I was enjoying a late lunch of grilled calamari, accompanied by a glass of sparkling wine, in a small local bistro to celebrate the conclusion of a successful interview when I noticed the exquisitely fine watercolours of various indigenous plants and animals adorning the walls. Getting up to take a closer look at a glorious depiction in striking shades of amber and gold of a caracal greeting the sunrise, I was entranced by the delicacy and detailing of the brushwork. The combination of fine ink lines and vivid watercolours was quite striking and very unusual. I was leaning in to try and make out the artist’s name at the bottom of the painting when a voice from behind my left shoulder informed me that, “It’s a local artist. Gorgeous, aren’t they?” Turning around, I encountered the owner of the restaurant smiling at me.
“I have rarely seen such an exquisite combination of ink drawing and brushwork and, as for the colours…” I lifted my eyebrows and smiled and shrugged for emphasis.
The restaurateur nodded his agreement and said, “The artist is in her eighties, can you believe! She and her sister have lived in a little cottage at the edge of the forest since their youth. They’re an institution in this town. If you’re interested, I could give you their number and you could pay them a visit to view some more of the paintings. It would definitely be worth your while – they’ve got plenty of fascinating stories to tell.” Well, as you can imagine, the ears of this inveterate story-magpie certainly pricked up at that!
And, so it was that two days later I coaxed my ancient, temperamental car down a potholed dirt road to visit the Judson sisters at Wisteria Cottage, their sanctuary and the final smallholding on the road, right at the very edge of the forest. Climbing out of my car, I was instantly knocked to the ground by an enormous, shaggy, boisterous dog of indeterminate breed. “Petal, how very inhospitable of you! Stand down, girl!” A clear, high-pitched voice, softly blanketed in gentle mirth, wafted down the overgrown, flower-adorned garden path. Looking up from my rather undignified sprawl on the dusty ground, I encountered a dumpy, twinkly little lady with bright, mischievous pale-blue eyes and a fluffy halo of silver candy-floss adorning her head. Petal, completely unabashed at her scolding, proceeded to enthusiastically lick my face, her tail furiously wagging and thumping my car door rather alarmingly as she did so. In an attempt to salvage at least a modicum of dignity, I pushed Petal aside and hoisted myself off the ground, wiping my hand on my trousers before introducing myself as Peter Allen, journalist and would-be author.
“I’m Emily Judson,” reciprocated the lady, who appeared even smaller once I was vertical. “Please come inside and meet Angela.”
The cottage was, rather comfortingly, exactly what one would have expected to be the taste of two single ladies of that vintage, featuring a preponderance of porcelain figurines, nestling on frilly, crocheted doilies and an abundance of pastel-coloured floral prints. I was directed to sit on a delicate-looking, over-stuffed chair sporting a needlepoint depiction of some rather startlingly unnatural blooms. I lowered myself somewhat gingerly, uncertain whether the chair would be able to bear my weight. Glancing around the room, I briefly imagined the devastation that Petal could effect on its delicate femininity, but my fears were assuaged when the dog was lovingly, but firmly, instructed to remain outside. “I’ll make us some tea,” said Emily and then, as she was leaving the room, “Ah, here’s Angela. Come and entertain Mr. Allen, Sweetie, whilst I arrange some refreshments.”
I struggled out of the embrace of my rickety, overstuffed chair and turned around to meet the intense, icy-blue stare of a fey, otherworldly creature, who glided across the floral carpet with unconscious and ageless grace to grasp my outstretched hand in both of her angular, painfully cold, fine-boned hands. She was delicately made and carried her close-shorn head, with its prominent bones, like a dancer. Her clothing was severe and utterly without adornment or artifice. A greater contrast to her comfortable, mothering, self-consciously feminine sister would be hard to find. Angela lowered herself with ease and natural poise into an upright wooden chair and I settled, with considerably less grace, into my own uncomfortable seating.
“So, Mr. Allen, you are a story-teller,” Angela said in a soft, breathy voice, “But what, I wonder, is your own story?” She had a gaze that made me feel immediately, and very deeply, seen; seen with all of my strengths and weaknesses, secrets, foibles and follies. I had just finished sketching for Angela the outline of my book when Emily arrived with the tea tray. Shortly, we were settled with a cup of tea and a piece of Emily’s delicious, home-made, lemon cake each, which Angela proceeded to crumble onto her plate, her eyes never once leaving my face. Apropos of nothing, Angela suddenly blurted out, her gaze never once wavering, “Emily, you may tell Mr. Allen our story. I will be in my studio,” and then, abruptly, she abandoned her tea and cake and drifted out of the room. I was left under no illusion as to who called the shots in Wisteria Cottage!
“Well, then, let’s have a nice chat, shall we?” said Emily cosily and so that is exactly what we did…
***
Emily and Angela’s mother, Enid, lost her childhood sweetheart during action of the Sixth South African Armoured Division in Italy in 1943. Their father, Nigel Judson, had seen his own fair share of action in North Africa and had lost a foot in the second battle of Al Alamein in 1942. He spent the rest of the war back in South Africa, doing an intellectually unchallenging administrative job whilst he recovered his strength and health and learned to use the prosthesis with which he had been fitted. During this time he met Enid, who was a typist in the office in which he worked and they were married in 1946. Nigel had been trained as an engineer and so, after the war, he and Enid relocated to Johannesburg where he gained lucrative employment as an engineer in the construction business. Emily was born a year later. It was an extremely difficult birth and, due to complications, Enid and Nigel were informed that there would be no further children. Enid took the news very badly and she suffered through years of depression, in which she gradually withdrew from the world. Emily learned very early on to be self-sufficient which, as it turned out, would be the perfect training for what lay ahead in her life.
When Emily was eight, she was sent to stay with her maternal grandmother for two weeks whilst her mother and father took a holiday in the forested mountains of Knysna. They stayed in a small, secluded cottage on the edge of the forest and swam daily in a rock pool fed by crystal-clear mountain streams. When her parents came to fetch her from her grandmother’s house, it was immediately apparent to Emily that something had changed for her mother. The quiet, listless, pale mother she had always known had been replaced by a bright, vivacious, energetic stranger. It seemed as if the holiday had had a remarkably rejuvenating effect on her mother and the house was a much brighter, happier place after that, especially when, two months later, it was confirmed that Enid was, miraculously, pregnant. Their lives were now filled with joy and purpose as the family prepared themselves for the birth of their miracle baby. Emily was absolutely over-the-moon with excitement that she would be gaining a little sister (never once did she doubt that it would indeed be a sister). It seemed that her quiet, sad and lonely early childhood had taken a significant turn for the better.
Angela arrived in the world with relative ease and was a quiet, good baby with huge emerald-green eyes and a thick shock of curly, auburn hair. Enid jokingly called Angela her changeling baby, because never before had such vivid colouring been seen on either side of the family. For a short while all were blissfully happy in the Judson household. But, very gradually, Enid became aware that there was something not quite right about her youngest child. Angela was simply too quiet. She didn’t babble as other babies did and had still not spoken a single word by the age of three. She refused to make eye contact, had never been seen to smile and turned away from all human touch. By four she had developed the distressing habit of crouching with her face turned to the wall and incessantly rocking backwards and forwards whilst tapping her fingers against her ears and making an unearthly, high-pitched, crooning noise. She didn’t play with her toys, instead preferring to obsessively line them up in a specific order known only to herself. Any change to her routine or in her environment would bring on hours of incessant rocking, tapping and crooning.
Angela started disappearing from the house and would often be found only several, panic-filled, hours later, staring up into the canopy of a tree or wandering amongst the trees on an open plot of land close to the family home. Over time, Emily came to know Angela’s favourite places and could usually find her within half an hour or so of her absence being noticed. It soon became clear that Emily was the only person who could calm Angela down. The little girl simply turned away from her mother and from everyone else.
Enid was devastated and gradually she too withdrew from both of her children and sank back into the depression which had characterized the years after Emily’s birth. On Angela’s sixth birthday, her mother crashed her car into a tree and never returned from the hospital. Angela didn’t even seem to notice the absence of her mother. Nigel withdrew, broken-hearted, into his work during the day and his study at night and so the care of Angela fell to Emily. She left school at sixteen and devoted her time and energy to caring for her sister. Various family members attempted to intervene in order to prevent what they viewed as Emily throwing her life away to care for Angela. Others tried to convince Nigel to get Angela institutionalized, but Emily was so vehemently opposed to that idea and so clearly happy and fulfilled to be taking care of her sister that gradually the voices were silenced. As Emily herself told me, “I’ve always known that Angela was extremely special and so she deserved the very best love and care that I could give her. It was my role, my responsibility, but also my pleasure and privilege to do so.”
When Emily was twenty-six and Angela was seventeen, Nigel was killed by a falling metal girder on a building site. The inheritance he left his daughters would be sufficient to provide them with a modest independence for life and Nigel’s insurance payout was enough for them to purchase a small home. Emily decided that they would move out of the city and to the small town of Knysna, where her mother had briefly been so happy, which had directly resulted in the birth of her beloved sister. She purchased a small cottage on the edge of the forest and they settled down to a quiet, modest lifestyle.
The girls had been living in their new home for less than a month when Angela disappeared, as was her habit, but for the first time in many years Emily was really anxious. She had no idea of where Angela would go and there was the entire forest for her to get lost in – how was she ever going to find her sister again? In a complete panic, she rushed out of the cottage without her coat, leaving the door open in her haste to find her sister. Some instinct had her running down the path that led directly into the forest, repeatedly calling her sister’s name. A tense and anxious half-hour ensued as Emily ran this-way-and-that, blindly following every little forest path and animal track she encountered in her panic to find her sister before some real harm befell her. Finally, a massive Yellowwood tree marked the end of the narrow animal track she had been following and Emily stepped out into a clearing in the forest, where she beheld the most astonishing sight.
Praise be, there was Angela, and seemingly unharmed! But, she was not alone. She was holding both the hands and gazing into the eyes of a very tall, slender, green woman, whose cascading dark-green hair barely cloaked her naked body, which was shocking enough to Emily. That Angela was actually choosing to touch someone and make eye contact was almost a stranger sight than her otherworldly companion. But, what happened next was even more incredible. Emily watched in amazement as, for the very first time, she witnessed sounds emerging from her sister’s mouth. But, what sounds! Soft chirps and whirrs and buzzes and clicks issued in a constant stream and were answered in kind by similar sounds from the green woman. As they thus communicated, an enormous flock of tiny Cape White Eye birds descended upon them, settling on their heads and arms and shoulders and joining in the chorus of chirping and twittering. A pair of Golden Orioles alighted on a nearby branch and broke into exquisite song, followed shortly by the arrival of countless other songbirds to add their voices to the exquisitely joyful cacophony. As Angela lifted her head back and closed her eyes to relish the song, Emily audibly gasped in wonderment at the sight before her. And then the Green Lady looked directly at Emily and it was clear that her presence had been noted from the very beginning. The Lady put her finger to her lips and Emily knew that she was to remain very still and to simply observe the magical spectacle unfolding before her eyes.
Angela and the Lady recommenced their otherworldly communication and this time they added a strange, high-pitched humming sound to the mix. Before Emily’s delighted eyes, a hundred, no a thousand, multicoloured butterflies descended upon the Angela and the green woman in the forest glade. As a large, orange butterfly alit on the very tip of Angela’s nose, Emily heard a sound that she had never dreamt to hear Angela make… a giggle, which developed into a chuckle and then evolved into peals of delighted, tinkling merriment. And, as the laughter erupted from Angela’s upturned face, white blossoms appeared like drifts of confetti in the air above her, and Angela and the Lady began to twirl, holding hands as they spun faster and faster, enveloped in a riotous whirlwind of laughter and wild, swirling petals. Tears of joy and gratitude streamed down Emily’s cheeks as she observed her sister’s ecstatic reunion with what she recognized was Angela’s kin, in a way that she would never be. At that realization Emily suddenly knew that she didn’t belong there in the clearing and so, after one final glance at the entrancing scene before her, she turned and made her way back out of the forest and to her lonely home.
That night Emily crawled into her bed with a heavy heart, filled with a deep, aching void of emptiness and yearning. She knew that she would probably never see her sister again and it was as if the centre had dropped out of her life. Her very reason for being had disappeared, but she knew that she could not begrudge her sister the only real happiness she had ever experienced.
Emily awoke the following morning to the feel of warm lips kissing her cheek and a soft voice, saying the same thing over-and-over again. “Emmie, wake up, I’ve returned.” Emily’s eyes popped open in fright and, yes, indeed, there was Angela, standing right there at the side of her bed. “I’ve returned, Emmie, I’ve returned to you,” Angela repeated and Emily felt tears of gratitude and love welling up and spilling over to drench her cheeks and the pillow. As she sat up and stretched out her arms to her sister, Emily suddenly noticed something that made her heart beat very fast. Angela’s eyes had changed colour; instead of the startling emerald-green they had always been, they were now the softest, palest blue, just like Emily’s own. It seemed as if Emily’s sister truly had returned to her at last.