The Dragon Lady

by Louisa Treger

  3

  Catherine, Rhodesia, 1950s

  Our house was on the top of a hill that had bubbling streams flowing down to the valley below. The slopes were covered with mopane tree forests and thick bush. My father had built the house himself, from locally made bricks. It had a stone path leading up to it, a corrugated iron roof, and concrete floors. He called it a hut. He always called our homes huts.

  Dad was a lean, sandy-haired man, burnt as brown as toffee, with broad shoulders and a fluid way of moving. His eyes were a clear grey-blue and his expression was generally kind and humorous. He was always up at sunrise, when a dense mist hung over the forest, to make his meticulous plans and preparations for collecting the day’s specimens.

  One evening, he came home after a twelve hour day in the bush and his eyes were red-raw with fatigue. He sat down for supper beneath our softly hissing oil lamp, which had a cloud of flying insects around it. My mother put a plate of corn bread, vegetables, and extremely burnt meat in front of him. I waited to see what his reaction would be. All he did was reach for his food, smile at Mum and ask me how my day was at school. I don’t remember what I told him about school but I do remember hearing Mum eventually say, ‘I’m sorry I burnt the meat, Mark.’ As she spoke, an insect fell onto the table, fatally intoxicated by the fiery lamp.

  ‘Diana, I love my meat well-done,’ came his reply.

  When it was bedtime, I went to kiss Dad goodnight, and I asked him if he really liked his meat burnt. He folded me in his arms.

  ‘Your mother had a long, lonely day working to keep everything clean for us and putting food on the table, and she’s tired. Besides. . . a charred piece of meat never hurt anyone, but harsh words do.’

  When I was younger and we had visitors, my mother would make tea for them with the silver service she’d brought from England. These days, the silver teapot and jugs stood on a shelf in the living room, tarnished and full of bits of paper, pencil stubs, and an old magnifying glass. Next to them was a photo of my mother in England, before she got married. She was in front of a large, ornamental flower bed and wearing a soft print dress. The wind was moulding its fabric to her body. Her hair, long and loose, was flowing in the breeze. She was laughing. This attractive, carefree girl was an entirely different person to the mother I knew.

  Arriving home from school at the end of a hot summer’s afternoon, I found Mum laying out biscuits and cake; Jill Thompson was coming for tea. Pigeons crooned in the garden and the air flowing through the open windows smelled of sun-warmed leaves. Mum glanced in the mirror and I saw her poke at her dry, unkempt hair and coarsening skin. She gave a short laugh that sounded like a bark.

  ‘My word, look what I’ve turned into.’

  There was a commanding knock on the door. Jill walked in wearing a blue dress with big pink roses all over it, the fabric straining across her ample stomach and hips.

  ‘My God, this heat’s killing me,’ was the first thing she said. We kissed hello – her face was moist with sweat – and I went to my room to do some homework. When I returned, they were drinking tea out of chipped, mismatched mugs and Jill was saying that she’d just paid a neighbourly visit to Ginie. The word they found for Ginie was ‘clever’. They didn’t mean it as a compliment.

  ‘She’s done well for herself,’ said my mother.

  ‘Oh, Diana, you should have seen her. She’s so full of herself.’ Jill shook her head.

  ‘And poor Stephen. I mean that tattoo – it’s depraved!’ she scoffed, taking a sip of tea. I could tell she was enjoying herself. Tattoos were enough of a rarity to be both mysterious and scandalous. The many rumours about Ginie had given her a strangely exotic reputation.

  ‘She was an ex-chorus girl,’ they said.

  ‘She met Stephen while dancing at a Hungarian strip club.’

  ‘I wonder why she chose a snake,’ mused my mother. ‘There must be some kind of symbolism behind it?’

  ‘Oh, doubtless. But I couldn’t very well ask her, could I?’ Jill gave an exaggerated shudder. ‘It’s positively vicious-looking.’

  She took a piece of shortbread and bit into it. I watched her chew and swallow, brushing the crumbs from her lips. In newly-hushed voices, she and Mum speculated that Ginie might have other hidden tattoos on her breasts or buttocks. And weren’t women with tattoos likely to be drug addicts, or belong to secret societies, or practise black magic? Perhaps it was a form of branding, a way to signify ownership or submission, some kind of erotic enslavement.

  ‘She was married before, you know,’ said Mum. Jill nearly choked on her tea.

  ‘I had no idea! How do you know, did Harriett tell you?’

  My mother nodded. Harriett was Mum’s cousin; she lived just outside London. She was friendly with a man called Herbert Moore, who had been the Courtaulds’ chauffeur when they lived in England. Moore’s wife, Libby, had a bad heart and this forced her to lead the life of a semi-invalid. She read, she made all her children’s clothes and she was a prolific letter writer. We learnt a lot about Stephen and Ginie through her correspondence.

  ‘Ginie’s first husband was an Italian count,’ said my mother.

  ‘I don’t believe you!’

  ‘It’s true, it’s true,’ sang Mum. I hadn’t seen her this animated for weeks. ‘His name was Paulo Spinola, and she was still married to him when she met Stephen. Spinola was a staunch Catholic. Ginie, by that stage, had given up on her religion. She and Stephen managed to get that marriage annulled. Libby doesn’t know how much they must have paid the Vatican for it, but it will have been a lot.’

  Jill digested this information, looking as pleased as a snake that had just swallowed a nice, plump rat.

  Generally, life in the district followed a set pattern. Crops flourished or failed, according to the rains. Native workers came and went; some were good, some weren’t. Sometimes there was theft and the police were called in. A few people drank too much; spouses fought, and occasionally, someone walked out. We had never seen anyone like Ginie Courtauld.

  I went to school in Umtali, making the long journey there and back each day on a bus that stopped to pick up all the white children in the area.

  My school was for whites only. It was known as an ‘A’ school and it had the best teachers, equipment and facilities. Black children attended ‘C’ schools, though there were schools for a tiny number of them only. There were ‘B’ schools for the Indians and half-castes, who were classed as coloureds.

  School was not complicated at all. It was a different world, where time dragged by slowly while I sat through lessons and played with my friends. It had little to do with what was important. I left, relieved to resume my real life, which was at home in the forest.

  My best friend was called Mufaro – he was a year older than me. He lived in a kraal in the next valley; a collection of circular huts that looked like beehives, with roofs thatched with elephant grass and walls made of mud, which were strengthened by poles cut from the trees. His father owned a small strip of land on which he grew crops. He prepared the land by burning down the trees and planting seeds in the soil that had been fertilized by the wood ash. Mufaro’s mother and his sisters fetched firewood and water and tended the fields when the pumpkins, peanuts, maize and barley sprouted up. Mufaro and his brothers watched over the cattle and goats while they grazed, but ever since he was small, Mufaro had found ways to slip away from his family and spend time with me. He taught me his dances and we climbed huge ant heaps, pretending they were castles and fortresses. We watched beetles, lizards, birds and the myriad dramas of the forest.

  Our favourite place to sit was in a cave at the foot of one of the hills, its mouth shaped like a keyhole. Inside, it was large enough for us to stand almost upright and the walls were covered in paintings. Mufaro told me they were made by Bushmen and were very old. It was dark in the cave, but chinks in the walls gave sufficient light to see the painting of an enormous red elephant, with gleaming eyes and tusks. We named him Nhamo. Sheltered from the
harsh sun, his colours were still vivid. Around him buck and zebra grazed, while from behind a rock, a leopard eyed them covetously.

  We spent hours sitting in that cave that smelled of damp and bat droppings. We played Marabaraba, a game using stones cradled in little hollows in the ground. Sometimes, we made up stories about Nhamo the elephant, who managed to outwit all the hunters chasing him for his tusks.

  The world I shared with Mufaro was my real world. It was far more vivid than school or my parents, who were so mild, so reticent. They only said things like, ‘Finish what’s on your plate’ or ‘Have you had your shower yet?’ while I waited, longing to be freed from the pressure of all that was left unsaid.

  4

  Stephen, Rhodesia, 1950s

  Stephen watched their guests coming into the courtyard through a wrought-iron door, on which the initials S, V and J were entwined, with three ‘Cs’ or horseshoes. He and Ginie were waiting to welcome them. Ginie had an orchid bloom for each guest, which she placed in their buttonholes or pinned onto dresses, exclaiming, ‘Oh, how nice to see you, please come through!’

  The men were awkward in black dinner suits, from which their sunburned faces and hands emerged. Jill Thompson had poured her stout body into fuchsia silk, while Anne Michaels, another farmer’s wife, was dressed in pale blue lace and pearls. Diana Richardson had on a floral crepe dress and a rose quartz necklace that fell to her waist. Ginie was wearing a simple white gown and a marvellous jewelled snake headband, its head rearing up over her forehead. Stephen felt a surge of pride; she had an elegance no other woman came close to.

  ‘We’ve heard such interesting things about your house. I am so happy to see it for myself!’ said Anne, glancing at Jill for approval.

  They were gazing around the Italian-style courtyard, whose pillars were weighted with bougainvillea so dense with blooms, it looked as though the low, evening sunlight was barricaded behind it. Tubs of plants and miniature palm trees were set against the walls, and the fountain in the centre was laid with a mosaic of Ottoman tiles whose greens, blues, golds and pinks were repeated in the swirling geometric shapes that covered an entire wall.

  The Courtaulds led them through the entrance area to the parlour to look at the paintings, the furnishings and the huge arrangements of orchids. The rooms were all clean lines and clear interiors, set off by luxurious materials: marble, hardwood, iridescent colours, silken fabrics. The expressions on the guests’ faces were admiring and slightly stunned.

  ‘The paintings alone would serve the needs of a small museum,’ said Mark.

  Guthrie Hall, a retired government administrator from northern Rhodesia who lived nearby, had already arrived, and they all sat on the veranda, looking out towards the hills rising beyond the garden. Stephen opened the cocktail cabinet and started mixing sundowners. The men asked for whisky and the women asked for gin. He’d noticed the drinking that went on in this part of the world was heavy and hard, and the women consumed no less than the men.

  Dixon, splendid in white linen and a red fez, came out with a tray of snacks. His face was completely blank as he offered them around; he did not show that he was listening to anything at all. Stephen had always found this amusing. The guests sat in clouds of cigarette smoke, inhaling and exhaling slowly. An awkward silence had fallen, then everyone spoke at once. As voices hummed and ice clinked in glasses, Stephen began to experience the inner shrinking that often came over him during social occasions. Ginie, on the other hand, was coming alive; there was a vivid glow about her that made her stand out in this company. The men were entranced, the women wary.

  Sometimes, Stephen wished he could exude charm as Ginie did. They were the antithesis of each other – their guests must have looked at them and wondered at the inexplicable pairing of personalities. He knew people found him dour and difficult to talk to. He did better in small groups. With a crowd, he tended to retreat into a corner.

  He was assailed by a fierce longing for his cubbyhole at Eltham Palace. After a formal dinner there, he would retreat to the library. There was a concealed door behind one of the bookcases, through which he would disappear into a cramped space that had just enough room for an armchair, a table and a lamp. The butler would leave a bottle of wine, a glass, and the days’ papers on the table and Stephen would settle in happily. Sometimes, he heard guests come into the library in search of him, asking the servants where he was. The servants never let on, though they all knew he was in the cubbyhole.

  ‘Tell us about that beautiful thing,’ Diana said to him. She pointed at a large porcelain bowl with a series of scenes painted on it in gentle, luminous tones. ‘It looks like it has a story.’ She had quiet blue eyes and her voice was a little hesitant.

  ‘It does, you’re quite right,’ said Stephen.

  He got up eagerly and brought it over, glad of the chance to talk about one of his beloved objects. The sinking sun was sending a welter of gold, pink and violet into the soft grey sky.

  ‘The tale goes that Cupid accidentally scratched his mother, Venus, with one of his arrows,’ he began, settling back down in his chair, ‘And she fell madly in love with Adonis.’ He pointed to the figures on the bowl, ‘here’s Cupid watching.’

  Diana’s freckled face was rapt. ‘Wonderful, so intricate. And what’s this other one?’

  ‘It’s Venus telling Adonis the story of the huntress, Atalanta.’

  ‘I don’t think I know anything about her.’

  ‘Well, an oracle had told Atalanta that she shouldn’t get married. There was a young man called Hippomenes who wanted to marry her, so she challenged him to a race. If he won, she would marry him. But if he lost, he’d die. Venus gave him some golden apples to distract Atalanta. Here they are with the apples, see?’

  Diana nodded.

  ‘Hippomenes won,’ continued Stephen, ‘but he was so full of his own happiness that he forgot to thank Venus and she turned the pair of them into lions. You can read the whole thing in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, I think you would enjoy it.’

  ‘Oh, what a sad tale,’ said Diana, wistfully. ‘It makes me want to order the book right away.’

  Mark had been listening to the latter part of their conversation.

  ‘Are you encouraging my bookworm?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Stephen.

  ‘I’m nearly ruined by the number of books she buys from London,’ Mark said, giving Diana an affectionate look.

  He turned back to the others and Stephen said, ‘I have a question. Perhaps you can help me?’

  Diana nodded. ‘Happy to try.’

  ‘The grave on our land – I’m told it belongs to the daughter of the previous owners, the Zietsmans. We never met them, you know. They left the area before we bought the property.’

  ‘Yes.’ She cleared her throat. ‘They found it too difficult to stay here after little Jessica died; it felt like an unlucky place for them. They moved to South Africa to try and make a fresh start.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Jessica was the liveliest, most curious little girl you can imagine. She had these big sparkling green eyes. . . Of course, if you lose a child, you’re never the same again.’

  ‘I can imagine. Was she very young?’

  ‘She was only six.’

  ‘How terribly sad.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Diana. ‘Oh, it was.’

  There was a pause, then he said tentatively, ‘The thing is, nobody will tell us how she died.’

  When Diana didn’t answer straight away, Stephen leaned towards her. ‘My staff believes that Jessica’s spirit is still here. They think she’s trapped in limbo between this world and the next. I don’t believe it, obviously, but I’d be better equipped to talk about it if I knew what had happened.’

  Diana looked at the melting ice cubes in her gin and lime, and gave them a little shake before draining the glass, tilting it high to catch the last drops of liquid.

  ‘One morning, Jessica was shopping in town with her mother,’ she said, wiping her lips. ‘She managed
to slip away and went to watch the men laying the railway line into Umtali. She loved all things to do with trains, you see. There was a freak accident. . . heavy pieces of track were being loaded and one of them fell on her. Her leg was completely crushed. They managed to lift it off, but major arteries were severed – the leg was hanging on by a few threads. She bled to death right there, crying for her mother. By the time Amy Zietsman reached the scene it was too late, Jessica was dead.’

  They fell silent. Stephen was trying not to picture the small, mangled body, the girl’s terror and agony, her fingernails clawing at the hot, dry soil as her blood drained away. What a ghastly way to die. Perhaps the violence of it really had left her spirit unable to rest in peace. Even on hot days, there seemed to be a cool breeze by the grave, the wind murmuring secret messages through the leaves.

  The dining room was papered with a beautifully crafted wood veneer: Birdseye Maple edged with walnut, and backed onto very fine linen. Thirteen Turner watercolours hung from the walls and the long table was laid with the best silver, crystal and china bearing the Courtauld family crest. Jongy sat on a perch with a collar around his neck, attached to a long chain. The guests eyed him warily. He was already notorious for taking chunks out of people’s ankles.

  Ginie showed them where to sit and she and Stephen took their places at each end of the table. Jongy jumped off his perch and started scampering around like a naughty child, letting out strange cries and chirruping noises.

  ‘He’s a lively character,’ Eric Thompson said uneasily, pulling his chair as close to the table as his paunch would allow. He was blond and sturdily built, with a thick neck and enormous strength in his arms and shoulders. He had shrewd blue eyes, the whites reddened by glare. Wherever his skin was visible, it was beef-red.

  ‘Does he go everywhere with you?’ asked Guthrie.