Just a Dead Man

W
ITH THANKS TO THE
Jacana team of Thabiso Mahlape and Sean Fraser who have smoothed the path to publication in an exemplary manner. And closer to home thanks are due to Julian who has lived with the process, to Judy who read and encouraged an early draft, and to Tiki who said: “Keep going”.

For those interested in the loss of the troopship SS
Mendi
during the First World War, and later memorials to the sinking, there is an excellent website at
www.allatsea.co.za
.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Epilogue

L
IFE WAS GOOD THAT SUNNY
afternoon. My younger son, Mike, had flown off in the morning to spend his Easter holiday in Cape Town, dividing his time there between duty to his father and having some fun with his brother, and for once I had my world to myself. An hour or so after I got back from the airport, Mike had phoned to say he was with my ex and the trophy wife, who I had once heard Rory refer to as Ms Tits. I hadn't reprimanded him: it wasn't my business if she couldn't command respect from her stepson and, as a description, it seemed to hit the mark.

I was free to do what I wanted without having to fuss over Mike or worry about other people – and nothing could have been further from my mind than murder, danger, police or the pitfalls that await amateur detectives. First up, I planned to get on with some painting. Clipped to my easel was a photograph Mike and I had worked on one afternoon, showing my right hand holding a bitten apple, set against a soft, greyish background. Several apples had gone into the making of it before Mike the perfectionist was satisfied with the way the light fell on the tooth marks, that enough of the streaked green-and-red skin showed and that my wrist was visible, the pallor and shadow of tendons and veins contrasting with the other colours.

I had been asked by a friend to work towards a joint exhibition, entitled
Interiors
. I had dithered in the beginning, unsure whether I could do it. But after years of being a working single mother, teaching art to high-school students who were, for the most part, simply going through the motions, the thought of doing something for myself had a compelling appeal, stronger than my fear of failure. Although Mike was still living at home, he was pretty independent. Maybe I could even revisit those old ambitions of making a career out of art?

Vanessa had suggested I contribute six paintings. She would do eight, and Ben, a sculptor and her current lover, would produce an as yet undeclared number of small bronzes. So far I had completed three smallish oils of angled views inside cupboards, one showing a chipped enamel jug and bowl, another a pair of antique china teacups and the third, my Andy Warhol moment, a collection of tins of beans, tomatoes and soup. By then, I felt the cupboard idea was exhausted and I moved on to the apple.

Now I was concentrating on the flesh of the apple, trying to get the right sheen on the bitten area, hinting at the tracks of teeth, the moisture on the surface. The light was good, and I was slipping into the state of complete concentration that only comes when things are going well when the doorbell rang.

“Shit!” I put down the brush. I've never been one of those people who are able to ignore phones and bells, so carrying on regardless wasn't an option. Muttering, I went to the entryphone.

“Yes?” I made my voice as unwelcoming as I could, though once distorted by the machine, any nuance in my tone was most likely lost on whoever was outside.

“Laura? It's Daniel.”

“Daniel! Come in.” I pushed the button to open the gate, and went to the door. I couldn't say no to Daniel Moyo. He came into the porch carrying a backpack, but it was small and thin. Surely too thin if he was planning to ask for a bed? I felt a guilty moment of gratitude, but the gratitude outweighed the guilt. Much as I like Daniel, I really didn't want him staying. Those days of solitude were too precious.

I gave him a hug. “Well, this is a surprise. I thought you were in Joburg. Aren't you going to have an exhibition there?”

“I'm just down for a few days, staying with Verne and Chantal, and I wanted to see you, bounce a couple of ideas off you. But you're painting – I've disturbed you. Hell, man, I'm sorry.”

Daniel, fending off the attentions of my ancient Labrador with one hand, looked genuinely apologetic as he took in my painting clothes. He is a slight young man, very dark skinned, with little round glasses that give him an intellectual air. We had met and become friends when he was doing a master's degree in the Fine Arts Department, and I was doing some part-time tutoring in the afternoons when my teaching was over.

He is a softly spoken, talented Zimbabwean whose residence status when we met had been questionable; he was always on the verge of getting some kind of refugee permit, but it never quite seemed to happen, and he had been permanently short of money. Probably an illegal immigrant as well, though the details were fuzzy. At one stage he had stayed in my spare room for three months.

He had paid no rent, and I had made sure he had at least a couple of proper meals with me and the boys each week. They had both been at school at the time, but while
Daniel and Rory had got on well, the more artistic and introverted Mike had been surprisingly resentful, finding Dan's presence an intrusion into our small family. His pointed remarks became hard to ignore and Daniel, sensitive to atmosphere, had found himself somewhere else to live and moved on. To my relief, we stayed friends and he was still a frequent visitor when he was in town, often staying, as now, with Verne Peterson, a Fine Arts lecturer. When xenophobic violence had gripped the country a couple of years before, Dan had returned from Johannesburg and taken refuge with the Petersons for a while. When he could, he sent money back to Zimbabwe to his mother and his widowed sister who was struggling to raise a child on her own.

“What are you doing? Didn't you say you had an exhibition coming up too?”

“Yes, with Vanessa Govender. It's going to be called
Interiors
, and I'm beginning to run out of ideas … I mean, how many interiors are there? And I'm not sure whether what I've done so far is any good. I've lost the knack of judging my own work. Come and have a look.”

We went through to my studio: a grand title for what had been the back veranda and which I had colonised. There was a sink, which was useful, and the light was good, although it was sticky hot in summer and achingly cold in winter. Still, it was my space, and I loved it. Somewhere creative and private where I could switch off from everything going on outside. Well, that was the theory, anyway.

Daniel walked across to where the three cupboard paintings were stacked against the wall and looked at them, nodding to himself while I stood back, feeling ridiculously nervous. He then moved over to the easel. “Hey, I like that. You've got the flesh down really well.”

“Thanks. But I still need to do a couple more, and I'm getting stuck.”

“Why not do another one, with a black hand, some kind of tropical fruit and a much more vibrant background? A sort of companion piece: cold European apple versus hot African … whatever.”

“Dan, that's an idea. It definitely is. Won't you model the hand? We'll give you a guava or a mango, or something like that, and take a photograph.”

“Sure, why not. There you are – one minute in your house and I've solved your problem. And Laura … it's great. You're doing good, girl.” He grinned and gave me a hug. Daniel is a tactile person, one of the few I don't mind invading my personal space without invitation. Since my divorce I've withdrawn into myself, lost confidence with people both physically and in other ways. Trust comes harder than it used to.

“And
your
exhibition? What's that about?”

“Complicated. It's early days, but I'm thinking about exploring the idea of indigenous fighters in colonial wars. Maybe a series of prints, from Caesar to the SS
Mendi
. And not just showing the wars, but the aftermath somehow. Maybe some words as well. It's going to be difficult, but it interests me. I'm doing some research while I'm down here.”

I nodded. “There must be lots of examples. Isandhlwana, for one. You would know more than me, but surely there were instances in Zimbabwe. And the
Mendi
– didn't the survivors get given nothing more than a bicycle?”

“And an overcoat. But don't you want to get on? Let me take Grumpy out for his walk while you work. The light's good, and you're nearly there. We can talk later.”

Dan moved across to the row of old cast-iron coat hooks I had put up by the door. A tatty blue anorak smeared
with paint, a couple of aprons, a sunhat and the dog's lead hung on them. When he had stayed here, Daniel had tried to make himself useful and had regularly taken Grumpy out. My house is on a corner plot and the road outside the side-gate is a cul-de-sac. From the turning circle at the top, a path leads into the plantations with a choice of routes favoured by dog-walkers. My parents had been concerned about security when I had moved in, but there was a high fence round the garden, and so far, nothing had happened to me or anyone else.

“Would you? Dan, you're a star. This won't take me much longer and then we can have tea and a proper chat.”

Dan hitched on Grumpy's lead and the dog, who regarded him as an old friend, headed off towards the gate. I picked up my brush and began to paint again.