The Fire Portrait

by Barbara Mutch

  ‘Yes, she raised the alarm. If it weren’t for her, the entire house might have gone up.’

  ‘You can’t be sure—’

  ‘She’s my friend, officer. She’d never do me harm. The oven was off, there were no lamps left burning. You can speak to Sipata, sir. She lives on the edge of town.’

  The policeman looked me over again and made a further note. I wonder what he makes of me, an Englishwoman in an overwhelmingly Afrikaans community, an Englishwoman dressed in the clothes of a farm worker and claiming her maid as a friend.

  ‘Is there anybody in town who would wish you ill, ma’am?’

  ‘You want to know if I have any enemies?’

  I have been strong so far. There was only the single sob when I saw my blistered chairs, melted paints and blackened pictures, and my brief breakdown in Sipata’s cottage at the woman’s, Lena’s, kindness.

  But now, as he watched me, the weight of Aloe Glen’s judgement crashed down, a decade’s worth of suspicion, partial approval and, since the fire, only silence.

  I sank onto the charred floorboards.

  ‘Please, ma’am,’ he squatted down beside me and patted my back awkwardly, ‘please don’t cry.’

  But I couldn’t stop. I wept for my good-sized house that might never be rebuilt, I wept for Julian and his belief that we were one, I wept for the lost image I’d drawn of my brother and which only I could recognise, and I wept for the hopes I’d had for my place in this stubborn town.

  He put an arm about me kindly, and murmured that it would be alright and that he would do the best he could and that my house could surely be repaired.

  After a while, I sat up and wiped my face.

  ‘Officer, I don’t think this was an accidental fire.’

  ‘Because you’re English, ma’am?’ His brow furrowed. ‘Because your husband volunteered?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I nodded. ‘He was the headmaster of the school. He felt it was his duty to go.’

  ‘But who would be cruel enough to do this when you were alone?’

  ‘You can find out, sir.’

  He flushed and helped me up.

  I reached into my pocket for a handkerchief and blew my nose. My hands were filthy, my handkerchief now had black fingermarks over it, my untethered hair was falling about my face. For all I knew, even my teeth might be black.

  ‘I will make enquiries, Mrs McDonald, but I can’t promise anything. Without witnesses …’

  I watched as he left, picking his way through the debris. Sipata wouldn’t identify anyone, or admit to the sound of breaking glass even if she’d been close enough to see or hear. She was too frightened of the consequences if she did. A coloured maid possibly fingering a white perpetrator …

  I gathered up the scorched bed linen and dumped it onto the growing pile outside. I’d moved our motor car, thankfully undamaged, into the backyard to pack it with items for the local rubbish dump but I’d have to get a man with a lorry to take away the furniture.

  ‘Hello? Anyone here?’

  ‘In the backyard,’ I called.

  ‘Henry Venter.’ A large young man in bush shorts marched through the kitchen door and extended a meaty hand. ‘I’m a builder. Abel Metz sent me. Could have been worse, ma’am.’

  ‘I’m pleased you say so. To me it looks unrecoverable, Mr Venter.’

  He followed me back inside.

  ‘Nah.’ He rapped his knuckles against the passage walls. ‘Takes a lot to bring down these old places. You’ll need new ceilings of course,’ he stared upwards, ‘but the beams can probably be saved. I’ll do a walk around and then I’ll send you a quote, ma’am.’

  ‘Can I ask you to look at something in particular?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  I led him first into the lounge and then into the studio and showed him the piles of curved glass. ‘When I arrived soon after the fire started, these two windows had already been smashed. But this is not window glass, is it?’

  ‘No.’ He looked about and sniffed. ‘And the firefighters broke the rest of the windows, did they?’

  ‘Yes, to spray water inside.’

  He fingered a glass fragment. ‘Did you have any cushions here, ma’am? Or a carpet?’

  ‘In the yard. I was going to throw it away.’

  He strode outside and rummaged through the pile of linen and pulled out the maroon rug. He shook it and proceeded to sniff, concentrating on the parts that were unburnt.

  ‘Smell, Mrs McDonald. What does that say to you?’

  A sweet fragrance, overlaid with smoke, pricked my nostrils. Suddenly I was with Julian, driving over Bain’s Kloof Pass, the motor car struggling with the gradient; then I was drinking cold lemonade at the farm stall, and there was a sharp whiff as he filled the tank. I sniffed again. It was unmistakable – but only when lifted up to the nose.

  ‘Petrol,’ I said. ‘It smells of petrol.’

  ‘Do the police know, ma’am?’

  ‘The officer didn’t see this, Mr Venter. But I’ll telephone him and let him know.’

  ‘Do that, ma’am,’ Henry Venter said with brisk sympathy. ‘Could be arson.’

  By the time he left, the wind had risen and was blowing through the broken windows.

  A surviving sheet of white paper lay on the floor. I picked it up and walked into the lounge. The circular mirror that had reflected me on the night I arrived in Aloe Glen still hung on the opposite wall. A hairline crack ran down its centre. I walked closer. A face looked back at me.

  Who is she?

  Thin, gaunt almost. Wild hair, blonder than before. Green eyes with a hint of ginger and a sheen of defiance shading to despair. I placed the paper on the blackened table, and bent down and picked up a sliver of burnt wood.

  Charcoal.

  I looked across at the mirror one more time and began to draw.

  A face emerged. My face. Angled cheeks, straight nose, billowing hair, lips set in a line. No sign, as yet, of any bloom, any softness, from my pregnancy. I reached down and rubbed my finger through the ash on the floor and stroked it below the lines of the cheekbones to make hollows, and under the eyes to make shadows. I’d scratched the index finger of my left hand by accident and a bright spot of blood welled. I smeared it on the paper, in the background, to denote fire.

  Then I picked up the charcoal sliver and tapped it to make the point sharper.

  I drew a line down the centre, slashing my face in two just like the crack bisected the mirror.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The dawn was yellow-pink when I set out the following morning towards Aloe Peak. Silvery rain clouds drifted over the heights. There’s an other-worldly beauty to the desert when it’s been given a reprieve.

  It took about an hour but I eventually found the armoured aloe. The recent rain appeared to have had no effect on the plant; it still clung precariously to the slope, although – I leant closer, careful to avoid the spikes – there was evidence of tiny, swollen leaves sprouting from its heart.

  I must start my art afresh. Father will send me replacement supplies.

  I will sell my paintings as soon as the paint is dry.

  I sat down beside the aloe’s thorny mass and stared at the town below.

  Where would I live? I couldn’t stay with Truda for much longer. Wynand was due back soon. The charcoal portrait was under my bed, along with my diary. I must find a new hiding place.

  I’d brought a sheet of cleanish paper, a pencil and a square of unburnt cardboard on which to press.

  Dear Julian

  I imagine the Sahara is a dryer and vaster version of the land around Aloe Glen and that lets me feel closer to you.

  I have news which is both joyful and shocking.

  There has been a fire at our house. The ceiling has come down and much of the furniture has been damaged. I don’t think it’s useful to agonise over how it started, but rather be grateful I wasn’t home at the time. The building is sound and Abel Metz can recommend a builder. If we can afford t
o repair it then I will do so, if you agree.

  And that brings me to my joyful news. You’re going to be a father! Yes, dear Julian, I’m expecting a child. Dr Reed in Cape Town is happy with my progress and the baby will be born early next year. We’ll be a family at last! I may go back to Cape Town for a while, but Aloe Glen is our home and it’s the place where we’ll be reunited once this hard war is over.

  The art and literacy classes go on.

  With all my love

  Frances

  I reached out a finger and touched one of the armoured leaves. A spot of blood welled on my fingertip. The fire in my portrait …

  I folded the letter and put it in my pocket.

  The house must be swept of ash. The burnt furniture must be removed.

  And later I must call Father and tell him I’m having a child. And then I must find somewhere to stay.

  A dark shape was drifting over the facing slope. Even without binoculars I knew it was a black eagle, conspicuous white ‘V’ on his neck, feathery wingtips splayed to ride the currents and stay aloft.

  I have to learn to fly on my own.

  Aunt Mary would agree. Indeed, she’d be outraged if I gave up.

  Mrs van Deventer came out of her house as I hurried by, the first time I’d seen her since the fire.

  ‘You should go home, Frances,’ she shouted from her front step.

  I unhooked the gate and walked towards her. Usually, I wait politely before being asked to enter.

  ‘There’s a police report due, Mrs van Deventer.’

  ‘Why?’ she retorted.

  ‘The fire may have been set deliberately.’

  She placed her hands on her hips and pursed her lips. ‘Now who would want to do that?’

  I turned and stared towards my house and then back at her.

  ‘I’ve never been accepted here. However hard I tried.’

  She opened her mouth but I held up my hand. ‘When Julian chose to fight on the side of the British, someone wanted to tell us we’re no longer welcome.’

  She stared at me, her hands now fidgeting beneath her apron.

  ‘I intend to stay. I will wait and see what the police find.’

  ‘You don’t give up,’ she muttered.

  ‘No,’ I said, lifting my chin. ‘I don’t. And I’m also expecting a baby, Mrs van Deventer.’

  ‘Ja,’ she nodded, her face softening slightly. ‘I saw. Frans?’ she yelled into the interior of the house.

  Her grandson appeared. ‘Hello, mevrou.’ His face fell. ‘Sorry about the fire, ma’am.’

  ‘You go with Mrs McDonald,’ said his grandmother, giving him a slap on the shoulder. ‘You help her to lift things in her house, you do what she tells you to do. Now go! Make yourself useful.’

  The boy nodded and ran to the gate, and waited for me to follow.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs van Deventer.’

  She shrugged. ‘We’re neighbours. We do what we can to help.’

  But not neighbourly enough to offer help until confronted.

  ‘Look here,’ she placed a rough hand on my arm, ‘I know you don’t fit but I don’t hold with driving you out.’ She snatched her arm away and went inside, banging the door behind her.

  Between them, Sipata and young Frans van Deventer moved the burnt furniture into the backyard while I removed the paintings from their frames, keeping what could be saved and reluctantly jettisoning what was too damaged onto the rubbish pile.

  A Long-tailed Sugarbird atop Protea repens, smeared with soot.

  A Fernwood Buttress from Protea Rise, whose upper edge was blackened.

  A stained Aloe Peak at Sunset, where I’d experimented with a shade of violet I’d never used before.

  ‘Ma’am can make more pictures,’ said Sipata, coming into the bedroom. She held out a handful of dry paint cakes. I fingered my blue linen low-waister. It was intact, but the matching straw hat had collapsed. The sea-green chiffon from the Kelvin Grove – never worn in Aloe Glen – was gently tinged.

  ‘Have the police spoken to you, Sipata?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Did you tell them about the noise you heard?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was it breaking glass, Sipata?’

  Her eyes widened. ‘I can’t say for sure, ma’am. I’m sorry, ma’am …’

  Once they’d gone I looked again for my lost painting and then left, closing the front door behind me. There was no need; anyone with a desire to snoop or loot could have pushed it open and taken whatever they pleased.

  A car was parked outside Truda’s house and a policeman was sitting on the couch in her front room. Truda sat opposite, weeping.

  ‘What is it?’ I rushed over and knelt beside her. ‘What happened?’

  But I knew. The police had uncovered what I suspected.

  ‘It’s Wynand,’ Truda muttered and pushed back her tangled hair.

  I turned to the policeman. He was older than the man who’d called on me.

  ‘Officer? I’m a friend of Mrs Louw’s.’

  He shifted on the couch. ‘Mr Louw has been detained, ma’am. I’m Captain Ellis.’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘Sabotage. Interfering with the railway line to cause derailment of troop trains.’

  I sat back on my heels. ‘But he set fire to my house!’ I blurted.

  ‘No!’ Truda gasped. ‘Not the fire?’

  The captain shrugged. ‘I’m not aware of any fire, ma’am. This is about the railway track. It’s a pattern since the declaration of war. Transport interrupted. Telephone lines cut.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’m sorry for your difficulty, Mrs Louw. Your husband will be detained until he’s no longer a threat to the country. Good day, ma’am.’

  ‘I’ll see you out, Captain.’ I led the way out of the front door and closed it behind me. ‘Sir? Will you listen to me for a moment? There may be more to this.’

  ‘We know Louw belongs to a pro-Nazi organisation, ma’am. One of his crew confessed so we have evidence of his wrongdoing.’

  ‘Sir, my concern is a different matter. Right now, your colleagues are investigating a fire at my house on the day Wynand Louw left town to inspect the railway tunnels up the line.’

  ‘Go on, ma’am.’

  ‘There’s evidence of a possible firebombing, sir. Two windows were broken. There are glass shards that don’t match the window glass. The soft furnishings smell of petrol.’

  ‘Who is the investigating officer?’

  ‘Sergeant Roland, from Touw’s River Police Station. If Wynand Louw set fire to my house then he shouldn’t simply be detained, sir, he should stand trial.’

  The captain regarded me closely. ‘Why do you live here, ma’am?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Why do you live here?

  ‘My husband is the local headmaster. I’ve been here for ten years.’

  ‘And where is your husband, Mrs—?’

  ‘McDonald. Frances McDonald. My husband volunteered. He’s in North Africa with the Allied forces.’

  I could tell he was putting the pieces together. Reluctantly. Perhaps even sceptically. A Nazi sympathiser, bent on sabotaging the railway line, decides to inflict a further slice of damage by tossing a petrol bomb into the house of a man who’s fighting against the nation he admires.

  ‘It makes sense, does it not, Captain?’

  ‘Maybe, ma’am. But national security takes precedence in a time of war.’

  ‘You will speak to Officer Roland?’

  ‘I will. But we’d need to find witnesses placing Louw at the scene, or evidence he assembled a firebomb at home, for example. Otherwise there’s no case.’

  He glanced back at the tiny house, the barred windows, the bare front patch, the weeping wife inside.

  ‘We’d have to search Mrs Louw’s home. And question her further. Do you want that, ma’am?’

  I hesitated. Truda had offered me shelter as soon as I found myself homeless. Sipata is too frightened t
o speak, and the neighbours – if they saw anything – will never implicate one of their own. I stared along the railway line. No recent whistles, no smoke.

  It was true. The line was out of action.

  ‘I’d be grateful,’ I said slowly, ‘if you would investigate as far as you can without involving her.’

  I went back inside and made tea and sandwiches with the ham I’d bought from Mr Fourie.

  Truda remained crouched in the armchair, hugging her arms about her body as if waiting for a physical blow from a husband who could no longer threaten her.

  ‘He made fire at your house?’ she whispered over lunch.

  ‘No,’ I said firmly, ‘I jumped to a conclusion that wasn’t fair.’

  ‘A conclusion?’

  ‘Yes. I thought it might be him because he left. But I was wrong. He was up the line.’

  Truda relies on her instincts. She’s at one with the veld and with wild creatures. I’ve seen her get so close to a scrub robin she could almost stroke it. She senses I’m lying.

  ‘Why don’t you rest?’ I led her gently to the bedroom.

  Perhaps, once she’s rested, she’ll realise she ought to be relieved.

  Wynand, by his malign actions, has let her go.

  Set her free.

  This is my first entry since the fire. I did not seek out danger. It found me. And I drew what it did to me. But I’ve been unable to write anything until today. I’m living in a house with a friend whose husband threw two petrol bombs into my home.

  My maid is frightened because she saw him and knows that if she identifies him, he will come for her. If not now, then when he’s released.

  I know he’s the culprit and Truda knows it, too.

  But we cannot speak about it because then we’d destroy the affection we hold for each other.

  I need Truda, and she needs me. Together, we must navigate our way in this town, past this fire. I have never had a friend like her. Or Lena and Sipata. Their friendship is elemental, like the landscape.

  What happens when the war is over, I don’t know.

  I’ve found a hiding place where this diary will never be found.