The Dragon Lady

by Louisa Treger

  ‘A puff adder,’ repeated Dixon. He seemed afraid, so Stephen reassured him that the snake was no longer in the house. Dixon turned away from him without speaking.

  ‘What is it?’ Stephen asked, concerned and confused.

  ‘Bad luck, nkosi.’ He addressed Stephen as ‘chief’ in his mother tongue, Shona.

  ‘Why?’

  For a long time, Dixon did not speak and Stephen thought he wasn’t going to reply. But he lifted his chin, gave Stephen a long, worried look and said, ‘This is a bad omen. Zvakaipa. It means you are in danger.’

  Dixon had been educated in a mission school. His mother, a devout Christian, had saved up to send him to a Christian school. Now that he had full-time work, he regularly sent money and clothes back to her village, yet there seemed to be no limit to the things she needed. Stephen was surprised Dixon was so superstitious. He could hardly recognise his good-natured employee in this anxious man standing before him.

  The next time he came across Dixon, Stephen tried to deal with his own discomfort by joking gently, ‘When is the danger going to catch up with me, eh?’

  Dixon laughed and shook his head, saying uneasily, ‘I don’t know, nkosi. Better not to tempt it.’

  The following evening, while they were having sundowners on the veranda with Mark and Diana Richardson, Stephen told them about Dixon’s warning about the snake.

  ‘It’s not something I believe in, of course,’ he said. ‘I wish I could persuade the staff not to be so superstitious. They all seem to think La Rochelle is haunted by poor little Jessica Zietsman, so they won’t go anywhere near that part of the garden.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard some talk of that,’ Mark commented cautiously.

  ‘Dixon says he can smell roses when she’s present,’ said Stephen.

  He expected the Richardsons to laugh, but they looked grave.

  ‘I’ve come across some strange things in my time here too. I take talk of the supernatural a little more seriously these days,’ Mark said.

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’ asked Ginie.

  He told them he had once bought a small flock of sheep from South Africa and disregarded the locals’ advice to make an offering of one of them. The sheep all died.

  ‘It pays to respect the beliefs of the indigenous people,’ he said. ‘Ignore them at your own risk.’

  The hairs on Stephen’s arms stood up. He swallowed a mouthful of whisky and silence fell. Ginie broke it by suggesting that Mark take her for a walk before he scared them anymore. She wanted to show him the new planting in the Dell.

  Mark got up and put his empty glass on the table. He then drew a handful of maize from a pouch on his belt, which he kept on hand for birdwatching, and threw it onto the lawn. Birds appeared from nowhere: big birds and small birds, drab birds and birds coloured like jewels. They alighted on the grass, pecked up the maize and flew off, swooping and fluttering, landing in trees or wheeling back to feed once more.

  ‘What a wonderful sight, Mark,’ said Ginie, after the last bird had flown away. ‘I enjoyed that.’ She got to her feet and took his arm. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  Diana looked stricken.

  Stephen caught her face and spoke quickly. ‘Why don’t we go inside, my dear, and look at some of my collections. It’s so nice to have a fellow enthusiast. What can I show you, silver, artwork or my Roman coins?’ With her eyes on Mark and Ginie disappearing into the Dell, Diana replied that she would love to see the paintings.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘And how about some of the black and white drawings while we’re at it?’

  ‘Actually, I love colour. I’m not that keen on black and white.’

  She awkwardly smoothed her dress over her knees. Stephen left the veranda and came back with a volume of black and white drawings by Dürer. Pulling his chair close to Diana’s, he opened the book. It was a collection of sketches for Dürer’s woodcut, Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

  ‘He made a series of illustrations for a 1498 edition – the apocalypse was always an interesting subject at the brink of a new millennium. After the world failed to end, the work only cemented Dürer’s fame. I think you can see why?’ The drawings were so full of fierce and grisly vitality, they almost jumped off the pages.

  ‘I always say I can actually hear and feel the clattering hooves,’ said Stephen.

  For some minutes, they turned the pages without speaking. It was that hushed and tender hour, when the birdsong sounds mournful and the mellowing of the light turns everything it touches to gold.

  ‘So, what do you think of black and white now?’ he asked, closing the book. His eyes were twinkling. He enjoyed testing and stretching people’s knowledge.

  ‘Brilliant,’ she smiled. ‘You’ve won me over.’

  But as they talked, Stephen’s mind raced. He already suspected that Mark might be infatuated with Ginie. Now that he had seen Diana’s reaction, it was clear that he wasn’t the only one who thought so.

  Guthrie joined them for supper, with apologies for his lateness. Usually, he took great care with his appearance, but tonight his clothes were rumpled and his face looked pale beneath the suntan. He had driven from Salisbury and had punctured a tyre on the way. Ginie declared that they were all glad he was there in one piece. Stephen poured him a glass of chilled chablis and Guthrie sank into a chair, thanking them for their kindness.

  It was Sunday and the staff had a half day, so instead of a proper evening meal they had cold meats and salads. Jongy was on his perch in the dining room. Diana eyed him uneasily. Mark tried to pet him, but Jongy waved his tail and let out an eerie wail that sounded just like a police siren, so Mark withdrew his hand quickly. An unpleasant smell filled the room.

  ‘He doesn’t like being handled by anyone but me and occasionally Stephen,’ explained Ginie with a smile, opening a window. ‘That odour is a defence mechanism.’

  They sat down and began to pass dishes around. Stephen uncorked a bottle of claret and poured for everyone. As he filled Mark’s glass, he asked mildly, ‘What made you decide to collect butterflies? I always found it’s rather like hoarding marbles for their pretty colours. They don’t have much scientific value.’

  Mark’s eyebrow shot up and he looked pointedly at the Turner paintings. Ginie cut in before he could form a reply.

  ‘Actually, there’s something we want to ask your advice about,’ she said, laying down her knife and fork.

  He gave her a slow, sweet smile. ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘We see how awfully the Africans are treated here. We want to help. The question is how?’ She and Stephen had been discussing it ever since they had watched the prisoners file past in Umtali. ‘We have a few ideas, but you know this country better than we do.’

  ‘Education and training,’ said Mark, ‘That’s the key.’

  ‘We think so too,’ agreed Stephen.

  Mark cleared his throat. ‘Helping the Africans isn’t going to make you popular. Liberalism is a dirty word around here.’

  ‘Well,’ said Stephen, ‘we’re unpopular already.’

  He told them about the anonymous letter. Ginie was badly shaken, but they’d forced themselves to put it from their minds; they should not be intimidated by that sort of thing. They hadn’t heard from the letter writer again. Evidently, it had been the one-off act of a crank. The others looked concerned.

  ‘Whoever could have written that? It makes me nervous,’ said Diana.

  ‘It’s an empty threat,’ Stephen replied. ‘Someone trying to scare us.’

  ‘I hope that’s all it is,’ said Guthrie.

  ‘More importantly,’ Ginie interrupted, ‘here’s what we have done so far: we’ve cleared a piece of land for a sports ground for our staff and we’re going to build a hall beside it to serve as a home craft industry school for the women. We want to provide sewing machines to help them make their own clothes and blankets, and eventually start selling them.’

  ‘It’s a start,’ said Stephen. ‘A drop in an ocean, r
eally.’

  ‘We want to do more,’ said Ginie. ‘We’re concerned that so many young Africans are either unschooled, or are leaving school early, without training and too young to find paid work. For children who can’t make the academic grade, there’s nothing for them to do. We want to change that, but we don’t know how. . .’

  Guthrie piped up. ‘May I presume to offer some advice?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Stephen, noting that Guthrie was looking better. The food and wine had put colour back in his face.

  ‘Well,’ said Guthrie leaning back in his chair, ‘If you’ll forgive me, you both sound rather self-righteous, putting the world in order. Be careful in assuming that Africa is yours to fix. It can actually make things worse.’

  ‘However do you mean?’ Ginie asked, surprised.

  ‘You don’t want to rob people of their dignity and privacy. And don’t forget that there are a lot of local people who are already working to improve their own situations. I know your intentions are good, and I love you for having them—’ he broke off and gave them a warm smile. ‘It’s just that these good intentions need to be properly thought out, structured, and then offered. Do not assume that you are the solution to all of their problems, nor that they necessarily want your help.’

  ‘I have an idea,’ Mark said slowly.

  ‘Tell us,’ encouraged Stephen.

  Mark drained his glass before he spoke. ‘You see, the Africans farm by working on a patch of land until it is depleted and then moving to the next. I think we could teach them better farming practices.’

  ‘But Mark,’ said Guthrie, ‘the Africans have farmed for hundreds of years before colonialism. What can you do for them that’s an improvement?’

  ‘Well, we could share our knowledge of modern farming techniques, like water management and soil conservation. And we could show them the new technologies in modern farming – about mechanics, how to use and maintain the machines, that kind of thing.’

  Stephen made a steeple of his fingers and rested his chin on them. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’ve often wished I had the means to set up a school for practical training in agriculture. It would benefit the white farmers too, so everyone would gain.’

  ‘It’s a wonderful idea!’ exclaimed Ginie.

  ‘Yes, I think it could work,’ agreed Guthrie.

  ‘Where might such a school be built, and who could get it going?’ asked Stephen.

  ‘I have a location in mind. . . if you like, I could ­introduce you to the right people,’ Mark replied.

  As Mark was speaking, it dawned on Stephen that Diana hadn’t said anything for several minutes. He turned to her and asked what she thought. Her eyes as they met his were blank, as though she had retreated to a place deep inside herself.

  ‘Do you know how hard it is being on my own all day, with nothing to occupy my mind? I’m nearly at the end of my tether. And now you’re going to start doing something else, so you’ll be away from home even more,’ she said, stiffly.

  The others stared at her in surprise.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ she groaned, hopelessly. ‘You don’t know what it’s like.’ She rubbed her hands over her thighs in hard, agitated movements until Guthrie gently took them in his.

  ‘You caused poor Diana some fearful feelings running off to the Dell with her husband,’ Stephen said to Ginie later that night. Ginie, wearing an ivory silk nightgown, was brushing her hair at her dressing table. Stephen looked at her back and shoulders, lightly tanned, straight and smooth.

  ‘Oh, Stephen, don’t be absurd. The poor creature’s clearly going off her head, but not because of anything I’ve done.’

  Stephen sighed, but did not answer. It was very humid. The top of his head felt as though a weight were pressing on it. Sweat collected into drips down his back, gluing his shirt to his skin. Setting down her brush, Ginie turned to face him.

  ‘You know Mark means nothing to me,’ she said softly.

  ‘That may be, but don’t forget that your actions have an impact on other people. What’s more, we need their help and goodwill if we’re to press ahead with something like the farming school.’

  ‘You worry too much. Everything will be fine.’

  Stephen was not mollified. He couldn’t help feeling jealous of Mark. Craving reassurance, he pressed against her and ran his fingers lightly down the back of her neck.

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ he said.

  She turned and wound her arms around him, murmuring, ‘You’re overthinking, as usual.’ He drew her onto the bed and thought was blotted out by the feel and taste of her, and by the sweetness coursing through his body.

  13

  Ginie, Rhodesia, 1950s

  While their hall for home crafts was being built, Ginie and Stephen got books from the library in Umtali on the history of Africa, and on comparative anthropology. Ginie read up on the current laws of Rhodesia, Acts of Parliament and the Reports of Commissions and sub-committees. ‘The Land Apportionment Act,’ she learned, was the cornerstone of Rhodesian policy; it allocated the best land to whites, while less than a third went to Africans and about a fifth was unassigned. Africans not needed for labour on white-owned lands were forcibly moved to squalid and overcrowded reserves, where the soil was inferior and the rainfall insufficient. These were called the Tribal Trust Lands.

  ‘The Native Affairs Act’ set up separate tribal councils for the administration of the reserves and advisory councils for Africans in urban areas, all under the umbrella of the Native Affairs Department, but under the ultimate authority of the Prime Minister. It was a shoddy device to side-track Africans asking for the right to sit in parliament.

  Ginie was galvanised – shocked by what she was learning, but exhilarated as her brain expanded with new information and ideas.

  The finished hall was a large, airy, brick structure, filled with long trestle tables and chairs. A wide and shady veranda ran the length of it, like an extra room, and they all sat out there on unbearably hot days. The women were given hand-operated sewing machines, looms, knitting needles and wool. Ginie demonstrated how to operate the machines and the different functions they made more efficient: adding pockets and buttonholes, using more than one colour at a time, and so on. She made specimens, stuck them on paper and left them around the room so that the women could refer to them afterwards. One afternoon Guthrie came to see the club and Ginie walked him around the hall, watching the members talking and laughing as they knitted. Some had their babies with them and there were toddlers leaning against their mothers’ legs, or playing on the floor.

  They stopped beside Zandile, the cook’s wife, a beautiful and statuesque woman with flawlessly smooth skin, who was turning out a range of jackets and jumpers with beautifully finished pockets and buttonholes, all in vibrant colours. Ginie exclaimed over each piece.

  ‘I feel so at home with these ladies,’ she said, as they moved on.

  ‘Ginie, you can’t say that.’

  ‘But it’s true,’ she insisted. ‘They don’t judge me or have hidden agendas.’

  ‘You cannot know what the grind of their lives is like, when you live in such luxury.’

  ‘No, of course, you’re right,’ she replied. ‘What I mean is that I find refuge here and I feel as though they do too. But it’s true that we’re not escaping the same problems.’

  Guthrie smiled at her, and she slipped her hand through his arm. A warm breeze was flowing through the open windows and as they walked, patches of sunlight would catch a copper bangle, a bright scarf, or the solemn eyes of a baby with its thumb in its mouth.

  Guthrie’s blue eyes were resting on her face: kindly, patient, quizzical. ‘Do you mind if I say something?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Your taking such an interest in these people’s lives is wonderful, and I am sure it’s making a real difference.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It’s just that. . . how shall I put this? Um – just be careful your own motives never eclipse the real nee
ds of others.’

  ‘What on earth does that mean?’

  ‘Your desire to do this work seems to have something to do with working out your own complexes.’

  Ginie gave him a rueful smile. ‘I suppose so. But what if I am achieving some good in the process?’

  ‘Then of course I approve.’

  14

  Catherine, Rhodesia, 1950s

  Mufaro and I lay in the long grass under the spreading branches of a mopane tree. It was a majestic old tree, the roots hard under our backs. I was drowsy, lulled by the heat, by the swaying of leaves overhead, the cooing of doves. A cloud of yellow butterflies hovered over the grass close by and one of them settled on my foot with beating wings. I held my breath, but it fluttered off almost immediately. I could still feel the soft brush of its legs on my skin.

  ‘We should always meet under this tree,’ I said dreamily. ‘Even when we’re grown up.’

  ‘That’s if you still want to know me when you’re a white madam.’ Mufaro’s voice was teasing, but tight.

  ‘What a horrible thing to say,’ I snapped. ‘Didn’t I just tell you we’d always be friends?’ Rage flashed through me like lightning, but it was mingled with shame. Mufaro’s face was a mirror of my feelings.

  ‘Yes, but you’re going to go away to college and I will still be here, working my father’s land. Blacks can’t go to college.’ He ripped handfuls of grass out of the earth as he spoke and wouldn’t meet my eyes.

  ‘It’s unfair,’ I said. ‘It’s so unfair.’

  ‘You’ve only just realised that?’

  ‘Is it my fault?’ I glared at him through tears.

  ‘No, of course not,’ he replied evenly, but he seemed glad that I was upset.

  We were silent. I lay down again, a little apart from him. Tears ran out of the corners of my eyes and dripped onto the grass.

  ‘If I could go to university, I know what I’d be,’ said Mufaro.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A politician.’

  I stared at the leaves overhead. I was envious, for I had absolutely no idea what I wanted to do with my life.