Chapter One ONE 23 Heron Place The Cape Southern Cross Colony March 12, 1920 I come highly recommended to Mrs. Hattingh through sentences I tell her I cannot read. She conducts the interview in her kitchen, a large room on a street of houses grand and gabled that look out onto the dipped bowl of our harbor city. A row of homes, my father told me, for doctors and ambassadors. When she says the position is for a combined cleaner-cook, I realize she is not as wealthy as her house--its address and ornaments--suggests. I glance past the kitchen door to the corridor, and though the light is dim I notice rows of variously sized rectangles, solid blocks of deep maroon, shades darker than the rest of the wallpaper. Paintings must once have hung there. Perhaps she has had to sell them, and now the memory of each casts a precise and permanent shadow. It is likely she lost part of her fortune in the war. Well, who hasn't? Even those of us who had no fortune to begin with have felt the pinch and scrape and cost of all those trenches and guns and explosions. The kitchen, however, is still well equipped. In the end, as my mother would say, it is the pots, not the paintings, that survive. So here we are, in the room in which I will be expected to collude in her deceits, concoct dishes for dinner parties that hide her poverty, mind the number of eggs, keep up appearances. I can do that. I am used to culinary economy, to careful pride. She is holding the letter up to a wide window, squinting with effort as though the words will unfurl in the morning light. The paper is thin as a breeze, the writing as spidery as my previous employer Mrs. Edenburg's spite. Mrs. Hattingh asks me the usual questions, her voice now firm, now breathless. "How old are you, girl?" "Nineteen, madam." "You look younger. I suppose it is because you are so slight. How long have you been in service?" "Since I was twelve, madam. First as a scullery maid and then as Cook's helper." "Why did you leave the Edenburgs? Such a glowing reference, I can't imagine why they'd let you go." To this I say that Cook had never liked me, that she'd wanted my position for her own daughter, that she'd connived to get rid of me! I touch a finger to my lips; days ago, it had been swollen to a bloody pout, but it's calmed since, just a small bump now, dark and tender. Don't worry, my mother had said when she first saw it, the mouth heals quickly. "I do hope she taught you to cook before all this intrigue?" Around Mrs. Hattingh's mouth a smile dances. "Oh yes, madam. I helped Cook for three years. She taught me the settlers' dishes and my mother taught me our food." "But how wonderful! Can you make that lovely spiced mince dish with dried mint... kee... kee... the name escapes me now." "Keema. Yes, madam." "What about the almond dessert with rose water? And cardamom doughnuts?" I nod. " Excellent . We shall get along famously. I always hire your people if I can help it, Soraya. I've long admired the skilled cleverness of your men and the industriousness and modesty of your women, even if some say the former is merely cunning and the latter crippling shyness." "Yes, madam. Thank you, madam." "In fact"--she leans forward and drops her voice even though there is no one about to hear us--"I feel a kinship with your people. You are not really from here either. Yes, yes, brought by force where we came by design, but still, like us, your kind made this colony what it is." Ah, she's one of those , the ones who think themselves infinitely better than us and us somewhat better than the others, and believes that sharing this will inspire my loyalty, hard work, thankfulness. My mother--herself descended in part from the First People Mrs. Hattingh so easily dismisses--would have given one of her stock responses, such as We are hard workers indeed , but I say nothing. Let her make of that what she may. Mrs. Hattingh also asks some unusual questions. "Do you think you'll be happy here?" "Yes, madam." "You won't mind such an empty house?" I have to stop a laugh running free from my throat, for what servant would prefer more people to clean up after? "Would you like to have a look around before you give your answer?" I shake my head, because, really, there is nothing else to see; the wage is fair, the house large but mostly vacant, and, more, there is no man about to trouble us. It is only then that she announces that the position is for a live-in maid. Her voice quavers as she reveals this, and I know that she knows this is an unreasonable request, sprung late. Neither of us needs state that to sleep here is to be not only cook and cleaner but companion and protector too. I protest (very faintly) that 23 Heron Place is not far from my family's home in the Quarter, that I could come to her early each morning and would not leave until my duties for the day are fulfilled. At this she dips her chin like a small, frail bird, her lips tremble, her hands reach for her long, swaying necklace that runs all the way to her waist. She clutches and rolls the garnet beads lying gleaming and purple against her dark dress as though she were praying and does not answer me directly; instead, she turns her eyes to the back garden and whispers something about holiday half pay. I understand then that my nights are a condition of employment, that she wants my sleeping hours as well as my waking ones, that there is only one answer to secure the job, and so I give it: I will sleep here every night of the week and go home but one Sunday a fortnight. Her head snaps up, and with a full smile she tells me how much safer she feels already, just knowing I will be here. My face twitches into a sneer that I try to still. My mother gave me just two lessons before I set out to my first job all those years ago, and I am already failing at one of them: The first was to do as I was told as well as I could, to wash, cook and clean as though I were caring for my own home and person. The second was how to arrange my face. Always keep something back , she told me, there is no need for them to know what you are truly thinking . So I do not tell Mrs. Hattingh that I am useless in a crisis, have never bested anyone in self-defense and have no intention of shielding her at any cost to myself against marauding burglars or mountain baboons. She rises to her feet and announces that she will give me a tour of the house and steps into a quick march as I trail after her. At each door we pause, and she names the room behind it. The breathy voice has turned no-nonsense: "Pantry, dining room, sitting room, guest room, gun room, my late husband's study." She speaks and walks at such a speed that words and feet seem to trip up on each other. The pace, I realize, is because this is all so unbearable, for this is not something that would ordinarily fall to her. In a house of this size, for a family of this station, it should be the task of the housekeeper, not the employer, to show the new housemaid what's what. But Mrs. Hattingh is forging ahead--almost as if she were another person now, made brisk by the business of it all. She points, and as she does so, she instructs: "You will dust daily, the windows must be washed once a week. You see how very tall they are? This house has wonderful light, but as with every bit of good fortune, it extracts its price, for all is visible, every speck of dust and dirt, and I must warn you, I am eagle -eyed. My linen must be changed every fortnight and the floors scrubbed weekly. Mind you work with the grain, not against it, or you'll do irreparable damage. These are yellowwood." She taps a toe to a floor plank. "My late husband, Mr. Hattingh, took very seriously the preservation of the Cape's good homes." A turn, a swish of that long, flounced skirt and the rustling petticoat beneath it, and down the corridor we go. She twists her head over her shoulder, her words small darting fish. "Be careful with my things, please, I cannot bear the habitual breaking of plates and ornaments that every maid seems guilty of. And remember this: if such breakage does occur after we've quarreled, I will know it to be deliberate." A sharp left. "Always knock before you enter any room and wait a moment for my response. If I don't answer, you may assume I am not there and open the door. Answer the butcher's knock only when I tell you to. I do not keep a telephone--a boastful extravagance in any home--so I will ask you to carry messages to my friends as needed. Walk , my dear, you should not have such a languid gait at your age. Up the stairs now. March on." She trails her pale fingers on the oak banister as she ascends the stairs, and I find myself thinking of my mother's hands. Mama had me when she was seventeen, and when I look at Mrs. Hattingh, I can see easily who is younger by the face, but their hands are different. My mother rubs her palms and nails nightly with the oil she buys from the Indian shopkeeper in the District, but by day her skin cracks at the knuckles, ash gray against brown. It's the lye in the soap that does it. She's one of many washerwomen in the Quarter who spend their days cleaning, scrubbing, soaking things for the city's grand and not-so-grand houses. All day, all day, wash-wash, scrub-scrub, soak-soak, clothes, linen, curtains, soiled nappies for babies and the infirm. She works like a soldier, my mother, rising early, sleeping late, setting her teeth as though she's going into battle when she leaves for the washhouse. She does it even though my father turns a respectable trade because she refuses to believe that religious calligraphy will ever provide enough for the body despite what it may do for the soul. Mrs. Hattingh's joints are slender where Mama's are knotted. Against the oak, my new employer's fingers have the look of the pale tapered limbs of a starfish clinging to a dark ocean rock. Some girls I know sneer at their madams, saying they have the hands of children, soft, useless, easily hurt, but I don't feel that way at all. I don't want my skin to grow gray and stripped and hard, for I have beautiful hands, like my father. His skin is only ever stained at the thumb and forefinger. His are the hands of a scholar. Up, up the wide wooden stairs covered in part by a fitted carpet, dull gold with a scattering of faint green roses. At the end of the corridor is a blue-tiled water closet with porcelain fittings ("You will use the outhouse"); at the corridor's curve, four bedrooms, two on the left, two on the right. She walks into the first, a guest room. "This is called 'Birds.' You can see why." And I do. The orangey-red twin bedcovers match the custard-yellow wallpaper, and there are birds, birds, birds on both. They've been caught, sitting, tilting, swooping, rushing at climbing vines and each other, beaks pointing up or wide open, ready to hunt, screech, sing, dart among flowers lush with pollen. It is as though we have walked into a silent, stone-still aviary. Someone--it could only be a child--has scribbled ink onto a few of the wallpaper birds' eyes, making them blacker, sharper, so that mid-hunt, screech or song, they glare right at us. We do not linger, she is already guiding me into the next room. "And this is 'Fontana,'?" she says, pronouncing the name with a bit of drama, pointing to the back wall, which is entirely covered with a painting of what I think is a town square in another country. In it, a beautiful fountain gushes and very old buildings are crumbling and covered in weeds. "Isn't it hideous?" she says. "A gift from my late husband's sister, sent in the months after he died, 'to bring me comfort.' It's glued on. She suggested it go in my drawing room. Imagine! One cannot account for taste, Soraya, remember that." "Yes, madam." We cross the corridor, but at the first of the family bedrooms, she stops and makes a show of pulling up a pocket watch, clicking it open and checking the time. "I didn't realize the hour. We'll have to return to this room on another occasion." Her breath has grown a little labored from all the walking and talking. She steadies herself and begins again at the fourth door. " This room you may enter. It is my bedroom. Come in, come in, don't hover so in the doorway." Her bedroom is a soft sigh, a place of pale florals and spindly bedside tables. In the rest of the house, the smell of mothballs and wax polish, but here, all tangled up, the scent of dried rose petals and sprigs of fresh lavender. Downstairs there are wide spaces between large pieces, sturdy tables, big chairs, everything covered in dark, thick brocade, the windows draped in curtains that kneel to the floor, and everywhere, everywhere, that faded maroon wallpaper. But in this room, all is delicate, slender. Even the lamps stand thin with pale bonnets and silk fringes. On each table there is something beautiful--a vase, a photograph, an ornament--and beyond, its door slightly ajar, a dressing room in shadow. Mrs. Hattingh holds herself straight, a pride pulsing off her person, and I understand that this room, unlike the others, has remained unchanged, that nothing from this room has ever had to be sold. "Soraya?" "Madam?" "I see you are one for daydreaming." "No, madam, I was just--" "It's a great deal to absorb, I understand. Would you like to see your quarters?" Before we leave, Mrs. Hattingh pauses for half a minute in front of a mirror as tall as she is. She tugs straight her skirt, pats at her graying reddish hair though it needs no neatening, runs her fingers back and forth over the garnet beads, neck to waist, all the while nodding at herself, smiling. Then she twists, left to right, as though taking the measure of her own trim waist. I am standing a little behind her; we are both caught in the reflection, though just a sliver of me is visible. It is only when she reaches again, as though more for pleasure than reassurance, to run her hands lightly over her bosom and torso, that I lower my gaze and stare fixedly at the carpet, at my boots peeking out from beneath my dress. I stay just like that, a faint burn on my cheeks, until she breaks from the mirror and heads for the door, saying she hopes she won't always have to chivy me along. We cross the lawn at the back of the house. It's dry brown from a long summer, and there are more trees and fewer flowers than in the front. The garden has been pruned recently, within an inch of its life, I'd say; trees have been cut back, new soil tilled, grass sheaved. "I have a man come in every few months, and in between I will expect you to do some light weeding. As will I, my dear. I daresay there will be times we find we are working side by side. You will find me very democratic in my views." She stops for a moment to look out at her property. "A garden is a sanctuary for the soul and a responsibility for the hands." We pass a young lemon tree, and she points at it, saying, "I planted that when my son, Master Timothy, left for the Front. In a few years it will bear fruit, and I'll be able to make the curd he loves. As a boy he'd have eaten lemon curd by the bucket if I'd let him... What's wrong? You look a little worried all of a sudden." "Nothing, madam. Only I thought I'd be working for just you--" "What's this, now? A confession of laziness?" "No, madam." "My son is in London," she says, straightening. "He went there after the war and has no intention of returning to this provincial outpost. He's very happy there. God. Who wouldn't be?" "Yes, madam." We've come up to a freestanding dwelling with two small, plain windows and a strong door. I can tell by sight that it will be freezing in winter and hot as hell in summer. Mrs. Hattingh gives a wave as though she were conjuring this all from thin air and asks if I have ever had a room of my own. I have not, I reply, thinking of my sisters at home and the other girls in my previous jobs, and at that she beams, standing taller still. Inside, she plumps the pillows on the narrow bed, bends to smooth and pat the bleached and mended cotton covers. "The furniture in here was once in the main house." And with a final tug at a pillow's end, "You will not find me here again. I will respect your privacy." She is expecting my thanks and I give them to her. On the floor, a round braided rug, and next to the bed, a plain table with a pale-yellow jug and bowl. There are net curtains and a small looking glass. It is a nice room and it could easily be made nicer--I imagine one of my father's protective rakams above my head and a jar of mountain daisies, fresh plucked, star bright, on the table. But there's a musty, all-wrong smell too that I can't put my finger on--it may be that the room is damp and needs an airing; it may be that an uninvited jinn has taken up residence. I resolve to burn some buchu at the first opportunity; that will take care of the problem either way. I look over at the door's bolt: it is thick iron, firmly screwed and locks from the inside. I cannot resist touching it, testing it. "All is in order, my dear. Fatima, the old you, was fastidious. Look around if you like! It's your room, you should get acquainted!" There's a sweetness to her enthusiasm that is catching. I make a show of interest, opening the drawers of the dresser, touching the curtains' soft weave, looking out the small window to the lawn and its gravel pathway running between my new home and hers. "Poor Fatima," says Mrs. Hattingh, sitting herself on the bed. "Old as the hills. She came with the house, you know. Worked here since she was a girl. Couldn't read either... But more devout than you, covered her face when she went into town. I'd have been lost without her, especially in those early years. She nursed me so wonderfully through the foreigners' flu, and when she caught it, I did the same for her, but she was never the same after... Slow to talk and such sad, sharp little breaths... A saint, really." I, no saint, will soon lie where Fatima once did, slapping my face with water from the same yellow bowl, finding the dips and crevices she made in the mattress, our sighs and songs meeting somewhere in the eaves. Old Fatima would have known another girl would come to take her place, and so she's left me this gift, a strong bolt on the door. "Well." My new employer breaks through the quiet that has formed around us. "If you've no more questions, you may go. I expect you on Monday by eight o'clock, bags in hand. No later, mind. We have much to get through." Excerpted from Cape Fever: A Novel by Nadia Davids All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
