The Dragon Lady

by Louisa Treger

  ‘How is everything with you, my dear?’ Ginie asked her.

  Sophie shrugged, gnawing on her bottom lip. ‘How’s my mother?’

  ‘She’s not doing badly,’ Ginie lied. ‘She has an exceptionally strong spirit.’ She was pleased to see her words bring a smile to Sophie’s lips. ‘She sends you all her love, and she asked me to give you this.’ Opening her arms, she enveloped Sophie in a warm hug. The girl felt slight and defenceless in her arms. It broke Ginie’s heart. After a few moments, she released her and they began to talk about the prison visit, with Ginie omitting the distressing details.

  Over Sophie’s shoulder, she could see Stephen had come out onto the veranda with the dogs, and when the conversation with Sophie was finished, she went to meet him. Sandra and Max welcomed her with joyous barks, licking her hands and wagging their tails as though she had been away for months instead of a few hours. Stephen was holding a letter in his hands.

  There was a lightness in Ginie’s head and a tightening in her belly; a premonition of bad things to come.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked tremulously, convinced that their anonymous ill-wisher had sent it. He handed it to her and she read in silence.

  It was from Federal Prime Minister, Sir Roy Welensky, and it urged Stephen to accept a British knighthood ‘For work and leadership in the establishment of the Rhodes National Gallery, for an outstanding contribution to the civic life of this community and for wide-ranging philanthropy.’

  Ginie sat down heavily. She had been miserable for so long that happiness didn’t come easily. She could feel it slowly spreading through her as she digested the news.

  ‘It’s your achievement too,’ Stephen said, sitting beside her. ‘You worked every bit as hard as I did.’ He put his hand on hers. ‘Let’s crack open a bottle of champagne tonight.’

  She nodded, still dazed. She was cupping the letter in both hands, as though it was a live creature which might try and launch an escape at any moment.

  ‘When we were training for war,’ he went on, ‘we were told, “You may find yourselves in a tight spot with no orders telling you what to do: in that case do something – whether you do right or wrong it’s better than not acting”.’ Sandra put her chin on Stephen’s thigh and he fondled her ears while he talked. ‘There’s plenty of people who think we did the wrong thing, but we did something and stuck to it, and now we’ve been recognised.’

  Sir Stephen and Lady Courtauld, Ginie thought. I am going to be Lady Courtauld. She felt that she was finally entering the world she had always dreamed of.

  Weeks passed quietly. There were no more anonymous letters. The Courtaulds let themselves hope once more that the writer of the threatening letters had forgotten them, that he was all bark and no bite. There was no news of Mary and Ginie missed her terribly. She had written several times to the prison, requesting another visit, but there had been no reply. Mark insisted he had exhausted his favours. She was getting more and more frantic, not knowing if Mary was dead or alive. It was a silent war, she realised, where men and women could disappear without trace.

  The unrest in Sakubva and other townships subsided. Sithole, Chitepo and Mugabe came to La Rochelle again, and they began to draft the basis of a constitution for the new party. There were rumours that the government intended to ban all African political parties.

  ‘The Government is frightened,’ Sithole said. ‘When they are frightened, they resort to this tactic, locking up the leaders, criminalising the movement.’

  Ginie kept an eye on the home crafts club and the school, and they continued to visit Kukwanisa. Stephen’s work on his history of the Courtaulds progressed slowly, but his main focus was the Rhodes National Gallery. The inaugural exhibition was an enormous undertaking. He and Frank had succeeded in borrowing around two hundred works of art to display, largely paintings and a selection of tapestries, from institutions like the Louvre, the Rijksmuseum, the Stedelijk and London’s National and Tate Galleries. It was decided that Stephen would receive his knighthood from the Queen Mother when she came to open the Gallery.

  A fortnight before the Queen Mother was due to arrive, the Courtaulds went on holiday to Nyasaland, staying in a simple, comfortable bungalow on Lake Nyasa, which had eight acres of land and a pleasant, rough garden on sandy soil. They liked it so much that they put in a bid for the property, with the intention of using it as a regular holiday home. Lake Nyasa was one of the most beautiful freshwater lakes in Africa, with warm, clear water, and sheltered, sandy beaches interspersed with rocky headlands. There was nothing to do but boating and bathing, with very few people around and no telephone. They spent their time lying on the beach, watching eagles and all kinds of other birds, as well as seals and otters playing among the rocks opposite. Sometimes, they climbed into the old rowing boat that belonged to the house and paddled around the corner to the next bay, looking at the shoals of multi-coloured fish in the crystal waters.

  The anguish of loss never left Ginie. Pain had settled in and fused with her DNA. Perhaps there were some things one never got over; that was simply the way life was. She held the knighthood close to herself as a secret store of happiness, and perhaps, it was all the more sweet for the pain.

  40

  The Courtaulds, Rhodesia, 1950s

  Salisbury, the capital of Rhodesia, was a pretty, insulated town in the north-east of the country, about one hundred and thirty miles from La Rochelle. The slow-moving streets were wide – Cecil Rhodes had ordered that they must be of sufficient width to turn a span of oxen in – and lined with trees. The houses were spacious, rambling bungalows with verandas on all sides, set in lush, well-tended gardens.

  Stephen and Ginie were driving to the airport to meet the Queen Mother’s plane. Ginie’s hands felt shaky and her stomach was knotted with nerves. She stared out of the window, trying to distract herself. Crowds were already lining the route: schoolchildren, hospital patients – even prisoners from the jail were turning out to form the welcome party.

  Although her visit was informal, when the Courtaulds reached the airport, the acting Governor General, Sir Robert Tredgold, was waiting to welcome her. Stephen liked Robert immensely. He was a thoughtful man with a dry sense of humour, who had confessed to the Courtaulds his doubts about some of the views that were accepted by all political parties. He was particularly concerned about racial segregation, which he thought was wrong and would easily prove to be disastrous.

  ‘The concept is so much part of the white man’s thinking,’ he had told them, ‘that there’s no prospect whatsoever of changing it, except in the very long term.’ He was in a difficult position because the Prime Minister had asked him not to voice his disquiet.

  They stood together on the tarmac, watching the Vickers Viscount descend from the clear African sky like a great silver bird. The plane made a smooth landing, taxied to a halt, and the steps were lowered. Then appeared Elizabeth, the Queen Mother, looking composed and fresh in a pale blue travelling suit, with her attendants behind her. She made her way unhurriedly towards them.

  Ginie curtsied low, her heart pounding. There was a sound in her ears like a vast number of ball bearings rolling around, which made the Governor’s words of welcome seem a great distance away. Elizabeth greeted everyone by name and spent several minutes chatting about the flight. The views were magnificent, she told them; she had seen villages, farms, mines, and herds of wildlife. It had energised her and she wasn’t tired in the slightest. Then, turning to Ginie, she said, ‘Come and have a look at the inside of my plane. It’s rather jolly.’

  Ginie opened and closed her mouth dumbly, like a fish.

  ‘Thank you, Ma’am,’ she managed, ‘I would love to.’

  She followed Elizabeth up the steps of the plane, feeling her nerves turn to elation.

  The Rhodes National Gallery opened in fine style. A crowd of around two thousand people turned out, including more than six hundred invited guests. They had come to see the Queen Mother, but the enthusiasm for the gall
ery showed Stephen that it was addressing a national need. As Elizabeth’s car purred to a halt, cheers broke out and a throng of local and international press photographers sprang into action. She stepped out, wearing a pale pink dress under a darker pink grosgrain coat with a matching hat, waving at her supporters and mouthing ‘Thank you’, her face wreathed in smiles.

  Stephen and Frank, waiting for her by the gallery doors, watched as she paused to shake hands and talk. She made a point never to miss children or the elderly, and spent several minutes deep in conversation with a boy in a wheelchair and his exhausted-looking mother.

  She had a perfect understanding of the theatrical element required of a royal, Stephen noticed, and she possessed a certain joie de vivre. The response of the people genuinely touched and delighted her and she, in turn, put everyone at ease with her friendliness and charm. A hush fell over the crowd when she reached the doors. Stephen stepped forward and presented her with the silver key to the gallery, his heart racing with excitement. She thanked him, placed it in the lock and turned it. There were cheers and clapping as the doors were opened, and she went inside with Frank and Stephen to look around the exhibition.

  The show was called ‘From Rembrandt to Picasso’, and they had succeeded in the formidable task of securing at least one work by almost every famous European artist within that period. The rich canvases glowed in the hazy July sunshine falling through the windows, and Stephen allowed himself a moment of quiet pride.

  ‘This is so inspired, so beautiful,’ Elizabeth said softly. ‘You do things so magnificently. It is likely the finest collection ever to cross the equator.’

  The exhibition consisted of several parts: European Old Masters and Modern Masters, Traditional African Sculpture, Picasso and the Expressionists, and a small section showing the influence of Africa on twentieth century western schools. Frank and Stephen had pressed ahead with the African exhibits, despite a marked absence of support from the authorities. Elizabeth paused for several moments in front of a portrait of her late husband, George VI, done by Sir Gerald Kelly, which hung at the top of the main staircase. Stephen and Frank waited at a respectful distance, aware that it was a poignant moment for her.

  Afterwards, she said a few words to the guests who were assembled in the main gallery, praising the building as well as the exhibits. It was met with applause, and waiters began to circulate with trays of refreshments: smoked salmon canapés, oysters and cold, crisp champagne to toast the success of the opening. Across the room Stephen could see Ginie flushed with excitement, her eyes shining.

  People came up to congratulate him and he wished with all his heart that Guthrie was there. None of their neighbours had turned up, apart from the Richardsons, who had arrived in Salisbury a few days earlier. Ginie was upset with Mark for reporting Mary and hadn’t wanted to invite him, but Stephen had overridden her, feeling that it would be unwise to alienate him.

  ‘Diana is happy to be here,’ said Mark, ‘but I must admit that I’m longing to be back in the forest.’ He seemed ill at ease in a suit and tie.

  Diana was virtually mute. She was wearing a new dress of sky-blue silk, but she looked sickly, with a heavy bandage on her arm. Stephen asked what had happened.

  ‘It was a cooking accident,’ she shook her head, trying to smile, ‘I spilt hot fat on myself. Silly of me.’ As she spoke, her eyes flickered this way and that, and Stephen suspected she was lying. He wondered briefly if Mark could have hurt her, but Frank took him off to meet one of the aldermen of Salisbury and he forgot all about the Richardsons.

  Elizabeth was much impressed by the gallery and spoke enthusiastically of it during lunch at Government House afterwards. Stephen had been placed on her left, with Robert Tredgold on her right. Government House was a white colonnaded mansion, decorated and furnished in a way that made Versailles seem ordinary. Life-sized portraits of past British monarchs gazed down on thick carpets, silken chairs and a long table laden with silver, crystal, fine china and great vases of gladioli and dahlias. The women wore print dresses and floppy hats and the men, tropical suits. The servants were dressed in white with green sashes, cummerbunds and fezzes. The green was trimmed with gold according to their rank.

  ‘The senior servants look exactly like wrapped Christmas presents, don’t you think?’ Elizabeth laughed. The Governor had supplied a generous amount of champagne and she was drinking plentifully, though she did not show it. Her spine stayed straight as a poker and inches from the back of her chair.

  They ate tomato soup and roast beef with all the trimmings and spoke about her tour of the Federation. She said that her overriding impression was of a land of contrasts. She had seen Matabele warriors perched in a panoply of war garments, high on the granite hills of the Matapos, to give the signal of her arrival for the indaba for chiefs. The great cry of ‘Bayete,’ the Royal Greeting, had rung out for her as it rang for Lobengula, last of the Matabele kings. She found this deeply moving. She had inspected modern soldiers, African and European alike. She had watched African children, wearing skins and feather headdresses, mime with zest and considerable realism the witch doctor and a lion hunt, and just afterwards, she had seen the same children performing old English folk dances like ‘Gathering Peascods’ and ‘Sellinger’s Round’. She had met African chiefs and was impressed by their courtesy and dignity.

  She also spoke of the Victoria Falls, ‘The most breathtaking sight in Africa,’ and the Kariba Dam, which they agreed was astonishing.

  ‘Have you told Stephen about your unscheduled visit to the townships?’ Robert asked her.

  ‘I’d far rather you told him,’ she replied.

  ‘Very well, Ma’am.’ Robert smiled and gave a tiny shrug. ‘Yesterday, Her Majesty refused to accept the advice of the security forces, who were apprehensive in case there was a demonstration by the Nationalists, and she drove through the African townships. Again, against their advice, she insisted on leaving the car and visiting some of the homes unannounced.’

  ‘I wanted to see the real Rhodesia,’ said Elizabeth. There was a small, charged pause. ‘The visit went peacefully. The people I met couldn’t have been more kind or more welcoming. I even found my picture, torn out of a magazine, in one of the homes. As you know, I do not make mistakes,’ she was smiling, but Stephen detected an edge of steel in her voice, humour ­masking unshakeable conviction. Then her smile faded and she said, ‘Frankly, I was upset by the dreadful poverty I saw. I’m going to raise it when I get home. To ­paraphrase Procopius, “One cannot understand why God Almighty inflicts such misfortunes on the human race”. . .’

  After lunch, in a quiet and intimate ceremony, Stephen knelt before Elizabeth on a gold and crimson velvet knighting-stool. He thought he would be nervous, but he felt at peace with himself and humbled by the honour.

  Elizabeth placed the side of the blade gently on his right shoulder. Then she raised the sword just up over his head and laid it on his left shoulder. After he had been dubbed, the new Sir Stephen rose to his feet and Elizabeth presented him with the Badge of a Knight Bachelor.

  He thanked her and she said warmly, ‘You have shown exceptional generosity towards this country, and I am glad to have the opportunity to acknowledge it.’

  The Courtaulds arrived back at La Rochelle just as the sun slipped below the horizon. The dogs came hurrying to greet them and they all went to sit on the veranda. The air was fragrant with drying leaves and grasses. Before long it was dark.

  Their days in Salisbury had been full to overflowing and the house, by contrast, felt quiet and somehow withdrawn. Dixon brought sandwiches and tea on a tray. The rest of the staff were finished for the day.

  ‘Remember the dances we planned to throw, the many friends we were going to make?’ Ginie asked wistfully, when Dixon had gone.

  Stephen nodded. ‘I guess it didn’t work out like that.’

  ‘No, but I don’t regret the choices we made.’

  For a time, they ate in silence, looking at the enormous stars
and listening to the clicking of the crickets and the drums thudding from the staff houses.

  ‘I have an idea,’ Stephen said suddenly.

  Ginie looked at him quizzically, but he got up without a word and walked through to the parlour, where he began to push the furniture against the walls. Next, he rolled back the Persian carpet, unveiling their sprung dance floor, as smooth as the day it was built. He went to the gramophone and a slow waltz filled the room, drowning out the sounds of the African night.

  He took Ginie’s hand and kissed the soft skin on the inside of her wrist.

  ‘Would you dance with me?’ his mouth curved into a smile.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, with the secret smile that was just for him, ‘there’s nothing in the world I would like more.’

  The stars shone brightly through the window as he took her in his arms.

  They began to move to the music, warm and close, and Ginie felt as though everything in her life led to this moment; all the pain, all the hardship, every mistake. It was so rich and sweet that she was simply grateful to be alive and to be sharing her life with Stephen. She saw the rest of their lives stretch out before her: they would stay in Rhodesia and carry on their work for as long as they had strength. Stephen always by her side, loving her. The emotion running through her was deeper than contentment. . . She finally felt at peace.

  She opened her mouth to tell him, but he placed one finger lightly on her lips.

  ‘Shh. Don’t speak.’

  So closing her eyes, she leaned into him and gave herself up to the music.

  Ginie sat at the breakfast table the next morning with the delicious languor in her limbs that came from having made love and slept well. Dixon brought her a letter and she idly ripped the top open with her thumb. Inside was a white chicken feather smeared with tar and a note.