The Dragon Lady

by Louisa Treger

  ‘At first, I thought my mind was playing tricks,’ Mary continued. ‘It was dark, you see, and the darkness scared me. The trees seemed to move – I had to stop and make sure they were only trees.’ She hesitated, then lifted her chin and said, ‘But the smell of roses was there – it was real. And I could feel. . . something. It’s hard to explain. The air changed. The wind was like fingers brushing my face.’ She gave Ginie a troubled look. ‘It wanted me to know it was there. It wanted. . . comfort.’

  ‘Oh Mary, you must be tired looking after me like this,’ Ginie said gently, ‘and with the shock of Eliot, you are probably feeling all kinds of things. I expect you need a day off. I’m nothing but a drain on you – a drain on this entire place.’ She frowned.

  Mary said nothing and closed in on herself. Ginie hoped she hadn’t said anything too insensitive. They continued to walk in silence, skirting the Dell and carrying on up the driveway, towards the front gates.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Ginie asked, at last.

  Mary didn’t answer, but kept a firm, guiding pressure on Ginie’s linked arm. Ginie glanced at her face, but it was inscrutable. Ahead of them was the home crafts hall. Ginie hadn’t thought about it for a long time. She had deliberately put it from her mind as she didn’t want to face their disappointment in her. The grass around it had grown long and there was a fine crust of reddish earth over the walls, with creepers stealing up them.

  The hall seemed like a brittle skeleton that could easily sink back into the bush. She thought how, if they left La Rochelle, one wet, fertile season would be enough to engulf the buildings and the cultivated spaces. After a few months there would be nothing left to show that she and Stephen had ever been here, except for heaps of debris among the ant-hills and bushes and trees.

  Mary started to lead her through the door. Ginie tried to pull away, suddenly panic-stricken. ‘No, no, wait a minute—’ but Mary took no notice.

  All the women were inside, waiting for them. They were smiling and welcoming her back; there was no reproach on any of their faces. She opened her mouth to thank them, but no words came. She was deeply moved and close to tears.

  ‘You are not a drain on anything,’ Mary said quietly.

  Ginie cleared her throat. ‘Thank you for coming and for giving me your trust. It means the world to me.’

  She took out her handkerchief, blew her nose and drew herself upright. Mary had lost her husband and the father of her children, the others faced oppression every day of their lives. It put her own ordeal in perspective and strengthened her resolve not to let them down a second time. She would stay in Rhodesia and finish what she had started.

  ‘So, what would you like to do today?’ she asked.

  ‘Our children need warm jumpers for winter,’ called Zandile.

  There was a chorus of agreement. Ginie went to the cupboards, took out bundles of wool and knitting needles and proceeded to hand them around.

  After dinner, Ginie couldn’t find Stephen in the house. Strips of light lay across the steps and down the dim path to the lawn. She could just about make him out – a dark, motionless figure beyond the reach of the light. His love of darkness came from his time as an Air Raid Precaution warden during the war, patrolling blacked-out London streets.

  ‘If you stay in total darkness, it’s amazing what you can see,’ he would say. ‘In the dark, you develop an extra sense.’

  Drawing her shawl around her, Ginie left the house. Moths blundered into her with papery thuds as she walked down the path, enticed by the light in the doorway.

  She hadn’t told Stephen of her change of heart about staying in Rhodesia. She hadn’t found the right time, or the right words. Reaching him, she slipped her arm through his and they looked out at the landscape, which lay dark and mysterious.

  The trees stood vast and still; the air laced with their dusky fragrance and the clear, cool perfume of the roses from the beds close to them. The red roses were dark shadows, the white ones like pales faces, watching them. Frogs were growling their monotonous calls from the pool, crickets chirped and from the staff houses at the back, the sound of drums and singing started up. The music flowed across the night, full of life.

  ‘It won’t be easy saying goodbye to all of this,’ Stephen said.

  Ginie took a deep breath. ‘We don’t have to say goodbye to it.’

  She felt Stephen give her a serious, hard look.

  ‘Look, there’s the Southern Cross,’ she remarked. ‘There’s the Plough, the Pleiades. . . and I think that big one over there is Venus.’

  ‘Are you telling me you want to stay?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s not safe here.’

  ‘Whoever shot Jongy is a coward and a bully. How can we live with ourselves if we give in to a person like that?’

  He didn’t answer, so she said, ‘Someone’s got to stand up for this country.’

  ‘But does it have to be us?’ he shot back.

  ‘It’s not like you to run away, darling.’

  ‘But why not run?’ he demanded, exasperated. ‘There’s no shame in it; it’s just self-preservation. Whoever shot Jongy is a nasty, brutal piece of work. A dirty fighter. He’s likely to attack again. And he’s probably backed by most of the white community.’

  ‘When he sees we’re not easily intimidated, he’ll give up like the coward he is and then we’ll be free of him.’

  For a moment, she wavered, wondering if Stephen was right and there would be more violence. She had a vision of the two of them leading safe, aimless lives in some cosy little country and knew she could no sooner return to their old lives than she could bring Jongy back from the dead.

  Ginie tried again. ‘When we saw the need here and realised we could do something about it – well, it has changed our lives. It gave us purpose, didn’t it? How many people have that?’

  Something shifted in his face and she knew she’d got through to him.

  She gave his arm a squeeze. ‘What do you think?’

  He opened his mouth to speak, but the phone started ringing. ‘I’d better go and answer it,’ he sighed.

  He turned and went into the house. Ginie stayed outside watching the sky, lost in thought. It felt as though she needed the edge that lay beneath the surface of life in this continent. Perhaps the danger lurking at every corner was part of what made her feel so alive here. The idea of living in a safe and predictable country, full of neat rows of houses and hedged gardens, made her feel utterly disheartened.

  Stephen was back.

  ‘Who was it?’ The wind had picked up; she could feel it crisp against her face.

  ‘Sergeant de Kock. He said he was sorry for calling us so late,’ Stephen said, raking his hands through his hair, which made it stand on end. ‘Darling, the police have identified the bullet that killed Jongy.’

  26

  Catherine, Rhodesia, 1950s

  Our house was freezing in winter. Cold radiated up from the floor and through the walls, the iron roof sang and crackled with cold. The air in our sparsely furnished rooms was thin and dry. The linoleum numbed the soles of my feet, my legs ached and my eyes smarted. I could never get warm, despite the fire that glowed in the hearth. Though I felt its heat on my skin, it didn’t penetrate the chill inside me.

  My mother had taken to sitting for hours at a time wrapped in a blanket on the battered old sofa in our living room. It was as if she was in a trance. Her skin was flaky and blotchy, and there were deep lines around her eyes.

  Dad asked her if she was feeling ill. She gave a fluttering sigh and said that actually, she was. She was suffering from headaches and lethargy. She seemed relieved that illness might be the cause.

  He suggested that perhaps she should go to Umtali for a few days, for a rest and a change of scene. She could stay with one of her friends and do some shopping.

  ‘You want to send me away?’ she cried suddenly, her eyes filling with tears. ‘How will you manage without me? Who will cook and look afte
r Cathy?’

  Dad didn’t reply.

  ‘You’ve fallen out of love with me, haven’t you?’ she said. She sounded shrill, desperate. It was terrible to hear her like this.

  Dad went white. He put one hand out to touch her face, but let it fall away before making contact with her skin. I couldn’t bear to look at either of them; my eyes roved around the living room. I saw walls mottled with stains, windowsills that were thick with dust and dead flies, a plate of mouldy apples on the table. I wondered how Mum could have let the house fall into such a state.

  At last, Dad took a long, weary breath and said, ‘You have to pull yourself out of this, Di. You have to, for Cathy’s sake.’ And with an impatient movement, he turned away from her, picked up his jacket and left the house.

  Needing to escape Mum’s terrifying loneliness, I went outside and found myself walking towards Mufaro’s kraal, my legs taking me there of their own accord. After about fifteen minutes, the cluster of circular thatched huts came into view, their walls decorated with patterns of red and yellow mud. They looked calm and quiet. A few scraggy hens searched for food. An elderly woman was sweeping the entrance to one of the huts with a broom, looking at me curiously as I passed.

  I found Mufaro in a small field beyond the kraal, hoeing with some other boys. They were calling to each other and laughing as they worked. I halted about fifty yards away and watched them. Their hoes rose and sank into the heavy red soil. The sky was high and empty, glacial blue, but there was no warmth in the sun. A gust of wind rustled through the tall, parched grass.

  Mufaro straightened up and looked right at me. My stomach lurched. I started waving, but he turned away and went back to work. I walked home slowly, my throat hurting from dry, convulsive sobs. Tucker was in the garden. I scooped up a handful of seeds from one of the bird feeders and held out my hand, keeping as still and quiet as I could. He cocked his head and looked at me before he flapped up and fed from my palm. I scarcely breathed as he moved around pecking at the food. His claws dug into my skin, but the sensation was pleasant. It seemed that he was the only creature in the world who was glad to see me.

  27

  The Courtaulds, Rhodesia, 1950s

  The bullet that killed Jongy came from Eric Thompson’s gun. Ginie and Stephen chose not to attend the court hearing, knowing it would be too much for her. Eric claimed that his pistol had gone off by accident, though he couldn’t come up with a convincing explanation as to why he was in the Dell with a gun. The Courtaulds were sure he had shot Jongy deliberately, to teach them a lesson for taking Mary in, and to their dismay, he was let off with a caution and a fine. The magistrate, Doug Knight, was a friend of his. The one thing they drew comfort from was that Eric’s firearms had been confiscated.

  Eric was furious. He tried to fight the ruling, arguing that he wouldn’t be able to defend himself on his isolated farm, but Knight was immovable.

  ‘Do you think the letters will stop now?’ Ginie asked Stephen, afterwards.

  ‘I’m sure of it,’ he replied, squeezing her hand. ‘We haven’t had one since Jongy died.’

  Perhaps now that Eric had been held accountable, he would accept that he had to give up his vendetta. Weeks and months passed without incident and it appeared as though the danger was over. It had to be over. Guthrie went to England to visit his sister, who had just been diagnosed with cancer. He didn’t know how long he would be gone and the Courtaulds missed him dearly, for they had come to rely on his kindness and common sense.

  They threw themselves into new building projects. First, they commissioned a memorial to Jongy and placed it over his grave in the garden. It was designed by Gilbert Ledward: a larger than life-sized sculpture of the lemur sitting with his tail curled up. An inscription read:

  Much loved member of our family for nineteen years.

  Companion in our travels over many lands and seas.

  Ginie planted a rosebush beside Jessica’s grave. She was still sceptical about Jessica’s ghost, but it was a nice thing to do and she hoped it might dispel the sadness she felt whenever she was near the gravestone.

  In the staff compound, they built new houses, installing electricity for the first time. The home crafts club was flourishing and had expanded to include not only the women from La Rochelle, but also those who lived outside the estate. They were running their own affairs and selling the clothes and blankets they made to a couple of shops in Umtali. Near the home crafts building they made a sports ground, with a full size football pitch and a pavilion that had a veranda, dressing-rooms and showers. A men’s football club was founded and named the Shumba Sports Club. Membership was open to all male employees and the club included workers from neighbouring farms and properties. Competing teams in the valley impatiently awaited their first trials.

  Ginie and Stephen were especially proud of their school, which took place in the mornings in the home crafts hall. There were fifty-two pupils in total, their ages ranging from six to eleven. They were taught by Mary. Her salary, as well as all stationery, textbooks and other equipment, were paid for by the Courtaulds. They also had a small pavilion built for Ginie’s private use.

  Cedric Green, an architect and artist who lived in Umtali, was chosen to design it. A short, neat-looking man, with tawny hair and beard, a hooked nose and keen brown eyes behind half-moon spectacles. He reminded Ginie of a bird of prey. He’d studied under the Portuguese architect, Pancho Guedes, and was deeply influenced by him. His work had a sculptural, innovative character, which the Courtaulds were drawn to, so they gave him free reign. The construction of the pavilion was mostly done by John Mutasa, the estate handyman.

  After her walks, Ginie liked to sit in the sun and watch the men work. She found it therapeutic to observe them working with their hands: John with his shirt off, his back and chest shiny with sweat; Cedric, who was a whole head shorter, working around him with decisive movements.

  As the pavilion had been designed with curved walls, Cedric drew it on a grid. He and John set out the grid on the cleared ground with posts and strings and Cedric marked the outline of the foundations in whitewash lines. Once this was done, John dug the foundations by hand and poured them, and Cecil set out the foundation walls from the grid. John did all the brickwork and together, the two men worked out the patterned courses under the windows.

  Gradually, a structure began to rise up; modern, marvellous and strange. It consisted of a large, single room designed around a spiral light-well, so that light fell in a pool from the roof. There wasn’t a single straight line, but a series of curved walls, like rondavel shapes. These walls, however, were higher than any rondavel and were plastered white. There were maze-like nooks and a niche to hold Ginie’s collection of minerals and semi-precious stones. It had large, stained glass windows, with panes fashioned into modern, geometric shapes overlooking the Dell.

  Cedric wanted the walls to be kept white, but Ginie overrode him – she had a strong need to surround herself with colour. She painted the walls blue herself, adding a mural that was inspired by the various animals, birds and fish she’d seen on her travels. She stayed up all night to paint it, letting it flow without conscious planning or thought, simply following the paintbrush as fast as her hand could move it across the wall. Creatures with curious, elongated shapes began to emerge, connected to each other by curving lines that were like the tendrils of a gigantic vine. Jongy was in the centre, observing everything. Painting brought an energy Ginie hadn’t experienced since before he died; hours passed without her noticing.

  She finished as the dawn chorus started up, silencing the nightjars and the owls. The sky was clear and greyish, with a few pink streaks radiating out from the glow of the rising sun. She sat on the floor to survey her work, marvelling at its strangeness.

  Not long after Ginie finished her mural, the rose bush beside Jessica’s grave flowered and three puppies were born to Sandra and Max: two boys and a girl. Sandra lay in her basket, exhausted, as the squirming pups latched on to her t
eats. Max seemed proud as punch, though he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. Stephen wouldn’t let Ginie keep the puppies and insisted she find homes for them in Umtali. She was disappointed, but the puppies’ arrival seemed to signal the start of a period of regeneration at La Rochelle. A good omen.

  Ginie was enthralled by her studio and christened it ‘the Fantasy’. It was her private space and nobody else was allowed to cross the threshold, not even Stephen. He didn’t like this at all, hurt and baffled by her need to withdraw.

  In the Fantasy, Ginie read, wrote letters, sewed, or simply watched tinted rays of sunlight falling through the stained glass windows, turning different colours as the sun moved. Sometimes, she would spend the entire day there. There was still a darkness and pain in her that was harder to throw off. Sometimes it would grow so strong that it shut her off from other people. When this happened, she went to the Fantasy and waited for it to run its course. She would then return, restored and full of plans for La Rochelle and the wider community. A new idea was growing in her mind – she wanted to support the cultural life of Rhodesia. It wasn’t hard to get Stephen on board, as they both missed London’s plays and concerts. They had begun to consider building a theatre in Umtali, something sophisticated yet intimate. A little gem.

  After years of not being interested in religion, Ginie decided she would like to go to church. It was one of those sudden about-turns that she couldn’t, and wouldn’t explain, to Stephen. One Sunday, they drove to the small, grey-stone church in Umtali, which sat about thirty people. It was multi-denominational and ministers came in rotation; Presbyterian, Anglican, Dutch Reformed and Roman Catholic.

  The inside looked like a Catholic church. The walls were whitewashed, the pews and lectern were plain pine and a brass candelabrum hung from the ceiling. There was a large brass crucifix, candlesticks on the altar and carved angels in each corner. Sunlight streamed through stained-glass windows, casting patches of colour on the stone floor. The circular window above the altar depicted the figure of the risen Christ, while the others showed African animals: lions, elephants and leopards.