Ardnish Page 16

  Yet these nagging voices in my head would not stop. This is madness. It’s wrong. What about Morag? Linde is my prisoner. She’s vulnerable . . . It’s wrong!

  From close by, we heard a wailing voice. ‘Mother! Mother!’

  Linde froze.

  ‘Mother! Mother!’

  Anja was wandering around the camp crying out, increasingly desperately, for her mother. She was coming closer.

  I slumped back and turned away.

  Linde kissed me hard and whispered sorry before rearranging her dress and crawling awkwardly from our hiding place.

  ‘What are you doing under there?’ said Anja. ‘Is that Donald John there, too?’ Her voice was so piercing it seemed to echo round the camp.

  And with that, mother and daughter, hand in hand, hurried away as I sorted out my clothing. I lay back, frustrated, eyes shut, hand on forehead, blood pumping. God, I needed that woman so badly.

  Chapter 26

  Donald John, Ardnish, 1944

  The late afternoon passes in an amicable fashion. The Archbishop chats to me before he heads off with Morag to see the sheep and presumably listen to her opinion of what condition her husband is in. Angus spends his time helping around the place, doing the more strenuous tasks such as carrying peat and chopping kindling. Mairi fusses around like an old hen, dusting the dresser and sweeping the floor even though it doesn’t need doing.

  As dusk falls, with tea taken and the animals fed, everyone crowds around the fire. Morag helps me to sit up and arranges a blanket around my shoulders. She gives the Archbishop a full update on Donald Angus and Sheena, both of whom are in Canada. She loves telling visitors about the young. Louise constantly interrupts with additions to Morag’s story, but they make a delightful team. They discuss the war and whether Churchill will be re-elected as prime minister, and the Archbishop tells us how he thinks Pope Pius is coping at the Vatican while Rome is being bombed by the Allies. It is pitch-black before we know it.

  As they talk, I can feel the fluid in my lungs and become aware of an unpleasant gurgling as I inhale. Every breath is a struggle, and I interrupt the evening with a terrible fit of coughing, my body twisting and buckling. Louise holds a bowl under my chin as, finally, I vomit phlegm, crimson with blood. Afterwards I lie back, exhausted, my ribs aching and my body soaked in sweat from the exertion.

  Morag holds my hand and looks deep into my eyes. ‘Hold on, dear,’ she whispers, dabbing my forehead with a handkerchief.

  Mairi has returned from her house with fresh tea, using the chamomile she grows in a box on her windowsill. ‘This will soothe him, help him relax,’ she insists rather stridently to Louise, who, as always, looks sceptical whenever Mairi’s potions are on offer. Unusually, Louise is in favour this time. She helps me to sit upright and plumps my pillows once more.

  The Archbishop and my son are talking quietly in the background, no doubt about my final confession. I nod to myself, thinking it’s long overdue.

  Chapter 27

  Donald John, South Africa, 1901

  The Orange River was vast, bigger than the Lochy in spate and a deep burnt-orange colour from the red earth which prevailed in the area. At home we could look into a river and see a salmon ten feet below the surface, but here the water was muddy and clouded.

  Off to our left, just out of sight, lay the concentration camp, the town of Aliwal sat in the middle, and to our right was the army camp, up on a hill. The vista stretched about three miles from one side to the other.

  Captain MacDonald kept me with him all day. There always seemed to be some task or another that he needed me for. At several points I tried to break away to find Linde but I was always thwarted. He was watching my every move.

  That afternoon, near the Frere Bridge, we had been waiting our turn to go across. To our amazement, a party of six British women approached us from behind. Captain MacDonald engaged them in conversation, and it transpired that they were an official party sent out by the British Government to report on the concentration camps, following the enormous hue and cry caused by the speech Emily Hobhouse had made in Parliament. Millicent Fawcett was one name I remembered. I overheard her saying that they’d just come from the camp at Bethulie and the camp here was one of the better ones. Apparently a genuine effort was being made to improve conditions.

  The women were staying at the Royal Hotel in town and wanted to hear from us what had happened out in the veld when the Boer families were being escorted to the camp. We were invited to meet them at the hotel in a few days’ time to give our account. I was encouraged by their words; these women had actually seen for themselves that conditions were becoming tolerable in the camps, and so, despite my sadness and frustration about my circumstances, my spirits lifted a little.

  I managed to snatch a few minutes with Linde at dusk before I was due on sentry duty. I began to apologise profusely, stumbling over my words.

  But she pressed a hand to my lips and spoke earnestly. ‘No, no . . . please . . . don’t say sorry. I know we’ll soon be apart, and I wanted you too – just to hold you . . .’

  ‘I am so glad to hear it. I was worried I . . .’ I couldn’t voice my feelings. ‘Is Anja all right?’

  Linde looked away. ‘I don’t think she really understood what was happening, but she was a little unsettled. She asked difficult questions. But, Donald John, I told her what a fine man you are and how you have been like a father to her these last few days – better than her own father ever was.’

  I was deeply touched. I took her hand in mine, looked intently in her eyes and was about to tell her my feelings when I heard a bellow from Cammy, who must have been watching us from a distance. ‘Corporal Gillies, get over here now!’

  ‘That man has eyes in the back of his head,’ I grumbled. ‘I have to go, Linde. I’m sorry.’

  Despite being on sentry duty for half the night, early the next morning I was sent on an errand to the town. I was to deliver a message to the commanding officer and return to the camp with post for the men. Dejectedly, I did as I was ordered, knowing that my precious final hours with Linde were being eaten away.

  There was a letter for me, the address written in the instantly recognisable, neat hand of my wife. My heart sank as I slipped it into my pocket. My conscience was gnawing at me enough without reading a letter from Morag. What a day to get it!

  Later that morning, a small group of Scouts, including myself, finally led the women and children towards the concentration camp. The chatter had stopped; even the youngest children seemed to sense that something bad was happening. They remained deathly quiet as their mothers held them close.

  There were other Boer families being escorted to the camp, ahead of us and behind us, but only soldiers returning in the other direction, having completed their mission. I couldn’t bear to look at Linde. I was still torn with remorse at what had taken place, but at the same time I felt an urgent need to take action. To save her. Perhaps if I could get hold of a couple of horses we could make a break for Basutoland – we were only a day’s ride away, after all – but I felt powerless, exhausted. We were now within sight of the camp, and I stayed at the back of the group, suddenly aware of tears running down my face.

  Anja appeared at my side and took my hand, then whispered in my ear: ‘We need you, Donald John. You won’t leave us, will you?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, I won’t, Anja. You can rely on me.’ I knew then that, whatever happened, I would never forget her words, the tone of her voice and her implicit trust in me.

  At the gate we were introduced to Mr Greathead, the camp’s commandant. At first glance the place looked better than a military camp: there were stalls selling food and clothing, a kraal for milk cows and a rudimentary school. Row upon row of neatly spaced white bell tents stretched into the distance. But despite Mrs Fawcett’s reassuring words about the conditions, the lines of freshly dug graves alongside the river told another story.

  Linde clung to me, silent, her eyes beseeching me not to leave her.<
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  ‘I’ll be back tomorrow,’ I said firmly, trying to inspire confidence. ‘I’ll get you a mattress to keep you off the damp ground, and a paraffin cooker if I can.’

  I turned and marched out of the camp. I couldn’t bear to look back.

  Later that day, we were reunited with the other Scout squadron. They’d been clearing farms, too, but from the east, and had been harried all the way in. At the battalion parade that night, the recently promoted Colonel Murray gave us the good news that the Second Contingent had landed in Cape Town. A week from now, they would be in Aliwal North. There was great excitement and cheering amongst the men. The colonel went on to inform us that after the handover Captain MacDonald would take our contingent by train to the Cape, and from there we’d sail to Southampton. Most of the regulars including himself, Lieutenant Macdonald and Captain Brodie of Brodie were to stay put. If any other ranks wished to remain for a further tour then they were to sign up now. I knew my duty was to return to my wife and family yet something was holding me back.

  We were ordered to be on parade at seven in the morning for a trek to Zastron, from where it was believed General de Wet might be operating. We were to be accompanied by our comrades, the Connaught Rangers.

  After dinner that evening, I finally opened the letter from my wife. Ardnish seemed to belong in another universe – a place remote and unreal. Morag’s latest news, related in her matter-of-fact style, concerned the priest getting thrown from his pony and breaking his wrist, a flood and a thankyou for the five pounds I had sent, which meant they’d been to Arisaig and bought provisions for a month. For the first time she didn’t describe the long list of tasks that awaited my return; there were no complaints and, to my surprise, even a line saying that she hoped I was safe and enjoying the excitement of the campaign. There followed an astonishing postscript: ‘I miss you, Donald John, and count the moments until your return.’

  This was quite unlike the dozen or so letters I had received since we’d been out here. It was almost as if Morag knew that my affections were being directed elsewhere. She signed off with the endearment ‘God bless’, which made me wince. God certainly knew all too well of my lust. Nervously, I dabbed beads of sweat from my forehead.

  Donald Peter had enclosed a charming note, too; he couldn’t wait for me to return and might I bring back an African spear and shield for his birthday? It made me laugh out loud until I felt a pang of guilt.

  Our permanent new camp was comfortable enough. It had a canteen with decent grub and tents with mattresses. That night I lay in comfort but was unable to sleep as my mind raced with warring thoughts of my attraction to Linde and my wife and home. I got up and, sitting by a paraffin lamp, wrote to Morag, saying how much I was looking forward to coming back and seeing the family. I knew how much work there was to prepare for winter and I was ready to shoulder the burden. Bring the peat down to the village, dig the potatoes and turnips, go up to the loch above the house and cut reeds to repair the thatch; all that and more. Morag would be struggling to get it all done, even with the teenagers helping. I desperately wanted to see the children and lay thinking of them.

  And Morag? Had I missed her, too? After the intoxicating trek I had just undertaken I felt unable – or unwilling – to answer my own question. Things had changed so much. I had changed. I felt restless and confused. I’d fallen for this vivacious, beautiful young South African woman – a woman who had courageously saved my life – and now she and her daughter needed my help. My decision whether to stay on in South Africa or return home could mean the difference between life and death for them. If I stayed out here I could visit them, take them provisions, make sure they got the best treatment in the camp, protect them. Yes, I would be away from Aliwal on active duty at times, but later, when things were resolved out here and the war was over, Linde would be safe again and settled somewhere. Then I could return to Ardnish. She’d easily attract another husband, someone who would look after her, I told myself, and I made myself believe it.

  I thrashed around all night, wrestling with the choices. In the end it came down to the promise I had made to Anja: it couldn’t be broken. I decided I would stay.

  The next day was one of rest. I went to the quartermaster to get a replacement horse, and the morning was spent getting her shod and finding a saddle to fit. I signed the list of those volunteering to stay on, then rode to town and managed to get a cooker and mattress, at great expense. I then went straight back to the camp to find Linde. My heart was pounding at the prospect of seeing her again. It was only by telling the camp staff that I was delivering goods on behalf of Captain MacDonald that I was allowed in and it took me an age to find her accommodation.

  I saw Anja first. She was playing draughts with stones, squares drawn in the dust. Then I saw Linde. She looked dreadful; her face was bruised and scratched, and she could only smile weakly as I squatted down beside her. She motioned that the rest of the Vanloos family were inside the tent. Anja sidled up to me and told me quietly that her mother had been attacked the night before.

  Linde got to her feet, and we walked together along the row of tents, each with stoical women and their families sitting in silence outside.

  I asked her to tell me everything.

  ‘Betje was itching to humiliate me from the moment you left, Donald John. When we arrived at our tent, she introduced me to the women nearby as a whore and a traitor. Then, when the food came around, she tried to take it all. Of course I wouldn’t have that, and so both the sisters went for me.’

  ‘I’ll make these bitches pay,’ I raged, making to head back to the tent, but Linde caught my arm.

  ‘No! You can’t help me by causing a fuss. The minute you go they will only attack me again. I daren’t sleep. I need to protect my daughter.’

  I reluctantly agreed to hold my tongue and went back with her into the tent. It smelled fetid and damp. Putting the bedding and cooker down, I realised it wasn’t only the in-laws there; there were another three or four women and children seated in another corner. They shrank back when they saw me. I grabbed Linde’s sister-in-law by the arms and shook her hard. ‘You bitch!’ I stormed, shaking off Linde’s attempts to pull me away. ‘You leave Linde alone or I’ll come back and thrash you!’

  Afterwards, my blood still up, I escorted Linde and Anja to the camp office where I asked to see Greathead. I showed him Linde’s injured face and explained the threat she was facing. I pleaded that they be housed in a different tent, then, as he grew increasingly annoyed, started to rant at him. He told me that there were no other tents available at present but more were expected soon, and he would see what could be done.

  Linde was furious with me. ‘You’re just making it worse for us! You should never have come!’ she cried.

  I was told to leave the camp immediately and had no choice except to obey. After I was escorted outside the perimeter, I spoke to her through the fence. I knew she was right and I mumbled an apology. They stood, looking terrified, gripping onto the wire, their faces streaming with tears.

  ‘I have to leave with the unit on a trek tomorrow,’ I told them. ‘But I’ll be back, I promise.’

  Kicking myself for my outburst, I decided to return after the mission to Zastron. I hoped that perhaps Captain MacDonald would soften his stance a little on hearing this predicament, come with me and help sort things out. I was nervous about seeing him as I knew he would be angry with me. My signing on for a second tour despite my family responsibilities at home would undoubtedly displease him.

  As I rode back into the town, I observed a group of dejected families being escorted along the riverbank towards the camp. It was a beautiful winter’s afternoon, and I should have been enjoying the glorious sunshine and excited about going home. Instead I was staying here, depressed and wracked with guilt. What was I doing?

  When I got back, I went about my usual chores, including taking hot water to the captain for him to shave. He told me that our meeting at the Royal Hotel with the British delegates
was arranged for four o’clock. I was delighted, hoping that this time together would provide an opportunity to have a quiet word with him about Linde and Anja.

  The hotel was beautiful, not unlike the Station Hotel in Inverness or the Lovat Arms in Beauly. I marvelled at the carpets and chandeliers when I walked in; it was all such a contrast to the basic tents I had grown used to. Captain MacDonald had already arrived and was drinking tea with the ladies when I joined them. Rather than hearing the encouraging reports I had been expecting, Mrs Fawcett was most distressed by what she had witnessed at the camps. She told us that the water was polluted and there was no fuel for the women to boil water or cook the raw meat and vegetables they had been provided with. When they were at Bethulie it had been very wet and the mud floors of the tents were under three inches of water. Typhoid, whooping cough and measles were rife, and the site was indescribably unsanitary. With around five thousand people interred in the camp, there were very few medics and some of them had taken to misusing the alcohol intended for treating ailments. Mrs Fawcett held back tears as she recounted her experience, especially concerning the starving children. ‘They die, almost all of them. They lie limp and fade away in their mothers’ arms.’

  I listened in silence, aghast.

  ‘It’s not that the camp staff are cruel,’ she continued. ‘It’s that they lack the most basic things: proper latrines, clean water, disinfectant soap. Those could save thousands of lives. Emily Hobhouse made this very clear nine months ago and it’s only just now beginning to take effect. But not nearly quickly enough, I’m afraid to say.’

  Of course, with every word Mrs Fawcett said, I was thinking of Linde and Anja. Would those Vanloos women let her have the paraffin cooker to boil water? Would they steal her bedding and restrict her food? While Captain MacDonald was talking privately to Mrs Fawcett, I took one of the other ladies aside and told her about Linde. I asked if she might visit her and see if she was all right. Perhaps she could check that Linde still had the cooker I’d given her, that she was getting clean water and, hopefully, arrange to have her and Anja moved to a different tent away from her in-laws. The lady nodded and said she would see what she could do, though I detected a raised eyebrow. I had no doubt that my fretful concern revealed the reason for my remonstrations.