No Place For a Lady

by Ann Harries

  I began by finding a woman whose sister I had met in Cape Town. It is such a puzzle to find your way in a village of bell tents with no street or names or numbers. There are nearly 2,000 people in this one camp of which some few are men – they call them ‘hands-up men’ – and over 900 children. Imagine the heat inside the tents and the suffocation! We sat on their khaki blankets rolled up inside Mrs. Botha’s tent and the sun blazed through the single canvas and the flies lay thick and black on everything – no chair, no table, nor any room for such, only a deal box standing on its end served as a wee pantry. In this tent lived Mrs. Botha, five children (three quite grown up) and a little Kaffir servant girl. Many tents have more occupants.

  Mrs Pienaar came in and Mrs. Raal, Mrs. Roux and others, and they told me their stories and we cried together and even laughed together and chatted bad Dutch and bad English all the afternoon. Wet nights, the water streams down through the canvas and comes flowing in (as it knows how to in this country) under the flap of the tent and wets their blankets as they lie on the ground.

  While we sat there a snake came in. They said it was a night adder and very poisonous. So they all ran out to make room and I attacked the creature with my parasol. (Afterwards I was told it was a puff-adder.) I could not bear to think the thing should be at large in a community mostly sleeping on the ground. After a struggle I wounded it and then a man came with a mallet and finished it off …

  Bloemfontein Concentration Camp, January 1901

  Sarah, drawn from her tent-rounds by the shrieks of fear and merriment from the Bothas’ tent, stands apart and watches. It seems she has witnessed an apparition such as she is learning about in her Catechism lessons from the Catholic priest. Light streams from the eyes of the woman who stands alone in the tent, the tip of her parasol thrust into the body of the puffadder. The woman’s face is exultant. Her clothes are clean and crisp. A stylishly striped skirt reveals the shapeliness of her hips and waist. Her hair is golden. No such woman has ventured into the bell tents: can Sarah, in her exhaustion, be hallucinating?

  ‘If only Eve had had a parasol we’d all still be in the garden of Eden!’ calls out the apparition cheerily.

  The entire Botha family, the kaffir servant girl, and all the other women who have evacuated the tent burst into hysterical laughter, clapping their hands, wiping their eyes with their aprons. They call out in wonder; Sarah hears the Dutch word Engelse – English – and translates it as angel, without thinking.

  Now a black soldier in khaki runs up and removes the dead snake from the parasol tip. If he eats the liver of the creature he need fear the puffadder no longer. The apparition thanks him delightedly, except that Sarah now recognises this angelic presence as Miss Hobhouse, who was wearing the same striped skirt at the Bruton Street meeting.

  Now the Boer women return to the tent and order the kaffir girl to light a fire while Mrs Botha’s daughter grinds the coffee beans, mixed with acorns and dried roots, so that they can celebrate.

  As if mesmerised, Sarah finds herself moving, floating, towards that tent. Like her, the women clustered round Miss Hobhouse are utterly captivated; they do not notice the silent approach of Sarah, who feels she may have become transparent. Mrs Pienaar, heavy with child, sits meekly beside the visitor while Mrs Botha explains how the pregnant mother has to sleep on the bare ground till she is stiff and sore. ‘She has not a thing to sit upon, but must squat upon a rolled-up blanket, as in this tent,’ continues Mrs Botha angrily. ‘She had not time to collect her belongings, not even her baby linen, when the Tommies came.’

  The sympathy which now brims in Emily’s eyes clutches at Sarah’s own heart: will this Englishwoman be strong enough to endure the mass suffering of the camp? It is not possible to bear the pain of two thousand women and children without somehow creating a distance between yourself and them.

  ‘I have brought with me a truckload of equipment donated by the Distress Fund for the camp,’ says Miss Hobhouse. Her merriment has vanished. ‘Would you accept a mattress from us, Mrs Pienaar?’

  The mother-to-be is overcome. She shakes her head while the tears roll down her dusty cheeks. As she leans over to squeeze the weeping woman’s hand, Mrs Botha sees Sarah just outside the tent. ‘Come in, Sister Palmer!’ she calls. ‘We have a visitor here from your country!’

  Sarah hesitates. But Miss Hobhouse, who is scribbling notes in a pad, lifts her head when she hears the word Palmer. She stands up immediately, a brilliant smile of welcome replacing the sombre look that had settled on her features. The pale nurse who is swaying at the entrance of the tent is not what she expected, but her smile does not diminish. ‘How wonderful! You must be Sophie Harris’ friend. I have heard so much about you, how do you do, Sister Palmer.’

  ‘And this is Miss Emily Hobhouse,’ adds Mrs Botha, truncating the introduction she had planned.

  Sarah feels her knees buckling. ‘How do you do,’ she whispers. And staggers forward.

  Miss Hobhouse peers at her suspiciously as if alcohol might be the cause of this unsteadiness, then her gaze softens. She lays a gentle hand on Sarah’s shoulder. ‘But you are worn out,’ she says with concern. ‘Come and sit in our tent and have a cup of acorn coffee.’

  The mothers in the tent are also concerned. They seat Sarah in their only chair. They remove her boots and prop her aching feet on a sewing machine. ‘We love Nursie Palmer,’ says Mevrouw Botha. ‘She speaks our language. Boil again the kettle now up, Katjie, and find another tin cup for the nursie.’

  Sarah is now seated among the women. She closes her eyes and enjoys the grateful throb of her resting body. She can hear Miss Hobhouse speaking with authority.

  ‘This young lady must spend the day in bed.’ Startled, Sarah opens her eyes. ‘I don’t need to tell you that you will wear yourself out if you don’t give yourself a break from your work – and then you’ll be no good to anyone at all,’ continues Miss Hobhouse. ‘I can tell you from my own experience that a day’s rest is far more effective than any pill or tonic.’

  ‘But the mothers …’ Sarah protests faintly. She waves away the flies that settle on the rim of her cup.

  ‘Don’t you worry about us, my dear. You must look after yourself – haven’t we always said so?’ croon the mothers.

  ‘And then perhaps you’ll be strong enough tomorrow to do me a favour,’ smiles Emily Hobhouse.

  ‘A favour?’

  ‘Could you take me to the camp hospital? I should be so interested to see how Britain has provided for the relief of her victims.’ The sarcastic inflection goes unnoticed.

  Sarah rises to her feet. ‘We are already expecting you, Miss Hobhouse,’ she says simply.

  * * *

  When she returns to her tent there is an unexpected letter:

  Cape Town

  17 January 1901

  Dear Sarah,

  You will be surprised to hear from me after so long a silence – I have received your letters and longed to reply but felt not quite ready to do so – for reasons which will soon become clear.

  I may as well tell you immediately, but only on condition, dear Sarah, that you will tell no one else. The truth is I have married a Boer! This may be scarcely credible to you, knowing my original anti-Boer feelings, and I beg you to try to understand.

  You will remember that I planned to work in the convalescent hospital in Cape Town. Instead, I found myself sent to the Boer prisoner-of-war camp and hospital in Simonstown – where Mary Kingsley met her untimely death, in fact.

  Yes, you will be thinking ‘but she was engaged to Theodore. They were planning to marry in Cape Town.’ I’m sorry to tell you that poor Theodore contracted enteric from one of his patients, no doubt due to the filthy habits of the orderlies. I was at his side when he died. My heart was broken, yet within a few days – and I would confess this to no one else but you and I know you will not repeat it – I felt a certain relief that I was not to be Mrs Chappell. He was a fine man, full of fun, as you know, but in the end I have to
confess that I felt very little physical attraction for him. The dear man didn’t deserve to die.

  I threw myself into my work on the Boer wards with a new seriousness. I discovered among my patients a masculinity, a frankness, an earthy humour which was very refreshing to me, almost healing, you might say. In this environment I found myself to be a different person, more subdued yet appreciative of the friendliness of the men. I cannot describe to you the horror of the Palace Barracks which made our Bloemfontein hospitals seem like paradise by comparison. Can you believe that? I set about introducing hygiene on a ferocious level; the orderlies had to scrub the walls as well as the floors and I was not happy till the wards in my charge positively glittered with cleanliness and smelt of soap and lavender.

  Fransjohan, who is from the Transvaal, was recovering from a broken leg. A perfect gentleman, he never expressed any animosity towards the English in my presence. To begin with I hardly noticed him, as he could not move around and sat reading volumes of Dutch poetry, or writing it himself. One day he presented me with a set of verses which he had translated into English – and, Sarah, they were written in praise of me! You, who have always attracted the love and admiration of desirable men will never understand the pure wonder of this moment for me. I felt I had been floating about aimlessly all my life, drifting wherever the wind blew, and now, suddenly, I felt anchored in the love of a good man. I wish I could adequately describe to you the great wave of joy that crashed through my heart and washed away my silly past.

  We were married last week by the camp chaplain, and the very next day Fransjohan was deported to Ceylon. For my husband is a bittereinder which means he will not take the oath of allegiance and admit defeat, therefore he must be banished. Yet he loves me, a woman who is as English as it is possible to be. How strange life is.

  You can imagine how I am feeling. I ache with longing for him in every part of my being. But at least there is no war in Ceylon, and I do not fear he will be shot at by a Lee Enfield. I know this war cannot last too much longer; even he knows that. It is the moral principle of the thing that prevents him from surrendering.

  I hope you are not too shocked by this revelation. I have not yet written to tell my parents what has happened. I do not quite have the courage. I often wonder what has happened about your ‘Patch’ – I remember advising you to give him up, but now I understand the nature of the attraction of opposites better.

  By the way, I notice that little villa in Rondebosch you loved so much is up for sale – let me know if there is anything I can do to get it for you.

  With love from your newly-Boer friend (I am learning to speak the language and love it.)

  Louise van der Walt

  Bloemfontein

  25 January 1901

  My dearest Louise,

  What a wonderful surprise – and relief – to receive your letter – and your news. I am full of joy for you. Forgive me if I do not write at length now as my energies have drained away. You know I work in the Boer women’s concentration camp here; it is not easy.

  Today I met a wonderful woman who I think will help the situation here.

  Of Patch there has been no word for months, not since his rosary arrived … do you remember?

  And yes, how wonderful if you could get Frangipani Villa for me. Please let me know what I need to do.

  We shall meet again after this war when I look forward to meeting your husband with you (whatever made you think I would be shocked at your marriage?)

  Your affectionate friend

  Sarah

  Bloemfontein Concentration Camp, January

  Patch approaches the bell tent to which he has been directed. His thigh wound is hurting even though it healed long ago; he is conscious of his slight limp. In the darkness, her tent glows yellow. So, she is not asleep.

  He feels himself drawn to the candlelight as foolishly as any moth. That person he had seen yesterday was some sallow haggard other masquerading as Sarah the Madonna. But still, he must see her, if only to decide what to do next. He calls her name softly outside the drawn tent flap. No reply. He tries again. He can see the flickering candle flame through the canvas; the outline of a bed, and a few bits of furniture.

  Something is taking over inside him, for his instinct is to turn away and have done with it. But he undoes the tent flap as easily as if it were his own, and enters.

  The figure on the bed is so still that at first Patch thinks the tent is empty. He pauses when a slight movement of her hand indicates her presence. Woven between her fingers is his rosary. She looks as if she is dying.

  Patch finds himself at the foot of her bed. The candlelight makes his shadow loom. She is not dying; she is exhausted. Although he has moved silently some disturbance of the air causes her to open her eyes. Her stare causes him to gasp and fall to his knees at her feet.

  Now he is bending over her boots which she has not removed before collapsing on the bed. The leather is caked in mud, the soles worn nearly through. He pulls at the knotted lace, as if opening a gift. The lace undone, he begins to ease the boot off her foot. He cups the foot in his hands. With his thumbs he strokes the ankle. He is holding the most precious thing in his life, and rivers of awe run through his body. There is no longer any indecision for him.

  He lowers his head and presses his lips against her stockinged foot. He inhales the lovely human smell of it. Through the odour of leather, mud and sweat he can detect that rare and wondrous perfume, the smell of soap. He hears her sigh.

  As if in a trance he unlaces the other boot. It peels away so easily, as if it is the skin of some exotic fruit. He covers the fruit-foot in kisses, then clasps both feet to his breast. He can feel his heart pounding into the soles of her feet.

  ‘Patch!’ she murmurs.

  His hands slide up beyond her ankles. The contours of her calves fit precisely into his palms. He fingers her knees, then the firmness of her thighs. Her feet are still on his chest: she is pushing against him, but not pushing him away.

  A delicious fatigue overcomes him. He wants to stay on his knees holding this woman’s legs for the rest of his life.

  ‘Patch!’ she says again. ‘Come to me.’

  Patch releases his grip. He stands up. The stab of pain in his thigh means nothing now. He moves over to the side of bed. Her white hand still dangles, the rosary beads laced between her fingers. Her eyes are closed.

  He lifts her hand and unwinds the mother-of-pearl beads he sent her all those months ago. Her finger nails are not quite clean.

  That music that sometimes plays on his heartstrings when he thinks of her begins to break through his body. The golden running arpeggios pour from his heart-harp into the tent and though he can’t hear them he is held by their vibrations. Maybe one of the angels of heaven is hovering overhead invisibly with his great wings, playing his great harp, inaudibly. When David played his harp, the horses danced to it; he can understand that.

  There is dirt between her fingers. With all the tenderness he did not know he had, he kneels down and begins to kiss her hands. Then he fits each finger into his mouth and sucks it gently. He smoothes out her hand on the grey army blanket. From his pocket he withdraws the turquoise bracelet. He slips it on to her wrist. She does not raise her head to look.

  Now, disobeying the urgent instructions of his groin, he leans over her and gazes at her pale face. Her lips, once so full and rosy, are set in a straight line. He bends his head downwards and places his mouth on hers. How often has he dreamed of this moment. Yet she does not respond to his soft kiss; she is quite passive.

  Patch slides his lips beyond her mouth and up to her cheekbone. Then he kisses each of her closed eyelids.

  She stirs. She opens her eyes reluctantly and turns her gaze upon him. ‘Am I dreaming? After all this time?’ Her voice is faint.

  He lifts her arm up to show her the bracelet. ‘If this is still on your wrist tomorrow morning it will prove you are not dreaming.’

  ‘It is lovely.’ She stares at the
bracelet. ‘But where—?’

  ‘I bought it for you.’

  ‘Ah!’ She sighs. Then takes a deep breath. He can feel that a question is coming, the answer to which might determine his future.

  ‘Did you – did you – burn –?’ She does not look at him.

  ‘Sometimes,’ he says gently. ‘I didn’t like doing it.’ She winces. ‘I had to obey orders, you know.’ Well, there was no point going in to why it was necessary now.

  ‘So terrible.’ She turns her head.

  ‘I’ll go now. You must sleep.’ He is whispering into her ear. A tendril of her hair catches in his lips. ‘War is a terrible thing, Sarah.’

  She is beautiful. He adores her. He kisses her lightly on her mouth. ‘I have so much to tell you.’

  She must come with him to the Island.

  * * *

  ‘My dear Sister Palmer, you look so much better. There is colour in your cheeks. Your eyes sparkle. See what good your rest has done you.’ But Miss Hobhouse is having trouble with her hat which is about to blow off in the fierce wind that has arisen. The tents billow and flap, the children scatter.

  Sarah colours prettily. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Hobhouse.’ A blast of red sand intensifies her blush. Miss Hobhouse begins to cough, but soon regains her composure.

  ‘I’ve heard such warm reports from Sophie – and the mothers – about the good work you’re doing with the camp children. More than can be said for the refugee nurses, I’m afraid.’

  ‘There is not much choice, ma’am. Nurses don’t want to work in these camps.’ Sarah cannot quite meet Miss Hobhouse’s eye. She feels contained in a cocoon of joy. Her body is transformed, like a colourless bud that has blossomed, after many months, into a brilliant, tropical flower. She can feel Patch’s presence, as if he were physically holding her at this moment. ‘Shall we go into the ward and get out of the wind? This ward is for children who are failing to thrive. The other wards are for children and adults with infectious or contagious diseases.’