1999 - Ladysmith (20 page)

“We could all go far if we had a family name to give us a leg-up,” said Nevinson, to whom Churchill’s politics were anathema. “He is simply fulfilling the self-perpetuating myth of the Spencers, Marlboroughs and whatever other grandees inhabit his blood.”

Steevens laughed. “You’ll be throwing bombs next. And you won’t need to, that’s the funny thing. The old order is changing anyway, regardless of what you and your anarchist friends think. There are new names about, and new myths to go with them. Look at millionaires like Lipton. He invented himself. He may be vulgar, his advertising methods may border on the dishonest, but you have to admire the man’s energy. He is opening a grocery store a week nowadays, here and in America.”

“Stop,” said Nevinson. “Please. The mere thought of a slice of Lipton ham would drive me to distraction.”

T
he pain and smell from his wounded leg were appalling. Having been on the point of recovering from a fractured ankle, Muhle Maseku was now back in his hut, nursing the bullet wound in his thigh. Truly, the gods were not on his side. Doctor Sterkx, for whom he had to thank Wellington’s escape from execution, had told him he was very lucky the bone had not been shattered. The bullet had passed straight through the flesh, causing most damage on its exit at the back of the thigh, ripping through sinew and muscle before embedding itself in the ground.

Sterkx had dressed the wound, but could not spare any medicine for the pain. It rendered Muhle almost unable to think, but all the time he hung on to one thing: as he had lain on the blood-soaked ground after Major MacBride had shot him, half-listening to the discussion between Joubert, Sterkx and the Major about Wellington’s fate, he had realized that if Wellington was to be freed, he ought somehow to communicate to his son a place where they could make a rendezvous. He could see Wellington a little way away, struggling between two of MacBride’s men, but every time he himself had tried to sit up, another of the men had kicked him back down.

His mind had raced. He had to find some way to fix a location in Wellington’s mind. But neither of them knew the area well and this, with the added disadvantage that everywhere was crawling with Boer sentries, made the task almost impossible. Just as they were about to take Wellington away, to send him back to Ladysmith, it had come to him.

“I will meet you at the isivivane,” he had shouted out in Zulu, from beneath the white man’s boot.

From across the camp had come Wellington’s answering voice. “At the isivivane, Father.”

And then another voice. “Shut up, kaffir.”

All this Muhle rehearsed as he lay—once more—in this damned hut. The
isivivane
: the reference was to the lucky’ heap of stones placed at the edge of a path as it entered strange territory. There would have been many such piles in the area, but at least it narrowed things down a little. Now all he had to do was escape from the Boer camp himself and that, he knew, was no easy task, especially with a wounded leg. He toyed with the idea of asking Sterkx for help, but reckoned that although the good doctor might be prepared to save a life, he would never do something that might be conceived of as betrayal. Unless…unless…Sterkx had mentioned that his wife was a prisoner in Ladysmith: if Muhle promised to get a message to her, perhaps the doctor would help him.

He put it to Sterkx when he came in to look at his dressing, which was soaked and stained with an ominous discharge.

“Doctor, first of all I wish to thank you for saving the life of my son. For this I am eternally in your debt.”

Bending over him, Sterkx shrugged. “It was the right thing to do. Too many people are being killed in this unnecessary business.”

“I have a proposal for you,” said Muhle.

“Oh yes?”

“I want you to help me escape from the camp. All I ask is that you provide me with some food and water.”

Sterkx squatted down and pulled the new bandage tight round Muhle’s thigh. The Zulu gasped.

“I assume you are joking,” said the Boer. “You can hardly move, your leg is badly infected. In any case, it would be a treasonous act on my part. I could get myself shot.”

“What I am offering you,” explained Muhle, “is the chance to send a message to your wife. I have to get into Ladysmith to find my family, and once I am inside I will do my best to help her.”

In the gloom of the hut, the doctor’s eyes lit up. “You think you could?” But as soon as he had spoken the words, his enthusiasm dimmed. “It would be madness. I do not think you could get there.”

“I have to,” said Muhle. “I will just rot away to death if I lie here. Please, you must help me. I will not forget my promise.”

Sterkx straightened up. “I will think about it.”

“You are a good man,” said Muhle, as the doctor made his way to the door.

“All I said was that I would think about it.”

A silhouette in the light, the outline of his hat and beard clearly defined, Sterkx looked back at the injured African, let out an explosive sigh, then ducked out of the doorway.

D
oes agreement to an assignation amount to submission? This—although she wouldn’t have put it like that, not exactly—was a question that concerned Bella greatly during the following day. In the morning, Tom stopped by the entrance of the Royal and asked if she would walk out with him that evening, once he had come off duty.

Shaded from the sunlight, she had stood without moving on the stoep, and then said, in neutral tones, “Very well.”

He’d flashed her a grateful smile. “Five o’clock then?”

“Yes,” she had said, and glanced down, avoiding his eyes.

She knew, she thought, that she liked him, and realized also, from his tone and from his eager looks, that she was admired in her turn. But all day she worried at the notion of it, and was filled with a mixture of apprehension and desire by the thought that he might make some advance. What should she do if he did? Jane had already succumbed to Herbert Foster’s overtures and, one night after the bar had closed, and Father was out on the hills with his telescopes, had fallen into an embrace with him in the scullery.

So it was a sweet, satisfying anticipation, mixed with worry, that filled Bella’s heart when Trooper Barnes called for her late that afternoon. He looked very smart in his khaki uniform, his belt and shoulder strap polished a deep chestnut, his green eyes twinkling, and his dark hair well combed.

“Where would you like to go?” he asked, as they stepped out into the main street.

“I don’t know,” she answered, and in that moment saw exactly how it would be. Where was there to go in Ladysmith, after all?

“Well, it’s you that lives here.”

Bella thought this reply a little uncouth, and said nothing.

“How about the orchard?” Tom asked, taking her arm.

“All right then,” she said, conscious of what people would think at the sight of her on a soldier’s arm. She imagined Mrs Frinton pursing her lips.

They manoeuvred their way up the main street, between carts and limbers and the ever-present coolies, sitting on their heels by the kerb.

“That was Rashid, Foster’s shell carrier,” Tom said, as they passed one. “He’s a good little fellow. Brave as a terrier.”

Bella looked back at the man, thinking of Jane and her gunner. Clad in nothing but a loincloth, the Indian was using his hand to spoon rice into his mouth from a tin billy. He was utterly concentrated on the task, and had seemed not to notice them.

“I wonder how they feel,” she said.

“Who?”

“Them, and the kaffirs. About being boxed in like this, I mean.”

“No different from us, I should say.”

“But it’s nothing to do with them. They’re just innocent bystanders.”

“Sitters,” said Tom, and chuckled. “Well, they are subjects of the Empire, love.”

She flinched at him using the word. He hadn’t earned the right.

“Some of them are here under contract,” Tom continued.

“Indenture,” Bella said. “It’s not the same. Indeed, it’s only a small degree away from slavery.”

Tom rubbed her on the back. “You’re a smart puss, aren’t you?”

They had reached the fringes of the orchard. “Come on, race you to the trees!” he said, and set off at a sprint.

Silly, she thought, then gathered up her skirts and ran after him. The light was different under the foliage, not just greener but dappled with all sorts of colours.

“Come on,” shouted Tom, ahead of her.

She ran on. It became difficult. Fronds of leaf brushed her face, trunks suddenly appeared where she had thought there were none, and the ground was uneven; not to speak of the branches that lay around, waiting like traps to trip her. She didn’t stumble, however, but ran on, and was soon with him in a more open place, where the grass grew long and the evening sunlight was beginning to fall. It was beautiful and, as she caught her breath, Bella almost forgot that she was shut up in Ladysmith, with its ugliness of mud and dust and cow dung and shellfire—forgot too her companion’s silliness, his clumsy bravado and casual Empire spirit. She had never been very close to men before, not alone, but she had seen how they were. Watched them while working at the bar, her sober eyes searching their drunken ones, watched how they held themselves, walked, sat down. Listened to what they said. Learned how even the tenderest moment, the sweetest thing, was always in danger of being buried in brag and bluster.

Her heart was beating hard. Tom had unbuttoned his tunic and the top of his shirt and was lying on the grass. She could see the dark hairs of his chest poking out. The warm evening sun was casting long shadows, and all around was a murmurous hush, a fierce calm. She felt an expectant sensation kindling in her stomach, a curious feeling at once tense and relaxed. You don’t have to do anything, she told herself as she knelt down beside him. But she wanted to know. She wanted to know what he, what any of them, looked like underneath the army clothes, what he felt like, smelled like. She was older than her sister, after all. So she was businesslike, brisk even, and acted as if she knew what she was doing when she leant across from her kneeling position and kissed him. He responded keenly, too keenly, opening his mouth. She pushed him back on the ground, her hand full on his chest. The breath went out of him and he gave a little gasp. She leant over again and kissed him softly, to the side of his mouth. She felt his eyelids flutter against her forehead. Then he sat up, and swung her round in the crook of his arm; so that, in one movement, she was almost beneath him. She felt his mouth on hers, working at it, softly at first and then harder. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before. The nearest thing she could think of was eating oranges and yet, as she looked above, what she could see were pears. Pears! Great green bundles of them, hanging in the sky.

She closed her eyes, and as he—kneeling between her petticoated legs now—unbuttoned her blouse, said to herself, to her own mind, oranges, pears, oranges, pears…and then giggled out loud in embarrassment at her ludicrous train of thought, as if there had been someone listening inside her head.

“What?” said the voice above her, crossly. Tom must have thought she was laughing at him.

“Nothing,” she said, and reached out and grasped his hovering wrist.

He pushed her hand down. She felt the grass imprint upon the back of it and then he was kissing her again, more gently this time, so gently she could feel his pulse upon her lips. His hand moved down—allowing hers to spring up limply, like a cat’s paw, behind her head—and his palm began to rub her breast in a slow, circular movement. She didn’t want it to become too rhythmic, too geometric. She liked the vagueness of it, the casual way of it, and she liked the way the weight of his body was upon her, the hardness of him on her chest, even where his metal buttons dug into her.

She shifted under him a little, and then he moved further over her, so that his thigh fell between hers. As they kissed, he pushed against her a little with his thigh, and she felt herself pressing back accordingly. Then he stopped kissing her, and put his head in his free hand, looking at her from the side while his other hand touched her face and her hair and lips—questioningly, like a schoolboy with a pet. She turned to look at him.

His expression appeared terribly serious at first and then, as she stared frankly back at him—so close—he looked ashamed.

“You look a bit bashful, Trooper Barnes,” she said coolly, and smiled.

“That’s strange,” he said.

“Why?”

“I’ve got a horse called Bashful.”

“That’s a funny name for a horse,” she said.

“Maybe.”

She looked around. It was nearly dark now. The shadows on the grass looked like leopard spots, and it was hard to tell whether it was dapples of light she was looking at now or patches of night.

“What if someone sees us? They could easily…”

Before she could finish, her words were swallowed up by his mouth coming down on hers again. It was a kind of peck except that his lips opened in the instant and gave hers a fillip, before pattering over her cheeks and her eyelids and the tip of her nose. She shivered a little, and then felt his hand go inside her blouse, tracing the edge of her corset with a finger. Another button was undone, and another, and then he began to stroke her breasts through the fabric, stroke them with that same half-directed, half-careless intensity. Was this what it was always like? Did they always pretend that it was all somehow happening by accident?

The question went out of her head as she felt him try to unhook her stays. She turned to help him, and then felt herself swell as the tightness went away, and suddenly she didn’t care whether anyone saw them. Now he was pulling up her knees, his fingers scooping the soft flesh behind, above the tops of her calf-high boots. Her outer skirt fell down about her waist, and then his hands were beneath her petticoat, raising it like two white alps in the fleeing light. He flung it up—she felt the blow of it on her wet mouth—and then his mouth, his tongue, was probing at her through her underwear. She gave a little sob at the shock of it, feeling every lineament of the cloth’s weave. It was almost painful in being so particular, but she didn’t want it to stop all the same, especially in the moments when—and they were unpredictable, save that he was learning, gauging the tightness of it from her reaction—he touched her in such a way…She closed her eyes and willed it to go on for ever, to go on till morning came down through the tops of the trees, moving stealthily between the leaves. She was a leaf herself now, waving, hoping to fall…