The Dragon Lady

by Louisa Treger

  She pushed away from the side and with a strong downward pull of her arms, she was underneath the surface. Water closed above her head, muffling the sound of birdsong. She swam half a dozen strokes under water and when she came up for air she felt strong and clear, all traces of her uneasy sleep forgotten.

  She began to swim lengths in front crawl, enjoying how the rhythmic activity ironed out the knots in her mind. What happened at the theatre had upset her deeply, but as her limbs cut through the water, she found herself able to stand back and observe it more dispassionately. It was clear what she and Stephen must do: if the townspeople would not allow a multi-racial theatre, the Courtaulds would have to walk away from it.

  Ginie turned onto her back and let the water hold her, savouring the sensation. Weaver birds’ nests dangled from the trees around the pool, like woven-grass tennis balls. Every now and then, a swallow skimmed the water. She remembered how Jongy used to settle at the edge of the pool to sunbathe while she swam, sitting upright with his forelimbs resting on his hind limbs, his pale underside facing towards the sun. Finally, she was able to think of him without pain.

  Stephen was already sitting at the breakfast table, unfolding the Umtali Post. Ginie kissed him and sat down. He asked how she’d slept.

  ‘While Mary was helping me get ready for bed,’ she said, putting toast and eggs on her plate, ‘She told me exactly how it felt to have people walk out of the auditorium because of the colour of her skin. How hurt and angry and ashamed she was. And I realized how much privilege we have. White people have branded her a reject in her own country, part of a sub-human race because of something she cannot control. How could I possibly sleep after that?’

  Stephen was pouring glasses of orange juice for both of them. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, setting the jug down. ‘I didn’t sleep well either.’

  ‘So, instead of thanks for financing our lovely theatre, we get this.’

  ‘Mmm.’ He sipped his juice. ‘I don’t think I want to carry on with the theatre anymore.’

  ‘Me neither. It’s sad when you think of what we’ve put into it.’

  Stephen sat forward and rubbed his face. ‘Shall I draft a letter of resignation to the Board of Trustees?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I think so. And make sure our reasons are crystal clear.’

  They ate in silence ‘What are you going to do today?’ Stephen asked, at last.

  ‘Well, I suppose I’ll go to the Fantasy.’ Reaching for the coffee pot, she poured herself a cup. ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be there. Don’t wait for me for lunch.’

  Stephen sighed and started to flip through the newspaper. ‘By the way, there’s a good review of the play here. It seems Umtali is rather keen on theatre, for a small town.’

  The smell of the coffee was making Ginie’s head reel. ‘Perhaps I’ll look at it later,’ she said. Stephen turned back to the paper and his expression changed.

  ‘What?’ asked Ginie.

  ‘There’s been a breakout at the prison. Listen to this.’ He began to read aloud:

  Police are searching the bush on the Rhodesian-Mozambique border for eight African men who escaped Umtali Prison last night. The men stormed the main gate of the prison, overpowered the warden on the gate and, in the melee that followed, got away. Red-and-white-striped prison shirts, which the men were wearing when they escaped, were found discarded in the bush near the jail. The escapees are extremely dangerous and should on no account be approached.

  Stephen lifted his eyes to meet hers. ‘If they’re heading for the Mozambique border, they’re going to cut straight across our land.’

  30

  Ginie, Rhodesia, 1950s

  Mark came to La Rochelle to discuss the progress of the farm school. It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon in spring. The jacarandas were bursting into clouds of purple blossom, the flowerbeds were full of daffodils, primula and violets. They had drinks on the veranda. Dixon was off duty, so Ginie poured three generous measures of whisky.

  ‘It’s not too early for the hard stuff, is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Not at all,’ Mark replied. Something in his tone made her look at him more closely. His face was carefully shaved and burnt dark by the sun, but his eyes were tired, the skin around them deeply creased.

  ‘Cheers.’ They clinked glasses and drank.

  ‘Is there any news from Guthrie?’ Mark asked.

  ‘His sister is a little better,’ said Ginie. ‘They’re trying a new drug from America and it seems to help. He doesn’t know when he’s coming back, though.’

  ‘Tell us how the school is going,’ Stephen said, abruptly.

  Planning the school had been more complicated than first envisaged. There had been several obstacles and delays, but they were working hard to overcome them. Despite the Courtaulds’ wealth, they sometimes had difficulties with cash flow and had raised the initial capital by selling the star ruby ring that Stephen had given Ginie in the early days of their marriage. The ring had considerable sentimental value and they were both sorry to see it go, but their determination to get the farming school off the ground was stronger.

  Mark had found the ideal location; a stretch of barren Government land forty kilometres outside Umtali. He also knew the right person to run it: Wim Scheckman, a former colleague.

  ‘We’re getting there,’ Mark said, sitting forwards in his chair. ‘Wim’s busy overseeing the building work. He’s also interviewing teaching staff and stocking the farm.’ He paused, adding: ‘I’m happy to tell you that we have four hundred applicants for the first thirty-three places!’

  ‘Hurrah!’ Ginie exclaimed, clapping her hands.

  ‘Although I’m afraid the project is known in town as “Courtaulds’ folly”.’ Mark didn’t look at them when he said this; he blew a piece of fluff off his shirtsleeve with great care. ‘People don’t like us empowering young African students. They feel that any philanthropy should go to white government schools.’

  ‘We can’t worry about what they think,’ said Stephen. ‘If we did, we’d never get anything done.’

  Mark looked up. Ginie met his gaze and drained her whisky in one gulp. ‘We’re wondering what to call the school,’ she said. ‘We’re stumped, actually. Nothing we’ve thought of is quite right.’

  ‘I have a suggestion,’ said Mark. ‘There’s a word in Shona: Kukwanisa. It roughly translates as “being able to”.’

  Stephen tried it out. ‘Ku-kwan-i-sa. Well, it rolls off the tongue.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ginie. ‘And it captures our “learning by doing” philosophy.’

  ‘So? How about it?’

  ‘I like it,’ said Ginie.

  ‘Me too!’ echoed Stephen. ‘The Kukwanisa Farm School it is.’

  Mark looked pleased. ‘I’m glad you agree.’

  When the discussion had run its course, Stephen got to his feet. He asked Mark to excuse him, as he had important correspondence to deal with.

  ‘Stay and talk to me, Mark,’ urged Ginie. ‘Stephen’s going to be buried in his study for the rest of the day.’

  ‘I’d love to.’

  The men said goodbye and Stephen disappeared into the house, with no sign of disquiet at leaving Ginie alone with Mark. A splinter of frost slid into her heart.

  Their marriage was changing and she felt powerless to stop it.

  Mark settled back into his chair. ‘I never had a chance to tell you how sorry I was to hear about your lemur,’ he said gently. ‘I know you loved it.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Him,’ said Ginie.

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘I loved him. Jongy was a “him,” not an “It”.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course he was,’ said Mark, hastily.

  Grief that had lost its edge flared up without warning. A line of tears built at the edge of Ginie’s eyelids and she quickly blinked them away.

  ‘Actually, I brought you something,’ he announced. Reaching into his pocket, he handed her a piece of pink quartz ca
rved in the shape of a poodle. ‘It’s Rhodesian crystallized quartz. I found it on one of my expeditions and took it to a local craftsman to be sculpted for you. I know you love gemstones. Though of course, you must have far more valuable pieces in your collection. . .’ he trailed off, unsure of himself.

  ‘I love it!’ declared Ginie quickly, ‘thank you.’ She was cradling the poodle, turning it this way and that. ‘Stephen made me give away Sandra’s puppies, so I’m thrilled to have at least one baby poodle.’

  They sat, content and silent, sipping their drinks. In front of them, birds wheeled and soared, singing their hearts out. She looked at him for a few moments.

  ‘Come on, let’s go for a walk,’ she said, getting to her feet.

  ‘It would take at least two days to explore your magical garden properly,’ said Mark, as they wandered across the lawn. The sunlight was oblique, sending slanting rays across the grass and lighting on the treetops. ‘It really is a flowering Eden: Rhodesia’s equivalent to the botanic gardens at Kirstenbosch.’

  Ginie smiled. ‘It’s Stephen’s boast that a tree from every country in the world is planted and grows in this marvellous soil. He knows the names of each one. He pores over catalogues of plants and trees from nurseries across the globe and orders new seeds and seedlings. Of course, the garden hasn’t had enough time to establish itself properly. In a hundred years or so, it should be a delightful spot.’ She reflected that she wouldn’t be alive to see the full fruits of their labour with the garden, or any of their other projects.

  In front of them, monkeys cavorted in the lower branches of trees, dropping down to chase each other across the grass.

  ‘Oh look, there’s my special pet!’ Ginie exclaimed, pointing at the one who walked on his hands.

  ‘You have a real affinity with animals,’ Mark said.

  ‘Well, they’re nicer than most people. They don’t stab you in the back, or let you down.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ he replied, his mouth a thin, bitter line.

  ‘Did someone let you down, Mark?’ she asked gently, sensing his need to get beyond small talk.

  For a few moments, he said nothing, looking at the ground. ‘My mother.’

  Ginie looked at him thoughtfully, realizing how unusual it was for him to reveal the things that had wounded him. ‘What happened?’

  ‘She was beautiful and lively, and I think she was simply bored by my father. He was a stockbroker, a conventional sort of person. She left him just before my seventh birthday. . . We never heard from her again. I was an only child – he brought me up on his own.’

  She put her hand on his arm. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘When people ask, I usually say she’s dead,’ then he shook his head in wonder, ‘I don’t know why, but I find it easy to talk to you.’

  They were following a small stream, banked with blazing hydrangeas. It ran past rhododendrons, camellias and maples to the edge of the Dell. Ginie drew back.

  ‘This is where I found Jongy,’ she confessed. ‘I haven’t set foot in here since.’

  ‘We don’t have to if you’re not ready.’

  For a few instants, she wavered. Then came to a decision. ‘Let’s get it over with,’ she said, squaring her shoulders. ‘I have to do it sooner or later.’

  Mark offered her his arm; she took it and held on tight. It was strange, momentarily, to feel another man’s body pressed against hers, but almost at once, it became familiar and comfortable.

  They set off down the narrow path into the trees.

  ‘It was good of you to put roses by Jessica’s grave,’ said Mark, as they passed it. ‘What a lovely smell they have.’

  ‘You know, since we planted the bush, my staff hasn’t once mentioned her presence. I suppose they think she’s at rest now.’

  Branches met overhead, forming a dense canopy that shut out the sun and cast a strange, greenish light. Monkeys and birds cried out eerily.

  Mark began to tell her about the birds in his garden and she realised he was trying to distract her from thoughts of Jongy. ‘My friend, the black-collared barbet, comes most mornings. He brings his mate and they serenade us.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ She was only half listening.

  ‘Yes. Their duet is so perfect that if you didn’t know better, you’d think it was one bird. Some imaginative folk hear the words “fine weather” in the call, repeated over and over.’

  Ginie smiled. ‘Do you hear it?’

  ‘I do. The cock says “fine”,’ Ginie jumped as a branch brushed her arm – Mark swept it aside for her, ‘And his mate responds immediately with “weather”, while they bow to each other.’

  Ginie squeezed his arm. ‘Oh, I do love your company, Mark. You’ve always been a man after my own heart – idiosyncrasies included.’

  They had reached the dam. The water lapped against the banks. Swarms of midges were being blown across the surface, shifting shape like clouds of smoke.

  ‘Things have been a bit tough lately,’ Mark confided. He hesitated, then seemed to change his mind. ‘You know I’m a police reservist?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Yes, well, I’ve been out on patrol almost every day, combing the bush for the escaped prisoners.’ Despite one of the biggest manhunts in the Colony’s history, the men were still at large. ‘I should tell you, they were on the Thompsons’ property last night.’

  Ginie’s heart tightened. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. Eric was woken in the early hours by strange noises. He found two men wearing striped jerseys in his kitchen. They were hoarding food. Of course, he doesn’t have a gun anymore, so they got away.’ Mark sighed. ‘You and Stephen should take great care. Make sure you lock your doors and windows at night.’

  ‘We will. I’m surprised they haven’t been caught by now.’

  He shrugged. ‘The search is difficult because the bush is so dense. Yesterday, the patrol leader who was carrying the radio equipment got lost and we spent the rest of the day looking for him.’

  ‘I hope you found him?’

  ‘Yes, eventually, sitting under the monument on the top of Cross Kopje. It was a wasted afternoon, but it’s only a matter of time before we find them. Dogs have been sent from Salisbury with their trackers. There’s talk of mobilising a spotter plane, too.’

  For a moment, Ginie wondered what it was like being in the bush, hungry and thirsty, scorched by the sun in daytime and freezing at night, always having to keep moving, moving, because men and dogs were hunting you like an animal.

  ‘I’m scared of them, but I also feel sorry for them,’ she admitted.

  Mark shook his head. ‘Don’t waste your feelings. They’re bad men.’

  Mosquitos were dancing in front of Ginie and she could feel herself being bitten. ‘Let’s not talk about them anymore,’ she said quickly. ‘How is Diana? And your sweet girl?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘Actually, Di hasn’t been too well lately. She suffers from her nerves. . .’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ginie said, gently.

  Mark stopped walking and she halted too. He turned to face her.

  ‘She’s not strong like you are.’

  He looked at her searchingly. His tanned face made his eyes intensely blue and bright. Looking into them, she saw his need and she realised her own, her recent loneliness. You can’t go on thirsting, thirsting all your life, she thought. One day, you are forced to steal when you can. It’s only natural.

  She felt a tug of attraction in her stomach, a gravitational pull towards him. She leaned forwards and he took her face between unsteady hands. Their lips met; tentatively at first, then deeply, lingering, exploring one another. His hands were stroking her face, smoothing back her hair. Her body filled with heat and she heard him groan softly.

  She broke away and started walking again. Desire passed swiftly into an awareness of what she had done. Her cheeks burned. How could she have been so weak? She loved Stephen and had never once thought of betraying him. How
did she let this happen?

  Mark hurried to catch up with her. His breathing was audible. ‘Are you alright?’ he asked when they were level.

  ‘Yes, of course I am.’

  The smile she gave him was strained, for her heart was aching; anxious and restless. She knew she should say something about what had happened, but she didn’t know what. He evidently didn’t know what to say either, because after a pause, he changed the subject.

  ‘Your tattoo. Forgive me if I’m being too personal. . . it’s just, I’ve always wondered. What made you have it done? And why a snake?’

  Ginie hesitated, trying to decide which version of the story to tell him. ‘It was a birthday surprise for my then-lover.’ She smiled at him slowly, watching his face flush dark red.

  ‘Oh. I see. Did he, um. . . did he like it?’

  ‘Actually, he hated it, but that’s another story,’ she said lightly.

  ‘You’re so brave. I love that about you.’

  ‘Me, brave?’

  ‘Yes. It’s brave not to care about what people think. Anyone at all liberal or progressive is viewed with suspicion around here, and you just don’t care.’ A mosquito bit him on the face and he slapped it. His hand came away with a streak of blood.

  They had broken out of the trees now and were walking across a wide field that led to the boundary of the property. In the distance, they could see the staff of La Rochelle gathered in worship. Ginie instinctively drew away from Mark.

  The staff’s church was under a large, spreading msasa tree. Families were dressed all in white. The local pastor was an Apostolic; he would harangue them for their many sins with great fervour. The sermons usually lasted for hours, but this one seemed to be coming to an end. The group was breaking up as Ginie and Mark got nearer.

  Ginie saw Mary’s youngest child clinging to her skirt. She noted with satisfaction how plump and healthy he looked – there was an adorable dimple in one of his cheeks. Mary was deep in conversation with a short man Ginie didn’t recognize. He was dressed in an overcoat, despite the warmth of the weather. He melted away as soon as he saw her and Mark.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ Ginie greeted Mary.