The Fever Tree (22 page)

He filled it with water from the drum. Then he squatted down in the dust, took a knife from his pocket, and cut shavings from a piece of kindling.

“Come here, look.” He waited for her to crouch down beside him, stuffing the shavings into the boiler with a handful of coir. He gave her some matches, and she lit one and held it to the coir and watched it catch, the flame almost invisible in the bright afternoon light. He blew a little into the flame, and it strengthened. The kindling began to crackle. She felt his fingers sweep the hair away from her cheek and tuck it behind her ear. It was an affectionate gesture, as though he wanted a better look at her face, but she flinched as if her skin had been burnt. He touched the gold chain at her neck.

“You’ve been wearing it all this time?”

“Yes,” she said, moving away from him, embarrassed. Wearing the necklace was as good as saying she still loved him. She sat in the chair and watched while he made coffee. He poured out a cup of the hot, bitter liquid and handed it to her. “It should be better than the last one I made you.”

She remembered the storm, the two of them braced against the force of it and how close she had felt to him. “Frances, believe it or not, I didn’t come here to tempt you away from your husband.” She had forgotten his confidence. His ability to voice her thoughts, and to say the very thing she would never dare say herself. He was all intimacy, tearing down formalities, talking to her as he had done when she had lain half naked next to him on his bunk. He knew her physically, and she felt the same vulnerability she had done then, made worse by the distance he was establishing between them. There was rejection built into the word “husband.” It was too final.

“Then why did you come?”

“Because I thought you might need a friend.”
A friend.
Of course. What else had she expected? And yet it pricked her pride. He was here not because he wanted to see her, but because he pitied her.

“I’m not sure your wife will appreciate the difference.” She tried to keep her voice light.

“You mean you don’t know?” He gave a short laugh. “Frances, I’m not married. Eloise’s father called it off. He found out what a scoundrel I was and told me he didn’t want anything to do with me. Baier was furious of course, but what could he do?”

She was astounded. If he hadn’t married Eloise, then everything could have been different. “Why didn’t you write to me?”

“What was there to say? You were already married. Then I heard Matthews was bringing you here, and I wanted to see you. I needed to make sure you were all right.”

“I am all right,” she said stiffly.

“You might not be when your husband starts telling everyone we’re in the midst of a smallpox epidemic.”

“Are we?”

William gave a scoffing laugh.

“Then why would he say it?”

His face was suddenly serious. “Frances, how well do you know your husband? He has an insatiable appetite for scandal.” He stood up and looked behind the curtain into their bedroom, then glanced over the few books Edwin had piled on a small shelf beside the box. She saw it all through his eyes: the squalid yard, the thin black smoke, the stench from the outhouse. After a moment he gave a frustrated yelp. “What was he thinking, bringing you here? He must be mad, asking you to live like this. Why doesn’t he take you to Cape Town?” His words stung. She realized he had no interest in her staying in Kimberley. Why would he? She had never in her life felt less attractive.

“William, I am not your responsibility.”

“No, but I care about you.” There was a brief silence. Then he said, “You should persuade him to leave, if you can.”

“So you can be rid of me?”

“No, Frances, because I’m worried about you. Kimberley is a horrible, grubbing place full of people on the make. The sooner you are out of here the better.” He came to stand over her and said with a touch of remorse, “Look, I didn’t want to upset you. I’ll leave now, but you must promise me—if you need help, anything at all, please come and find me.”

He touched her cheek lightly and walked away, but she called after him. He turned, the afternoon sun catching the tips of his black hair. “Thank you,” she said, and he smiled, walking backwards a few steps while he looked at her, then turned and walked out of the yard.

S
he was devastated. She had expected, even wanted, to see William, but she had imagined it would be in some public place and the impact of it would be diluted by company; that she would do little more than lay eyes on him and go through the motions of a formal conversation. Instead, he had found her alone and in a moment’s glance had unraveled all the resistance she had built up over the long six months of not seeing him.

She lay down on the bed and shut her eyes, but her mind was full of him. He had spoken to her with such familiarity yet offered nothing more than friendly concern. And he wasn’t married to Eloise Woodhouse after all. That was the hardest thing to register. It was easier to imagine him beholden, like her, to someone he didn’t love, than free to make a life on his own without her.

It was as if she had signed a contract with him on the
Cambrian
. By letting him undress her, and letting his body mark out hers, she had given away her rights to herself as an independent being. Her loyalty was all to him. It was hardly rational. In their yard, he had looked as if he scarcely cared about her. There had been no mention of love, and yet his simple presence, the way he had touched her cheek and hinted at their closeness, seemed to be reminding her of the contract between them.

Edwin came back that evening convinced that the disease was smallpox. He said he had seen two cases; and as the days went by, the number grew.

“I don’t understand,” Frances said one evening. “Surely these doctors have their reputations to think about.”

They were sitting at the entrance of the tent on either side of the foldout table, which threatened to overturn itself every time Edwin cut off another hunk of bread. There was a brawl going on at the Digger’s Rest, and they could hear shouts and the smashing of glass. The baby across the yard was crying. Through the darkness, she could see Mangwa’s stripes rippling as he shifted uneasily from foot to foot. It was eight o’clock and already cold enough for the tips of her fingers to be turning numb.

“The disease is smallpox,” Edwin said, opening a jar of pickle. “It can’t be anything else.”

“But you said yourself you hadn’t seen cases of pemphigus before.”

“I’ve looked it up. Pemphigus is extremely rare and not contagious. It would be nothing short of impossible to find so many cases in Kimberley.” He cut a piece of cheese onto each plate, and passed one to her.

“But the symptoms are the same?” she asked, taking the plate from him and helping herself to pickle.

“Ostensibly, yes. There is ulceration in both cases, particularly in the mouth. But if you’ve seen smallpox, you don’t miss it a second time. Besides, pemphigus can take years to develop, and it’s rarely fatal.”

“Then how do they explain the men who are dying?” she asked, beginning to eat. The pickle did a good job of disguising the cheese, which was hard and tasteless.

“They don’t. The postmortems state death from other causes.”

“All the same, if you’re not familiar with the disease . . .”

Edwin didn’t respond, and after a moment Frances said, “Why would Baier even bother covering it up? Wouldn’t it be better to just get on and deal with it?”

“And risk the consequences of closing down the mine?”

“Why not? He must be wealthy enough. I thought he owned most of it?”

“That’s part of the problem. A year ago, the yellow ground, or sand, which they had been mining ran out. They hit blue ground, which was almost impossible to break up. Geologists declared it the end of mining in Kimberley. The market dropped; diggers panicked and sold their claims to anyone foolish enough to buy them. Baier took a huge risk. He started buying up other men’s claims. He showed that if you leave the blue ground to weather in the sun and you water it from time to time as you would a garden, it will start to disintegrate. He brought in gangs of natives who broke up the watered ground with wooden mallets. It crumbled into soft powder. Turns out the blue ground is even richer than the sand.”

“Which is why he’s the wealthiest man in Kimberley.”

“Yes, except it’s all bought on credit. He needs results fast, but the blue ground takes years to disintegrate, unless you use machinery to break it up. He’s invested a fortune in importing steam engines to work the mines—mechanical washing plants, drills, trams. He’s even started sinking shafts so they can begin to mine underground. If smallpox is declared, he’s terrified the natives will leave the mines and his foreign investors will pull out. Not to mention the mining companies he has floated on the stock market. He’ll be ruined.”

Frances considered the implications of what he was saying. After a moment, she said, “You can’t take on Baier. He’s too powerful.”

Edwin mopped at his plate with the last of his bread, and didn’t look up. “Didn’t you suggest the opposite the last time we had this conversation?”

“Edwin, don’t do this for my sake. You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

He pushed his plate away and looked at her. “Frances, it may amaze you, but not every decision I make revolves around you.”

There was a long pause. Finally, she spoke in a low, steady voice. “Edwin, please, let’s get out of here. It’s not too late to leave. We could go tonight. Kimberley is not your responsibility. Think what Baier could do to us. You’ll never be able to have a practice of your own, and there’ll be no chance of making a decent living. You said it yourself. He will ruin you utterly.”

“I can’t pretend he doesn’t exist.”

He walked out to the barrel in the yard and began washing the dishes. When he came back, she stood up and hissed at him, not wanting to be overheard. “Why won’t you at least give yourself a chance?” She threw up her hands. “What kind of life is this? My clothes are infested with lice and there are rats living under our floorboards.” She took his hand and placed it on her head. “Go on. Feel it. It’s so dry and frizzy I feel like a native, and if I don’t have a new dress soon I’ll be mistaken for a beggar.” He drew his hand away. “I’m hungry, Edwin. I’d like a good, hot meal for once. I’ve forgotten the taste of butter.” She sat down and put her head in her hands. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life like this.”

“Frances, I can’t change who I am for your sake. Oddly, it was you who proved that to me.”

She had to stop herself from begging. They would have nothing—no money, no resources, no friends. It would be almost impossible for Edwin to earn money at the Cape with Baier against him. She went to bed, leaving him sitting up by the small fire at the entrance of the tent. She put down her candle, opened her trunk, and lifted out a box as long as her forearm, lined with tissue paper and smelling of tuberose. There was a rustle as she opened the leaves of paper, plunging her hand into deep, velvety cashmere. It was a rug, soft like rabbit fur, woven in a tight herringbone green. Wrapped inside it was a box of English soaps scented with tuberose. William had remembered the perfume she had worn on the
Cambrian
. The last of it had run out a month ago, and the deep, heady smell brought back memories of London, of her father, and of William.

The gifts had arrived that morning. She had been planning to send them back, but now, after her argument with Edwin, she decided to keep them. Edwin would never notice. She pulled the cashmere throw into bed with her, wrapping it between her legs to keep her warm. It occurred to her that William’s hands must have touched the fabric. He would have imagined it next to her skin, and this made her feel as if he were watching her and they were sharing something forbidden.

Some time later Frances was woken. There were voices in the yard, talking urgently. Mangwa nickered in concern, and the curtain glowed as a lamp was lit on the other side. A second later, Edwin was calling her, and she pulled a heavy shawl over her shoulders and walked through to the front of the tent. The body of a native was laid out on the floor. Edwin was kneeling over him, trying to get a response. Another native was stoking the fire and boiling a kettleful of water. He talked rapidly to Edwin in a thick accent.

“Bring my bag and some cloth,” Edwin said when he saw her, “and we need a basin for the water.”

“Cloth?” she asked, unsure what he meant.

“Shirts, pillowcases, anything we can tear up.”

She brought his medical bag and a bundle of linen. The man was stretched out on the boards, moaning softly. There must have been an accident in one of the mines. His skin was black but oily red under the light of the lamp. His hair was slick with blood, and his features had been smudged by some force so huge that his lips had been peeled off his face and his nose was the white snub of a skeleton. It was horrible to imagine the moment of impact. She swallowed heavily, her eyes riveted on the body.

“Is the water ready?” Edwin asked.

The man wore no trousers. One leg twisted at a right angle away from his knee, and a bone sliced through the dark shin. Edwin straightened it with a scraping crunch.

“Frances?”

She tore her eyes away and realized the other native had gone. Steam was blowing off the boiler. She filled the basin with water, burning her hands on the tin bowl. Edwin thrust a pair of scissors at her and told her to cut off the man’s jumper. She sliced up the center and peeled it away from his body. The wool was wet and heavy, sticky with blood like the pelt of an animal. Beneath the jumper his muscled arms and broad chest glistened with the luster of fresh paint. His stomach moved up and down like a toy pumped full of air. Blood foamed at his lips. She couldn’t fathom the pain he must be in. Edwin grasped her hand and placed it firmly over a wound on the man’s upper arm, which pulsed a slow, viscous fountain of blood. It oozed out thickly from between her fingers as if she were squeezing an orange. It was red. Bright red. Just as if it were her own. Edwin ripped up a sheet into strips and tied a tourniquet tightly around his arm, above the shoulder. Then he took hold of her other hand and pressed it into the man’s palm, telling her to hold it raised up. She gripped his hand, but it was wet and slippery and kept sliding through her fingers until she locked her knuckles into his. There was a leather strap on his wrist which had bitten into the flesh, sinking right through to the bone.

After a time the man began to gurgle as if he were drowning. His chest heaved and pink foam bubbled out from his nostrils.

“He’s fighting for air,” Edwin said, leaning back to squat on his heels. “His lungs are filling up with blood.”

“What can you do?” she asked, but he just shook his head. The man’s chest tightened suddenly, and he pulled his shoulders off the floor, struggling against something. His torso was a tight line of vibration. Frances tried to support him, to take the weight of him in her lap, but his back shuddered against her knees. She wanted it to stop, and she shouted at Edwin to do something, but he looked away. The shaking went on and on, horrifying and grim, until suddenly the tension left him and his head rolled back, heavy and still, into her lap.

“He’s dead,” Edwin said, feeling for the man’s pulse. Frances stared down at him, her heart racing and her ears full of the sudden silence. Then she stood up abruptly, letting his head thud onto the floor, horrified by the motionless weight of it pressing against her thighs. Edwin pulled up a pallet used for carrying firewood, and with Frances’s help, he levered the body onto it. The man was too tall, and they had to lay him on his side, curled into a ball as if he were sleeping. Frances picked up the wool jumper. A badge of white cloth had been sewn on the front, with a black number inked on it. She draped it over the man’s waist. Perhaps it would help identify him.

She wanted to put the body outside, but Edwin said the jackals would get it. They began cleaning the blood off the floor with pails of water. It was sticky and had seeped into the wood. A sickly, thin dawn light showed boards, canvas, and pale skin smeared red as if she were looking at the world through a crimson gauze. Their breath rose like steam in the cold air. Blood had poured down the sleeves of her nightdress, seeping through the thin cotton, and now it pressed itself wetly against her arms. She shook with cold. Edwin was squatting on his heels in the yard, washing his hands in a bucket of water. He glanced up at her, catching her eye, and she felt like Lady Macbeth caught out in her nightdress, on the verge of madness.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Why wasn’t he taken to the hospital?”

Edwin gave a short, tired laugh. “Because someone would have had to pay.”

“Shouldn’t they be forced to pay? He must have been working for them when this happened.”

“There is a hospital tax”—he dried his hands on his trousers and came into the tent—“a levy raised for all black laborers, but the claim holders find ways of not paying when it doesn’t suit them.” He held out the bucket so she could wash her hands. The water was a dirty pink. “Anyway, it hardly matters. Not even a hospital could have saved him.”

When she had washed and changed, she looked herself over. There was still blood caught in the edges of her fingernails, in the creases of her arms, and later, lying in bed, she could feel the texture of it, rubbing off her hands into flakes. They slept with the dead body on the floor not five feet from their bed. He had come to them for help, and they hadn’t been able to save him. He had been in desperate, torturing pain, and they had watched him die without a word. Guilt settled over her. Death was an intimate thing. She had held his hand, taken his body in her lap, and now she felt his presence close in on her like a curse. She shrugged it away, telling herself that the mines were dangerous, that he was just another native hoping to make money from the white man. She didn’t want to feel his agony, or have to make sense of his death. But his blood had marked her out, and she wasn’t sure she was the same person she had been just a few hours before.

When she woke, the body was gone, and Edwin too. She dressed, slipping on her shoes which were worn thin, the soles peeling like dry paper away from the leather seams. The floor still held the dark, wet stain, and her shoes trod with a slight tackiness across its surface. Violence and sickness were everywhere in Kimberley: the native lying dead on their floor; the boy in the yard opposite, wasting away; Edwin, with his talk of smallpox in the compounds. She lit the boiler and made tea, trying to shake off the thought that there was something sinister and depraved about the town.