The Fever Tree

by Jennifer McVeigh

  “It is not always easy to live in the shadow of other people’s courage,” Sister Clara said.

  “I don’t think I lack courage.” Frances stood up, piqued by the ease with which this woman seemed to judge her. She looked around the clean, ordered room. What she lacked was the means to live. Did Sister Clara know that Edwin was working for nothing trying to help the natives in the compounds? That they had no money to fall back on if it all went wrong? That her beloved pail system had failed to make it to the outskirts of town, where they were camped in squalor?

  “Thank you, Sister Clara,” Frances said, giving the woman a curt smile and leaving the room.

  • • •

  WHEN FRANCES LEFT the hospital, the sun was directly overhead. Edwin had asked her to buy some things for supper, and she headed towards Market Square. Her stomach felt tight and hollow, and as she walked a cold sweat prickled up her spine. Though the glare hurt her eyes, she couldn’t feel its heat and her mouth was dry and sticky. She wiped her hand over her forehead and paused for a second by the side of the road, waiting for the feeling to pass. It was then that she saw the same two men standing a little way off. They must have gone to the hospital and come back at the same time as her. The European’s eyes slid over her then looked away.

  The whole of Kimberley might have been gathered in the market. It was a roar of noise; a patchwork of color and people, talking, shoving, bartering, and embracing. An auction for secondhand mining equipment was being held on the steps of the hotel. The rap of the hammer beat like a tin drum above the commotion. On the outskirts of the square, wagons full of timber, coal, and green cabbages were being unloaded. Crates of iron cooking utensils glinted in the sun. She nudged her way into the tight press of stalls, where a flow of people seethed and jostled, past Europeans, natives, Malays, and Indians. The place smelt of moldering vegetables, spices, and dried fish. Women with black, gnarled faces and strange piercings unrolled yards of fabric, their patterns fading in the sun. Malay men were squatted on the ground, dwarfed by sacks of spices full of cinnamon and cloves, smoking pipes which gave off a thick, sweet smoke.

  Edwin had asked her to buy flour, meat, and sugar, but she had never set foot in a market before. In London, the cook had sent an errand boy out to buy the goods which weren’t delivered to the house. It mattered to her that Edwin thought she was at least capable of buying their supper, and she wasn’t going to go home empty-handed. Two near-naked natives pushed past, smelling of animal hides and sweat. There was a tugging at her skirt. A dark-skinned boy with no legs was dragging himself behind her on his hands. She turned to get away from him, but he was under her feet, and there was a soft crunch as she trod on his fingers. The boy screamed. Frances apologized, then pushed deeper into the market, leaving him behind.

  She stopped by a butcher’s stall. Carcasses hung from metal hooks under a canvas awning. More were piled up on a trestle table: lurid red slabs slicked over with white muscle. The meat had tightened in the heat, its surfaces congealing to a dark, ruby leather flecked with the smooth curve of a bone or tendon. Flies swarmed, rising in a cloud when the man struck at them with a stick, and the meat swung in spiraling circles on the rusting hooks. Blood dripped down into matted pools of dust. There was a metallic, cloying smell. She thought about the native lying on their floor with his shin jutting straight out of his leg. Her mouth tasted acid. She swallowed bile and spoke to the man behind the stall.

  He was a Boer with a heavy beard and lank, greasy hair. He didn’t appear to understand English, but when she asked for beef he pointed to a cut of meat and she nodded. There was another tug at her skirts. The beggar boy was back. He swung himself into a sitting position and held out his hand to her. His fingers were scuffed and bleeding where she had trodden on them. The butcher was talking to her. He held up five fingers. “Five,” he said, in English. She wasn’t sure of the currency, and pulled out a wad of notes from her purse. She took too long reading them, and he reached over and plucked them from her, sorted through them, and peeled away three or four. The boy pulled at her hand, jabbering in Kaffir. She felt guilty and handed him a note, but he took it from her, waving it in disgust as if it weren’t enough, then reached up on the stumps of his legs to grab at her wrists, shuffling around her feet so she couldn’t move.

  She felt dizzy now. The meat was wrapped in paper, and not having a bag, she clutched it in one hand. Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw the two men who had been at the hospital, but when she turned they had gone. All of a sudden her stomach contracted and nausea washed up inside her. A surge of vomit filled her mouth and she doubled over in front of the stall. The Boer shouted, waving his hands at her to move on. A group of Malay men, sitting in a row, watched her silently without helping. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve and started walking back through the stalls, wanting to get home, willing to forget the flour and the sugar, but the stalls were tacked together haphazardly and so many rows deep that when she tried to find her way out, she realized she was lost.

  Eventually she came out onto a quiet street. She had no idea where she was, and she followed it, hoping to emerge on a road that she recognized. There were footsteps behind her, but it wasn’t until she turned the corner that she realized they were following. The hairs rose up on the back of her neck. She glanced back. The European was wearing dirty overalls with a cap pushed down on his head. When he saw her watching, he smiled, and she felt a trickle of fear. She walked faster, but they kept pace. She was lost now, with no idea which way to go. Another wave of cramps ripped through her.

  Two white women turned the corner on the opposite side. Frances felt a surge of relief. They would be able to help her. One of them pushed a large perambulator, and the other, tall and graceful, laughed as she told a story. They both wore white dresses, straw hats, and white gloves. They looked immaculate and refined, like polished stones glinting in a pile of rubble. A colored servant in uniform strolled behind them, shielding them from the sun with a parasol.

  She called out to them, and they turned and glanced warily in her direction. Frances froze. The tall woman was Eloise Woodhouse. She recognized her broad face and strong features. She was more beautiful, in the daylight, than Frances had expected her to be. Her skin was perfectly smooth, and her mouth was soft and wide as she looked at her. After a moment, Eloise took her friend’s arm in a protective gesture and they kept walking. Frances hesitated before following, reluctant to be seen in such a state by the woman William had meant to marry, but fear drove her on.

  “Please, stop,” she cried, running across the street. She didn’t want to be left alone. The men would catch up with her any minute. She touched Eloise on the shoulder. The woman turned and looked in horror at her dress, then at Frances’s ungloved hand. Her fingers, bloodied from the meat, had left a pink stain on the white fabric.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, taking a step backwards, mortified, but not forgetting the men who stood behind her. “If you could just help me . . .”

  Eloise interrupted, saying something to the servant, who stepped between them, blocking her way. Frances stared at her, too shocked for a moment to speak. Eloise had mistaken her for a beggar.

  The women began walking away. “I’m English,” she called after them, thinking that she just needed to explain. “My name is Frances Matthews. I am Sir John Hamilton’s niece.” But they didn’t turn around, and soon they had turned the corner out of sight.

  She let them go, gripped by a sudden nausea. Her stomach plunged and her mouth filled with saliva. An icy-cold sweat dripped down her spine and the backs of her legs. She doubled over on the street, vomiting.

  “Madam, are you all right?” One of the men had caught up with her, and he laid a hand on her shoulder, stroking it as she retched. She shrugged it off, but he kept it there, letting it slide down to the small of her back. She was breathing heavily. “Or perhaps you would rather the comforts of my friend?”

  She looked up and saw the native watching her. Otherwi
se, the street was empty. Dread settled like mist against her skin.

  “Please. Leave me,” she said, shaking her head and backing up.

  “We couldn’t do that,” the man said, smiling at her. There was something treacherous and mean in his face.

  “What do you want?” She took out her purse with clumsy fingers and held it out to him, but he grasped her hand instead and it fell into the street. He unclenched her fingers, forcing open her palm. His confidence had her transfixed, like a fly caught in a web. If she moved, he would bind her closer. So she stayed very still, the hairs pricking up on the backs of her arms. He took hold of her fingers, one by one.

  “This little piggy went to market,

  “This little piggy should have stayed at home,

  “This little piggy bought roast beef,

  “This little piggy will have none,

  “And this little piggy went . . . wee wee wee wee . . . all the way home”—he waggled her little finger and smiled at her—“and persuaded Mr. Piggy that he should keep his snout out of other people’s business.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked in a whisper.

  He laughed at her, dropping her hand and backing away. “Kimberley is no place for kaffir lovers, Mrs. Matthews. Your husband should have learnt that a long time ago.”

  He bent down and plucked the notes out of her purse. Then they turned and left her standing in the street. When they had gone she was gripped by a cramping so strong that she couldn’t stop it, and she had to lift her skirts and squat in the gutter. She was too ill to care if someone saw her. Her bowels emptied, and she groaned, caught between shame and need, no better than the beggar Eloise Woodhouse had mistaken her for. When it was over she moved on down the street, filthy and scared, desperate to find her way back to Edwin. It was almost dark by the time she got home. Edwin watched her walk into the yard. His face was tense.

  “The water,” he said, pointing to the barrel. “What have you done with all our water?”

  “I washed our linen,” she said weakly, remembering tipping out great vatfuls of soapy water into their yard.

  “You washed our linen?” he exclaimed. “And used all our water for a week. Do you have any idea what that water costs us?” It was so rare to see him angry. In all their time at Rietfontein he had never once raised his voice.

  Frances felt light on her feet. She swayed at the entrance to the tent. “I bought some beef,” she said ineffectually, holding out her bloodied parcel, which she had managed to keep with her. When she moved, her limbs felt buoyant, as if they didn’t belong to her. She laughed strangely. He didn’t take the meat from her, so she placed it on the table. It had been weighing her down. There had been an idea in the back of her mind, all through the horrible journey home, that Edwin would be kind to her when she got back. His anger wasn’t at all what she had been expecting.

  “What else did you buy?” he asked.

  “There was no more money,” she said, walking unsteadily towards the back of the tent. The cramps had started again.

  “Frances, come back here.”

  She pushed aside the curtain, but somehow couldn’t find her way through it. A deep sickness surged up from her stomach. The fabric felt too heavy in her hands, and her skin prickled as if her dress were full of pins. She tried to cry out, but the side of the tent was falling away from her. The world tilted and the curtain ran through her fingers as she fell.

  Edwin lifted her up and placed her on the bed. He worked quickly, stripping off her clothes and wiping her down with a wet cloth. “I’m sorry,” she said, over and over. “I’m sorry.”

  The world disappeared, and in its place was a cavernous pit which was alternately fire and ice. Her body was gripped by fever. She lost all sense of time. It seemed to her that a swarm of bugs had crawled under the canvas, the floor trembled with them, and now they seethed up the legs of the bed and over the mattress and began eating at her body. She dreamt that the earth was a living, breathing thing—she could feel the undulations of each heaving breath—swilling with filth and seeping blood and poison from its skin. The smell of the blood clung to her fingers—the native’s blood—and she was sure the bed sheets, wet with her sweat, were drenched in it. Edwin’s careful administrations tortured her, making her too cold or too hot. He forced her to sip water, which made her body seize, and she vomited into the bowl which he held out for her. Periodically, he stripped off the blankets, dampening her burning body with wet flannels, and she writhed with cold. Then he was gone for a seemingly infinite amount of time, and she called, then sobbed, for him to come back. She thought she saw Mariella, stroking her face and smiling too wide.

  “Boudica,” she said, leaning in to speak to Frances.

  “What?” Frances cried. “What did you say? I don’t understand.”

  “Boudica is gone,” she said, enunciating very clearly, and Frances saw herself standing in front of William’s mirror on the Cambrian, red hair tumbling over her shoulders, and her eyes glittering back at her, wild and unsure.

  When Edwin came back, Frances watched him, convinced that in the exact tilting of his head and the movements of his hands was hidden some mathematical equation which she must—but couldn’t—solve.

  At some point, she heard a cacophony of voices and found herself outside. The cicadas were so loud that she put her hands over her ears. The landscape was white and leached of color, and the sun burnt her eyes. In the hot glare she saw the zebra standing in the yard with his nose dropped to the floor and his body shuddering. A red gash sliced his neck from ear to ear. Blood oozed down his chest and dripped onto the sand.

  • • •

  SHE OPENED HER EYES one morning and felt sane and calm. There was a bitter taste in her mouth. Edwin was cleaning out a rifle. She hadn’t seen him with it before. He was quiet, concentrating, his lean fingers pushing a rod smoothly backwards and forwards through the barrel. She watched, her body and mind empty of emotion.

  “What happened to Mangwa?” she asked, unsure now what she had really seen.

  He slid the rod from the rifle, removed a small cotton cloth attached to its end, and stood both rod and gun up against the side of the canvas.

  “How do you feel?” he asked, taking her hand and feeling for her pulse.

  “Better.” Then, after a moment, “How long have I been sick?”

  “Four days. You drank the water from the barrel, didn’t you?”

  She nodded, remembering now that he had told her to drink from the jug he had set aside. “And Mangwa?” she asked.

  He put her hand back down onto the bed. “We’ll talk about it later. You need to rest.”

  She fell into a deep, dreamless sleep and woke up with the evening light filtering through the sides of the curtain. Edwin was sitting by the fire, frying onions. She sank into a chair next to him, her mouth watering with sudden hunger. The sun had set behind them, and the air was full of dust particles caught in a hazy, pink twilight.

  Mangwa stood in the yard, eating hay. There was a line of dried blood, like black ink, around the scoop of his neck. “What happened to him?”

  “He was cut with a knife. It isn’t deep.”

  “Why would someone do that?” Her mind felt slow, and she struggled to make sense of it.

  Edwin added a spoonful of lard to the onions, then tipped in a piece of meat, which sizzled and caught in the hot fat. “A few days ago I wrote a letter to the Diamond News explaining my findings of smallpox in four native compounds.”

  “What does that have to do with Mangwa?”

  “Someone disliked it enough to give me a warning.”

  She paused for a second, watching the weaver birds building their untidy, sprawling nest in the dead branches of the small tree in their yard.

  “Baier?”

  “Perhaps.”

  She told him about the men in the street.

  “I’m sorry, Frances,” he said softly, looking at her. “From now on, you shouldn’t go out alone.”


  “Isn’t there someone you could write to? With more influence than you?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve tried, but most people don’t want to listen. It’s not in their interest for Kimberley to fail. And those that do would be reluctant to come up against Baier.”

  “So what will you do?”

  “Vaccinate as many people as possible.”

  “And Baier?”

  Edwin turned the meat in the pot. It hissed and spluttered as it browned, and he wiped his cheek on his shoulder. His skin was dark with grime and sun. “The Cape government has formed a sanitary board. It is full of the pink-slip men. They have barred me from the compounds, and from the hospital. I’m making a speech in the town hall next week.”

  She wanted to ask if it was dangerous, but she was too tired. She closed her eyes. Edwin was pouring wine over the meat in the pot, and it bubbled and spat, letting off a rich, salty aroma. After a moment she got up and walked over to Mangwa.

  He had finished the hay and was dozing, but when she approached he nudged her pockets and nickered softly. Frances ran her hand around the line of congealed blood, and the zebra shivered. There had been too much violence in the last few days. She wondered whether there was somewhere else for her to go, but she knew it was hopeless. The only person who could protect her was Edwin.

  Twenty-Eight

  What you need, Frances, is something to take your mind off things. What about a trip?”

  Mariella stood in their yard, dressed in a smart, white cotton jacket with a pretty sailor’s hat, looking a picture of health and cleanliness. She had arrived in Kimberley two weeks ago, and finding out from Anne that Frances was in town, she had visited, but Frances had been in the depths of her fever. Now she had returned to see how she was recovering.

  “What kind of trip?”

  “You know, a voyage,” she said, throwing open her arms and lengthening the vowels into a mockery of French. “We have to get you out of this dreadful place.” Mariella, curls bouncing and belly swelling with her baby, looked disdainfully at the patch of dust they called the yard. “Why ever did you agree to let him come to Kimberley?” she asked. “It was a terrible idea.”