Anne Michaels played hymns on a piano whose keys kept sticking, and the congregation’s singing echoed around them. Stephen hummed as tunelessly as a lethargic fly, but Ginie’s voice was clear and beautiful. As they sang, they had the uncomfortable sensation of being watched. Stephen was sure he heard the muttered words Dragon Lady.
Today, it was a Roman Catholic service. The priest, a stooped man with a gaunt face and close-cut dark hair, read from the book of Genesis. Stephen’s mind wandered back to his prep school days. Chapel services had been taken by Reverend Browne, a short, fat, kindly man, who was fond of explaining the Holy Trinity in terms of cricket.
‘You needn’t worry yourselves about the Trinity,’ he would declare. ‘It’s all quite simple, and just like the wicket, you see. Off stump Jesus Christ, middle stump, God the Father, leg stump, the Holy Ghost. There you are – three in one and one in three.’
Stephen returned to the present, nostalgic for the lost simplicity of his schooldays.
He heard the priest say, ‘We are all tested in different ways. But God passes sentence upon transgressors and he begins where the sin began, with the serpent.’
Was it Stephen’s imagination, or did the priest seek Ginie’s eyes as he spoke? He felt her stiffen beside him and remembered the awkward position she was in because of her divorce. Their marriage wasn’t recognised by the Catholic Church.
‘The devil’s instruments must share in the devil’s punishments,’ the priest went on. ‘Under the cover of the serpent, the devil is cursed by God, detested by mankind. . .’
Ginie’s eyes were lowered, her face without expression. She crossed her legs: the snake appeared and disappeared beneath her dress.
When the mass finished, the congregation gathered outside to talk. The Courtaulds stood to one side and watched while Jill invited everyone who passed to come to the farm for a roast pork lunch. For Ginie’s sake, Stephen was hoping for an invitation too, but it never came. He met Eric’s eyes and Eric’s lips curled back, baring his teeth like an animal. The hairs on Stephen’s arms rose. The Richardsons said hello, Diana looking pale and tense, before heading to their truck and driving off. Nobody else approached them, and the priest strode past with averted eyes.
Eventually, Jill waved goodbye to the group and got into the car beside Eric. Their tyres spat up clouds of dust as the car pulled away. Ginie looked as though someone had slammed a door in her face and it hurt Stephen’s heart.
‘I see we’re still outcasts,’ he said cautiously, putting an arm around her shoulders. ‘Well, what did you expect?’
‘Oh, I know,’ she said in a hard, careless voice. Briefly, she leaned into him, then pulled away.
He shot her a quick glance, sensing the nervous unhappiness that swelled inside her. The fear she might break down again was always present and it made everything seem fragile, as though they were perched over an abyss. His happiness depended on her being whole and next to him – it was as simple as that. And as difficult. Ever since Jongy died, he’d felt her turn inward, slipping away to a place beyond his reach. He had responded by closing up and throwing himself into his writing. After everything they had been through, this wall between them took him by surprise. But perhaps there was never a safe time in a marriage.
He’d been less sure than Ginie about staying in Rhodesia and had let himself be swayed by her, but with misgivings. His continued failure to protect her from the ill will of the locals made him burn with frustration.
‘I wonder if there’s anything we can do to make people feel differently about us,’ he mused aloud. ‘Perhaps when our theatre is ready they’ll change their minds?’
28
Catherine, Rhodesia, 1950s
My mother pulled herself together because she had to. She took up her place again and did all the things she was supposed to, but was rigid and controlled. Before long, there was news on the front page of the Umtali Post that took her out of herself:
MAJOR STEPHEN AND MRS VIRGINIA COURTAULD DONATE $R70,000 TOWARD THE COST OF BUILDING A THEATRE IN UMTALI
There was a short interview with Stephen. He said that in the time he and Ginie had lived in Rhodesia they had seen striking progress, but that it was largely in material things like commerce, industry and infrastructure. He realised that in the early years of colonisation, the emphasis would inevitably be on the material, but he felt that the country had reached a stage where its culture should be developed.
‘It’s on this other side of progress, the educational, cultural and spiritual, that we would like to support.’
Mum read the interview aloud. ‘At least someone understands the need to bring on the culture here,’ she said happily. She loved the theatre. It reminded her of the life she had left behind in England. The school bus drove past the construction site every morning and every afternoon, so I was able to observe its progress and report back to her. Within months, it had grown into a spacious, dreamy building in the art deco style. It was painted cream and pink, with a tower and a glassed-in area at the front for people to have drinks during the interval. It was named the Courtauld Theatre. State-of-the-art and professionally equipped, it was the first of its kind in Africa. The opening had almost been delayed because the seats, which were made in England, were held up on a ship caught in bad weather. Most of the townspeople were so starved of entertainment, they would have happily sat on the floor, but the seats arrived just in time.
My parents took me to the opening night. On the morning of the performance, Mum pulled out the trunk that had the clothes she’d brought from home and together, we readied ourselves to look through it. I knew what lay inside: satin cloaks edged with embroidery or diamante, velvet shoes and satin shoes, elbow-length silk gloves, dresses that were dreamy confections of chiffon or silk or lace, all in glowing colours. It seemed incredible that there were places in the world where these clothes were part of everyday life.
I took pleasure in watching Mum open the trunk, revealing layers of garments carefully wrapped in tissue paper. As she lifted out the top layer, a flurry of moths flew up. Her eyes widened and her face turned red.
‘I didn’t put in enough mothballs,’ she breathed.
We unpacked the dresses with trepidation. I knew that they represented her lost life in England and when she handled them, she was not in Africa with us at all; she was back in England as a young, beautiful girl, her whole life stretching out in front of her, full of promise.
Tears filled her eyes as we discovered that several garments had holes nibbled through them. The insects in our district were insatiable. Moths chewed the fabrics to lace while white ants and borers ate at the supports of our houses. The week before, part of my parents’ bedroom ceiling had collapsed while they slept – luckily, not on top of them.
Mum managed to find one undamaged dress: a sheath made out of pale green sequins. She looked almost beautiful in it, once she had dried her tears, done her hair and put her lipstick on. I looked as awkward as I felt, zipped into a scratchy peach-coloured frock with puffed sleeves that I was far too old for. I could feel the elastic biting into the soft flesh of my upper arms as I sat wedged between my parents in our truck, bumping and lurching over the bad roads towards Umtali.
The theatre was a great source of pride for Umtali. There was electricity in the air as the audience awaited the arrival of Governor General Llewellyn, who had come all the way from Salisbury to cut the ribbon.
The auditorium was packed; the whole town seemed to be there. I spotted policemen, farmers, shop owners, the doctor and several of my teachers, all uncomfortably dressed in their best clothes. Most of us were seeing the interior for the first time, admiring the blue stucco and panelled walls, the concealed lighting and the red velvet seats that were soft under my fingertips. Clearly they had spared no expense.
It was very hot. I could smell sawdust, perfume, sweat, greasepaint and slightly musty costumes. As conversation hummed and the pianist played cascades of notes to warm up, I wondered what kind
of world the Umtali Players were going to build on top of bare boards. Suddenly, heads swivelled and the air around us changed; Ginie and Stephen had arrived.
I craned my neck for a better view as they walked down the central aisle to their seats in the front row. I had heard a great deal about the Courtaulds, but this was the first time I’d seen them. She was slim with dark hair and she moved as fluidly as a dancer. He was well-built, with aquiline features and greying hair.
‘Talk about making an entrance,’ snorted Anne, who was sitting next to me. She had too much makeup on. Even in the dim light, I could see foundation caked in the long lines that ran from nose to chin.
‘Yes, I know,’ said Mum. ‘But it was good of them to give us the theatre.’ Her eyes flicked up and she froze.
I followed her stare and saw an African woman walking just behind the Courtaulds. Wearing a simple navy-blue dress, she gave off an air of quiet dignity. She sat down next to Ginie, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Murmurs of shock rippled through the hall.
‘Who is that?’ my mother asked, her hand plucking at Dad’s arm.
‘It’s Mary, Ginie’s housekeeper.’ He shook her off, his eyes never leaving the Courtaulds’ group. ‘Shh, Di.’
‘You don’t let a kaffir woman sit next to you as if she’s a duchess,’ said Bob. ‘Jesus Christ, man!’ His face had turned purple and a dark vein bulged in his temple.
‘She’s got some bloody cheek,’ hissed Anne.
‘It’s against the constitution.’
‘Will Llewellyn stand for it?’
‘I suppose now they’ve bought us with their fancy theatre, they think they can do as they like.’ Saliva sprayed from Bob’s mouth as he spoke. Flecks of it fell onto my arm and I wiped them off in disgust. Listening to the adults made me feel like I was part of a conspiracy I didn’t want to belong to.
A few rows in front of us, Jill Thompson got to her feet. Stepping and jostling over people’s legs until she reached the aisle, she turned and marched out of the auditorium, her head held high. Eric followed close behind. His face was white, and I knew that was worse than when it turned red.
They nearly collided with the Governor General and the rest of the vice-regal party, who were just coming in at the top of the aisle. The group consisted of a few MPs and their wives and the Mayor of Umtali, Dr Wessels, who was busy adjusting his mayoral chain. As they made their way to their seats, the audience rose to its feet in a shuffling, rustling wave.
We sat down again when the VIPs did. On stage, Mr Dendy Lawton, chairman of the Umtali Players, introduced Ginie. There was a scatter of applause as she came to the footlights and stood in front of the fiery emblem of the Umtali Players, which was embossed in gold on the crimson curtains. She was wearing the most beautiful dress I had ever seen, it made the clothes in Mum’s trunk look ordinary. It had a form-fitting bodice with a sweetheart neckline and a gently flaring skirt. The rose-coloured fabric shimmered under the lights. It was almost transparent, her snake tattoo clearly visible. Every time she moved, the creature seemed to wriggle up her leg.
‘Shocking,’ Anne whispered to Mum. There was a bright flush on her cheeks and she was fanning herself with her programme.
Mum shook her head, raising her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Oh my Lord.’
I waited for Dad to hush her up, but he was sitting forward in his seat, very still, oblivious to everything but Ginie.
Ginie cleared her throat. ‘This is a momentous occasion for us.’ She smiled brightly and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. ‘It fulfils so many hopes, dispels so many doubts and opens new avenues to success.’
At the end of our row, an elderly lady rose to her feet and walked out. Ginie either didn’t see her, or she pretended not to notice.
‘It’s my pleasure to introduce his Excellency, Lord Llewellyn,’ she said, giving a small bow in his direction. ‘We are honoured by his presence tonight. I hope that his visit is the first of many to Umtali and the Umtali theatre.’
The Governor General came on stage to enthusiastic clapping, but I couldn’t help noticing more and more people leave the auditorium. Everything about the governor was precise: his shoes were shiny, his suit beautifully cut. He had grey slicked-back hair, every strand immaculate, as though the very hairs on his head dared not disobey him. He kissed Ginie on both cheeks, which made her smile.
‘I ask your Excellency to speak to us,’ she said, ‘and to honour us by declaring our theatre open.’
Anne and Bob stood up and left. My mother half-rose to her feet, but Dad pulled her roughly back down. She sat slumped in her seat like a sack of potatoes, breathing heavily. I could feel sweat slick in my armpits and trickling down my back.
‘Let me say from the outset how very fortunate we are, not only in this neighbourhood, but in the Federation as a whole, to have Major and Mrs Stephen Courtauld making their home here,’ Lord Llewellyn said. There was applause, mixed with boos. He raised his hand for order, genial no longer. ‘Without their great generosity,’ he went on, slowly and crisply, ‘this theatre would not have been built. The arts have been supported by great patrons through the ages. It’s good to see this support today, for without the arts, the world would be a humdrum round of work, with no goal but money for money’s sake.’
He paused and looked around the auditorium. ‘The Courtaulds have given us more than bricks and mortar. They have provided a foundation upon which we may build. This is a priceless gift, a gift conceived with foresight and imagination. Above all, they did this with love for the country they have made their home.’
He halted again, letting his words sink in. Then, he declared the theatre open and he and Ginie left the stage to more clapping. The curtain rose on the first act of Present Laughter by Noel Coward, revealing the Umtali Players frozen in their opening tableau.
I exhaled slowly and settled into the play. The actors were local English amateurs who were talented and energetic, but the performance was an anti-climax. The most interesting drama of the evening had already taken place.
29
The Courtaulds, Rhodesia, 1950s
Stephen drove home slowly. The moon was nearly full; a hard, silver disc in the sky. The car’s headlights nosed along the road, illuminating the darkness left between the glow of street lamps. Buildings loomed out, pale and black-shadowed, their outlines sharply defined.
They didn’t speak much, other than to ask Mary if she’d enjoyed her first trip to the theatre. She said yes, very much; she thanked them for bringing her and made a few comments about the play, but she was subdued. Stephen longed to be alone with Ginie, so they could talk freely.
He was shocked and saddened by the reaction to Mary’s presence. He could only imagine what she must be feeling. Not only had half the audience walked out, nobody but the vice-regal party had spoken to them at interval. The other guests had made a point of leaving a small space around them, as though they feared contact could contaminate them. Why couldn’t black and white people coexist gently, with respect for each other’s differences – why was that so hard? It seemed that there were several different versions of reality in Umtali. You could be a supporter of Rhodesia run by the white minority government and heavily influenced by farmers. You could accept the status quo and achieve an easy place in the hierarchy. Or you could set yourself apart.
He and Ginie were apart, even though they, along with all the other whites, existed in a bubble. They were sealed off from a much larger reality: the trauma, violence and dispossession suffered by the Africans. The whites’ entire existence was designed to separate and benefit themselves from the plight of the indigenous people. They were out of Umtali now, driving through the night-time bush. The dim shapes of rocks and trees flashed past. Every few minutes, he had to slow the car to let animals bound into the bush – a bushbuck, a wild pig and once, a small herd of eland.
Stephen’s mind drifted to the conversation he’d had with John Llewellyn at interval. Ginie and Mary had
excused themselves to go to the powder room and Llewellyn had approached him.
‘Your guest caused quite a stir,’ he said, puffing on a large cigar.
‘Yes, wasn’t it dreadful? Why shouldn’t everyone enjoy some culture?’
Llewellyn fixed him with thoughtful eyes. ‘As far as the whites are concerned, this theatre is for whites only.’
When Stephen didn’t answer, Llewellyn said, ‘Surely you realize the consequences of openly supporting and fraternizing with the Africans?’ He drew on the cigar, holding smoke in his mouth for a moment before blowing it towards the ceiling. ‘I’m speaking as a friend, who likes and respects you,’ he added. ‘Not as Governor of the Federation.’
Stephen silenced him with a hand on his shoulder. He and Ginie were doing what they knew was right. If the gift of a theatre wasn’t enough to win the acceptance of the white community, then they would give up seeking it and would do things on their own terms.
Ginie slept poorly that night, slipping in and out of dreams and nightmares. She dreamt she waded through swamps, or climbed mountains which crumbled underfoot, sending her hurtling through space. At seven o’clock, she gave up trying to rest. She checked the mosquito net for poisonous insects and reptiles, then tied it into its daytime knot and got out of bed. Pulling on her flowered silk kimono, she walked through her boudoir and out onto the back veranda. It was enclosed by hedges and led straight down to the pool, which allowed her to swim in privacy.
At the pool’s edge, she shrugged off her robe and let it slither to a heap at her feet, feeling the yellow morning sun on her skin. The air was still cool. Ginie lowered herself down the steps, one rung at a time. The water slipped over her body, enveloping her legs and belly in a chilly embrace.
The Dragon Lady Page 16