The journey to Lagona was uneventful, with none of Katharine’s worst fears of capsizing or other disasters realised. The rapids they had portaged over on the way up were actually fun on the way down, everyone paddling like mad, flying over the water as it foamed and frothed and effervesced all around them. Just the nights were hard, with frequent soaking downfalls that were impossible to shelter from completely. I must be getting soft, Katharine thought as she awoke one morning, wet through and stiff from sleeping on an uncomfortable patch of lumpy ground. Or old.
When she said this to Laure, the Belgian woman just laughed. ‘Oh Katharine,’ she teased, ‘you are not even twenty-five! Just wait until you’re forty-five like me before you start talking about feeling old.’
Katharine grinned. ‘Sorry,’ she replied. ‘You’re right, I have nothing to complain about.’
‘And you have your son to keep you young,’ continued Laure, her gaze focused on the little boy who was busily helping, though in all truth getting in the way of, the Indians who were packing up their camp.
Katharine looked up sharply and scrutinised Laure’s expression. It was the first time Laure had ever referred to her own childlessness, and Katharine could tell, even though her remark had been oblique, that she regretted her lack of a family. Etched on Laure’s face was a wistfulness that Katharine had never seen before, a mist of longing for something that Laure must have accepted by now would never be.
‘You would have liked children?’ Katharine volunteered tentatively.
Laure shrugged, but the slightest hint of a wavering lip told Katharine that shrugging it off was an act.
They boarded the boats and set off again.
‘I always wanted a large family.’ Laure trailed her fingers in the water and then passed her cooled hand across her forehead. It was steamy hot today. ‘Like your Queen Victoria,’ she joked, but there was no laughter in her voice.
There was a long pause before she spoke again. Katharine waited, not wanting to break the invisible bond that had sprung up between them.
‘I had a child,’ Laure continued eventually. ‘But he died during the birth and something had gone wrong that meant I never could have another one. I had lots of pregnancies but I lost all of them. All the babies I lost.’
She repeated this information with such utter sadness in her voice that Katharine felt tears springing to her eyes. Unconsciously, she shifted further towards Antonio, crouched on the floor of the boat, thumping his hands rythmically on its side in a call and response tune played with an Indian boy who was using a stick and a coconut shell as his instrument.
Life and death. Slipping from one to the other in a heartbeat. She was so lucky to have her son.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, simply, to Laure. She recalled the fleeting look of anguish on Laure’s face when she had realised Katharine was pregnant. Now she understood it. This was the first time the woman had ever opened up to her and she wished it had been with a happier story. ‘So very sorry.’
‘It’s all right,’ responded Laure, her normal equanimity restored already. ‘I’ve come to terms with it now. I enjoy the fact that I have no responsibility to anyone. Just me and Charles, living life how we please, going where we wish, doing what we want. We fell in love with the rainforest and so we’ve stayed here. It would be a lot harder if we’d had children to worry about, to educate.’
Katharine nodded, though the topic of education wasn’t one she particularly wanted to think about, having so recently resolved to postpone making decisions on that for a while. A long while.
They arrived in Lagona on the 21st December. Katharine’s first priority was to show Mac the rubber so she immediately sought him out. She valued his judgement and recognised that, as a rookie in the rubber business, she needed all the help, advice and guidance that she could get. Mac scrutinised and appraised the bolacha carefully, finally pronouncing it of extremely high quality.
‘It’s as good as my own – nearly,’ he teased. ‘And I’ll work out a price you should expect from the aviador – remember that everyone in that damned city of Manaus is out to swindle you.’
He looked from the rubber to Katharine and she was struck anew by the intensity of his gaze and the blueness of his eyes. They were the colour of the blue seas of home and the sky, of cornflowers – and of emptiness. She had no idea what could lie behind such a void. Mac, so it seemed, had it all – family, fortune, intelligence and good health. What more could anyone want? And yet it seemed that something was missing.
‘But we should not hide ourselves away here in the office talking business,’ he said, and the void vanished, to be instantly replaced by his characteristic twinkling kindness. ‘I have guests to entertain. And my daughter is desperate to meet you. Alexandra has never come all the way to Lagona before,’ continued Mac, ‘so while she is here we must make the most of it. She’s independent too, like yourself. Travelled on her own. It’s more than her mother will do.’
In that moment, Katharine understood. The look was loneliness. She had suspected Mac of suffering from that affliction when they had first passed through Lagona. That was one thing they had in common, anyway. For Katharine, despite Antonio, was lonely too.
A servant showed Katharine to her room. She had hoped to see little Esperanza but there was no sign of her. That first visit had only been three years ago but already seemed like aeons in the past. Despite this, she had expected the girl to still be around. She would have asked Mac but something held her back. Not wanting to find out that something terrible had happened to her, perhaps? Servants were usually guarded like rare and precious possessions – chiefly because they were rare and precious possessions, not easily come by, and expensive. The girl’s absence could well have an explanation that Katharine didn’t want to hear. So many people died young in the Amazon. There were a lot of things to die from.
Lagona was exceptionally busy that Christmas time. There were visitors from all over the world: English scientists travelling through looking for specimens, a world-renowned botanical illustrator working on a book on jungle plants and flowers, plus some Irish musicians who’d been performing in the Theatro da Paz in Pará and had come upriver for an adventure, and finally a German man who seemed to be there for no particular purpose. And then, of course, there was Alexandra, who proved to be a charming and interesting young lady.
The days passed enjoyably, with convivial meals and plenty of free time for resting, or walking by the river. It took Katharine a few days to regain the art of relaxation – she’d been working so hard for so long – and of conversation. They had so little of either at Norwood, and had grown so used to each other, her and Charles and Laure, that they often spent whole days barely exchanging a word. Antonio, too, found it hard to settle down amidst so much unaccustomed jollity and unsolicited adult attention, not to mention the abundance of sugary foods. Everyone wanted to cuddle him and pet him and play with him, when all he wanted to do was run free in the garden surrounding the luxurious house.
In the evenings, after dining, they danced to the tunes of the Irish fiddlers or the German man’s accordion: reels and jigs, waltzes and quadrilles. Katharine had moments of feeling almost carefree, something she hadn’t experienced since Anselmo’s death – or even before that. When they had first set sail for Brazil, she had been so filled with dread and excitement and apprehension and exhilaration she hadn’t known how to cope with it at all.
‘You don’t come often to the Amazon, I believe,’ Katharine said to Alexandra one evening as they took a rest from the dancing. ‘And it’s your first time at Lagona. So how are you finding it?’
‘I find it – different,’ the young woman replied, her eyes surveying the room bordered by the wide veranda, open to the vastness of the night sky. ‘Father keeps himself well supplied with home comforts, of course – but it’s the thought that out there is a panoply of insects and snakes and scourges that could kill you at any moment! I can’t get used to it.’
At this,
they both laughed, in a slightly desperate way.
‘Mother completely refused to allow us to set foot out of Manaus when we were younger,’ continued Alexandra. ‘She was so terrified that something would happen to us. She didn’t want me to come now, but I just told her I was going anyway, whatever she said.’
No one could accuse Bernadette McNamara of having an overactive imagination, Katharine thought. She glanced towards Antonio on the other side of the room, jigging about in the most uncoordinated way to the accordion music. All these fears she had for him, too.
‘And even Manaus we only visited a few times,’ Alexandra went on. ‘Most of the time we stayed at home in Highgate with nannies. I regret that I saw so little of my father growing up. I feel that I hardly know him.That’s why I was so determined to get here for this visit.’
They both looked over at where Mac was standing with a group of others, his usual huge cigar pinioned between finger and thumb. He was an unusual rubber baron. Most preferred to leave the running of their estates to clerks and managers and to spend their time in the city, enjoying the benefits of city life: soirées and dinner parties, visits to the theatre, shops with every European luxury. When Katharine had first passed through Lagona, he’d been preoccupied with establishing the rules of engagement for anyone using the isthmus. But now that was well in hand, there was no reason for him to be here so much. Fleetingly, Katharine wondered why he stayed.
At that moment, a servant approached her with a tray of drinks. Katharine recognised her as one of the girls who had waited at table on their first visit; she had looked around ten or eleven then and so must now be thirteen or fourteen. Though the girl was slight and thin like most of the Indians, she was obviously pregnant. Katharine wondered if she were married and then asked herself why it mattered. She tried hard not to judge the local people by European standards. They had their own way of life and, in her opinion, should be left to follow it untrammelled by white people’s interference. But nevertheless, the girl was young to be a mother and Katharine hoped she would be well cared for when her confinement came.
On Christmas Eve, more passing travellers arrived and they were twenty-five people at dinner. Mac had received a huge wine delivery direct from France just a few days earlier, plus brandy, whisky and gin, and all of it flowed freely at the dinner table.
Katharine became aware, as the evening wore on, that everyone was a touch the worse for wear. It was hard not to overindulge when treats were so rare. Feeling a little nauseous herself from the rich food to which she was no longer accustomed, and far too much to drink, Katharine ventured out onto the veranda. It was hardly cooler out there but at least the air was fresher than in the smoke-filled salon and there was the tiniest hint of a breeze that fluttered welcomingly against Katharine’s cheeks. She leant against the railings and let her head drop forward as she took deep breaths to clear the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm her. Why had she had that third glass of wine?
She didn’t hear the approaching footsteps. Her mind was miles away, imagining her family in Hawthorn Road, the presents in their tantalising wrapping piled beneath the tree, the cards on the mantelpiece.
The touch on her shoulder made her jump out of her skin. Whipping around, she was confronted with Mac standing silently beside her. Stifling a small scream, she quickly tried to compose herself. She wanted him to regard her as a competent, sophisticated business woman, not a nervy girl.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ He hardly seemed to notice how he had startled her. ‘I never stop thinking that.’
His voice was low, the words spoken so quietly that she could hardly hear them, as if he were imparting some secret.
Katharine looked up at the night sky, at the myriad stars that were unobscured by cloud, and at the pearlescent moon, nearly full, just a small bitesize portion yet to form.
‘It is.’
‘I had another look at that bolacha.’ Mac shuffled his shoulders as if his jacket were too tight. ‘Very fine, very fine indeed. Well, they don’t call the rubber from the Amazon fine, dry Pará for nothing!’ He laughed, somewhat drunkenly.
‘Thank you.’
‘You got much of it? How many pounds, do you reckon?’
Katharine pictured the piles of bolachas, growing by the day, waiting to bring in the money she so desperately needed. She did some rapid mental maths and gave an estimate.
‘Very good. Exceptionally good, for a woman.’ Mac leant over the veranda rail as if straining to see the latex pouring from multiple slashes in multiple tree trunks on his own estradas. ‘It takes time though, doesn’t it?’ mused Mac. ‘It took me ten years, fifteen, to get myself on a firm footing. Now the bright young things come in and expect to be millionaires in a year.’
Katharine lifted her hands in a gesture of resignation; Anselmo had been amongst this number.
‘I suppose so,’ she concurred. ‘It’s hard to know, exactly. But I’m determined to see it through.’
Down on the river’s edge, a jacaré silhouetted against the black night sky opened wide its tooth-filled mouth and snapped it shut.
‘You haven’t reconsidered then?’
Katharine looked at him questioningly, even though she understood precisely what he meant.
Mac smiled knowingly, as if he knew her game. ‘My offer for your land still stands if you care to change your mind.’
‘No.’ Her reply was instant, requiring no time for thought.
Mac’s forehead creased in frustration – he clearly wasn’t used to being thwarted twice – but then suddenly he laughed, a rollling laugh like water streaming down a gutter, and there was something so infectious about it that Katharine momentarily joined in.
‘Katharine Ferrandis, you are a marvel, so you are,’ he said, once recovered from his mirth. ‘All those male empire builders should watch out. You’ll beat them all at their own game.’ He paused, pulled out one of his enormous cigars, struck a match against the wooden veranda rail and watched the sulphur flame fizz into a tiny flare of light. ‘The last time I saw you I wished you luck. Now I see you have no need of it. I have to say it, Mrs Ferrandis, I admire you.’
He lit the cigar. ‘And that’s not a word of a lie. I admire you. And I can’t even imagine what it would take to break you.’
Katharine regarded him closely, frowning, unsure whether he was teasing her. When she was sure that he was genuine, she began to smile and gradually the smile grew to a broad, delighted grin and her heart pulsed with something like pride. Patrick McNamara, the greatest rubber baron of them all, admired her, humble Katharine Ferrandis.
Now that was something to tell the grandchildren.
Chapter Sixteen
Norwood, 1894
The river swept around in a wide bend just before the little settlement of Norwood, whose houses, palm huts, fruit trees and carefully tended vegetable patch nestled in the crook of the turn and were therefore more or less invisible until you were right upon them. So there was nothing to warn Katharine of what awaited her until the sandy beach, the Indian huts and the house came into view before her.
The Indian huts. Visible before her.
That should not be possible.
When they had left, the heaps of rubber had obscured the low buildings from sight and more, much more, should have been piled up since then. The blood ran cold in Katharine’s veins as the reality of what she was seeing slowly dawned on her.
The rubber had gone. All of it. It was all gone.
Any notion that Jonathan and Santiago might have shipped it early disappeared before it had properly formed. Because not only was the rubber gone, but so were the people. There was absolutely nobody around: no women cooking by their huts, no children toddling around outside, no men sorting and piling the rubber. The compound was deserted. And more than that, the Indian huts had been burnt and were blackened and half destroyed, gaping holes in roofs and walls letting in the rain which had begun to fall. The smell of charred straw and wet ash hung like a pall ove
r everything. Where had everyone gone? Had they been stolen, rounded up, forced to work for another baron? Or had they run away into the jungle and stayed there, too scared to come out again?
Antonio heard Katharine’s stifled scream of alarm and, seeing the stricken look of dismay upon her face, began to cry, repeating, ‘What’s wrong, Mummy, what’s wrong?’ over and over again. The Indians were scared too, she could tell. They exchanged fearful glances, looking all around them, pointing and shouting.
Shushing her son distractedly, Katharine climbed out of the igarité – the two masted canoe Mac had given her to make her return journey more comfortable – and began to walk up the sloping beach to the settlement. The air was thick and heavy, the heat like a hellish blanket, and she moved slowly and with difficulty, feeling as if she were trapped in a dream, unable to connect with reality. Charles and Laure’s boat was some way behind, just as it had been on their very first journey here, so she had no choice but to confront the scene of utter devastation that lay before her alone.
Up close, it was even worse than she had at first perceived. As well as the Indian huts, there’d been an attempt to burn her house down and licks of black soot darkened the slatted wooden sides like sinister tears. Chicken feathers had settled on the mud created by the churning of many feet, resembling some kind of macabre decoration. Undergrowth and trees bore the marks of machete blows indicating a violent and vicious attack. Her orchard, her pride and joy, had been obliterated, tiny oranges and lemons trodden into the ground, stamped upon and smashed open. Katharine pictured rampaging men, tearing through her home, her property, her life.
But why? Who would want to bring such terror to a peaceful place? Was it personal, a vendetta? Who hated her this much?
As she stood surveying the damage, an icicle of fear stabbed like foreboding inside her. She had the sudden feeling of being watched. Perhaps the marauders were still here, hidden in the forest.
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