kate’s full attention an
d sympathy, but cannot hope for her active support now that her husband is so dependent on her energies.

  Finally, in a voice made shaky by caffeine she asks, ‘So, do I have your blessing?’

  He pauses. And taps the window panes one by one as if somehow the contact of his finger tip with glass gives him an insight into the little garden beyond. ‘Yes, Emily, I support your movement.’ A tame squirrel runs up from the garden thinking the tapping might be an invitation to a plate of nuts. ‘But not without trepidation. It is an enormous undertaking, an enormous responsibility. But being those things makes it all the more attractive to you.’ He turns away from the window, leaving the squirrel in a beseeching, upright position. ‘I can think of no one else I could trust to undertake such a mission. But I am not convinced that it will be successful.’

  ‘That is all I want!’ cries Emily. ‘That you do not oppose my plan.’

  ‘You will need to get your aunt to obtain official sanction for your fund. She can consult with Mr Chamberlain and Lord Lansdowne about guarantees for distribution.’

  ‘And what do you propose to call your fund, Emily?’ enquires Kate. Her eyes shine with the warmth of her affection. Whoever would believe that this is the broken woman who had returned from Mexico only four years ago?

  ‘I’ll leave that to my committee-to-be,’ says Emily earnestly. Then smiles broadly. ‘But my favoured name would be The South African Women and Children Distress Fund.’

  She leaves the Courtney’s home in a frenzy of optimism. The Walls of Jericho have collapsed at the trumpet of Leonard Courtney’s assent: now she can start working in earnest to set up a committee. And as she strides down the pavements that lead back to her flat, she is already formulating the aims of the fund in her head. Mrs Potter, the fire-grate now fully restored, frowns at her as she runs up the stairs. Emily hardly registers the venomous glare. By the time she has unlocked her front door the wording is complete: To feed, clothe, shelter and rescue women and children, Boer, British, or others who have been rendered destitute and homeless by the destruction of property, deportation, or other incidents of the military operations.