The Fire Portrait

by Barbara Mutch

  ‘Please, ladies and gentlemen!’ The chairman waved his arms. ‘This is surely a misunderstanding. Mr Louw, will you respond?’

  I stared at Wynand Louw. He glared back at me.

  ‘I don’t know what the lady is talking about. There’s no proof!’ His words dripped disdain.

  ‘No proof!’ yelled the audience, roused once more.

  ‘It’s time to close the meeting,’ the chairman shouted.

  ‘It’s been an honour to hear Mr Louw tonight—’

  ‘There is proof,’ came a strong voice from the rear of the hall. ‘I saw you, Mr Louw.’

  I turned around. Frans van Deventer, eighteen years old, soon to attend university, was on his feet.

  ‘Frans!’ came a querulous cry from his grandmother.

  The chairman leant towards Wynand Louw and exchanged a few words.

  ‘Then why, young man,’ he called, ‘didn’t you report this to the police?’

  The audience quietened. Frans was one of their own. He wasn’t a mad widow. But I could sense their anger that he’d stepped out of line. They’d want him punished for such audacity—

  ‘I did report it. The police didn’t believe me.’

  A red flush spread from Wynand Louw’s neck to his face.

  The dominee stood up and walked to the front of the stage. ‘These are difficult times,’ he held out his hands in supplication, ‘we are all sinners in this world. There must be a reason, Frans, why the police did not take the matter further. I think we should pray, ladies and gentlemen, for our nation—’

  ‘I’m not the only proof,’ called out Frans. ‘There are others who know the truth.’

  I caught my breath. Here was the challenge to his friends, his family, his community.

  ‘Then show yourselves!’ The chairman came forward belligerently to stand beside the dominee. ‘Let us end this attack against our prospective member of parliament!’

  Frans and I were still upright.

  The crowd was still.

  Then, slowly, from along the row, I felt a movement.

  Magda Metz stood up.

  At the front of the hall, Toby Engelbrecht and his sister, Lottie, got to their feet.

  A shiver ran through the audience, as if someone had opened the back door and let in a blast of cold air. If my child had stood up for the truth – a truth I also knew – would I leave him to stand alone?

  Five people stood before Wynand Louw. One adult and four young people.

  Yet … The whole town knew.

  Wynand Louw folded his arms and stared at his shoes.

  Then … Cora Engelbrecht got to her feet between Toby and Lottie.

  Sannie Metz stood up and took her daughter’s hand. I saw Abel shudder and bow his head.

  There was, for a full minute or so, a terrible, threatening silence.

  The mood shifted. A low mutter spread around the hall. I became aware of a scraping of chairs.

  People were leaving.

  Some of them stared at me, but most of them kept their eyes on their feet. It was not a stampede for the doors, more an embarrassed shuffle. Cowards! I wanted to shout, as I’d wanted to shout when they saw Julian go off to war without a second glance. I bent down to Truda. She was weeping.

  Two poor whites, who’d been at the back of the hall, fought their way against the departing mass and shook my hand. I recognised them. They’d fought my fire. Will I ever understand this place?

  ‘Mrs McDonald?’ Frans towered over me.

  ‘Thank you.’ I reached up and embraced him. ‘That was brave, Frans.’

  It would cost him. His outspokenness would be remembered.

  ‘I followed your example, ma’am. Mr McDonald would have, too, if he’d known.’

  Lottie Engelbrecht slipped past, gave me a shy smile and took Frans’s hand.

  Julian’s lessons were complete.

  And I’d done what I said I would.

  I’d forced my community to look me – and themselves – in the eye.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  After the war, Sergeant Roland was promoted to a new position in Bloemfontein. When I enquired as to the status of the investigation into my house fire, I was told that the case had been closed for lack of verifiable evidence. Captain Ellis, who’d prioritised national security over criminal activity, left government service and joined a gold-mining company, presumably to stop the theft of its product.

  Is it enough, Julian? I asked my husband as I wandered through the veld.

  Or should I use my ammunition beyond Aloe Glen? Tell the newspapers what happened?

  A parting shot after I leave.

  A final bombardment that will publicly devastate the community …

  I didn’t expect to be torn. I thought my thirst for justice was unquenchable but instead it’s faded – even as my country lurches towards greater division. Wynand Louw’s campaign for parliament continued with barely a hitch after the school hall meeting. Frans van Deventer is occupied at college and unlikely to be interviewed again by the police, many of whom support Wynand Louw’s politics. Deon Louw, who might have wanted his father curtailed, has graduated as an engineer and is hoping for opportunities abroad.

  What benefit would my parting shot bring?

  What will it change?

  ‘We’ll miss you, Frances,’ murmured Lena. ‘You never looked away from us.’

  ‘The veld will miss you, too, ma’am,’ added Sipata. ‘You tell its story.’

  The Brunsvigias, the secretary bird, the quiver trees, the pink armoured aloe …

  A date of departure was fixed. Truda can barely look at me.

  ‘You’ve been my dearest friends.’ I took their hands in turn. ‘You stood by me.’

  Yet it is I – or perhaps my precarious life in this place – that has been the cement holding our disparate friendship together. If Wynand Louw and his party triumph, the edge-of-town community may be broken up. It may not be possible for any of us to remain close.

  ‘We’ll miss you, Frances McDonald.’ Mrs van Deventer leant over her gate when I visited Marico Road for the last time. ‘You and your ways.’

  ‘What will you do with the house?’ asked Cora over tea with Sannie, Aletta and Anna at the Metz farm.

  I hadn’t expected an invitation or any sort of rapprochement; I’d lain awake after the political meeting, fearing the confrontation between husband and wife in the Metz and Engelbrecht households, and between the children and their parents.

  My house still burns, the fire still has consequences, I wrote in my diary.

  The ladies had taken trouble with their outfits, and I’m touched. A floral dress for Cora, a blue blouse for Anna, print skirts for Sannie and Aletta. I’m wearing a Cape Town exhibition frock and heels.

  ‘I’ll hold on to Marico Road for now, and wait for property prices to pick up.’

  They nodded. They’re uneasy. The house is a tie to Aloe Glen they’d rather I sever.

  ‘We’re grateful you never went to the police.’ Anna shot me a glance over the top of her teacup.

  I chewed my cake slowly.

  A gentle lob, Frances. Not a bombardment.

  ‘I made a sworn statement to my lawyer about what you told me at the church ladies’ morning.’

  Sannie gasped, alarm flaring in her eyes.

  Anna clattered her cup back onto its saucer.

  ‘Why?’ Aletta rasped, rising to her feet. ‘Why did you do that? To get at our husbands?’

  ‘Wait.’ Cora reached across and gently made Aletta sit. ‘Let Frances finish.’

  I glanced out of the window. The Metz farm has recovered. The land was dotted with sheep. I will miss these kinds of vistas, the meandering animals, the hard-slabbed mountains, the unexpected blossoming.

  ‘I never want to use the statement,’ I turned back, ‘especially since everything came out at the meeting. But it still has value. I’ll release it if Frans, Magda, Toby or Lottie are ever punished for speaking out. Or,’ I looked at
each in turn, ‘if you’re threatened by your husbands for standing by your children.’

  I watched their fright ebb into something bordering on respect, perhaps even gratitude.

  Cora hesitated, then got up and came over, bent down and kissed me on the cheek. ‘Thank you, Frances. We understand. You taught us a lesson.’

  The others nodded, got up as well and gave me shy kisses.

  ‘Not me, Cora. It was your children.’ I smiled. ‘They taught us to be true to ourselves.’

  Hamish and I drove out of Aloe Glen on a day when the tarmac threatened to melt.

  ‘Will we come back, Mama?’ Hamish craned backwards as the town receded.

  ‘Maybe one day.’

  I wound down the window fully and let the hot air play over my face. The land began to soften and green the further south and west we went; thirsty scrub gave way to fruit orchards and clumps of sugarbush proteas and rushing, unpaintable streams.

  I stopped the car at the top of Bain’s Kloof Pass.

  Vineyards rolled across the valley floor in patchwork squares; the sea glittered in False Bay. The distant, jagged spine of the peninsula drew the eye.

  My life will circle back. It must. One day.

  ‘Look!’ I bent down to Hamish. ‘See Table Mountain? Lion’s Head?’

  ‘I wish Daddy was here, Mama.’

  ‘Yes.’ I kissed him. ‘But we’re near to heaven so maybe he’s looking down on us?’

  Hamish gazed up into the sky. ‘From where the angels live, Mama?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  It was evening by the time we arrived at Father’s cottage in Newlands.

  ‘Frances!’ Father hugged me and leant down to swing Hamish into his arms. ‘At last, my dears!’

  ‘Welcome home, Miss Fran!’ A grey-haired Violet drew me close. ‘We’re all ready for you. Miss Daphne’s coming for lunch tomorrow with the children.’

  There was a letter waiting for me in my bedroom.

  Dear Mrs McDonald

  I have had a positive response to the photograph of your Fire Portrait that I sent to London. Mr Cherriot is interested and would, I believe, make an offer.

  However, I consider it may be worth selling the painting at auction in London. That would potentially realise the highest price. I have connections with a prominent auction house and I could arrange for suitable publicity in advance. There is much interest in art made in Africa at the moment. The war has changed perspectives, collectors are looking for fresh inspiration and novel subjects.

  Do contact me when you arrive in Cape Town and we can progress this.

  Yours etc

  Owen Jefferson

  ‘Fran,’ whispered Daphne, ‘Trevor knows a charming man in his office – you need to look about—’

  ‘It’ll be a close call,’ said Father to Preston Bell, who’d joined us for lunch. ‘Surely Smuts will prevail?’

  ‘Oh, hush about the election,’ Daphne pouted. ‘I’m tired of all the talk!’

  ‘Milk tart?’ Violet offered slices. ‘I’ve kept some aside for the children, Mrs Bell.’

  ‘The writing’s on the wall,’ said Preston Bell. ‘Look how they threw out Churchill. Smuts will lose.’

  And he was right.

  Later, after they’d left, I propped up the Fire Portrait on an easel in the lounge.

  ‘Major Jefferson believes it could be successfully sold at auction in London.’

  Father is not usually lost for words but for a good minute or so, he simply stared. ‘I should’ve come at once. I should never have left you alone, Fran.’

  I sat down on the side of his chair and put my arms around him. ‘It’s not your fault, Father. I drew what I saw.’

  ‘But this,’ he motioned at the portrait, ‘this shows alienation. Division.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And it may show the future.’

  ‘Major Jefferson, I have one condition for the London auction,’ I said, as I sat in his elegant Constantia lounge. He crossed one immaculately clad leg over the other and nodded for me to continue.

  ‘I’m only prepared to sell the Fire Portrait if the new owner puts it on permanent public display.’

  ‘And why is that, Frances?’

  Why do I want my private agony visible for all to see?

  ‘Because bigotry shouldn’t win, sir. Anywhere, not just in Aloe Glen. And being drawn in charcoal, the portrait can depict anyone’s face. From any background. Any colour.’

  ‘Universal suffering?’ Jefferson mused. ‘The lessons of the war?’

  ‘And the conflict to come, sir.’

  ‘Ah.’ He appraised me carefully. ‘Between English and Afrikaans? Since the Nationalists took power?’

  ‘It will be about more than language, sir. It’ll be about skin.’

  ‘Why not sell it in this country, then? Display it here?’

  ‘Because,’ I hesitated, and wondered at my conceit, ‘I think it’s bigger than here.’

  Is this a quiet extension of the revenge I decided to shelve?

  Or perhaps it’s simply commercialism: I need the money.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Everyone continues to find a resemblance – or the evidence of shared traits – between Hamish and Julian.

  The secret lives within me, never to be revealed. But Julian is gone. Hamish no longer has a father by his side as he grows up.

  There is an ache inside both of us.

  I ache for Mark.

  Hamish aches for Julian.

  It was a gamble. I used my private account to buy a return voyage to London. If the portrait didn’t sell, or went for less than I hoped, my gamble would be in vain.

  ‘I can’t advise you, Fran,’ said Father. ‘But you have my blessing. Some risks are worth taking.’

  ‘You deserve some fun,’ laughed Daph. ‘Whatever happens, you’ll have a wonderful trip!’

  Major Jefferson was already in the capital, making the arrangements for the auction, stirring up publicity. He didn’t have the portrait with him; I was bringing it with me in a specially made portfolio that would protect the charcoal. I trusted Major Jefferson, but if anyone was going to lose this portrait to deterioration, thieves or the Atlantic waves, it would be me.

  ‘Take no chances, Frances,’ the director had said after viewing the image. ‘This is a seminal work.’

  ‘What do you see in it, sir?’

  He looked at it with his head on one side. ‘Honesty. Contradiction. Warning.’

  ‘I want to come!’ shouted Hamish, jumping up and down. ‘Why can’t I come, Mama?’

  I gathered him in my arms and covered his face with kisses.

  ‘We’ll be waiting for Mama right here when she gets back,’ said Father, patting Hamish’s head. ‘And think what fun we’ll have, you and I, while she’s away? Trips on the train to Simon’s Town. Picnics!’

  A southeaster was blowing as the ship slipped her lines and edged away from the quay. I pushed to the side of the deck. Way below, among the crowd, I spotted Father raising his hat while holding fast to Hamish. My son was waving a huge flag we’d crayoned together, a mountain with a red sun setting behind it, a black bird in the sky, a blue river in the foreground. Hamish loves bold colours.

  ‘Goodbye!’ I shouted even though they wouldn’t hear. ‘God bless!’

  I stayed on deck until Table Mountain faded to a scratch on the horizon.

  The portrait is in the ship’s safe.

  I paint, as I painted during my passage to Cape Town to be Aunt Mary’s companion. Strangers come up and make comments and I hand out a card from the set Father had printed for me.

  Frances McDonald.

  Botanical illustrator and landscape artist.

  ‘Art is your business, Fran. Never let a potential client get away.’

  I find myself rushing, though, as if my sketches are somehow preliminary, awaiting the affirmation that might come in London. They are not my best work.

  Major Jefferson met me at a wounde
d Southampton, gouged by bombs and heaped with debris. We said little as the London-bound train drew out past pristine villages and damaged ones, and cut through green fields incongruously pitted with craters. I craned out of the window for the winding road to Eastleigh, for the spire of Winchester Cathedral, for Embury, where it all began: the sharp awareness after the fall, the yen for danger and the discovery that I could, perhaps, draw well enough to be an artist. But the rain sifted down to obscure all but the closest landmarks.

  In truth, I don’t want to see Embury.

  Susan wrote after the war to say that it had taken a ‘pasting’, as she called it. Perhaps in error, after the bombers missed Southampton and jettisoned their loads indiscriminately. Susan has moved with her family to Wales, too far away for me to see her on this short visit.

  I don’t want to discover that our road is gone, that the oak was pulverised. Although this is not my home any more, it still stirs my heart.

  I was to lodge with the major’s unmarried sister in Kensington.

  ‘Welcome,’ she trilled, opening the door on a grand but slightly frayed interior. ‘You’re going to be famous, my dear. I’ll be able to boast to all my friends that you stayed with me.’

  ‘Only if the work sells, Miss Jefferson. Only if it sells.’

  ‘Of course it will! Owen has an unerring eye. And I’m Constance, please. Now, will you have a sherry?’

  For the first few days I wandered the city with my sketchbook, my throat rasping with the grit that seemed to rise up constantly from the rubble. Stray dogs rooted through fireweed growing in the shells of grand buildings. Proud Londoners carried on past the obstacles, and red buses navigated their way across crevassed intersections. I drew, reaching for the same techniques I employed for botanicals; collapsed steeples and broken masonry demanded at least as much precision. St Paul’s dome, miraculously intact but surrounded by devastation, rose like some huge, elaborate flower head beside the Thames.