The Visitors (23 page)

We alight from the cart and Wallis pays the driver. He takes us into the hospital and shows us down the main corridor. I feel ill as I walk, dizzy from the heat and sick from the knowledge. It had not crossed my mind, it had not. I had thought of Caleb racked with pity, his soft heart moulded by her conniving ways. But
relations
? To think of Caleb with another woman, I stumble and hold my head. Lottie and Wallis take hold of me. There are questions and concerned faces. I am taken to a room to sit down and brought a drink of water.

‘It’s boiled, miss. Never fear,’ says Wallis.

I sip the warm water. Lottie looks closely at me, her eyes tell me she understands, she knows why I suffer. She was right, she said he would disappoint me.

‘I want to see Caleb,’ I sign.

We are taken to a ward with many beds. In each one a man lies asleep, or tossing and writhing, or awake and staring blankly at us as we pass. One man winks at me and I look ahead, searching for Caleb. All the men look the same, sallow faces bordered with tatty beards, tucked in by white sheets. The room is so full of men the air breathes scanty. By every bed Visitors loiter, soldiers in various states of confusion, exhaustion or anger. They appeal to me,
Where is my package from home? Is Mother coming?
And one Visitor is a solitary nurse, her uniform shining white-blue as she searches for patients she cannot find. We stop before a bed, a soldier asleep in it with a thick beard, sunken eyes closed, hair matted and cheekbones sharp as mountain crags. It is Caleb.

‘I’ll leave you to it, ladies,’ says Wallis kindly and brings up two chairs for us. ‘I’ll be waiting outside.’

We sit down and gaze at Caleb. Then we look at each other and grasp hands. We have to be strong now, so I force my eyes to dry and my chest to stop heaving. Lottie reaches out gingerly and places a trembling hand on her brother’s. His eyelids flutter and open. He sees her first, then me. His eyes glisten and a fat tear seeps, lost in his whiskers.

I watch his mouth barely move. ‘My girls,’ I read. ‘My girls.’

‘Are you recovering?’ asks Lottie. ‘Wallis says you had dysentery. Are you getting better?’

‘You’ve met Wallis,’ he murmurs and his eyes crinkle. He looks at me and his eyes are serious again. We have not looked upon each other since that night. When he left the next morning, I stayed in my room, said I was poorly. How I have regretted this since.

We are interrupted. A doctor is at the bed. He asks to speak with Lottie and they retire. I stay. Caleb closes his eyes. I brush my fingertips against his face. Another tear emerges, others follow. I wipe them away with my handkerchief. I hold his hand.

He will not open his eyes for me. I finger spell, ‘Do you love her?’

I wait.

He replies in kind, ‘Yes.’ He opens his eyes, bleary and damp. ‘I am sorry, Liza.’

‘Don’t give up your life for her.’

His dry, rough fingers move slowly in my palm, painstaking. ‘We give our lives to the one we love.’

‘If she loved you, she would not sacrifice you.’

His eyes are sharp now, clear. He speaks, ‘I did it. I killed him.’

I sign violently, ‘I do not believe it. I will never believe it. Wallis says she did it and you are protecting her. But what about us, Caleb? What about your sister and your mother and father, and your little brothers? If you do not care for me, so be it. But do not throw yourself away for this woman, when there are better who love you more, who will be destroyed by losing you. Do not do this to them.’

He has watched me all through, with eyes of fire. He draws himself up in bed; his face may be thin and gaunt, but his body still has power. He sits up straight and signs to me, ‘I did it. I killed that bastard for raping her. And I would do it again. I would do it for Lottie, I would do it for you.’

‘I don’t believe you!’ I sign with ferocity. ‘I don’t believe you did it. You’re lying to protect her. Wallis says she’s trouble. A witch, she’s bewitched you!’

‘If you knew her as I did …’

‘I do not wish to know her, I wish
you
had never known her. I wish she had never been born, I wish she were dead!’

Caleb shakes his head, then holds it, screws up his eyes and falls back against the wall. Lottie comes back to the bed.

‘What is happening here?’ she says and shoots me a look.

I turn to the wall, compose myself.

Lottie is speaking reasonably to him. I catch the end of it. She is telling him that she will speak to his counsel and find out what she can in terms of his defence. The doctor has told her there is a chance he may be pronounced temporarily insane. This could help him in the trial. She explains we have brought him English food in tins to help his recovery: meat in gravy, boiled vegetables and fruit in syrup.

‘Make sure you eat some of it,’ she says and kisses his cheek. ‘We will come back tomorrow. Get some rest.’

Caleb nods, exhausted, and falls asleep again before his head has stopped moving. As we leave the ward, I ask Lottie what the doctor has said about his current state of health.

‘As Wallis told us, he is recovering. It is a matter of time. He’ll grow stronger every day, if he begins to eat well and drink well.’ She looks pointedly at me. ‘And if he has complete rest.’

I know she is aware of my pain. But she must also protect her twin. She loves us both. A horrible idea enters my mind. If Caleb were to die, that woman would lose him. And he would return as a Visitor, and I would have him for ever. Just like Father. Yet since he came back, all Father causes me is sadness, to see him confused and idiotic like that. The truth is I ran away from England partly to escape him. And Caleb’s ghost would still be obsessed with that woman, he would not be the old Caleb I knew, before the war, before the cooling loft, before I was a woman. What I would pay to have my old confidant back, who would sit on the oyster yawl and whisper secrets to me with his fingers. If he could have died then, drowned at sea, he would have loved me, loved me simply and pure. But if the sea had taken him, he might not have come back. Think of Tom Winstanley. To lose Caleb, and then find his Visitor never comes? That would be doubly cruel. What would be the best way for him to die? Then my rational mind steps forward and grasps me by the shoulders, shakes me awake. The wicked thoughts chill me and I shake my head to banish them. But I cannot forget them.

Wallis takes us to our accommodation, a small hotel – whitewashed, trim and flower-bordered – not far from the hospital. It is run by an old German couple who are polite to us, but not friendly. When we try to speak with them, they answer in clipped English then leave our presence as soon as manners allow. Wallis checks our room is satisfactory and is about to leave.

Lottie asks him, ‘We want to go to Camp Irene tomorrow. Can you help us?’

‘Why would you want to go there then?’ Wallis asks, his eyebrows arching. He is an odd-looking chap, with camel-coloured hair and trimmed moustache, pouches under his eyes and big ears. He is so genial though, that his appearance is soon forgotten.

Lottie says, ‘We want to talk to Mrs Uitenweerde.’

Wallis wipes his moustache then tugs on it, looking down and frowning.

‘I’m sorry, ladies, but I think it may be a fool’s errand. She has not spoken since it happened, they say. And if she won’t speak up for Caleb, then I don’t see as she’d lift a finger for you. And what if she did? If she was the one who did it, she’s not going to tell you, is she? She’d incriminate herself and that’d be the end of her.’

I sign to Wallis. He likes to watch me do it and smiles and stares at my hands as I do. Lottie translates: ‘We would like to try. We think she may talk to us. As we are females. And I am deaf. Perhaps she will take pity on us.’

‘Well, if you insist. But you’ll need a permit to travel.’

‘We have one of those,’ says Lottie. We do not explain that it is limited only to travel between Pretoria and Cape Town, but we are hoping to plead ignorance if challenged.

‘And I’d like to come with you. It’s only a half-hour from here on the train, but the camp is a dirty place and we don’t want you catching anything. I’ll bring her out to you and you can talk to her at the gate, where it’s safer.’

But we need to go inside the camp, for reasons we cannot explain to Wallis. And we cannot do this while he is hanging about. He means well, but his attentions become infuriating. What can we say to dissuade him?

‘Walter,’ says Lottie and gives him a lovely smile. ‘We feel that our best chance of talking with Mrs Uitenweerde and getting anything useful out of her would be to do it alone, woman to woman. If it is true that she has indeed been … interfered with by a British soldier, then the last person she will want to talk to is another British soldier, even one as charming as yourself.’

We are on the train from Pretoria. We are in luck, as no one has stopped us and checked our travel pass. Our first notion of the camp is the sight of long-winged black birds wheeling on the hot currents way up in the blue. Beneath them appear rows of white tents. As we leave the station, a cold wind blasts us and we hold on to our hats. The camp is situated on a hill down which the wind races and whips the canvas into slapping sails. The people must be inside their tents, as we can see hardly any walk to and fro as we approach. But jamming every lane and path and gap between the tents are hundreds of Visitors, almost all of them children. They are so thin, so lost, such dark eyes and bony arms, wretched and stumbling, so many they almost pass through each other as they unknowingly jostle their fellow wraiths. Lottie is talking to the guard and he is frowning and shaking his head. I cannot tear my eyes away from the children. As I step towards the tents, one notices me, then more, and soon dozens of them are circling me, their arms out, their cries and the Afrikaans language ringing in my inner ears:
Mamma, Mamma, Mamma
. One carries a baby that screams and screams. I feel a panic rise in my throat as they clutch at me, their wispy grip at my arm, my skirt, even my feet for those too weak to stand. That woman was right: the angel of death rules this place. I turn from them to find Lottie nodding her head and pointing into the sea of tents. We begin to walk.

Lottie stops and makes sure I am watching her. ‘Bad news. Maria has gone. She’s escaped, with her son. A few days ago.’

I cover my mouth. This is disastrous.

‘What can we do?’

‘The guard has directed me to a nurse in the hospital. She tended the woman’s son when he was ill and was the last one to see them. He says she may be able to help.’

‘Did you ask him where the soldier was killed?’

‘No, I didn’t. I couldn’t think of a reason why we would need to see it. I wanted to get into the camp first. Perhaps we can find someone inside who knows.’

We go to the hospital, which is just as Caleb described it. The whole camp had lived in my mind since his letter and he exaggerated nothing. The only detail I could not glean from his words is the experience of smelling the fetor of dirt, excrement, illness and death that pervades the camp like sea fret. Still the ghostly children surround me and stumble after me. I look around for adult Visitors and see only a few women, here and there, their faces covered by their customary white bonnets, wandering between tents, heads bowed as if looking for food on the ground. Each one I ask,
Do you know where the soldier was shot? The British guard, shot in a tent. Do you know which tent?
I ask in desperation, knowing they cannot help me. But my questions are answered with questions; even in a foreign language I can tell when someone is begging me. We stand at the door to the hospital and Lottie calls inside. A nurse appears and looks us up and down. Lottie explains and she disappears, replaced by another, a sturdy young woman in crisp uniform, with a slight smile and curious green eyes.

‘Do you speak English?’ asks Lottie.

‘Of course,’ she says. ‘My name is Mrs Dedman. How can I help you?’

‘This is Miss Golding. She is deaf but can lip-read and use sign language. I am Miss Crowe. My brother has been accused of murdering a British guard here.’

‘Oh!’ says Mrs Dedman. ‘You are his sister? And you have come all the way from England?’ She looks at us with sympathy, perhaps pity. ‘Please, come and sit with me. I will bring you tea. And call me Henrietta, please.’

She takes us to a tent where two nurses sit with needlework on their laps, cups and saucers between them on a picnic table, talking and sewing speedily.

Henrietta asks something of them, to afford us some privacy I think, as they gather their things in a grumbling fashion and leave, blinking malcontent glances. We are given hot tea and sit with Henrietta, who leans forward with great interest. She asks us questions about the ship, our travels and how we find Africa, about my deafness and how I communicate, about my eyes and ears. She is an intelligent woman, that is sure, and seems starved of interesting conversation. We need her, so we engage politely with all she requires of us. Finally, Lottie grows impatient and changes the subject.

‘We came to find a Mrs Maria Uitenweerde and speak to her about the death of Private Jackson. But we understand she has left the camp.’

‘Yes, she escaped last week with her son. She took him from the hospital in the morning and went that very night. They slipped under the fence.’

‘The guard told me you were the last one to see them.’

‘Well, I saw her son that morning. He was recovering from a nasty chest infection. He did survive it but was quite weakened by it. I told her she should leave him in the hospital for a few days more, but she insisted. She took him back to her tent and that is the last time someone on the staff saw them together.’

‘So someone else would have seen them, those they shared the tent with. Perhaps we might speak with them? We want to find Mrs Uitenweerde if we can. They may know in which direction she was heading.’

‘I can show you her tent, but no one will speak to you there. Her kind were very anti-British you see. They would speak to me because I am Boer, like them, but not like them. I come from Cape Colony to help here. I have lost no one to the war and my family do not fight in it. I am neither loyalist nor nationalistic, I merely hate the war. So they will talk to me, but they do not trust me. If they will not talk to me, they certainly will not talk to you.’