by Ann Harries
‘Ah, now there’s a good read.’ The doctor’s eyes light up. ‘Got it on you then? That’ll take your mind off your troubles. Now I’m going to leave off this bandage; you’ll be walking round before long.’
Patch retrieves the parcel from his haversack and removes the brown paper. As he opens the soft vellum cover he can smell the sea and hear the waves hiss on the spiked shore of the Island. There is the first line that he never got beyond. Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life… He looks up at the blank landscape and feels his heart sink. How pathetically far away he is from being a hero, further than ever before. Nevertheless, he reads on.
Three hours later he has filled the tent with Peggoty, Uriah Heep, Barkis-is-willing, Mr and Mrs Micawber, all of whose lives have become immeasurably more important to him than any real person he knows – for the moment anyway. That had happened on the island, he remembers, with Dr Simmonds urging him to enjoy yet more fictitious characters and enter their worlds. But how real their sufferings and joys are now; how he longs for success on their behalf, how passionately he hates the villains; how his heart aches on behalf of David, as painfully as it has ever ached for himself.
‘Private Donnelly.’ Patch looks up at the orderly, a pale snivelly fellow with gigantic black-rimmed spectacles. ‘You’re going to walk to your supper tonight – doctor’s orders. Now put that book down. Too much reading is bad for your eyes. And in this light.’ The little beast actually extracts the volume from Patch’s grasp.
Three weeks later, on Christmas Eve, when, to his sorrow, he has reached the end of volume two, he finds that two fine sheets of writing paper have been inserted between the pages of the last chapter. He recognises Dr Simmonds’ handwriting:
Dear Patrick,
Reached the end, have you? Good. Now I have something to tell you: something that not even Dickens could have dreamed up in his final chapter.
Your mother – for Mary Donnelly is your mother, as you suspected – will have the operation you spoke of, on condition that she can live with you when she returns to the mainland. She would have had it earlier but had no one to whom she could return. I think you do not have a home in Cape Town. We can discuss this later.
I knew your mother in Cape Town when she was a vibrant Irish Catholic girl who emigrated here after the devastating famine of her homeland. She became a kitchen maid in the home of my brother and within a year they were married. Yes, Patrick, I am your uncle. How do you feel about that? To continue: your father converted to Catholicism, so that you and your five brothers – now all over thirty years of age and all Catholic priests in Ireland – were born and baptised Catholics. Unfortunately, the affairs of your family did not proceed well. At first they lived in a pretty two-storey house in the District, with wrought iron balcony and sweeping flight of stairs, but my brother, though initially a successful business man, sadly became addicted to the demon drink, as did your mother after the first five sons were born. The house became uncared for; disreputable tenants moved in; and I regret to say you were born in conditions of squalor such as Mr Dickens has so vividly brought to our attention.
Your father died of alcohol poisoning at the same time your mother began to exhibit the first signs of leprosy – numbness in the face and extremities, scaliness of the skin, swelling of the nose, lips and lobes of the ears – while she carried you, her ‘late lamb’ as they say here. It is to my lasting shame that I, a doctor, was unable to recognise these symptoms, not that the medical world has yet any cure for this dreaded disease. These marks grew quickly, and by the time you were born, you had to be removed from her by law, and she herself was taken by force to the Island. You were delivered to the orphanage run by the Sisters of Mercy, to whom I paid a certain sum every year for your upkeep.
Despite the enormity of her problems, your mother was anxious not to stain the name of her five sons who were studying for the priesthood. Consequently, she requested that the newborn innocent bearer of the stain be known not as Simmonds but as Donnelly – her maiden name.
Had I a wife, I should gladly have accepted you into ‘our’ home, but being an entrenched bachelor and not especially fond of children, I felt unable to accept this responsibility.
My horror at my sister-in-law’s fate grew as time passed. I did not expect her to survive long, her health being broken by alcohol even before the leprosy revealed itself, yet, after five years on the Island, she was allowed to move from the wards to the makeshift house which you have visited. A vacancy occurred for a medical officer to work with the surgeon of the lazaretto; I applied for the position and was accepted, and have lived there ever since. I visit your mother in her hut regularly, and much enjoy the roughness and isolation of the place.
When I met you in the gloom of the Gateway to Africa I was startled out of my wits even though I knew very well who you were to me, for burning in the shadows across the table were my dead brother’s green eyes. And, for that matter, the eyes of my father and his father and his grandfather. Green eyes of extraordinary intensity, lit from behind by an inner radiance, run in the male line of our family, though not every male gets them – you probably don’t remember the nondescript colour of my eyes. (Grey, whispers Patch).
You will think it too much of a coincidence that you came unknowingly to the Island where lived your uncle and mother. However, the explanation is quite simple; even banal. My contact with the Sisters of Mercy continued after you had somewhat abruptly left their orphanage. They expressed themselves disappointed with how you had turned out; in spite of their arduous discipline you had still turned out ‘slippery’ – the curious word Sister Madeleine chose to describe you. They informed me that you were living with the Witbooi family in the District, and that for a while you had worked as a shoeshine boy and then as a shoe salesman for Feinsteins Fabulous Footwear, a position which you lost on account of the disappearance of three pairs of soft-shuffle shoes, even though they re-appeared, somewhat soiled, after the annual Tivoli Talent Contest in which you and your singing and dancing friends were awarded first prize.
You were therefore without employment. I thought it was time for you to meet your mother, if only indirectly. I visited Mrs Witbooi and asked her to tell you that your application for the post of leper guard would be favourably considered. She agreed to encourage you in this, without demanding to know why she should do so. You know the rest.
Shortly after, war broke out. I feared you might volunteer but you assured me nothing could be further from your thoughts. I am not sure what made you change your mind – perhaps the suspicion of the identity of your mother, somewhat sooner than I had planned. I had intended to reveal her to you on your twenty-first birthday, an event which will shortly occur.
I would hope that by the time you read this – if you read this, for I have left it to your perseverance in reading the novel as to whether my letter falls into your hands – the necrosed bone will have been removed, and your mother will be ready to return to the mainland, on your own return, which I hope will be as soon as this wretched war has ended.
Your affectionate Uncle,
Jack Simmonds
‘Seen a ghost?’ enquires the bespectacled orderly. ‘You’re as white as a sheet, man.’
Indeed, there are many ghosts clustered round Patch at that moment. David Copperfield is dancing with his mother, who has miraculously regained her features; Pegotty with Dr Simmonds; Barkis embraces Patch; Uriah hovers, a hopeful shadow. And there are Johan and Cartwright and Bill frolicking about with Fancy and Sarah. What larks! He himself is repeating four-word phrases to himself. They rush through his system, flooding out every stale and bitter thought, ripping off that cloak of desolation. I have a father. I have a mother. I have an uncle. I have five brothers. The chain of words encircles him like an amulet. As they spin round, a new, enchanted idea is born. I must go back to the Island. He remembers the ring of ecstatic dolphins. And then: but first Bloemfontein – and Sarah.
Captain Smithers, who is no
t much older than Patch and suffering from homesickness, is sympathetic. Farm-burning has ceased over Christmas, but will continue after Boxing Day, so there will be new homeless families to be taken to the shelter of the Bloemfontein concentration camp. Normally, at this distance, the wagon loads of Boer mothers, children and servants would be offloaded at the nearest railway station to board convenient cattle trucks for their transport, but the trains are unreliable during the festive season. A convoy over the veldt would be practical.
The Captain gives Patch a note for the commanding officer at the Bloemfontein barracks. In it he asks for the young man to be put on duty in the camp. ‘I believe there is a need for guards there,’ he says. ‘Apparently some of the women have grown troublesome.’ And gives the handsome young trooper a sad, knowing smile.
Voyage, December 1900
Emily has never travelled second class anywhere before, but on the steamer which will carry her to Cape Town she shares a cabin with a cook, a lady’s maid and a milliner. Though wary of the gentry, these women who are emigrating to the Colony in the hope of a better life, soon relax in Emily’s cheerful company. She makes no attempt to preach at them about burnt-out mothers and children, and spends much of her time studying Dutch in the small cabin. It is wintry outside, with the occasional blizzard, and the sodden decks are not conducive to learning a foreign language. By coincidence, Mr and Mrs Joshua Rowntree are travelling first class to Cape Town on the same boat, and Emily often meets these gentle Quakers at their dining table, where they discuss the relief missions upon which they have separately embarked.
Never has she felt so certain that she is doing the right thing. Her brother Leonard had raised several objections to her project: she might catch the enteric so prevalent in the ex-republics; she will be vilified in England for this blatant support of the enemy; it would be better for her to go at a more opportune political moment – all of which misgivings she had swept away with not a moment’s hesitation. For the feeling is that she must go, in response to a strong call. Her path is as clear as that of an arrow speeding to its target. The hugeness of her task beats through her brain incessantly. It is a relief to sit in her cramped bunk and force herself to memorise the Dutch words for Hello, thank you, I am delighted to meet you, I am sorry, I am so very sorry.
Without warning it is summer. The sunshine and warmth of the Canary Islands take her by surprise. She accompanies the Rowntrees on a tour of volcanic Tenerife. The red hibiscus and purple bougainvillea at first fill her heart with painful joy, for the last time she saw these tropical blooms was in Mexico where one evening she had woven garlands of crimson flowers through her hair in preparation for … But now she regards the heat with a practical eye: will her Leghorn hat and cotton parasol guard her from the ravages of the South African sun? A stall offers unguents to protect ladies’ skins. The stall keeper speaks in dramatic Spanish about the efficacy of his products. Every word he utters tries to prise open the slammed door in her heart, until she feels agitated. Suddenly, urgently, she must return to the ship in the harbour, and feigns tiredness: the unexpected heat. The Rowntrees remind her that it is necessary to be rowed to the steamer, and he-who-rows-the-boat will do so only when his boat is at least half full of passengers. Fortunately she sees the lady’s maid, the cook and the milliner, their cheeks aflame, their foreheads wet with perspiration. They too wish to return to the relative cool and calm of the ship, empty of passengers. Emily introduces them to the Rowntrees; they grow saucer-eyed.
‘Be he the Mr Rowntree who makes the chocolate?’ enquires the cook as their rowing boat splashes across the halcyon sea to the steamer ahead.
‘And the fruit drops?’
‘And who built a whole town in Yorkshire for his factory workers with pensions and a library?’ The milliner has a sister who works in such a factory.
He is closely related, Emily assures them. And once a member of Parliament. They look at her in admiration. On the strength of this she ventures, ‘He is a Quaker, as are all the chocolate makers. The Quakers disapprove of the war in South Africa.’ A gull squawks a warning but she plunges on, ‘As do I. We place our consciences before the law of the land, you see.’
Three pairs of eyes gaze at her disbelievingly. Even the oarsman scowls, though perhaps that is because he is facing the sun. Will they throw her out of the boat, to be rescued by boys diving for pennies? She feels the familiar rush of fury, but does not change the sweet expression on her face.
‘An eddicated lady like you should know better,’ mumbles the milliner.
‘They’s pro-Boers!’ snarls the cook.
‘Too scared to fight in the war, case they get shot.’
Cowards. Traitors. Namby-pambies.
‘Well,’ says Emily brightly, ‘they provided nearly four hundred thousand tins of chocolate for the British troopers at the New Year. And just think, without those traitors and sissies we wouldn’t have Rowntree’s Fruit Gums or Chocolate Drops or Jelly Babies. Now who’s going to climb up the rope ladder first?’
Bloemfontein Concentration Camp, December 1900
One day Sarah calls at the tent of the newly arrived Van Zyl family to visit seven-year-old Lizzie. The little girl had reached the camp in a fragile condition, her pale skin the evidence of many weeks indoors – so unlike the deeply tanned skins of other Boer children, no matter how ill they might be. Lizzie had a skeletal thinness, dangly limbs like flower stalks, and a violet stain around her pale blue eyes. Yet within this frailty she possessed a sweetness that burst forth in her frequent smile. Just to be in her company was a treat, for the child always had some whimsical remark to make, even after a prolonged coughing fit or a bout of retching. It is the feather of the bokmakierie that makes me cough or A star from the sky fell into my throat last night and now it tries to escape.
Today she seems to have lapsed into a coma. There is no sign of her mother. Her sisters are trying to feed the unconscious child with mashed pumpkin, a rare luxury which has to be bought at an inflated price from the camp store. ‘Our mommy saved her money and bought this pumpkin and now Lizzie will eat it not. She wants only to sleep,’ says the eldest sister.
‘Perhaps she will eat not because there is no cinnamon and butter with the pumpkin,’ suggests a smaller sister.
‘Where is your mommy now?’
‘She is at the dam washing people’s clothes. Then she can earn money to make Lizzie better.’
The dam is a good half-mile away. Sarah looks at Lizzie, unconscious on her mother’s makeshift bed. The child’s flesh seems to have melted away, revealing joints and bones and cartilage just beneath her skin. Her fine silvery hair is thinning so that patches of her scalp are visible; flies have gathered over traces of rejected pumpkin round her mouth. ‘I think Lizzie needs to come to the hospital,’ she says gently.
A jingle of reins and a familiar whistle just outside the tent makes the sisters sit up suddenly. ‘That is the doctor!’ they cry. The grizzled face of Dr Phillips, leaning down from his mount, appears at the opening. ‘Anyone sick?’ He continues whistling almost immediately his sardonic personal choice ‘A Wandering Minstrel, I’. Though the Boer families do not on the whole know Gilbert and Sullivan’s operettas, they know the tune of this carefree little song painfully well.
Sarah slips out of the tent. ‘I can’t wake the little girl up,’ she says. ‘I don’t know what’s causing her to be so ill.’ Sarah dislikes this doctor intensely. He shows his superiority to his Boer patients by remaining, whenever possible, on horseback while diagnosing their illnesses.
‘Oh, I think I’ve got a pretty good idea,’ smirks the doctor. He climbs down from his saddle without showing any desire to enter the tent. ‘I’ve been keeping an eye on that mother. Of course, that’s exactly what she wants.’ He stands too close to Sarah, who winces at his fleshy red face and fat white fingers.
‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘She wants to keep us medicals hopping in attention. In my view, and others’, she’s del
iberately starving her child.’ Dr Phillips’ booming voice can surely be heard inside the tent; Sarah hopes the girls inside cannot understand his English.
‘How can you say that? She loves Lizzie to distraction.’ She moves away from him as she feels his breath on her face.
‘Oh, they all do, they all do.’ Now he is striding past her into the tent. ‘Good morning, my dears.’
‘Goot morning, Mynheer Doctor,’ the girls sing back.
He glances at Lizzie’s inert form. ‘Yes, starving to death. Nothing else wrong with her. Made to look like anorexia but imposed by the mother, no doubt about it. I’ll get a couple of bearers to take her to the hospital. We won’t allow the mother to visit, of course. The child will almost certainly begin to thrive.’
‘But this is appalling!’ cries Sarah. Her temper suddenly flares. ‘How dare you say these – libellous things? That mother slaves away doing other people’s washing in that filthy dam just so that she can earn enough money to buy fresh vegetables for her children!’ She can feel her blood throb violently in her throat; she has a reckless desire to slap the doctor’s face before the watchful children.
‘You wait and see, Sister Palmer.’ He is on his way out already. ‘And I’d be careful about my choice of words, if I were you. Libellous, eh?’ And, after swinging himself into his saddle, the wand’ring whistling minstrel continues on his way.
Within minutes bearers arrive for the child. ‘We cannot take her away without the permission of her mother,’ cries Sarah. ‘Doctor’s orders,’ reply the bearers, expertly sliding the inert child on to their stretcher. Sarah briefly considers barring their way, but clearly that will achieve nothing. ‘Explain to your mother,’ she murmurs, and moves on to the next tent, shaking with indignation.