The Fire Portrait

by Barbara Mutch

  ‘Oh, Miss Fran.’ Violet met us at the door, her eyes red. ‘The Lord kept her for you.’

  This would be different from Aunt Mary, who would have abhorred a deathbed scene.

  ‘Mother?’ I murmured close to her face. ‘I’m here. I’m with you now.’

  A faint smile etched itself on her lips. There was almost no substance to her these last few months, just parchment skin over bone, shakily connected by veins of cobalt blue.

  ‘Frances?’ she whispered, opening her eyes. ‘Will you forgive me?’

  A frail hand felt for mine. I held it, careful not to squeeze.

  ‘Whatever for, Mother? There’s nothing to forgive.’

  ‘Water?’ she managed.

  Violet appeared at my side with a glass. I lifted Mother’s head and dribbled a little into her mouth.

  ‘I couldn’t let myself love you openly,’ she murmured. ‘Not after losing Gideon. I couldn’t do it again.’

  The detachment, the attention to trivialities lest heartbreak intrude, the absence of a sibling for me.

  ‘It wasn’t because I didn’t care.’ She tried to raise herself up. ‘It meant I cared too much!’

  I gathered her small frame against me.

  ‘I know. I loved you then, Mother. I still love you. There’s nothing to forgive.’

  She sank back. I stroked her forehead.

  ‘Open the curtains,’ she said faintly.

  I got up and pulled the heavy velvets aside.

  ‘You loved to look out at night,’ she whispered. ‘I couldn’t understand why.’

  She closed her eyes. Father came in, and Violet too, and we waited until the dawn broke and birds called sharply through the open window and she slipped away from us.

  I shook myself in the front-row pew.

  That had happened a week before. I cashed my cheque from Kirstenbosch and went to Stuttafords in Adderley Street to buy a black dress and a small veiled hat and black heeled shoes of a quality that Mother would have approved. We found Father’s darkest suit and I bought him a black tie.

  ‘I don’t see how I can come, my dear,’ Julian said down a crackling party line from Aloe Glen. ‘Will you forgive me if I stay here? I shall be with you in spirit and you have your father—’

  It was exam time, the school was short-staffed and Laetitia was ill with bronchitis.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘We will bury Mother and I’ll return in a few days’ time when Father is settled.’

  ‘Thank you, my dear. I knew you’d understand.’

  And so here I was in the church where I married, with Father and Violet, the Radissons, the Pringles, several of Mother’s Bible study friends, recent work colleagues of Father’s whom I didn’t know and of course Daph, with her husband and parents.

  ‘So sorry,’ she whispered, clinging to my hand, ‘will you have time for tea with me? And this war, I’m so frightened – I love your hat—’

  Doves landed on the roof and began to croon. I found myself borne backwards in time.

  I, Julian Thomas, take thee Frances Grace …

  In sickness and in health, until death us do part …

  Light fell through the stained-glass windows and alighted on the floor. Carmine. Lapis.

  We stood to sing ‘Abide with Me’. I glanced at Father. He’d struggled with his tie and it had come loose. Mother would never have allowed him out of the house like that.

  ‘Emily lived for her family,’ said Reverend Ben during his eulogy, although he did not know the whole of it. ‘A devoted wife, a devoted mother. She knew pain and she knew joy, as we all do in this life.’

  After the funeral, we hosted tea and refreshments at the cottage.

  ‘My condolences, Gerald,’ intoned Mr Phillips, clapping Father on the back and leaning down to kiss me on the cheek. ‘Where is that husband of yours, Frances?’

  ‘He couldn’t get away, I’m afraid. Can I offer you a slice of cake?’

  ‘You need to come back to Cape Town,’ Mr Phillips said in a low voice. ‘Gerald needs you now.’

  ‘Yes, do!’ Daph appeared at my side and deftly took her father’s plate. ‘None for you, Father, think of your waistline. Julian could find a position here, don’t you think?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘A reasonable eulogy,’ said Thelma Radisson, who’d bought an early painting from me and later adopted Mother into her knitting group. ‘But there should have been something about her brother. She clearly adored him. Have you seen the papers? They say Hitler’s massing troops at the Channel.’

  ‘Will you move?’ I overheard Mr Finlayson, a new colleague, say to Father. ‘Why not find a flat? Consolidate your position. No need for full-time help, either, I would’ve thought.’

  Reverend Ben approached, his eyes appraising.

  ‘Ah, Frances, still drawing I believe? Still finding inspiration in the works of God?’

  ‘Yes,’ I smiled. ‘Aloes in the veld. And rare bulbs. Beauty amid the drought.’

  The following morning I put on my velskoens and bush trousers and walked to Kirstenbosch. The air smelt of moist earth and newly bursting jasmine. Fernwood Buttress rose above a filmy belt of cloud.

  ‘Good morning, ma’am,’ said the attendant at the gate. ‘You’re our first guest of the day.’

  The tears began to well as I climbed the path beneath the camphor trees and found myself at the tangle of Van Riebeeck’s ancient hedge. I’d like to say I was weeping over Mother, but I wasn’t, and I don’t think she would have minded. To my right a Protea repens heaved with sunbirds; further on, the stream that once defied all my attempts to copy it ran swiftly over its pebbled bed. I pulled off my velskoens, dabbled my feet, ran barefoot across the yielding grass … then wiped my eyes and put my shoes back on and climbed up to a bench near the upper boundary, not far from the path that led up Skeleton Gorge. In the distance rose the Hottentots Holland mountains, in the foreground spread the leafy suburbs. I’d deliberately not brought Father’s binoculars with me because the temptation would have been to search out the thatch roof of Protea Rise …

  I closed my eyes and let the sun warm my face.

  ‘Frances?’

  Mark Charleson stood in front of me, astonishment on his face, one hand outstretched as if he needed to touch me to see if I was real.

  ‘I heard you lost your mother. I’m so sorry.’

  I longed to reach out to him, too. Feel his skin under my fingers. Twine my arm with his—

  ‘Thank you. She passed away last week.’

  He might touch my hair, like he used to—

  He sat down at the far end of the bench and said nothing. I remember this. He was happy with silence. A pair of sunbirds darted among shrubbery, their iridescent feathers catching the light.

  ‘Hard to paint,’ he murmured, ‘like the flash of a prism.’

  ‘Cadmium orange, green sharpened with yellow. My old teacher said it’s all about technique.’

  ‘It is,’ he smiled, ‘but you bring more than that.’ He turned to face me. ‘I bought one of your paintings, you know. A strange plant with thorns that draws my attention every time I pass it.’

  I glanced away from him. Beyond the horizon lay Julian and the rough veld I’ve embraced.

  Go, I told myself. Go now before this becomes another memory that will never let you go.

  ‘Why are you here so early, Mark?’

  He hesitated. ‘I wanted to savour it while it was quiet. I came to say goodbye.’

  ‘To Kirstenbosch? You’re moving?’

  ‘More than that. I’m about to leave for America.’ He cleared his throat. ‘My wife never settled here.’ He shot me a glance. ‘She returned with the children to Texas when war broke out. I’ve sold my practice and I’ll join them shortly.’

  For the first time we were looking at each other squarely. He was older about the face but still dark-haired and dark-eyed. I glanced down at his hands, fine-boned yet strong enough to haul me over a breaking wave. Did he
still turn towards danger to save himself?

  ‘Good luck, Mark,’ I said, standing up and holding out my hand to him. ‘I wish you well.’

  He rose, too, and took my hand briefly. His eyes roamed over my face. I blushed for my bush outfit.

  Why don’t I break through this careful courtesy?

  Ask him if he feels our meeting must be more than a coincidence? Perhaps, then, we can laugh and blame it on a God who’s chosen to tease us, bringing us together on the cusp of his departure.

  We began to walk down the slope.

  ‘Are you happy, Frances?’

  I stopped and searched his face. ‘Are you?’

  He had children. He surely loved his wife for that.

  But he didn’t reply, just touched me on the arm.

  ‘I have a flat, in Bella Vista Mansions in Claremont. Number 30. Will you come and sign your painting?’

  Don’t ask to see me again. Please.

  ‘I don’t think so, Mark. I have to sort through my mother’s belongings. As you can imagine.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I think,’ I went on with a bright smile, ‘if you will excuse me, I’ll go back via the herbarium.’

  Again, I offered him my hand. He took it and squeezed gently.

  Then he bent down and kissed me on the lips, briefly, tenderly, and walked away.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Father said a diary is a friend. I could tell it anything.

  But I cannot. Not yet.

  It has rained. Violently.

  ‘There’s an emergency town meeting,’ Julian said with noticeable agitation when he collected me from the station and I wondered at the crowd marching towards the school. Rare, heavy cloud obscured Aloe Peak. Water was collecting in the ruts of the road, where my Cape Town heels once snagged. ‘The local commandant is speaking. It’s about the war. I have to be there, there may be trouble—’

  ‘I’ll come with you. Let’s drop my case at home and go. Should I quickly change?’

  I was in Cape Town clothes – low-waister, stockings, heels.

  ‘No time. Are you sure, my dear?’ Julian shot me an anxious glance. ‘So soon after your mother?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘This is my town, too.’

  By the time we arrived, the school hall was packed. Several of the men were armed, I noticed, adding to an undercurrent that reminded me of the earliest days of my unease. The dominee was in the front row, talking seriously with his neighbours.

  ‘Take your seats, dames en here!’ shouted Abel Metz who had the loudest voice in these situations.

  ‘Over here!’ beckoned Laetitia Snyman. ‘I saved you seats.’ She paused. ‘I’m so sorry about your mother, Frances. I hope she got a good send-off?’

  ‘We could have done with some of your lively music.’

  The commandant rose. He was in his fifties, I guessed, dressed in the uniform of a regiment that had served in the trenches of the Great War. He spoke in a mixture of English and Afrikaans.

  ‘Dankie, ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming.’

  Rain began to drum on the roof. The farmers in the audience exchanged glances.

  ‘We are here to talk about our role in the conflict unfolding overseas. The war against Germany and Italy. A war that involves us all.’

  ‘We don’t want to fight,’ came a shout from the back. ‘Not for the British!’

  ‘One moment, sir!’ The commandant held up his hand. ‘There is no conscription for now. We are on the side of Britain and the Empire, but you won’t be asked to fight unless you volunteer.’

  ‘We won’t!’ yelled several more.

  ‘Hitler has invaded peaceful countries,’ the commandant went on more forcefully, ‘he has bombed civilians, thousands have died or been imprisoned. The Italians have joined his wicked Axis alliance!’

  His voice rose to a crescendo. ‘We cannot stand by! We must play our part!’

  Wynand Louw leapt to his feet, screaming. ‘Never! Nooit!’

  Mrs van Deventer raised an angry fist and shouted about her boys. Meneer Erasmus, the taciturn farmer who supplied our chickens, waved his arms in the air. Here and there, amid the melee, the odd person remained quiet. Mr Fourie from the store, who had the misfortune to resemble Hitler, remained seated, perhaps calculating the loss to his business if the area was emptied of his hungriest, fighting-age customers. Truda Louw, by the side of her raging husband, caught my eye and gave me a frightened smile. Cora Engelbrecht had her hands over her mouth. Anna Visser’s baby started to cry and she slipped out. By my side, Julian clasped and unclasped his hands in his lap. I wondered who would restore order. The dominee, belatedly? I couldn’t intervene this time. I was one of the Engelse and my loyalty, as Mrs van Deventer had harshly pointed out and my tea party ladies had alluded to, was still seen to be with my people in England.

  The commandant held up his hands once more.

  The hall calmed slightly. Thunder rolled in the distance.

  ‘I know many of you lost loved ones in the Great War,’ he bowed his head in respect, ‘but this time we are directly threatened. Italy and Germany seek to expand in Africa.’

  He began to build to a climax even as the shouts rose against him.

  ‘We must defend our country, our continent and our sea route! We need good men and true to stand up for what is right!’

  I felt a movement beside me. Julian had risen to his feet.

  There are some people who naturally command silence. Julian was not one of those but he was, nevertheless, the headmaster. And he’d also been recognised for his deft handling of the previous meeting. Yet I never expected this. Julian was a follower, not an initiator. He’d needed me to set him up last time.

  I looked up at him. He rested a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Thank you, Commandant. I have Scottish roots – as some of you also have – and I support Britain and the Empire. Not blindly, for I recognise the injustices of the past, especially in this country.’

  There was a grumble of agreement. Anna’s baby had stopped crying and she returned to her seat.

  ‘I support Britain because I believe we can be a beacon to the world. And no peace-loving country deserves to be trampled underfoot by a tyrant.’

  They were silent, now.

  ‘I’m forty-five,’ Julian grimaced and smiled, ‘I’ve survived one war and I’m not the aggressive type.’

  There was grudging laughter.

  ‘I’ve decided to volunteer. I’ll play my part in this war, in whatever capacity I can.’

  I heard jeers and gasps, one of them my own. He sat down. Unexpected tears spilt onto my cheeks. Perhaps for Mother or for this intransigent town and my upright husband? Or perhaps they sprang from guilt that had nothing to do with either.

  ‘Foei tog,’ said Laetitia, putting an arm round me. ‘Don’t cry, now. Your ma is in heaven.’

  Julian took my hand in his and lifted it to his lips. I searched his face. Had he truly found his voice – and his conviction – independently of me?

  If not, then I had emboldened a cautious man merely by sitting at his side.

  And now he is going to war.

  ‘They won’t let me fight,’ said Julian after we’d dashed home through the downpour to a scratch supper. ‘I’m too old. It will be Intelligence, probably. Or Signals. Come, dry your hair, Frances.’

  ‘You don’t need to,’ I pleaded, grabbing the towel and rubbing it over my hair. ‘You’ve already proved your bravery the last time. Let younger men volunteer.’

  ‘You’re not advocating neutrality, are you, my dear? I thought you’d have applauded.’

  I threw down the towel and looked at him. Julian is strangely buoyed by his decision. He’s not dismayed by the overall tenor of the gathering, especially when no one stood up after him in support. If anything, the mood descended into sullen refusal and the meeting broke up with no clear outcome and left the commandant standing alone on the stage as the crowd filed out into the rain
.

  ‘Your place is here,’ I tapped the table, ‘with your pupils. You can do more by educating the next generation than serving in a war that will take its course without you.’

  ‘Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, Frances. I’m setting the example that some things are always worth fighting for. However old you are. However unsuited you may be.’

  ‘An example that younger men should set, Julian.’

  He once said I brought out the best in him but also that I terrified him.

  I fear what I have sparked.

  ‘Now,’ he went on, standing up and holding his hand out to me, ‘shall we leave the dishes for Sipata? I’ve missed you so much, my dear, while you’ve been away.’

  I can’t say why I did it.

  Was it because it carried an element of danger that I knew was wrong but couldn’t help wanting? There was no calculation involved, not like the calculation of my younger self in planning to marry well.

  It would haunt me, that I knew. However innocuous it turned out to be.

  All I can say is that I borrowed Father’s car, telling him I wanted a drive to clear my head – after Violet and I had spent a sad few hours sorting through Mother’s belongings – and I drove to Claremont and knocked on the door of number 30, Bella Vista Mansions.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  The rain, having held off for so many years, continued to pour down as if rebuking us for despairing that it would ever do so again. The dominee held an emotional service of thanksgiving while the children played outside, sliding in the mud and dirtying their shoes. Rivers rose from their dusty beds, Marico Road became a quagmire and Julian filled sandbags and placed them at the ready in case the waters approached our door. I ran into the rain every day and stuck out my tongue and felt its stinging drops and even rejoiced when my vegetable garden was washed away. Our lone tree put out several new branches. And, through the deluge, the familiar whistle of the morning and afternoon trains were joined by whistles from the extra services taking volunteers to mustering and training points near the coast. Sometimes I grabbed an umbrella and sloshed to the station to watch the trains passing through and waved at the young men hanging out of the windows despite the wet.