The Fire Portrait

by Barbara Mutch

  The baby moved inside me today. A fluttering beneath my ribs.

  I live for the promise of new life.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  My meeting with the bank manager, Mr Porter, was memorable, mostly for the dramatic view of the Worcester valley and surrounding mountains from his office.

  ‘Mrs McDonald, your husband does not have extensive savings.’ Porter’s tone was mournful. ‘His funds went to pay off your property and to the purchase of a new motor car. You say you don’t have insurance?’

  ‘That is correct.’ I hesitated. ‘My husband believed it was too expensive.’

  Julian was so cautious in his habits, I assumed he was right to consider it unnecessary. I trusted him over money, but then I’d trusted Father, too. If this fire has taught me anything, it has taught me to ask questions, demand answers, and never to acquiesce again.

  ‘While he’s up north, most of Mr McDonald’s war wages are being paid into your account, to cover your living expenses. But there are insufficient funds for major works at 10 Marico Road, Mrs McDonald. And I regret the bank is not in a position to offer a loan.’

  Worcester’s mountains, I noticed, were more settled in the landscape. Aloe Peak and its neighbours rose out of the earth in defiance, clawing at the sky, desperate for rain, for respite.

  ‘What do you suggest, sir?’

  He leant forward and clasped his hands together. ‘I recommend you sell, madam. The land will be worth a fair amount; property prices have gone up since your husband bought fifteen years ago. And then you can purchase afresh when your husband returns.’

  ‘I don’t think the market is buoyant in Aloe Glen at the moment.’

  ‘It is the war, I agree. Most buyers are waiting.’

  ‘Then I shall, too,’ I said, gathering my bag.

  ‘You have family in Cape Town, I believe?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Why does everybody want me to leave the place I vowed to make my home?’

  ‘I thought, madam, with your background,’ he glanced obliquely at my last remaining smart dress, ‘you’d be happier in the city.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Porter,’ I rose and held out my hand, ‘I shall bear your advice in mind.’

  ‘Any help,’ he said with a concerned face, ‘don’t hesitate to ask. Such a tragedy for you.’

  I held back a retort. I’ve no patience, any longer, with contrived sympathy. Yet I have no ammunition to counter it other than with words.

  Or with my art.

  On my final visit to Marico Road, I rescued my folding stool and spent an hour scrubbing it clean. Sergeant Roland and Captain Ellis found me in the yard. The local rubbish man had just taken away the sofa, the chairs and our bed, which turned out to have a broken frame.

  ‘Sergeant? Captain? There’s news?’

  They exchanged glances.

  ‘Good morning, ma’am. Our investigations confirm there’s petrol on the rug. It’s possible the curved glass and smashed windows point to a petrol bomb or bombs being thrown into your house.’

  ‘That’s progress, isn’t it, Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded, ‘but there are no witnesses, ma’am. Your housemaid saw no one. Neither did the neighbours. And it seems there were no passers-by that day.’

  ‘Wynand Louw could have done it before he went up the line—’

  ‘He could have,’ Captain Ellis put in, ‘but we can’t confirm his movements, ma’am. Someone else may have attacked your house, not Mr Louw.’

  I sat down on the stool. The nausea grabs me every so often and it’s best to sit down. From the sky came a series of cries. Wheeling jackal buzzards, back since the rain.

  ‘Are you alright, ma’am?’ The young Sergeant advanced and crouched down next to me.

  ‘So you’re not going to charge him. Or anyone else.’ My voice was hoarse and I cleared my throat.

  ‘Mrs McDonald, we don’t have the evidence to lay charges.’

  ‘You’ve questioned him?’

  ‘He’s refusing to speak, ma’am.’

  ‘Even about his sabotage?’

  The captain looked at me with pity, mixed with some impatience.

  ‘We can’t discuss that, ma’am. I can assure you the sergeant will follow any leads. But at this time we can only say your fire could have been arson, perpetrated by unknown individuals.’

  ‘Wynand Louw is not a suspect?’

  ‘No, ma’am. He is a threat to law and order and is being detained for that reason.’

  A house fire was a peripheral offence when compared with sabotage.

  ‘I see. May I have a report, Sergeant? Of the investigation? I may need it in order to apply for a loan.’

  It was a lie, of course, but he wasn’t to know. I intend to leave the house as it is, blackened, abandoned and yet not abandoned. A rebuke to all who pass by.

  The sergeant glanced at Captain Ellis, who nodded.

  I followed them round to the front. The collapsed ceiling panels were clearly visible through the open door. Jagged glass clung to the lounge window frame. The burly Henry Venter was coming to board up the windows at the end of the week.

  ‘Would you have pursued this investigation differently in peacetime, sir?’

  ‘Let it go, Mrs McDonald,’ Captain Ellis replied with a hint of irritation. ‘National security takes priority.’

  It was clear. There would be justice only if the perpetrator gave himself up and confessed.

  ‘Will you and the new baby stay with me?’ Truda asked.

  She knows I want to remain in Aloe Glen, she knows that the veld has captured me even though I find the town unforgiving. Mark understood this, too. Before I left Bella Vista Mansions, he said that my aloe painting showed not just skill, but heart as well.

  Yet what would you tell me now, Mark? Now that I carry your child within me?

  ‘I’ll stay for a while, thank you. But only if I pay rent. I insist on that.’

  ‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘Some money will help me, too.’

  Truda needs income. Apart from the company I can provide now, she’s alone.

  I will paint every day.

  I’ll force confidence into my fingers and build up my portfolio from its ashes while I wait for the baby. Mr Cadwaller would expect no less. And if the police make no progress, I shall let it be known in the wider community that the evidence points to my house being burnt on purpose.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Dear Mrs McDonald

  Following on from the success of our last exhibition, we are planning a new one for early next year.

  If you wish your work to be included for exhibit and sale, then kindly forward it to us by end of November to allow for the timely preparation of the catalogue.

  As you know, your paintings garnered considerable interest and I have no doubt that future work of yours will do so, too. I suggest, in the light of your previous success, that we raise the asking prices by a modest percentage?

  Yours sincerely

  A. R. J. Compton

  Director Compton imagines I have a stash of finished work ready to send him. I could make the excuse that I’m waiting for my child, that I’m too shocked by the fire to come up with fresh work … but I need the exposure as well as the money. After paying Truda a fair rent and replacing my most severely smoked clothes, there won’t be much left in our account.

  The partly damaged paintings may still have a use: I could copy them to create new versions.

  I waited in the classroom after school on the usual afternoon.

  The bell rang.

  Children ran down the corridors, bicycles whizzed off, farm lorries manoeuvred in a cloud of dust.

  No one came. Then—

  ‘Mrs McDonald?’ Frans van Deventer poked his head around the door. ‘Have you got any crayons left, ma’am? Or did they all burn up?’

  ‘Not all of them, Frans,’ I replied. ‘And we do have paper – look!’ I brandished some grey, creased sheets. ‘We can draw very good storms
over Aloe Peak with these!’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Frans said, coming in and sitting at the desk next to mine.

  Footsteps came down the corridor. Toby Engelbrecht sidled in and gave me a shy smile.

  The early evening literacy class did not revive at all.

  I waited in the classroom, with Truda alongside me, but no one came.

  I’m being shunned again, but this time it’s more serious. Supporting the wrong side in the war made for awkwardness, but now my house has burnt down. Do the mothers look me in the eye and pretend nothing has changed? Do they proclaim their regret and offer help?

  They do neither. They prefer to disengage entirely.

  ‘Father,’ I said over the telephone. ‘I have more news.’

  ‘Ah Fran, I’m so relieved. You’ve decided to come home?’

  ‘Not just yet. I’m expecting a baby, Father.’

  ‘Good God!’ he shouted down the line. ‘How wonderful!’

  ‘Yes, after all this time.’

  I waited as Father calculated his next line of attack. Father and I are alike in the way we reason – he taught me – although he betrayed his own advice.

  ‘You’ve a duty to protect this child, Frances. Julian would agree. And your mother would’ve insisted.’

  ‘I’ll be back for regular check-ups, Father. I may decide to have the baby in Cape Town.’

  ‘Excellent. That would be for the best. Julian knows?’

  ‘I wrote to him.’ I glanced out along the railway tracks. ‘I haven’t heard back yet.’

  ‘A baby.’ Father’s voice softened. ‘I’m so proud of you, with this fire, the war—’

  ‘Thank you for sending the paints,’ I said gently, into the pause. ‘I’d love more watercolour paper, too.’

  ‘It’ll be here when you return. Now, when can I drive up and fetch you?’

  ‘I’ll drive myself, Father, when the time comes.’

  ‘Don’t be stubborn, my dear. I insist.’

  ‘Father—’

  ‘No, Frances, I mean it. This is no time for heroics or distraction.’

  ‘You’ll have to trust me. I want this baby as much as you do. I love you, Father, I’ll see you soon.’

  ‘Be careful, Fran. Definitely no more expeditions, please. No climbing for aloes.’

  I went into the veld today. Not up the Peak in defiance of Father but to my usual spot at the end of Marico Road. It’s hard not to be drawn to my boarded-up house but I only stop to check the postbox every day for a letter from Julian. There’s been no reply, but the mail is constantly disrupted by sinkings that I read about in my weekly Argus long after they’ve happened. In wartime, news – and death – comes in arrears. It’s the first time I’ve been sketching since the fire and I find my eyes blinking at the transition from soot to colour. A second wave of plants is in flower. They didn’t erupt immediately after the drought broke, but took their time so they’ll need to race to set seed and thrive before the next dry spell. There’s a pale iris-like plant; a dark geranium; some jewel-toned vygies that Truda recalled seeing as a child but never since.

  I unfolded my stool and sat down.

  These sketches won’t be perfect – my fingers are stiff, I don’t have pristine paper, most of it is grey – but perhaps I can make a virtue out of that. These could be my fire drawings: a series created in the aftermath, drawn on damaged paper. I like the contrast of burgeoning growth on singed paper. I feel a movement and clutch my stomach. The baby is moving inside me in agreement. I laugh out loud, the first laugh in weeks.

  I pick up the pencils I’ve rescued and begin.

  Delicate lines for the geranium flower, serrated for the leaf margins, narrow on the stem …

  Tomorrow, I’m taking the train to Cape Town for my next visit to Dr Reed.

  I plan to remain for a week and then come back. Father will no doubt try to persuade me to stay for good, as will Daph, who sent me a frantic card to say how horrified she was to hear about the fire and that I must come back especially – oh, Fran, such excitement! – with a baby coming.

  Am I being stubborn for no purpose?

  No one is talking to me.

  Why don’t I say good riddance, wipe the dust of Aloe Glen from my velskoens and leave for good?

  But if I leave, isn’t that running away? Being cowardly?

  I could make it safer – and more tolerant – for the next newcomer if I stay.

  I stopped for a moment in mid pencil stroke and stared down at the scrub.

  Surely it can’t be … I bent closer … A colony of tiny stone plants, Director Compton’s longed-for Lithops, crouched in the soil just beyond my feet. Almost invisible, their miniature bulbous leaves split down the centre to reveal the start of a thin stalk that would become a flower if I waited and checked every day. The leaf colour would need a blend of cream, umber, sepia …

  ‘Mrs McDonald!’ The dominee hurried across the station platform the following day. ‘One moment, ma’am. You’re not leaving, are you?’ He glanced at my suitcase.

  ‘No,’ I said cautiously. ‘I’m going back to see my father for a few days.’

  He’d prefer it if I went; no more wrestling with the possibility that one of his flock might have set my house ablaze.

  ‘I’ve found you accommodation,’ he announced. ‘Above the petrol station. There’s a small flat with a bathroom and a second bedroom. It would be available for a modest rent.’

  The train drew into the station on squealing brakes. Smoke swirled along the platform. I closed my eyes for a moment against the chance of cinders.

  ‘Why, Dominee? Why do you want me to stay?’

  ‘I spoke to the sergeant.’ The words came out of him reluctantly. ‘He says the fire was probably arson.’

  I stared along the railway line towards the tunnels where Wynand Louw was supposed to have gone on the day my house burnt.

  ‘Do you have any idea who did it, Dominee?’

  ‘No.’ His face was tight. ‘But I regret it’s happened in our town.’

  The conductor came down the platform and blew his whistle. ‘You getting on board, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes.’ I bent to pick up my suitcase. ‘Thank you, sir. I’m grateful. I’ll take the flat.’

  A place where I could be on my own, where I could grow my baby quietly. I love Truda but there’ll be no space for me when Deon comes home for the school holidays. She says he can sleep on the sinking couch, but that’s not fair.

  The dominee nodded, took the case from my hand, opened the carriage door for me and handed it up.

  ‘You’ve been badly treated, Mrs McDonald. There will be justice for the culprit. A reckoning.’

  ‘When, sir?’

  ‘If not in this world, then the next. The Lord sees all.’

  ‘That may be too late for me, sir.’

  ‘Ah, Mrs McDonald. Welcome back!’ Director Compton, greyer than when we first met, came out of his office at Kirstenbosch and shook my hand. ‘You have some new paintings for me?’

  ‘Not quite yet. I’m busy with a fresh series, sir.’

  He has no idea of the fire, he has no idea how many paintings I’ve lost, how bereft I am.

  He ushered me to a seat across from a desk piled on one side with papers and on the other with botanical specimens. A dried sprig of Erica, a silver tree cone.

  ‘I came to tell you, Director, that I’ve found some Lithops. I’ll be making several sketches of them.’

  ‘Ah, stone plants. Excellent!’

  I glanced over his shoulder. There it was: a framed Pink, Armoured Aloe, the same one as Mark’s.

  He followed my gaze and nodded to me. ‘The most extraordinary plant, rendered with immense skill. You’ve made further studies of it?’

  Should I tell him? If I let it be known, that might help my cause.

  It will also enrage my neighbours if they come to hear of my plan. Art as revenge …

  The deadline is tight. I must paint and grow my child simultaneou
sly.

  And force my community to look me – and themselves – in the eye.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Fran, my darling Fran, there are no words to describe how I feel!

  To think that we will be having a baby, a child of our own, is the greatest gift I can imagine.

  I sit here at my desk, looking out over the great river, and long to be back with you.

  Please go home to your father and allow him to take care of you as I would if I were there.

  I know you don’t particularly believe, but perhaps the Lord did indeed decide to bless us.

  Take a rest from your painting, my dear, and enjoy waiting for the little one.

  This child is the certain fruit of our love for each other.

  Ever yours

  Julian

  I pray to Julian’s Lord that He won’t punish me for deceiving my husband, that He will keep my secret.

  I’m in the flat above the petrol station. Tifo, the petrol attendant, is my closest neighbour, apart from the men who hang about in front of the cafe and pretend not to notice me. It’s livelier here than Marico Road. Cars whizz by heading north, lorries pull in to fill up with a crunch of tyres, the whistle of the trains is a blast that I fancy rattles my windows. I’ve lost my views, but there’s an oblique slice of Aloe Peak visible from the tiny bathroom. I never imagined being reduced to this – Father would be horrified, I’ve exaggerated the flat’s dimensions for him – and yet I feel strangely liberated. I’ve arranged my own insurance, paltry though it is.

  I only go back to Marico Road to clear the postbox and tend my vegetable patch.

  I like the contradiction of green growth against a blackened, empty house.

  It’s a further rebuke to my neighbours.

  As an arrival gift, Mr Fourie gave me a bag of oranges that I shared with Sipata and Lena, and Mrs van Deventer sent Frans along with a meat pie. The dominee offered extra chairs but the simple furniture and bed will serve me well until Julian returns and we move somewhere bigger. My cutlery and pots have been scrubbed and are usable. My bush clothes are stained but clean. While I was in Cape Town, Violet’s sister sewed three maternity dresses for me, one for the current winter, and two for the heat that will follow, along with instructions to eat pickles when the time came.