The Dragon Lady

by Louisa Treger

  Stephen withdrew his staff’s wages in silver, embarrassed by the obsequious manner of the teller, a tall, stooped man with brown eyes that peered distrustfully through rimless pince-nez. The bag of coins was heavy and Stephen wished he could leave it in the car, but they were an obvious target and couldn’t risk being robbed. On their way to the post office, they passed a cenotaph for the war dead. Tall, splendid and lovingly maintained, it was made from white marble, with the names of the dead engraved in gold. A few belonged to local African riflemen. Stephen paused in front of the monument. So, an African soldier was good enough to die for the Commonwealth, but he wasn’t good enough to vote in it, he thought wryly.

  In many of the houses in the area, there were photographs of dead soldiers. Some veterans continued to work in the town – the owner of the Cecil Hotel, Ron Clarke, had pieces of shrapnel in his legs, and the ­postmaster had a steel plate in the back of his skull. The pain of war could be felt everywhere.

  Suddenly, they heard the rhythmic pound of hard boots and were met with the smell of sweat and blood. Twelve prisoners were marched by, two white policemen in front and two black policemen behind. The prisoners were barefoot and handcuffed together, struggling to keep their wrists at waist level to stop the tight metal cutting into their flesh. A car drove past them down Main Street, then another.

  One of the men had an open gash across his left cheek. He stumbled and a policeman brought his baton down, just missing the prisoner’s shoulder. He flinched and cried out, his eyes met Stephen’s and the look in them was a mixture of panic and resignation.

  ‘Oh, Stephen,’ said Ginie, horrified, ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘They’re being taken to the magistrate. I expect they were visiting without passes, or owned a bicycle without lights, or some other equally petty misdemeanour.’

  ‘Will they be punished?’

  ‘They’ll have to explain themselves to the magistrate. Then, he’ll give them a small fine, with the option of prison, so they usually choose prison. After all, a ten shilling fine is no joke when your wages are only twenty or thirty shillings a month.’ He glanced up at the scarlet flowers of the flame trees that lined the wide street and could not get his head around the contrast between the beauty of Umtali and the scene they had just witnessed.

  ‘It’s terrible that this is going on even now,’ said Ginie, looking at the cenotaph, ‘After not one, but two world wars. Has humanity learned nothing?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘There must be a way of improving life here.’

  Ginie’s brown eyes were blazing. Stephen met them and was filled with a sense of purpose.

  ‘I agree,’ he said. ‘Let’s look for a way to help.’

  At the post office, Stephen sent a postcard to his brother, Sam:

  All’s well here – still awaiting your visit. Try to come and see us in the spring – Ginie and I miss you and would so much love to see you. Write soon and let us hear the news – your letters are great highlights in our little valley.

  They collected three envelopes from England and one with a local postmark written in small, square block capitals they didn’t recognise. Ginie tucked them into her handbag to read at home.

  On their way back to the car, they saw Anne Michaels walking towards them. She wore a faded blue and white checked dress and carried heavy shopping baskets; her hair was lank with the heat. Their eyes met and Ginie waved cheerfully. Anne looked down and made her face go blank. Without a word, she spun on her heel and strode off in the direction she had come from. Stephen watched Ginie turn white. Her eyes were hurt and bewildered, the bones of her face jutting sharply through her skin. She was an outcast wherever she went. Anger rose in him; futile, corrosive anger – for despite his love, despite his money, he could not help his wife.

  When they got back to La Rochelle, Jongy was sitting in one of the trees at the edge of the uncultivated section of garden they had named ‘the Dell’. He was growing more confident and daring every day; Stephen hoped that the local monkeys were getting used to him and would leave him in peace. Jongy swung down from the tree and scampered across the lawn to greet them. The dogs appeared with wet and muddy coats – they had been swimming in the dam.

  They all sat on the veranda. Ginie lifted Jongy onto her lap and he nuzzled into her. A glance told Stephen that the pain of being snubbed by Anne was still raw. Dixon brought out a tray with a jug of chilled lemonade and two tall glasses. The midday shadows were sharp and black, with sunlight splashing gold between the trees. They sipped their drinks and listened to the irregular chik-chik-chik-chik of the insects. Ginie took the letters out of her bag and tore the local one open with her thumb. Drawing out the single white sheet of paper, she began to read. The colour drained from her face. Max put his muzzle on her knee and looked up at her with liquid, anxious eyes. Stephen’s skin prickled.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  She handed over the letter in silence.

  LEAVE THE KAFFIRS ALONE, IF YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR YOU. IF YOU THINK THAT A PACK OF SAVAGES WOULDN’T SLIT YOUR THROATS ALONG WITH EVERYONE ELSE’S, THEN YOU’RE FOOLS.

  PART TWO

  7

  The Courtaulds, Courmayeur, 1919

  Ginie first set eyes on Stephen at a dinner party in Courmayeur, not long after the war had ended.

  The evening began badly. The hostess, Rachel Crawford, was wearing an identical gown to Ginie’s; flame coloured and form-hugging. Rachel was a slender Englishwoman with dark red hair and quick green eyes. She was several years younger than her American husband, Dick, who made his money from cars.

  Ginie navigated the social gaffe gracefully with a laugh, saying ‘I’m sure you look nicer in it than I do.’ But she feared that Rachel really did look better and her confidence was shaken. By that stage, her marriage to Paulo was over and her money was running out. She couldn’t afford to doubt her ability to conquer.

  She looked across the room for an excuse to remove herself and saw a tall, broad man sitting by himself, gazing at the sea of china and crystal on the table in front of him. He wasn’t classically handsome, his face was too square, his nose aquiline and there were dark shadows under his eyes. But there was something about him that made her take notice. It was his stillness, Ginie decided, the sense of unknown things going on at the back of his mind. She wanted to know what they were. She was pleased when she found she’d been placed next to him at dinner. He stood up and held out his hand. His blue eyes were surprisingly intense. His bearing was military, his grip warm.

  ‘Stephen Courtauld,’ he said. ‘Glad to meet you.’ The name Courtauld sounded familiar.

  ‘I’m Virginia, though my friends call me Ginie, as must you.’ She smiled at him.

  ‘Delighted to.’

  He pulled her chair out for her as they sat down, made sure she was comfortable. His manners were impeccable.

  ‘You’re English,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘You’re a soldier.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you a hero, then?’

  He flinched. ‘Every man out there was a hero.’

  She touched his arm; it felt strong and hard. Curiosity quickly turned to attraction. Stephen didn’t speak for a long time.

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask anything about me?’ Ginie inquired, coquettishly.

  He looked up quickly.

  ‘Why, of course I am. Um. . . Where is it that you’re from?’

  ‘Oh, everywhere and nowhere.’

  A gleam appeared in his eye and vanished again. She wanted to make it come back; it transformed his face. She waited for him to question her further, but he didn’t.

  ‘Papa was a shipping merchant; we moved around a lot while I was growing up. He’s Italian, Mama is from Transylvania. I was educated at a convent school in England.’ She didn’t tell him that she was born in Romania. If only her mother had the sense to give birth to her in an acceptable country.

  Stephen turned his
slow gaze to rest on her face. She felt really seen by him, which both unnerved and excited her. A sudden burst of laughter erupted from the other end of the table, startling her, for it seemed as if she and Stephen were the only people in the room. She asked about his interests – he was a member of the Alpine Club and a keen mountaineer, and had come to Courmayeur to climb. He had been out on the mountains at sunrise that day and spoke about how beautiful it was.

  ‘I was looking at two scenes: day and night. Above me, the slopes and peaks were bright in daylight, it looked like the peaks were on fire. Below, the valleys were still dark. I could only make out the dots of the town’s street lamps in the blackness.’

  A shadow passed over his face, which he quickly dismissed with a marvellous smile.

  ‘I don’t suppose you are a climber?’

  Ginie laughed and shook her head.

  ‘No, it’s not my thing at all, I’m afraid. In winter, though, I love to skate.’

  When she was flying through the chill, crisp air, everything else fell away and she felt at peace.

  She filled the pause that followed by asking about his family. He said they were in the textile business. He had resolved not to enter the family firm and chose to go into the brewing industry instead. Before the war he worked for the master brewer, Messrs Bass and Co. He returned briefly when the war ended, but soon resigned, needing a break after the fighting.

  Now Ginie remembered where she’d heard the name Courtauld, she had read articles about them in the newspaper. They came from a family of Huguenots who had fled to London in the seventeenth century to escape religious persecution and became renowned silversmiths. They then moved into silk and made fortunes in England and America, largely from the profits of black silk mourning crepe. Their fortunes grew even bigger when they diversified into rayon, the new-fangled material used to make women’s underwear and stockings. As one journalist noted, the first family fortune had its basis in grief, the second in sex appeal. Perhaps Ginie’s luck was starting to turn.

  Stephen had stopped talking. She felt him pull back, as if she had come too close because he had disclosed so much. The man on Ginie’s other side took the opportunity to introduce himself. She let him kiss her hand. While they talked, she wondered about Stephen. She had never met anyone like him. He refused to initiate conversation, yet she was sure he had much to say. Her interest was piqued; she was determined to get through to him somehow. And when Ginie wanted something, she got it.

  In a place as small as Courmayeur, bumping into people was inevitable. Stephen had a suspicion that Ginie was deliberately putting herself in his way, yet she did it with such warmth and charm that he couldn’t help but be flattered.

  He had never been particularly alive to women until he met Ginie. There had been the odd, dutiful flirtation with the sisters of friends, but Ginie wasn’t like any woman he had ever encountered. It wasn’t her beauty that he was drawn to, though she was slender, with naturally wavy dark hair and brown eyes a man could drown in. It was the fact that she was so different; she had so much character and life. She didn’t care what she said to anyone, or what she did. She was a woman who wouldn’t have any sort of conventions, whereas his family was Unitarian: high thinking, highly principled, buttoned up.

  They quickly became inseparable. Her company filled him with delight and felt as easy and natural as breathing. It was as if he had known her his whole life. Though the first time he saw her tattoo, he was shocked. The creature coiled up the entire length of her leg, its heavy lines stark against her creamy skin, almost like a deformity.

  ‘Snakes symbolise wisdom,’ she said coolly, noting the expression on his face. He didn’t reply. ‘I suppose you’re wondering why I had it done?’

  He nodded and sat down on the edge of the bed, waiting for her to speak. Her hair was tumbled on the pillow, smelling of smoke and perfume. She was a teenager, she told him – it was a dare. Rose, her best friend at boarding school, put her up to it. ‘Rose goaded me: “You’ll never have a tattoo, you’re not brave enough!” So off I went and had it done. I was expelled, of course.’

  Something about the way Ginie told the story – her eyes very wide, very innocent – made Stephen doubt she was being truthful, but he didn’t care. He traced his fingers over the serpent’s arching back and continued up her thigh. He moved closer, his eyes searching her face. The rising heat between them put an end to the conversation.

  Weeks later, Ginie came to him, unusually subdued. Her period was late. She was normally as regular as clockwork, she told him, which meant that she was almost certainly pregnant. She seemed to expect him to be angry. ‘I can get rid of it, if you want me to,’ she offered, not meeting his eyes.

  ‘Ginie, please,’ he begged. ‘Don’t say such a thing. Marry me.’

  Gently, he raised her chin, forcing her to look at him and watched her expression change from dejection to incredulity and joy. He took her in his arms and held her tightly, burying his face in her hair.

  They had a quiet wedding in Trieste, after he had paid the Vatican handsomely to have Ginie’s unfortunate union with Paulo annulled. Stephen didn’t invite his family. He would face that music when they got back to England. He’d been to hell and back in the trenches, filling his mind with darkness; then along came Ginie like the sun, burning the shadows away, bringing him in touch with the sharp simplicity and intensity of the moment. He already knew he wanted to marry her, the baby simply sped things up and brought them even closer. He wanted to grasp everything Ginie gave him as hard as he could.

  8

  Ginie, London, 1920s

  How sweet it was to wake in the mornings with Stephen wrapping her close in his arms, their breathing in sync. For the first time in her life, Ginie felt safe.

  When she looked in the mirror, she couldn’t help exalting in her triumphant, beautiful reflection. She was Mrs Stephen Courtauld now, nothing could touch her. He was a good man; he had a purity of spirit that was untarnished, despite what he’d been through. She felt the hot glitter of tears and thought about all the secrets stored inside her. She regretted that she had lied to him about being pregnant, but she was desperate. It was a wonder the past didn’t show in her face and reveal everything. If he knew the truth, he would cross the road to avoid her. The Courtauld family motto was Tiens à la verité. Hold to the truth.

  If only her father could see her now.

  Riccardo Peirano was a self-made man who had built up a successful shipping company, exporting grain from Russia to Western Europe. He was handsome, broad-chested and energetic with a rich, deep voice and brown eyes like Ginie’s, except his were framed by laughter lines. Ginie’s mother, Rosa, was a peasant woman of great beauty, grown stout and pious in age. She had two brothers, Riccardo junior and Enrico, who were sent to boarding school and too old to be Ginie’s playmates or peers.

  Riccardo and Rosa hadn’t married until after the births of all their children. Ginie found out about this through overhearing the servants talk. No one knew why it had taken the Peiranos so long to legalise their union, but there was much speculation, and it was concluded that it was because of differences in nationality and class.

  Riccardo doted on Ginie, nothing was too good for her, but Rosa found fault everywhere. Ginie was too tall, she was stupid, she was loud – but worst of all – she had no feminine modesty or grace.

  Rosa had always found Ginie excessive. As a small child, she’d had not one, but four imaginary friends. She held parties for them, never forgetting what each of them liked to eat and drink, and carried on conversations with wild laughter.

  While Ginie was preparing for her cousin’s wedding, she asked for a scarlet sash to go with her dress.

  ‘Why on earth would you want such a thing?’ Rosa asked, her eyes boring into Ginie’s.

  ‘So the boys will notice me,’ Ginie replied, staring right back at her.

  She was leaning against her father’s legs. He chuckled indulgently and pinched her cheek. But Rosa’s fac
e darkened.

  ‘You are so brazen, it’s disgusting,’ she said coldly. Dismissing Riccardo’s objections, she led Ginie to her room, her silk skirts rustling down the long corridor. Inside, she locked the door and beat Ginie with a heavy silver hairbrush until her skin purpled and bled. The pain was terrible, but Ginie stared at the wax statuette of the child Jesus on her mother’s dressing table, refusing to cry. Afterwards, Rosa said another rosary, praying that her only daughter might learn decency and humility.

  It was clear that Ginie wasn’t the daughter Rosa had hoped for. The only thing that pleased her was that Ginie was growing into a beauty. Her softly waving, dark hair had a deep, rich sheen. Her eyes, framed by thick lashes, were large and brilliant; her puppy fat had melted away, leaving sculpted cheekbones and long, shapely limbs.

  But on the inside, Ginie was filled with pulsing organs, fragments from scripture, romantic poetry and a great yearning to escape.

  When she was eighteen, she moved with her parents to Genoa, her father’s birthplace, leaving her two older brothers in London where they had their own homes. The move was partly for business and partly because Riccardo felt intensely homesick.

  The Peiranos wanted to spend their first summer on the fashionable Italian Riviera and Riccardo found a house to rent in Rapallo, just inside the gates of the Villa Spinola di Pagano. The Spinolas were aristocrats, one of the oldest and most illustrious families in Genoa, but their wealth was in decline and most of their income came from leasing their land and buildings.

  Ginie loved her new home. She loved the calm and luminous rooms that had views of the sea with boats bobbing on the white-flecked waves. She loved the sunlit warmth and colours of Italy, so different from London’s grey stone and soot-stained brick. She spent hours exploring the garden: an enchanted place full of rioting flowers and myrtle hedges, terraces, lichen-speckled statues, winding trails and secret caves. All her senses were stirring and awakening. She felt alive.