Chapter Eight
Spring that year was wet and cold. Late snow fell on the mountains to the west and bitter winds blew down on Saxenburg. The birds hated the damp and the cold, and both chicks and young birds began to die. Kate brought them into the big incubator shed, into the garage and even into the house itself, turning the office into a creche where the chicks could dry out and get some warmth.
All this meant a great deal of extra work and worry for her. They had increased the size of their flock, buying in stud birds and putting in two new incubators. They had also built a dam in the northern section of the farm where there was winter run-off from higher ground. This had cost a considerable amount of money, much of it borrowed from the bank.
Mendel was calling for more and more feathers. He had taken on agents in Paris, Berlin and Vienna and was rapidly expanding the ostrich-feather side of his business as the lobby against the use of exotic and wild-bird feathers caused that trade to dry up.
Kate was running an overdraft on the farm account, something that gave her nightmares. She hated the thought of borrowing. To be in debt in her stratum of society in Scotland had been a cause for shame. Now, it seemed, you could be in debt to a bank for thousands of pounds if your name was Preller and be looked upon by Mr. Hamilton with affection and respect. It hardly made sense to her.
It was against this background of physical weariness and worry that she had a major row with Charles, with results that no one, least of all Kate herself, could have foreseen. He was still trying to put together the necessary capital for the canning factory and had decided to take a trip up the West coast of the country, where there were at least three large canning operations which he wanted to study. He came to Kate for money. She was both embarrassed that he should have to do such a thing on what amounted to his own farm, and also irritated, because his income from the joint company was greatly in excess of hers.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You know I would if I could, but my mother’s feet are needing attention and I have those bills to pay above the other money that goes to them.’
‘I don’t mean I want your own private money,’ he said. ‘Christ, don’t be silly. It can come from the farm account.’
‘But I can’t authorize that sort of expenditure. Anyway, even if I could, the overdraft’s enormous.’
‘Of course you can authorize it. And all farmers run an overdraft.’
‘Charles, every penny has to be accounted for.’
‘You could put it down to repair for the sheds or something like that.’
‘You mean, lie to your mother? You know she goes over the books.’
‘Jesus, I’m not asking for charity. I’ll repay it once I’ve got the factory going.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Listen, you talk about doing up the tennis court and the swimming pool. Is that your money or the farm’s?’
‘The farm’s, of course.’
‘Well, don’t you think it’s more worthwhile spending it on something like the factory?’
‘What I think doesn’t matter. Anyway, nothing’s been done about the court or the pool, and it wasn’t my idea in the first place. Your mother suggested it. If she wants to use the money for that, she’s entitled to. She’s worked hard all her life keeping this place together.’
‘You don’t have to tell me. Christ, she’s told me often enough herself!’ There was anger in his eyes and she found herself matching it.
‘If you’d put money aside when you got your dividends you’d not have to ask now. Instead, you run around with your friends in Cape Town, golfing and dining and God knows what.’
‘At least I’m welcome there. Living with you is like living with a bloody iceberg. You have no warmth. Even when we’re in bed, it’s like fucking a . . . I don’t know what. Not a woman. Certainly not my wife.’
She had to go to Helmsdale to see Mr. Hamilton about a payment that had come through from London and when she got back, the red roadster had gone. Lena told her that he had left for Cape Town. For once she did not go to Smuts’ rooms for a drink that evening and when he came to look for her, told him she had a headache. She went to bed early but in spite of her physical exhaustion, she could not sleep. Her mind fretted at the argument, turning it this way and that, examining its underbelly. She came eventually to the conclusion that Charles was right, she had been cold to him since Jonas’s death, and that was not fair. She had married him for her own reasons, the least she could do was continue to try to make a success of it. The following day she caught a train for Cape Town.
*
The train got in about seven. The rush-hour was over, the station deserted and gloomy. As her taxi ground up the mountainside, she began to wonder if she was doing the right thing. She had no real plan, it was just that their happiest time together had been on honeymoon and she had thought she might be able to recreate some of the atmosphere and kindle some warmth between them.
The flat was in darkness, but that did not surprise her. she had telephoned before she left, but there had been no reply. She let herself in. It was dark and cold and she went round switching on lights and electric fires.
She put down her small case in the bedroom. The bed was unmade and there was a bottle of brandy a third full on one of the bedside tables. With it was a jug of water and a glass. She supposed Charles had drunk himself to sleep the previous night.
She began to tidy up. Some of his underwear was lying on the floor and she scooped it up. There were a couple of towels in the laundry-basket which she could not recall leaving the last time, and a comb with a frizz of hair in it. She picked it up with distaste and threw it into the waste-paper basket. She went back and made the bed. As she did so, she saw a second glass wedged between the top of the bed and the headboard. She stared at it for several seconds, then she picked it up and examined it. There was no trace of lipstick around the rim. Charles might have rested it there, forgotten where it was and fetched another. There could be a dozen explanations.
She returned to the sitting-room, which opened onto the large verandah and the magnificent view of the city lights. The white curtains were drawn back, but the room lacked warmth. She shivered in the chilly air. She did not feel at home in it, even though she had redecorated it. It was Boss Charles Preller’s room, and Charles’s, not hers, and perhaps it never would be. Her mind reached into the future and she saw herself come into the flat with a small child on each hand, turning it into a home. But the picture lacked credibility. Standing there, she wondered if she had been right to come. But what else could she have done? Surely it would be a signal to Charles that she was prepared to play a secondary role. His position was invidious, she did not want it to become intolerable.
She made herself a pot of coffee and took a cup out onto the verandah. The spring night was breezy, one of the first south-easters of summer. She stood at the rail, sipping her coffee, absorbing the picture of the lights. She was about to turn away when she saw a figure standing in the garden. It looked like a woman. She seemed to be staring up at the house.
Then a gust of wind shook the leaves of the big oak trees and the woman became a pattern of moving shadows, nothing more. But Kate stood, transfixed, remembering the time when a woman had stood there and looked up at the house. She remembered crouching on the verandah like a trapped tart when the wife comes home. She remembered the row between the woman and Charles, even some of the phrases they had used. It came back to her. The black hair glimpsed over Charles’s shoulder, the thick, screeching voice. Yes, that was it. The voice. Slowly, an image began to form in her mind. Hazy, red, torn and scraped. The ideas were associated. It had been Miriam’s voice she had heard; Miriam had been that woman.
She went back into the sitting-room and closed out the night. She concentrated, trying to recall their conversation, but only snatches came to her. There had been something about someone not wanting Miriam to come to the house. Had she meant his mother?
Just then she heard a noise on the s
tairs and went to open the door, expecting Charles. It was Freda.
‘Thank God you’re in,’ Freda said, pushing past her. ‘I telephoned Saxenburg and they told me you’d taken the train. Thank God you’re here!’
‘Whatever is wrong?’
They went into the sitting-room. Kate noticed that her hair was blown and she was agitated. Her eyes were puffy and there were red smudges beneath them as though she had been weeping. She flung down a heavy fur coat and said, ‘Have you got a drink? I need one.’ Kate gave her a brandy.
‘I’ve got no one to talk to. No one.’
‘Sit down. Tell me what’s wrong.’
‘Everything. Me. Jerry. Everything.’
She paced the room. ‘Can I use your telephone?’
She spoke for a few moments while Kate poured herself a drink.
She heard Freda say, ‘When? Are you sure? Yes. Yes, yes. No, never. All right. Outside.’
She put down the telephone. Her hands were shaking. ‘The bastard!’ she said. She helped herself to another brandy and drank it neat, then shuddered. ‘Come on.’
‘Now, wait! I want to know . . .’
‘Please don’t ask questions. Just come. We’re going to see someone. Please . . . please . . .’
Hysteria lurked at the edges of her voice and Kate sensed that if she argued she might become violent.
‘All right. Where are we going?’
‘To Wynberg. The car’s outside. You’ll need a coat.’
Kate followed her downstairs and climbed into an open Sunbeam. Freda drove along the Main Road through Cape Town’s southern suburbs, then turned off onto dirt roads. The wind was cold and the noise of the engine made speech impossible. Finally they came to a hedge of Australian myrtle. A man was standing by a small Austin Seven at the side of the road. Freda went to him.
When she came back she said, ‘This is the place.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Someone I pay.’
‘Listen, Freda, I don’t . . .’
‘For God’s sake, help me!’ The phrase rang like a bell and Kate saw Jonas’s face, the rain pouring down his cheeks, the wild animal eyes. Help me, Miss Kate!
Freda took her arm and they went through the big iron gates. There was a short gravelled drive and a turn-around with a lawn in the middle. Several motors were parked along the drive and there were others at the side of the house. It was old Cape Dutch architecture, with colonial gables and a deep verandah of flagstones broken by white supporting pillars. The main doors let off the verandah. As they came onto the flagstones she recognised the strains of ‘There’s a Small Hotel’ coming from behind the curtained windows.
Freda put her hand to the door-knob. ‘Don’t you think you should knock?’ Kate said. But the door swung open and they were inside.
The music, louder now, was coming from a room to the right. Kate followed Freda across the hall. As in a dream, she noticed the expensive teak panelling, the marble tiles, the carved staircase. She was clearly in an important Cape homestead and she felt embarrassed and out of place. Freda had already reached the room. She caught Kate by the sleeve, opened the door and they went in together.
The room was in semi-darkness. At first no one noticed them. Perhaps twenty people were dancing a fox-trot to the Victrola. It was clearly a private party and again Kate was swept by embarrassment. She was about to move back into the hall when she realised there was something strange about the people. The women seemed larger than they should have been, their bare arms muscular. Then she saw that there were no women in the room. All the ‘women’ were men. At that moment Jerry came dancing by. He was wearing a lounge suit, but his partner was wearing a long dress that reached to the floor, and he was heavily made up. They were dancing very close.
At that moment, Freda gave a shriek of savage anger and disgust. ‘Jerry! Jerry, you fucking homo!’ She turned to Kate. ‘You’ve seen! You’re my witness!’ But Kate’s attention was elsewhere. As the dancers parted she saw, across the room, sitting in a large chair by the fireplace, her husband. A young man of about eighteen was sharing the chair and they were fondling each other. For a long moment, she and Charles looked at each other, then she felt bile come up into her throat and thought she was going to be sick on the floor.
A voice said, ‘Come in, ducky!’ But Freda had grasped her arm and they were running back through the hall and out of the house. Only the sounds of laughter followed them.
‘You’re my witness,’ Freda was saying. ‘You’ll tell them what you saw. I’ll get every penny from him. I’ll tell his father. I’ll tell it in court. My God, I’ll ruin him!’
Kate climbed into the car beside her. The little Austin Seven had vanished. Freda started the Sunbeam, threw it recklessly round in a circle and sped back the way they had come. She drove with abandon. Kate could hear her shrill voice above the engine and wind, but did not know what she was saying. The memory of what she had just seen was crowding every other thought from her mind.
They plunged back into the city. Freda was driving at nearly sixty miles an hour. The traffic was light, but Kate began to feel afraid. They raced towards a cross roads. A car came from the right. Freda saw it in time and tried to swerve, but one of the wheels stuck in the tramlines.
The Sunbeam hit the other car head-on at fifty-eight miles an hour. Kate was airborne. She saw the windscreen coming towards her and heard the crash of glass as she went through it. She felt the wind of her own flight and sensed the ground race up to meet her. She was unconscious for a few seconds. When she came to she felt a weight on her chest and thought that the car was on top of her. She seemed to come in and out of consciousness like a drugged person. She knew she was badly hurt. She couldn’t move. She heard voices. And all the time she felt the drip, drip of her blood running down her face and neck. Oh, God, she prayed, let it not be my face.
Then the weight was lifted and she knew it had been Freda lying on her. Her throat was cut from ear to ear and it was her blood that had been dripping.
A voice said, ‘Okay, man, I’ve got her.’
She felt the stretcher under her, felt the swaying of the ambulance, saw the lights of the casualty ward, the white coats of the doctors. And all the time she was saying, over and over, ‘Please, God, not my face . . . not my face . . .’ Then she smelt ether, and at last the lights went out.
PART THREE
The Trial
Chapter One
London. A morning in early spring. Kate was woken by a discreet knocking. For a moment, in the dim bedroom, she could not think where she was. Then she knew. She was in Isidore Mendel’s house in Charles Street.
The door opened and Mrs. McConnell came in with her breakfast tray and the morning paper.
‘How are you feeling today, Mrs. Preller?’
‘Fine, thank you.’ She raised herself on her pillows.
Mrs. McConnell was in her mid-fifties, a Scotswoman from Ullapool who ran Mendel’s house with fine precision. Kate had never seen such a clean house. Everything shone, from the brass door knocker on the gleaming, black-painted front door, to the brass fire-irons and the sparkling crystal glasses.
‘It’s a bonny day.’ Mrs. McConnell pulled open the curtains to let in the pale sunshine. ‘But best wrap up if you’re going out. The wind’s in the east.’
There was something, a boniness, a greyness, about her that reminded Kate of her mother. Now she lifted the tray with its drop sides and arranged it over Kate’s lap. ‘There,’ she said. ‘I’ve done you a poached egg and a wee bit bacon. And here’s the paper. Mr. Mendel says he’ll be up to see you in an hour. That’s at half-past nine.’
When she had gone, Kate looked down at the tray. Tea, a mixture of Lapsang Suchong and Darjeeling which Mendel had blended for him at Jackson’s, was in a silver pot. There was a silver milk jug and a silver hot water jug. Pale brown toast stood in a silver rack and Mrs. McConnell’s own home-made marmalade was in a crystal pot with a silver spoon. The china was Coalport, the s
now-white table-napkin linen.
She lifted the lid of the warmer and saw two poached eggs and crisp curls of Wiltshire bacon. She had said that she only wanted toast in the morning, but Mrs. McConnell obviously felt she needed fattening up.
She put the eggs on her plate, cut them so that the yokes ran, then went into her bathroom and flushed them down the lavatory. She returned to bed, buttered a slice of toast, nibbled at the bacon and drank two cups of tea. Then she lay back, smoking a cigarette.
She picked up a hand-mirror from the table and looked at herself. There were no marks, just the thin, familiar cheeks, the eyes that seemed to flash with an inner energy and the short, black hair. She lifted the hair on the left side of her forehead and there it was, the scar, like a pink crescent near the hair line. She touched it. It had almost no feeling.
It was at times like this that the fears and memories that hid among the shadows of her mind threatened to surface. It took only a word or a phrase or a colour to place her back on that pavement in Cape Town with Freda’s blood dripping onto her face and neck. There were other colours – white, for instance – and smells – carbolic – that took her instantly back to the small ward where she had lain in the same hospital where Duggie had had his leg taken off.
From her bed she had stared out of the window with its view of Devil’s Peak and watched the wisps of cloud play around the summit, hour after hour. Sometimes one of the nurses would come in and chat. Sometimes they brought her books, but she did not want to read.
She was in hospital for nearly three weeks, and it was a week before she was allowed visitors. Charles had been first. He had telephoned twice and three times a day and had sent so many flowers that Kate had told the nurses to take them to the other wards.
The scar was the first thing he had mentioned. Her head had been shaved for the stitches and then painted with a brown disinfectant. She had not been able to bear looking at herself in a mirror. The nurses told her that once it healed and the hair grew back she would hardly notice it. In her depression, she did not believe them. She thought less about her broken collar-bone and fractured ribs than about her disfigurement.
The Sea Cave Page 24