“But he’s a powerful man, Lord Rothermere,” she said to him later, when he was showing her around the site. A bruise was already purpling on his cheek. “He could bring a suit against you.”
“It wouldn’t get him anywhere. I’ve had fifteen actions against my operation for various charges, including battery and assault, but they all miraculously disappear.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The word of Mr. Baier is as good as the word of God. And behind him is the Kimberley council.”
“But all this”—she swept a hand across the tents, the men, the officers—“it must cost a fortune. Not even Cape Town is quarantined with such efficiency. Does Baier really have that much money?” Edwin didn’t answer, so she asked, “Why does he care so much?”
“Seven years ago, smallpox broke out in the copper mines in Angola. The natives had such a fear of the disease that, down to the last man, they abandoned the mines. Joseph Baier is concerned that the same thing might happen in Kimberley. To use his words, he thinks that if the natives get wind of smallpox there’ll be a general stampede. And quite possibly he’s right. It might very well bankrupt the mines. So I prevent the entry into Griqualand West of every person coming from the Cape Province without proof of efficient vaccination.”
It seemed like an impossible project. “But there must be other crossing points. Don’t people try to bypass you?”
“Police patrols have occupied all the drifts passable for wheeled traffic on the line of frontier between the border of the Orange Free State and the Kalahari Desert. They have instructions to divert all traffic to cross to this drift. I have a team of thirty officers helping me. Together, we stop, examine, vaccinate, and quarantine at least twenty men, women, and children a day. We have enough beds in the camp to sleep well over five hundred.”
“Has anyone died here?”
He shook his head. “So far we have only seen three true cases of the disease.”
They passed a small shed, and the smell of rotten eggs grew stronger. It was a noxious, choking stink. “Fumigation,” Edwin said apologetically. “Bedding, clothing, anything and anyone quarantined here has to pass through it—three minutes in a closed shed with burning sulfur. It’s a horrible process, but it does seem to reduce the rate of infection.”
“And is the vaccine certain?” she asked.
“Yes and no. It can corrupt in the heat, but we do our best to maintain its efficiency. Vaccination is our only hope of eradicating the disease, and I find it astounding that there are still so many men like Lord Rothermere who don’t believe in it. Smallpox is nothing short of horrific, but people have become complacent.”
There was a squealing noise, and they turned to see a zebra tearing its head away from the control of two men. It was trying to rear, but the men had ropes around its neck and they pulled it down. The zebra bared its lips, showing thick, yellow teeth. Another man ran up behind it and threw water at its back legs, but it wouldn’t budge. Frances noticed something behind it, a furze of brown and white, an ugly little thing with a long neck and gangly legs.
They were trying to separate the mother from her foal, and she was making a sawing, hewing noise. One of the men came up and threw a blanket around her head. She stood very still, confused, her body trembling. When the men began to lead her away, she followed. The foal skittered behind, its legs slipping and sliding in different directions so it looked like a baby giraffe, but a man caught hold of it by the tail and held it back. Then a shot rang out. The mare fell back on her hindquarters, the blanket slipped off her head, and the man let go. She supported herself for a moment on her front legs, sitting like a dog, her mouth open with the huge effort of staying upright. Then she collapsed into the dust.
“Why did they kill her?” Frances asked, breaking out into a sweat. The foal was nuzzling its mother.
“Her leg was rotten. They walked her to death, to get to Kimberley.”
“What about the foal?”
“It might have been worth something if they’d taken better care of the mother. They’re quite a novelty for the English in Kimberley.”
“But what will they do with it?”
“They can’t keep it.”
“You’ll leave it to die?”
The foal pawed at its mother’s body, then stopped and lifted its nose into the air and nickered. It was a desperate noise.
“You can’t kill it.”
“Even if we found a brood mare, it would more than likely die. It’s severely malnourished.”
But Frances was already walking away from him, towards the foal. It was too busy nudging its mother with its nose to notice her. Her body was sprawled in the dirt, blood snaking out from underneath her, congealing in the sand. Her stomach had already begun to swell in the heat. When Frances stroked the foal it pushed a bloody muzzle into her hand, butting it for milk. It couldn’t have been more than a month old.
“We’d have to sell it when it grows up,” Edwin said, appearing beside her and pulling the foal’s long ears.
“That’s fine,” she said. “But for the moment we can keep it?”
He nodded, and she gave him a quick smile.
• • •
THE REITZES LENT THEM a brood mare for the zebra, and Frances liked to sit on the stoep and watch him suckle. Sarah had shaken her head disapprovingly when she saw him. “Mangwa.” Zebra. “It won’t be tamed,” she said in Dutch to Edwin. And the name Mangwa had stuck. Days and weeks passed, and the zebra filled out, growing into his long legs until his withers stood as high as Frances’s waist. The foal was skittish and difficult to control, but over time he got used to the head collar, and after a few weeks he proved Sarah wrong and was docile enough to be walked or tied up against a fence.
Frances lost track of dates and had no notion of time. Once every two or three weeks Jantjie would deliver the post. She received another letter from her cousin Lucille. It was a flippant, breezy thing, and it set her on edge. Father had bought them new horses; they were going to the Alps in the spring; did she remember meeting William Westbrook on the boat? She had become acquainted with a good friend of his, worth £40,000 a year. She had accepted his proposal. He had investments in South Africa; perhaps they would visit.
The thought of Lucille becoming friends with William and his new wife was too awful to contemplate. Frances dropped the letter in her lap and stared listlessly across the veldt. It was Edwin’s habit sometimes to come back late, walking home in the gloom of early evening with the light flattening itself against the sky and the heat retreating as he came towards the house, as if he were dragging the cold air with him. She saw his shadow approaching now and felt a wave of resentment. What kind of life was he giving her here? How could she even reply to her cousin’s letter? What was there to say? That she was living on the veldt like a native? That she washed once a week and had stopped brushing her hair because it was so matted with dust? That some nights the red men swarmed so thickly under the candlelight you had to abandon your supper? That she hated the boredom, the flies, the snakes, and the heat? That always, at the back of her mind, was a longing for another man?
Edwin arrived just as the frogs had begun bellowing in the dam. Dark shapes—bats or swallows—darted and swooped in front of her. It was almost dark, but she could see him moving against the light, and there was the sound of his footsteps grinding over the earth. He went straight to the back of the house to wash and returned a moment later, water dripping from his face. There was a strength—a kind of physical ease—in the way he brushed back his hair and walked up the steps towards her.
“Haven’t you noticed?” she demanded, irritated that he seemed content when she couldn’t be.
He looked at her, and she realized this was another of her frustrations: his constant, querying silences, which made her spell everything out.
“The lamps aren’t lit. We’ve run out of oil.”
“And the candles?”
“The candles are beside the point. It i
s Sarah’s responsibility to make sure we don’t run out of oil.”
He didn’t say anything, so she kept on. “I don’t see why she can’t be more mindful.”
“I’ll pick some up tomorrow afternoon.”
“Yes, but it’s frustrating.” Sarah appeared at the door, holding a candle, and Edwin took it from her and thanked her.
“Why won’t you ever admonish her?”
Edwin’s face glowed ocher red in the light of the candle. “What should I be admonishing her for?”
“She’s too forgetful.”
“There is a lot for her to remember.” He put the candle down on the small table beside her.
“But that’s what we employ her for.” Frances, exasperated, was losing sight of her point. “Her English is nonexistent. She refuses to starch my dresses, the rooms are permanently dusty, and yesterday she burnt Mevrouw Reitz’s pie to charcoal.”
“A mistake, surely?”
She had the sense that she was entering dangerous territory, but she couldn’t stop herself. “You are too forgiving. You feel sorry for her because you know what it’s like to be her.”
“Meaning what, exactly?”
Frances shrugged, wanting to rile him into an argument but not knowing how far she could push him. “At least see her for what she is.”
Edwin was looking at her curiously. There was no anger in his face. She wondered if he was capable of anger. “Which is what?”
“Idle, occasionally, and careless.” Frances wasn’t sure this was quite true. She didn’t really have a clear idea of what Sarah did around the house, but she had formed the vague impression that she wasn’t working as hard as she might. Frances had caught her sleeping in the afternoons, and once she had seen her helping herself from their sugar bowl with her fist.
“Idle?” His mouth twisted, and for the first time she felt his disdain. It hit her with a small shock. In an instant she saw what he was going to say, and wanted him to stop. “Frances, how is it that you feel you can call other people idle?” He leant his shoulders back against the post. His body was blacker than the night outside, and though she couldn’t see his expression, she knew he was looking straight at her.
“Do you have any knowledge of Sarah’s schedule? I do, because I trained her. She is up before dawn to light the stove in the kitchen, rolls up her bedding, and makes my tea. She dresses while the kettle boils. Sweeps the house, sets out breakfast, makes porridge and coffee, and begins on your eggs.” He was speaking slowly, every word weighted for emphasis, and each one an accusation. “She cleans the shoes we put out, sets out your breakfast, washes up, cleans the knives, empties the slops into the pail while you eat, and carries them outside to the tub. Then she makes the bed, tidies the rooms, scrubs the floors, cleans out the fireplace, and walks over to the farm to pick up bread, milk, and supplies, which she carries back under the hot sun. Once home, she begins on lunch, cleans and trims the lamps, then there is supper, washing up, tea, clothes to mend, and the washing once a week, the mangling and the boiling, and God knows what else. And you want me to admonish her for what, exactly?”
The question hung between them. After a moment, she said, “You knew what I was when you asked me to come here.”
“I did.” There was such meaning in his words and such bitterness that she wondered what he meant.
“It’s all right for you,” she said. “You have the quarantine station, your fossils, and your insects, but what about me? What should I do all day?”
They stood together on the porch, with no words between them. The night loomed black and heavy, and the silence was broken only by the chink chink of a frog, which sounded like a tiny hammer being struck against a stone. The post creaked, and his body shifted away from her to look out towards the veldt, where the air still held a glimmer of light. After a few minutes, he seemed to collect himself. He turned back to her and said simply, “Frances, your dresses haven’t been starched because we can’t afford it. The starch is imported. It is expensive. Then there is the time needed to boil it up, the water used, and the expense of the fuel. I’m afraid it just isn’t practical. The truth is, we have very little, and we must conserve what we have. That means, primarily, oil, fuel, and sugar.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry that you aren’t happier.” And he walked into the house.
• • •
ON A RARE OVERCAST afternoon Frances sat on the stoep copying a delicate illustration of a white geranium from Sowerby’s English Botany. She groaned in frustration. The painting was all wrong. It looked lifeless, flat on the page. Painting from the pages of a book was utterly different to painting from life. It was like trying to tickle yourself—you prodded all the right places, but you could never make yourself laugh. And she didn’t have the concentration today. Her attention kept drifting back to her argument with Edwin. They had barely spoken a word over the past week. Edwin came home in the evenings polite but withdrawn and went straight to his study, and Frances, half ashamed at having sounded so spoilt, wasn’t sure how to put things right—if, indeed, she even wanted to put things right. She closed the pages on Sowerby, gathered up her brushes, and went inside.
In the hall she heard a rustling on the roof. The beams overhead creaked. The noise was louder in the sitting room, and then she remembered—Edwin had said something about Sarah cleaning the chimney. There was silence for a moment, then a great squawk of surprise and a crashing sound erupted from within the chimneybreast. A thick cloud of black soot rained down into the grate. Frances froze. Had Sarah fallen down the chimney? She was too big, surely. There was another screech, and a frantic scrabbling. Rubble clattered onto the floor. Something was trapped inside. The noise grew louder, moving down the chimney, releasing a mountain of rocks and muck onto the floor below and pushing out great clouds of coal dust which rolled upwards into the room.
“Sarah?” Frances called out, apprehensive on behalf of the maid.
And as if in response, an explosion of soot ripped loose from the chimney. A black ball barreled out from the middle of the cloud, whirling through the air and colliding with Frances’s chest. It was huge and soft, and it moved of its own volition. She screamed, dropping her brushes and pushing it away, but it was alive and kept coming back at her, wrapping itself around her head and enveloping her in a plume of coal dust so thick it sealed up her eyes and she couldn’t see her hands. Wings beat against her face. It was a bird, she realized, caught on her dress. They struggled against each other, the bird screeching in terror until finally it tore its claws loose and flapped away. She wiped at her eyes and looked around the room. A chicken sat in one of the chairs clucking to itself reproachfully, filleting its feathers to remove the soot.
Frances looked down at her dress. She was utterly filthy—stained black, every part of her, hands, nails, shoes, and skirts as black as if she had been dropped in a coal pit. She turned, dust drifting from her clothes as she moved. Edwin stood in the doorway behind her. She shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. “A chicken,” she croaked, half in accusation. She wiped the grit off her lips with her sleeve, realizing too late that it was as dirty as her mouth. “What was a chicken doing in the chimney?” she asked querulously.
He tried to reply, pointing at the roof, but he creased up as he looked at her, and his shoulders began to convulse with laughter. He put his hands over his face for a moment as if to take control of himself then, drawing in a great, gulping breath of air, he tried to speak, but as soon as he took his hands away and saw her standing there his voice broke into a deep, resounding laugh. He must have seen the whole thing. Her chest tightened. She wanted to cry, to stamp her foot and tell him to stop, but any movement—any attempt at anger—would only make her look more absurd.
“Don’t,” she said, shaking her head, but her throat had silted up with dust and it came out as another croak, and the croak sounded ridiculous, and before she could stop it she was laughing with him. She laughed until her lungs hurt and she couldn’t breathe, finally sinking to the flo
or in resignation, coal dust billowing from the folds of her dress.
“They use chickens to clean the chimneys,” he said eventually, wiping his eyes. “You weren’t meant to be in here.”
There was a shout from the roof, a question in Dutch thrown down the chimney by Sarah. They looked at each other; the laughter caught between them like some living creature. After a moment Edwin turned away. “Ja,” he shouted up to Sarah. Then gathering up the chicken in his arms, he carried it squawking outside.
• • •
ONE EVENING Edwin brought home a mule pack. He suggested she try it on Mangwa, and Frances liked the idea. The zebra didn’t, throwing his orange muzzle into the air, laying his ears back, and lashing out with his hind feet. Edwin threw a rope around his hind legs and hobbled him, and after three days of wearing the pack, Mangwa grew resigned to the weight on his back. They took him out walking with them on Sundays, stowing her watercolors in the pack, along with lunch—bread wrapped in paper, a round of goat’s cheese, a couple of peaches, and a flask of water.
Edwin carried his shotgun over one shoulder and his knapsack on the other, crammed full of equipment. There were pocket boxes lined with cork, iron clamps, strips of gauze, and collapsible nets in different sizes. He always took with him his pocket lens, a tray of wide-mouthed vials, and a bottle of spirits. Periodically he would stop as they walked and look into the crevices of a rock or push a stone over with his foot to see what lurked beneath.
It was good to throw off her lethargy. They would walk to the river or the kopje, and while Edwin searched for insects or fossils, Frances would paint fragments of the landscape: the spines of a prickly pear, an ironstone boulder with dense, glistening surfaces, or the leaves of a shrub whose curious shape appealed to her. And as she painted she found the edges of a contentment she hadn’t felt since she was a young girl, before the arrival of Miss Cranbourne, when she had been left to interpret the world without interference from others.
The Fever Tree Page 18