The Fever Tree and Other Stories Read online

  She reached onto the back seat for the camera. And then she hesitated. He could see the fear, the caution in her eyes. Silently he took the key out of the ignition and held it, out to her on the palm of his hand. She flushed. He stared at her, enjoying her discomfiture, indignant that she should suspect him of such baseness.

  She hesitated but she took the key. She picked up the camera and opened the car door, holding the key by its fob in her left hand, the camera in her right. He noticed that she hadn’t passed the strap of the camera, his treasured Pentax, round her neck, she never did. For the thousandth time he could have told her but he lacked the heart to speak. His swollen foot throbbed and he thought of the long days at Ntsukunyane that remained to them. Marguerite seemed infinitely far away, further even than at the other side of the world where she was.

  He knew Tricia was going to drop the camera some fifteen seconds before she did so. It was because she had the key in her other hand. If the strap had been round her neck it wouldn’t have mattered. He knew how it was when you held something in each hand and lost your grip or your footing. You had no sense then, in that instant, of which of the objects was valuable and mattered and which was not and didn’t. Tricia held on to the key and dropped the camera. The better to photograph the porcupine, she had mounted on to the twisted roots of a tree, roots that looked as hard as a flight of stone steps.

  She gave a little cry. At the sounds of the crash and the cry the porcupine erected its quills. Ford jumped out of the car, wincing when he put his foot to the ground, hobbling through the grass to Tricia who stood as if petrified with fear of him. The camera, the pieces of camera, had fallen among the gnarled, stone-like tree roots. He dropped on to his knees, shouting at her, cursing her.

  Tricia began to run. She ran back to the car and pushed the key into the ignition. The car was pointing in the direction of Thaba and the clock on the dashboard shelf said five thirty-five. Ford came limping back, waving his arms at her, his hands full of broken pieces of camera. She looked away and put her foot down hard on the accelerator.

  The sky was clear orange with sunset, black bars of the coming night lying on the horizon. She found she could drive when she had to, even though she couldn’t pass a test. A mile along the road she met the American couple. The boy put his head out. ‘Anything worth going down there for?’

  ‘Not a thing,’ said Tricia, ‘you’d be wasting your time.’

  The boy turned his car and followed her back. It was two minutes past six when they entered Thaba, the last cars to do so. The gates closed behind them.

  The Dreadful Day of Judgement

  There were four of them working in the cemetery. They were employed by the city corporation – to do what? Even the foreman was vague about their duties which had not been very precisely specified. Not to clear the central part, certainly, for that would have been a task not for four but for four hundred. And a wild life sanctuary, for which purpose it was designated, must be wild. To tidy it, then, to remove the worst signs of vandalism, to carry away such gravestones as had fallen, to denude certain of the many winding paths of the intrusive bramble and ivy and nettle. When they asked the foreman whether this should be done or that, he would say to use their own judgement, he couldn’t be sure, he would find out. But he never did. Sometimes an official from the corporation came and viewed the work and nodded and disappeared into the hut with the foreman to drink tea. As the winter came on the official appeared less often, and the foreman said it was a hopeless task, they needed more men, but the corporation could no longer afford to spend the money, they must just do the best they could.

  The hut was just inside the main gates. The foreman had a plan of the cemetery pinned to the wall next to Gilly’s calendar of the girl in the transparent nightdress. He had a kettle and a spirit stove, but the cups and the teapot had been brought by Marlon who got them from his mother. The hut was always hot and smelly and smoky. The foreman chain-smoked and so did Marlon, although he was so young, and everywhere in the hut were saucers full of ash and cigarette stubs. One day Gilly, who didn’t smoke, brought into the hut a tin can he had found in an open vault. The foreman and Marlon seemed pleased to have a new, clean ashtray, for they never considered emptying the others but let them fill up and spill about the floor.

  ‘Marlon’d be scared stiff if he knew where that came from,’ said John. ‘He’d die of fright.’

  But Gilly only laughed. He found everything about the cemetery funny, even the soldiers’ graves, the only well-tended ones, that the Imperial War Graves Commission still looked after. In the beginning he had amused himself by jumping out on Marlon from behind a monument or a pillared tomb, but the foreman, lethargic as he was, had stopped that because Marlon was not quite as they were, being backward and not able to read or write much.

  The main gates hung between what the foreman called stone posts but which John alone knew were Corinthian columns. A high wall surrounded the cemetery, which was of many acres, and the periphery of it, a wide space just inside the wall, had been cleared long before and turfed and planted with trees that were still tiny. This was to be a public park for the townsfolk. It was the centre, the deep heart of the place, once the necropolis for this mercantile city, that was to be left for the birds and such small animals who would venture in and stay.

  Many species of bird already nested in the ilexes and the laurels, the elms and the thin, silver-trunked birch trees. Crows with wings like black fans, woodpeckers whose tap-tap-tapping could be heard from the almost impenetrable depths, little birds which even John couldn’t name and which crept rather than hopped over the lichen on the fallen stones. It was silent in there but for the rare rustle of wings or the soft crack of a decayed twig dropping. The city lay below, all round, but in winter it was often masked by fog, and it was hard to believe that thousands lived down there and worked and scurried in glare and noise. Their forbears’ tombs stood in rows or gathered in clusters or jostled each other haphazardly: domed follies, marble slabs, granite crosses, broken columns, draped urns, simple stones, all overgrown and shrouded and half-obscured. Not a famous name among them, not a memorable title, only the obscure dead, forgotten, abandoned, capable now of nothing more than to decree a hush.

  The silence was violated only by Gilly’s talk. He had one topic of conversation, but that one was inexhaustible and everything recalled him to it. A name on a tomb, a scrap of verse on a gravestone, a pair of sparrows, the decorously robed statue of an angel. ‘Bit of all right, that one,’ he would say, stroking the stone flesh of a weeping muse, his hands so coarse and calloused that John wondered how any real woman could bear them to touch her. Or, lifting the ivy from a grave where lay a matron who had married three times, ‘Couldn’t get enough of it, could she?’ And these reflections led him into endless reminiscences of the women he had had, those he now possessed, and anticipations of those awaiting him in the future.

  Nothing stayed him. Not the engraved sorrow of parents mourning a daughter dead at seventeen, not the stone evocations of the sufferings of those dead in childbirth. Some of the vaults had been despoiled and left open, and he would penetrate them, descending subterranean stairs, shouting up to John and Marlon from the depths that here was a good place to bring a girl. ‘Be O.K. in the summer. There’s shelves here, make a good bed, they would. Proper little boudoir.’

  John often regretted the thing he had done which made Gilly admire him. It had been on his first day there. He knew, even before he had done it, that this was to show them he was different from them, to make it clear from the start that he was a labourer only because there was no other work obtainable for such as he. He wanted them to know he had been to a university and was a qualified teacher. The shame and humiliation of being forced to take this unskilled work ate into his soul. They must understand his education had fitted him for something higher. But it had been a foolish vanity.

  There had been nothing in the deep cavity any more but stones and dead leaves. But he had jumped
in and held up a big pitted stone and cried ringingly: ‘That skull had a tongue in it and could sing once. How the knave jowls it to the ground, as if ’twere Cain’s jawbone that did the first murder!’

  Gilly stared. ‘You make that up yourself?’

  ‘Shakespeare,’ he said. ‘Hamlet,’ and the awe on Gilly’s unformed pug-nosed face made him go on, excited with success, a braggart in a squalid pit. ‘Prithee, Horatio, tell me one thing. Dost thou think Alexander looked o’ this fashion i’ the earth? And smelt so? pah!’

  Marlon had gone white, his face peaked between the falls of thin yellow hair. He wore a heavy blue garment, a kind of anorak, but it gave him a medieval look standing there against the chapel wall, an El Greco sky flowing above its tower, purple and black and rushing in scuds above this northern Toledo. But Gilly was laughing, begging John to go on, and John went on, playing to the groundlings, holding the stone aloft. ‘Alas, poor Yorick . . .’ until at last he flung it from him with the ham actor’s flourish, and up on the path again was being clapped on the back by Gilly and told what a brain he’d got. And Gilly was showing what he was and what all that had meant to him by demanding to have that bit again, the bit about the lips that I have kissed I know not how oft.

  Marlon hadn’t laughed or congratulated him. Bewildered, frightened by the daring of it and the incomprehensibility, he fumbled to light a fresh cigarette, another of the sixty he would smoke that day. Cigarettes were all he had, a tenuous hold on that real world in which his mother, sixteen years before, had named him after a famous actor. The smoke flowed from his loose lips. In a way, but for that cigarette, he might have been an actor in a miracle

  play perhaps or in a chorus of madmen. On that day as on all the others that followed, he walked behind them as they made their way back through the shaded aisles, under the leather-leaved ilexes, between the little houses of the dead.

  In the hut there was tea to be drunk, and then home, the foreman off to his semidetached and his comfortable wife, Marlon to his mother and stuffy rooms and television commercials, John to his bedsit, Gilly (as John, the favoured, was now privileged to be told) to the arms of a casino owner’s wife whose husband lacked a gravedigger’s virility.

  The chapel was built of yellowish-grey stones. It had an octagonal nave, and on its floor thin, hair-like grass grew up between the flags. To one of its sides was attached a square tower, surmounted at each angle by a thin ornamented spire. The four spires, weather-worn, corroded, stained, were like four needles encrusted with rust. The workmen used the chapel as a repository for pieces of broken stone and iron rails. Even Gilly’s bullying could not make Marlon go inside. He was afraid of Gilly and the foreman, but not so afraid as he was of the echoing chapel and of the dust beneath his feet.

  Gilly said, ‘What’d you do, Marl, if you turned round now and it wasn’t me here but a skeleton in a shroud, Marl?’

  ‘Leave him alone,’ said John, and when they were alone in the nave, ‘You know he’s a bit retarded.’

  ‘Big words you use, John. I call him cracked. D’you know what he said to me yesterday? All them graves are going to open up and the dead bodies come out. On some special day that’s going to be. What day’s that then? I said. But he only wobbled his head.’

  ‘The dreadful Day of Judgement,’ said John, ‘when the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed.’

  ‘Wouldn’t suit me, that. Some of them old skulls’d blush a bit if I told them what I’d been getting up to last night. The secrets of all hearts? Open some of them up and I’d have a good many blokes on my track, not to mention that old git, you-know-who. Break his bloody roulette wheel, he would.’

  ‘Over your head, no doubt,’ said John.

  ‘A short life and a randy one, that’s what I say.’ They came out into the cold, pale sunlight. ‘Here, have a shufty at this. Angelina Clara Bowyer, 1816 to 1839. Same age as what you are, mate, and she’d had five kids! Must have worn her old man out.’

  ‘It wore her out,’ said John, and he seemed to see her with her piled plaited hair and her long straight dress and the consumption in her face. He saw the young husband mourning among those five bread-and-butter-fed children, the crepe on his hat, the black coat. Under a sky like this, the sun a white puddle in layered cloud, he came with the clergyman and the mourners and the coffin-bearers to lay her in the earth. The flowers withered in the biting wind – or did they bring flowers to funerals then? He didn’t know, and not knowing broke the vision and brought him back to the clink of spade against granite, the smell of Marlon’s cigarette, Gilly talking, talking, as boringly as an old woman of her aches and pains only he was talking of sex.

  They always stopped work at four now the dusk came early. ‘Nights are drawing in,’ said the foreman, brewing tea, filling up with dog ends the can Gilly had found in the grave.

  ‘When’ll we get it over with?’ Marlon faltered, coming close to the stove, coughing a little.

  ‘Depends on what we’ve got to get over,’ said the foreman. ‘Digging a bit here, clearing a bit there. My guess is that council fellow’ll come round one of these days and say, That’s it, lads, now you can leave it to the squirrels.’

  Gilly was looking at his calendar, turning over the November nightdress girl to the December Santa Claus girl. ‘If I had my way they’d level it all over, the centre bit, and put grass down, make the whole place a park. That’s healthy, that is. Somewhere a young kid could take his girl. Lover’s Lane Park, that’d be a good name. I’d like to see real birds there, not them bloody crows.’

  ‘You can’t do that,’ said Marlon. ‘There’s the dead people in there.’

  ‘So what? There was dead people round the edges, but they took them up. They done something – what they call it, John?’

  ‘They deconsecrated the ground.’

  ‘Hear what John says? He’s educated, he knows.’

  Marlon got up, the cigarette clinging to his lip. ‘You mean they dug them up? There was others and they dug them up?’

  ‘’Course they did. You didn’t think they was under there, did you?’

  ‘Then where’ll they be when the Day comes? How’ll they lift up the stones and come out?’

  ‘Here, for Christ’s sake,’ said the foreman, ‘that’s enough of that, young Marlon. I don’t reckon your mum’d better take you to church no more if that’s what you come out with.’

  ‘They must come out, they must come and judge,’ Marlon cried, and then the foreman told him sharply to shut up, for even he could be shaken by this sort of thing, with the darkness crowding in on the hut, and the heart of the cemetery a black mound horned by the spires of the chapel.

  John wondered what church Marlon went to, that of some strange sect perhaps. Or was it only his incomplete brain that distorted the accepted meaning of the Day of Judgement into this version of his own? The resentful dead, the judging dead, lying censorious in the earth.

  For his part, he had at first seen the cemetery as no more than a wooded knoll and the stones no more than granite outcroppings. It was not so now. The names in inscriptions, studied by him quietly or derisively read out by Gilly, evoked images of their bearers. James Calhoun Stokes, 1798–1862, Merchant of this City; ‘Upright in all his dealings, he stood firm to meet his Maker’. Gilly had an obscene rendering of that, of course. Thomas Charles Macpherson, 1802–79, Master Builder; ‘Blest are the Pure in Heart’. Lucy Matilda Osborne, 1823–96; ‘Her submissive duty to her husband and devotion to her sons was exceeded only by her pious adoration of her God’. John saw them in cutaway coats, in bombazine gowns, or night-capped on their deathbeds.

  But Marlon saw them as a magisterial procession. Listening, watching, waiting perhaps for the ultimate outrage.

  ‘What a load of old cobblers! You’ll be down there yourself soon, all the fags you get through in a day.’ Gilly sat on a toppled stone, laughing. He had been telling John more about the casino man’s wife, trying to find among the statues they had piled up one whose f
igure might be comparable to hers. Britannias, muses, embodiments of virtues or arts, they lay prostrate, their blank grey or bronze faces all staring upwards at the clouded sky.

  ‘What are we going to do with them?’ Marlon said in the voice that was as desperate when he asked about trivialities as when he gave his prophet-like cries.

  ‘Ask the foreman,’ said John.

  ‘He won’t bloody know.’ And Gilly lifted on to his lap the bronze that was nearly nude, just veiled over her loins with metal drapery. ‘Randy old devil, he must have been, that Sidney George Whatsit, having her sitting on top of him when he was dead.’

  ‘He was a historian, the plaque says,’ said John. ‘She’s supposed to be Clio, the Muse of History. That’s why she’s got a scroll in her hand.’ And then, because he was bored with Gilly and afraid for Marlon, ‘Let’s stick them all in the chapel till the council guy comes.’

  But Gilly refused to abandon the huge joke of caressing the bronze. Every reachable inch of her anatomy was examined until, suddenly, he jumped up, leaving her to roll into one of the muddy ruts the truck had made, and ran up to the pillared monument from whose dome she had toppled. He stood inside, a satyr, John thought, in a temple defiled by northern rains. He threw up his arms.

  ‘I said you was a randy old goat, Sidney, and so you was! I had a bird called Clio once myself, real hot stuff.’ His shouts punctured the thick greyness, the silence, the fog-textured air. He leapt down the steps, kicking a gravestone here, a marble urn there, and perched on a broken column. ‘Come out, all the lot of you, if you want, only you can’t because you’re bloody dead!’

  And then Marlon made a horrible sound, the moan a man makes in sleep, in a nightmare, when he thinks he is screaming. He got into the cab of the truck and hunched there.