He turned on his heel and walked into the study. The door closed behind him. She stared after him in frustration. He had implied that she was the one holding him back. That if she hadn’t been on her way to South Africa he would have stayed in Kimberley and fought harder for the girl. But it was hardly her fault. He was the one who had insisted on marrying her.
She walked out onto the stoep. On the distant horizon a herd of sheep were nudging their way across the veldt, the air above them churned to a dusty haze. He was right. She didn’t want to go back to England. They had no capital to get them started, no house to live in. More than likely he would have to set up a practice in Manchester, where there would be little prospect of ever doing well. It would be a mean, dreary life. At least there might be opportunities in South Africa. Society was less rigid, and there were fewer doctors. He would have a better chance of being successful.
She lay in bed that night, listening to Edwin’s steady breathing beside her. She couldn’t sleep. They were prisoners. Edwin had made that perfectly clear. She was amazed that she hadn’t guessed it before. It made sense of everything—Edwin’s decision to leave Kimberley, his apparent lack of ambition, his reaction to Baier at dinner. He wasn’t living at Rietfontein out of choice, and bringing her to live on the veldt wasn’t an experiment in survival. The fact that he had kept all this hidden from her was a shock. She thought she had understood him completely, but it turned out he wasn’t at all who she had thought he was.
What pleasure it must have given Baier to sit at their meager table, gloating over their impoverishment. Not just their impoverishment. He had dissected their marriage like a surgeon probing for cancer, knowing the great shame that was eating away at them. She felt a surge of guilt. Edwin had given up his ideals to marry her, and she had betrayed him before they were even wed. Their marriage was a sham—even Baier knew it—and Edwin had looked like a cuckolded fool. Christ knew she had more respect for her husband than Baier, and she felt a seething hatred for this man who had made a mockery of him in front of her. And what was worse, he had suggested, with his wink across the table, that they were sharing in the joke together. She shivered in self-disgust. If she hadn’t compromised herself, then Baier would have no power over her. Instead, he had them both caught in a trap. She was desperate to keep Edwin from finding out about William, and Edwin would keep trying to protect her, swallowing scraps out of Baier’s hand like a dog accepting gristle from the table.
Good God, was Baier right? She made a sudden movement, throwing off the sheets to keep off the thoughts which threatened to pin her down. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, be able to stop thinking about William, and every time she did she was betraying Edwin further. Still, she thought later, when her mind was exhausted and light was whitening the chinks in the shutters, if they could just get out from under Baier’s clutches, then perhaps everything would be different.
Twenty-Five
On a cool autumn evening they went to the farmhouse for dinner. Mijnheer Reitz sat at the head of the table carving a leg of Karoo lamb, and a maid ran back and forth ferrying new dishes to the table: buttered carrots, beans and salads of lettuces and radishes, and boards piled high with cheese. At the table were Mijnheer and Mevrouw Reitz, their Dutch overseer, and a neighboring farmer and his wife. A fire burned in the grate, throwing shadows over the whitewashed walls. The room was full of the smell of melting lamb fat, and Frances ate hungrily. It was a long time since she had seen such a spread.
The conversation at the table was in Dutch. She would have been content simply to eat and let the voices roll over her, but Mevrouw Reitz sat opposite and insisted on explaining. Frances listened, warily respectful of this woman who wasn’t afraid of plain speaking.
“They are talking about the sheep,” Mevrouw Reitz said. “The natives have lost hundreds to the drought. They can’t improve their stock, the quality or quantity of meat they produce, because their sheep are always struggling just to survive. The pressures of the veldt are too extreme. You can only get . . .” She paused, unsure of the language. “How do you say it, Dr. Matthews?”
Edwin looked up at Frances with impassive eyes. He had kept his distance from her since their argument. “Variation can only take place under domestication, or in other words, if the sheep are given access to a controlled environment—constant grazing, water, et cetera. Then a lamb might be born which, say, has more meat but is less suited to surviving a drought. In a domesticated environment, removed from evolutionary pressures, this variation will survive, and it can be bred back into the herd to improve the stock.”
He had told her something similar once about her father’s roses—that the brilliant colors and fantastic blooms would never have existed in the wild. They were the result of the same domestication. “Presumably these sheep wouldn’t be much good to the native when a drought came along?”
“Exactly,” Edwin said. “There is little point in helping natives to improve their stock if they continue to be at the mercy of their environment.”
Mevrouw Reitz turned to Frances, and asked her in English, “Did you enjoy the peach tree this summer?”
“Yes, thank you. They were delicious.”
“Albert’s grandfather planted that tree fifty years ago, when he first came here. He built the house you’re living in. We used to walk the children down there every summer to pick the fruit.”
“But you should have brought them down this summer! There were far too many for us to eat. Hundreds, in fact. I’m afraid we couldn’t eat them all, and we had to leave some of them to the wasps.”
Mevrouw Reitz frowned. “But surely you didn’t let them go to waste. You were making jam, bottling them?”
Frances looked at her, embarrassed.
“Why ever not?” Mevrouw Reitz asked.
“I suppose it didn’t occur to me. I’ve never made jam before.”
There was a reproachful silence. Mevrouw Reitz began talking to the neighboring farmer in a low voice. Frances looked at Edwin, but he was eating, perhaps with studied indifference to the conversation—she wasn’t sure, and she wondered if he was ashamed of her. She hadn’t turned out to be at all what he had hoped she would be.
The overseer said something then to Edwin, and he glanced quickly at her before replying. She thought he looked caught out. When he spoke, the table broke out into murmurs of excitement. Mevrouw Reitz said to her, “But you must be delighted.”
“Delighted?”
“That the Cape has been declared free of smallpox.”
Frances gaped at Edwin. Why hadn’t he told her? This could mean leaving Rietfontein. “What will happen to the quarantine station?” Mevrouw Reitz asked.
“Joseph Baier is closing it down.”
“Well, that’s wonderful news!” Mevrouw Reitz said, and Frances could see that despite their differences, the woman understood her and saw that she couldn’t be happy living here. “Where will you go?”
“We haven’t decided. But more than likely to Cape Town.” Cape Town. Relief coursed through her. There was an end to Baier’s influence after all. Once they were in Cape Town, Edwin could start a practice, and they would have nothing more to do with politics or smallpox.
• • •
JANTJIE DROVE THEM HOME in the cart. The night was perfectly quiet, except for the grinding of the wheels over the earth and his gentle mutterings to the mules. The plains were vast and still, with the great amphitheater of the heavens arched over them, glittering as though God had thrown down a cinder from a fire and it had splintered into a thousand glowing shards. A fat quarter-moon hung like a pendant above them. She could see the dark outline of Edwin’s figure and the white gleam of his face.
After a moment, she asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Baier’s letter only came today.”
“And just like that we can move to Cape Town? He hasn’t asked you to do anything else for him?”
“Nothing.”
“Which is good news, isn’t it?”
“Yes, though you shouldn’t expect it to be easy in Cape Town, not at first.” He paused. “I have no income now, and it will take me a few months to get up and running.”
“But you have some money put aside? From your work at the quarantine station?”
“I was cheap labor for Baier. He saw my work here as a kind of reparation.”
It didn’t matter. He would soon have a practice established, and in the meantime they would have to make do.
The cart left them at the cottage and rolled off into the night. Edwin stood at the stoep, waiting for her to pass up in front of him, but she stopped for a second, close enough so she could hear the low intake of his breath. On an impulse, without thinking, she reached out her hand and touched the sleeve of his coat. Her fingers grazed across the rough wool.
“Edwin, can we start again?”
He stood so motionless that she wondered if he had heard her. Then he said, “Perhaps. If we are honest with each other.” It was a statement, but, like a question, it carried the weight of implication. Did he want a confession from her? For a brief moment she felt herself teetering on the brink of telling him about William, but her heart gave a sickening lurch. They were going to Cape Town anyway. The past was behind them now. There was no need to drag it up again. There was too much damage in honesty. Edwin might never forgive her, and he was able to read her too well. He would know in an instant that she was still in love with William. They stood staring at each other for a long moment. Then she shivered and said something about the cold, and they went inside.
• • •
TWO WEEKS LATER, Frances was lying on her back by the riverbank, knees making a tent of her skirts, with her head resting on one bent arm. It was cooler now as winter drew on, and today was no hotter than a cloudless spring afternoon at home. A slight breeze stirred the dappled shade of the mimosa bushes, and through the branches she could see the dark shape of a bird of prey circling.
The last of the bees droned through the sweet herbage. Although the summer rains had failed and the riverbed was dry, it was still greener here than the rest of the veldt. Soon she would be away from Rietfontein, out of the dust and the sand, but she would miss the freedom of this place. A line of ants ran through the dry scrub. She rolled onto her side to look at them. Edwin had told her once that he had counted twenty different species here in one day. He would have enjoyed that. She smiled. They would be leaving in just under a month. Edwin had already found Sarah a position on a neighboring farm, and only this morning she had written to her uncle asking if he had any contacts in Cape Town who might be able to help him get started. It would be a new beginning for them. There would be shops in Cape Town, markets, and Englishwomen who might be friends. You could buy real chocolate imported straight from England. They might have a house with running water.
After a moment, she sat up, unlaced her boots, and walked down into the riverbed. The heavy sand was hot and dry, and it prickled between her toes. She nudged her feet beneath its surface, enjoying the warm weight on her skin. Tucked into the riverbank on the far side was a tightly woven bird’s nest, and inside it two halves of an eggshell. She cradled the feathery weight of it in the palm of her hand, pleased. Edwin would know what it was. She would give it to him. This was the gesture which might allow her to erase some of the bad feeling between them.
She was deeply content when she walked up to the house, her legs dusty, her arms supple and firm, her hair crackling in the heat. A horse was tethered outside, and when she went in she saw a man sitting at the table with her husband. He stood up when she came in, raised his hat to her, and said, “I’d best be off.”
He was English and she asked him to stay for supper, but Edwin intervened: “He has to get back.”
“Edwin,” she said when the man had gone, “I wanted to say to you—” She stopped. “Cape Town. I’m so pleased.” She smiled at him. “Thank you. For everything you have done.”
He looked at her with a tight, closed expression. “Frances, please. Sit down.” He motioned to one of the chairs around the table.
“What is it?” she asked, sitting.
“We’re not going to Cape Town. At least, not yet.”
He paused, and she waited for him to explain.
“There is a rumor of smallpox, in Kimberley.”
“But how? The Cape has been declared free of it.”
“Isaac is a sanitary inspector. He has seen smallpox before. He says some natives brought it down the East Coast from Mozambique.”
“What has all this got to do with us? You left Kimberley months ago. There are other doctors.”
“Perhaps not with my experience.”
“Oh, Edwin, don’t flatter yourself. There must be a handful of doctors in Kimberley who could diagnose someone with the pox.”
“That’s the problem. They are denying the disease.”
“Which means it probably isn’t smallpox after all.”
“Perhaps. I should like to go see for myself. Besides, I thought you would be pleased. Haven’t you always wanted to see Kimberley?”
She pushed her thumbnail into the soft wood of the tabletop, making a crescent-shaped groove. William was in Kimberley. If they went, she was bound to see him again. The familiar, dull pain twisted into fire. He would be married by now. Would he even be pleased to see her?
“I was hoping we could get settled in Cape Town. I have already written to my uncle. You need to get your practice started. Why delay?”
“We will do all those things, but first I have to go to Kimberley.”
She saw there was no point in arguing with him. “When do you want to leave?”
“As soon as possible. Sunday, if we can manage it.” It was Thursday. That gave them three days. She felt excitement, tinged with dread, stir inside her, like the uncoiling of a snake. She wanted to see William, but she knew it would only make her more unhappy.
It wasn’t until she was undressing later that she found the eggshell she had brought back for Edwin tucked into her skirt pocket. There was no use for it now, and she crushed it in the palm of her hand and let the shards fall between her fingers out of the window onto the earth below.
Twenty-Six
New Rush.” The driver’s shout woke her, and she was back with the sway of the wagon and the shouts of the boy as he flicked the oxen with his sjambok. She had fallen asleep with her head cradled into Edwin’s shoulder, and she pulled herself upright. The canvas at the back of the wagon was unbuttoned. Edwin lifted it up, letting in a shaft of bright sunlight, and dropped off the back. After a few minutes, Frances joined him. They had been traveling since dawn, and her legs were cramped and swollen. It felt good to walk. The oxen were tossing their heads to keep off the flies, and Mangwa, who was tethered to the back of the wagon, had turned the color of rust in the cloud of dust thrown up by the wheels. She tapped the boy on the shoulder, and he pointed to a dirty smudge in the distance.
When one of the oxen stopped in its tracks, the wagon lurched and ground to a halt. The boy lashed at it with his sjambok, the tuft of antelope skin flickering through the air like a hornet.
“Rooinek,” he shouted, over and over, whipping its flanks in a frenzy. The ox began to move, and Edwin laughed.
“What?” Frances asked.
“Rooinek. It means ‘Englishman.’ He’s calling it lazy.”
They walked with scarves wrapped round their faces like a desert tribe, to keep off the dust and the sun. Carcasses of animals and old broken-up vehicles littered the sides of the road. It was hours before they saw anything of note, and even then it was only a tumbled heap of Boers, searching in the dust for diamonds. They were living out on the plain in the thatched mud huts built by natives. They didn’t look up when the wagon trundled past, even though it drove so close that the driver’s sjambok could have touched their backs. Frances trailed her foot through the soil like a plow. Strange to think that you only had to turn over a stone here, and you could make a fortune. They call
ed the sand diamondiferous. Further on, they passed a mound of rubbish. Native children clambered through it, knee-deep, and came out clutching glass bottles and rolls of paper.
When evening came on, they climbed back into the wagon. Edwin held out his flask of water, and she took it gratefully. She had always thought that he enjoyed the isolation of the farm, but every few minutes he lifted the side of the canvas to see where they were, and she realized he was impatient to get there. It occurred to her that she wouldn’t have him to herself anymore, which was an odd thing to think, because she had never put much value on his company.
The boy ran down the wagon lighting the lanterns, and she could hear, far off, a clamoring, like the distant hum of a hornets’ nest. Edwin rolled up the canvas so they could look out. The noise grew louder by the second, then lights shone in front of them, and a few minutes later they were in the midst of a throng of men. The town had swallowed them. Diggers swarmed over the road, carrying picks and spades, and leading mules—more people than she had seen in the last six months put together. Naked black men and butch, muscled Europeans swung into view as they held up their lanterns to look in at them. They were moving against the tide. Diggers, finished with work for the day, were walking out of town to the huts and wide canvas tents which clustered the sides of the road. Men pressed against them on all sides, calling loudly to one another. The oxen, uneasy, bellowed and groaned, and the boy held their heads and led them on. Then the road widened, and they were in the midst of a carnival of light. Stores and canteens, lit up with paraffin lamps, plied a bustling trade. Wood fires blazed in furnaces outside, flickering their light over the crowd of customers who bellowed to one another across the street. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and roasting meat. The wagon turned and turned again, and they entered a clearing.
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