I stopped and pulled out my pad and pencil.
A quick sketch, a moment captured, just so.
The boy throwing a ball, little arms raised; Sipata picking it up. A few pencil strokes and there he is: my child. And the bent outline of Sipata by his side. Caring. Vigilant. On a whim, I flipped over the page to a fresh one.
This time, closer: wavy hair framing plump cheeks, a button nose, dark eyes, the faint arch of brows.
The makings of a portrait—
‘I must go, ma’am,’ Sipata said, leading Hamish to me. ‘It’s getting late.’
I turned the page back and tore out the first sketch and gave it to her.
‘Thank you, dear Sipata.’
‘Ah.’ She smiled at the drawing. ‘I’ll put it on my wall. Goodbye, ma’am.’
Hamish tugged on my hand. ‘Home, Mama? See Dada?’
‘Yes. Wave to Sipata!’
A policeman was exiting the church. I put my hand up against the lowering sun to see more clearly.
‘Sergeant? Sergeant Roland?’
He hesitated, then approached me. ‘Afternoon, Mrs McDonald. And this is your boy?’
‘Yes, this is Hamish.’
The sergeant bent down and shook Hamish’s hand gravely.
‘Have you made any progress, sir? It’s been over two years.’ I don’t intend to let such a fortuitous ambush fade into pleasantries.
‘Mama?’ Hamish pulled on my hand. ‘Go home, Mama.’
‘I believe you may have received further evidence, Sergeant.’
‘What kind of evidence, ma’am?’ he hedged.
‘A witness, sir. Someone who saw Wynand Louw at the scene.’
Were he and the dominee conspiring to muzzle Frans van Deventer?
‘Mama!’
I lifted Hamish and settled him on my hip.
‘The witness is a minor, ma’am. His evidence may not be reliable.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Perhaps you could visit the police station, ma’am. It would be better to talk there.’
I must be careful. I must not get angry. And I must remember Mr Field’s advice. The sergeant smiled at Hamish, raised a hand to me and began to walk away.
‘It’s not easy for me, sir,’ I called. ‘We must speak now. When the war’s over, will Wynand Louw be prosecuted for arson?’
He stopped and turned back to me.
‘No one else has come forward to confirm the boy’s evidence, ma’am. It’s slim. I’m sorry.’
‘If others knew Mr Louw was involved, would that make a stronger case?’
We were fencing with each other. The sergeant is more experienced than he was when we first met.
‘It would have to entail credible eyewitness accounts, ma’am. Do you know of such witnesses?’
He thinks I may be bluffing yet he can’t be sure.
‘I may do, Sergeant.’
Sipata.
But she’d never testify. And if she did, they wouldn’t believe her: a semi-literate, coloured woman.
No. Any new evidence would have to be prompted by what was told to me. My ammunition would have to be revealed before Frans was taken seriously.
Hamish had fallen asleep against my neck. I could feel his warm lips against my skin.
‘What, for argument’s sake, Sergeant,’ I held his gaze, ‘if I was informed that local people knew Wynand Louw was considering fire-bombing my house and failed to stop him? Or warn me?’
Alarm sprang into his eyes. This was becoming awkward. Yet I’m determined to lead him to the intelligence that I hold about Aloe Glen: I have been told the town is culpable.
‘You’d have to swear to that in court, ma’am. You’d have to name the persons who informed you.’
The sun slid down below the horizon. A wisp of cloud flared.
‘I understand, sir. I’ve delayed you long enough. Thank you for the clarification.’
I’d have to bring their houses down.
Chapter Fifty-Four
It’s been another good year for my tiny population of quiver trees. I suspect they’re flowering so prolifically because they know that dryness is to come. I can feel it in the air and on my skin, and in the crisp leaves of the low bossies around my feet. I blend blues and greens to create the malachite sunbirds that gorge on the quiver blooms, but the glitter of their wings defies my brush, which is as it should be. Real life holds miracles that no likeness can capture.
‘Beautiful, Fran,’ said Julian when I showed him. ‘You show their elegance, their greed.’
Julian is still thin. I see his weariness at the end of the day. And so I’m painting as much as I can.
The annual exhibition is upcoming at Kirstenbosch. There are special commissions for Major Jefferson and his New York clients – it turns out that America, which gave birth to the Crash that overturned my life, is wooing me as an artist. And I produce a raft of Cadwaller Sketches to sell beside the petrol station. Presumably some townsfolk disapprove, but I don’t care. I’m working so Julian can reduce his schedule. There’s also the matter of a new home for us. Mr Field says that the property market will pick up after the war and if I wish to invest I should do so sooner rather than later.
‘Frans,’ I held the tall youngster back at the end of the art class, ‘Mr McDonald doesn’t know about Mr Louw and the fire. I’ll tell him when he’s stronger.’
Frans stared down at me. He’s about to leave for high school in Worcester.
‘Will the police do something, ma’am, about what I saw?’
‘I don’t know, Frans. If they do, it’ll only be at the end of the war.’
He nodded, hefted his satchel and walked away.
He’d meet Deon Louw at his new school. Will he tell Deon what he saw?
‘Mama, look!’ Hamish ran out of the classroom with a wildly coloured sheet. Hamish loves to sit alongside the bigger students and make his own pictures. He chatters in English to Julian and me, and in Afrikaans to everyone else. Father, initially taken aback, now thinks the boy may be advantaged. ‘It’s the way politics is going, Fran. It can’t do him any harm.’ Truda giggles and says it serves me right for coming back. I’m raising a child I won’t be able to understand. My tea party ladies are confused.
‘Don’t you mind,’ asks Cora, ‘don’t you want him to be English?’
‘Oh, he is,’ I reply. ‘But it shows that this is our home, too, doesn’t it?’
‘Let’s drive up to the Logan garden at Matjiesfontein,’ I suggested to Julian. ‘Before it gets too hot. I’d like to draw their Crassulas. We’ll take a picnic. And Director Compton says there are walks we can do.’
‘Yes,’ shouted Hamish, jumping up and down. He loves to go out; our flat is too confining.
‘Perhaps next weekend, Fran.’ Julian looked up from his books.
All week Hamish talked of the upcoming trip. I showed him a picture of the flower I wanted to draw. Crassula columnaris, a strange plant, low-growing with packed leaves on a central stem. It puts up a single flower head containing hundreds of tiny blooms. ‘Like Dada’s shaving brush,’ Hamish said, and ran into the bathroom to fetch it. He’s observant for a three-year-old.
‘I feel a little tired,’ murmured Julian over breakfast on the designated day.
‘I could drive,’ I offered.
Hamish nodded and patted his father’s hand. ‘Mama will drive, Dada.’
Julian looked across at me for a moment. He doesn’t often ask for anything for himself.
‘Let’s go up Aloe Peak instead.’ I turned to Hamish. ‘You and me. We’ll look for scrub hares and see if we can spot the black eagles. What do you say?’
Hamish looked from Julian to me, and trailed into his bedroom.
Children pick up when adults mask the truth. I used to, with Mother and Father.
‘I’ll make us a picnic,’ I said quickly. ‘You rest, Julian, don’t do too much marking.’
‘Thank you, my dear.’ He touched my arm. There’s been no
passion between us since his return, only fondness. Julian falls asleep the moment his head touches the pillow. I lean over and kiss him but he doesn’t stir. I reach back to the memory of Mark while my husband sleeps.
I made sandwiches and packed a flask of tea and my sketchbook. Fat cumulus clouds studded the sky.
‘Will they make rain?’ asked Hamish, kicking his little boots against the dusty earth.
‘No,’ I said, squinting up. ‘They’re just teasing us.’
‘Clouds don’t tease, Mama!’ he giggled. ‘They can’t think!’
We reached the end of the road and struck uphill. I could show Hamish the aloe that has become my signature. A gallery in New York has bought two new works, and I’m busy with a third one for a private individual in London. Major Jefferson is right: collectors are attracted by unusual species, drawn in situ.
‘Look!’ I pointed at two soaring birds. ‘What do you think they are?’
Hamish shaded his eyes. ‘Black eagles, Mama?’
But their undersides were pale fawn, not the distinctive charcoal and white. I pulled a pair of binoculars from my rucksack. A gift from Father.
‘Can I see? Can I see?’
I focussed. They were broader in the body, and their wingtip feathers, those fringes designed for uplift, were more pronounced. They floated, executing only the gentlest of turns on those massive wings.
‘Come.’ I lowered the glasses. ‘Sit down here, on this rock. You can look.’
I looped the binoculars carefully around his neck and helped him to lift them to his eyes.
‘Point the glasses towards the birds, Hamish, look over the top and then look through. See them?’
The little fellow waved the glasses about for a while and then got the idea. I helped steady his hands. ‘Put your finger on the focus; now turn gently to make the picture clearer.’
His body stiffened. I smiled. I knew the feeling.
‘Mama!’ he yelled. ‘So big, Mama! Oh, now I’ve lost them!’
‘No matter.’ I took back the glasses. ‘Watch with your own eyes, Hamish. You’ll see just as much.’
‘What kind of birds, Mama?’
‘They’re vultures, Hamish.’
Vultures search for prey that is already dead, like an antelope accidentally killed by a car. I felt a clutch at my heart. I’d had an intuition about becoming a victim, too.
‘Mama?’
‘I think we should go home.’
‘But we haven’t had our picnic!’
‘I know. But don’t you think it would be nice to surprise Daddy and have it with him?’
‘I want to go there.’ He pointed to the crest of Aloe Peak. ‘Right to the top!’
‘Next time. I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we play at Sipata’s for a while and then go home for our picnic?’
He grinned and began to skip along in front of me.
Sipata’s street was busy. I smiled and nodded at the folk I knew. The Nationalists say they can lift poor whites out of poverty if they win the next election, but they don’t say what they’ll do for the poor coloureds or blacks who live alongside them.
‘Ma’am?’ Sipata opened the door in surprise, then bent to hug Hamish.
‘Can I leave him with you for an hour or so? I need to check on Julian. Will you bring him back?’
‘Of course, ma’am. Is everything alright?’
‘Yes, fine. You can share our lunch.’
Sipata nodded and gathered Hamish to her. ‘Come, little man, we’ll play together.’
Julian was where we left him. On the couch, but now sleeping. I felt a wash of relief. A school exercise book had slipped out of his hands and onto the floor. His arm had fallen, too, and his fingers were dragging on the carpet. I picked up the book and placed it on the side table. His eyes were closed but his head had lodged into an unnatural angle. He’d have a stiff neck when he woke up.
I knelt down by his side. I wish I loved him like I love Mark. I care for him but it’s not the same, and maybe he knows. His slow recovery could be partly because of me. Perhaps he knows I found my love while he was away. I’ll try harder.
I touched his face. He didn’t stir. I shook his shoulder.
His chest wasn’t rising or falling.
‘Julian! Wake up!’
I felt for a pulse but there was nothing, no flicker, no beat beneath the skin.
But he wasn’t cold like Aunt, not yet—
I began to press on his chest as I’d been taught during first aid lessons, and breathe into his mouth. Press several times. Breathe. More presses. More breath.
Cars drove into the petrol station. I heard Tifo’s cheerful voice. A train shunted.
But there was nothing from Julian.
I rested my head against his, let my hair fall across his face.
Why do you want to marry me, Julian, I’d asked him when he proposed.
I care for you, he replied. I will love you and cherish you as if I were a young man … You have the courage to say and do what I can’t, Frances. I need that.
I did love him, in my own way.
And I gave him a child to hold close.
I picked up the telephone, cranked the handle, and called an ambulance.
Chapter Fifty-Five
I was not prepared.
With Aunt it was a hammer blow. With Mother it took months of unhappy decline, and then days of drift between coma and lucidity. With Julian, it was different again.
He died as modestly, as quietly, as he’d lived.
‘Dada!’ shouted Hamish, breaking free of Sipata and racing through the door. He wouldn’t know what the emergency vehicles meant but he must have sensed, with childish intuition, that something was wrong. Sipata followed behind, hands clasped over her mouth. I quickly gathered Hamish up and swung him away from the couch so he wouldn’t see the men slowly manoeuvring Julian onto a stretcher.
‘We’ll take him to Worcester, ma’am,’ the ambulanceman said quietly. ‘They have the facilities.’
Hamish twisted in my arms. I felt his heart hammering against mine. His skin was clammy.
‘They’ll call you later, ma’am. I will ask the funeral people to call you.’
‘Why is Dada sleeping, Mama?’ His voice rose to a scream. ‘Why are they taking him away?’
‘Come, little man.’ Sipata lifted him out of my arms.
I’m not crying. That will come later. I must be strong now, for my son.
‘Wait, Sipata, put him down.’
She hesitated, then set Hamish gently on his feet.
I led him to the stretcher where Julian lay, as if he were asleep. The men stood back.
‘Let’s kiss Daddy goodbye for a while, Hamish.’
The boy leant over and put his arms around Julian and squeezed. ‘Dada, come back soon.’
I nodded to Sipata. She picked him up and carried him to the bedroom and closed the door.
‘Where, Sipata?’ I heard him cry. ‘Where’s Dada going?’
The Aloe Glen wives have been generous. They’ve delivered stews and home-made cake and pots of soup. Father, who is squeezed into Hamish’s bed while my boy sleeps alongside me, has not gone hungry. I’m reminded of Aunt’s funeral and the mountain of donated food and, in truth, I’m grateful. I have no desire to cook and in any case I’m busy. The day after Julian died, I walked to the dominee’s house and asked him whether he’d be prepared to lead a service, in English, that would pay homage to Julian’s Presbyterian roots.
‘Otherwise I must take him to Cape Town, Dominee,’ I said, as I sat in his cavernous lounge. ‘And that would be wrong. This is where Julian served, where he gave of himself to his community, his students.’
‘I understand.’ He inclined his head. ‘I will be honoured to conduct the service.’
He may see it as atonement. So may others.
‘I’ll help you, Dominee. I will write about what Julian stood for. We can collaborate.’
He nodded. He knows I understand more Afri
kaans than I let on. And I know that the congregation will understand more of the English than they’ll let on.
Every morning for the next week, I spent two hours with him in a study lined with heavy Dutch and Afrikaans tomes, converting my words and translating his church phrases into the kind of tolerant message Julian would have admired and understood. And one afternoon, when I returned home, the medical report from the authorities in Worcester was waiting for me. It stated that Julian died of natural causes, aggravated by an infection of the intestine. Dr Reed, calling a day later from Cape Town, said Julian consulted him after he disembarked and handed over a letter from a surgeon in Egypt who believed it was inoperable cancer of the stomach. Julian had sworn Dr Reed to secrecy and promised to return to Cape Town for palliative treatment if he became too ill. Until then, I was not to know. And he wished to be cremated when the time came. ‘I’m so sorry, Frances.’ Dr Reed’s voice cracked with sympathy down the telephone line. ‘I had to abide by his wishes.’
‘I understand. Julian was much braver than he gave out.’
‘And you have young Hamish,’ the doctor went on, ‘who’ll carry Julian’s values forward.’
‘We are gathered here to mark the life and work of Julian McDonald,’ the dominee pronounced on a glaring morning when the heat seemed to travel in translucent waves across the veld.
‘Julian was a husband, a father, our headmaster and friend.’
The church was full. There’d been a moment, as Sipata stood at the door with Lena and her coloured partner, when I thought they’d be barred from entry and I would have to intervene, but the dominee himself appeared and ushered them in. He knew I wouldn’t accept a colour bar at my husband’s funeral.
‘Julian was born in Scotland, but his life’s work was shaped here,’ the dominee spread his arms, ‘in the heartland of this country, where his teaching influenced the lives of hundreds of young people.’
The Fire Portrait Page 27