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“Which one?” Harley’s mother asked.
Please don’t say the South African Museum. Please don’t say the South African Museum. Please don’t say the South African Museum.
“The botany art show at the South African Museum, Missus Devonshire. I’ve been looking forward to visiting it since you advised I go the other day, Mister Devonshire.”
Flaming, insufferable curses!
“Then this is most definitely serendipitous, Mister van Dijk.” His mother almost sounded relieved. “We are headed there ourselves right now. Why not take a ride in our cabbie with us?”
Harley had to think fast. Asher had an interesting face, but he wasn’t exactly what Harley would consider attractive. At least, not in the way Theodore was. What was the point in getting acquainted with him? Harley didn’t need more friends, or any for that matter. “Mister van Dijk only has an hour to spare before he has to get back to work, Mother. I’m sure he—”
“Quite frankly, Harley,” his mother interjected. “I’d rather attend the exhibition with a fascinating young man than a morbid fool who backchats his mother.” She pulled her mouth into a toothy grin and returned her attention to Asher. “What do you say, Mister van Dijk? Shall we make this a group excursion?”
Asher seemed perplexed, his eyes darting from Harley, to his mother, back to Harley and then finally coming to rest on his silver cane. “That would be wonderful, Missus Devonshire. Thank you.”
Harley wanted nothing more than for the pavement on Adderley Street to rupture and for demonic hellions to crawl out, grab him by the ankles and drag him down. But he wasn’t living in a fantasy land of wild imagination. He lived in a reality where he was now a third wheel to his mother and the unwanted Asher van Dijk.
Harley should have stayed in bed.
Chapter Eleven
It just so happened that Asher van Dijk was not only an ancient Greek mythologist, but a keen botany enthusiast as well. Talk about shoving your fingers into many pies. Harley could tell by the way his mother tilted her head ever so slightly to the side while Asher educated her on the flora of South Africa that she was undeniably enamoured. She clung to his every word as though they were the last sounds she would ever hear. By the time they were studying the fourth illustration of a strelitzia the trio had come across at the exhibition, Harley wished to know if his mother still remembered her husband’s name.
Harley was disappointed. His mother treated him like he was an irritating mosquito, casting a dark stare in his direction whenever he opened his mouth to offer his interpretations of the artwork, and in one instance, even swatted the air with her left hand to hush him. Asher outright ignored him, keeping his back to Harley at every opportunity and refused to glance his way. Perhaps Harley had been out of line with his snide comments from earlier and his bitter attitude towards them both. He contemplated apologising but chose not to. It was not his fault he was so damned melancholic.
The South African Museum was the epicentre of natural history, the ultimate archaeological and cultural destination in all of the Colony. However, the exhibition itself was less than satisfactory, and Harley had to stifle a yawn on multiple occasions. It was below the establishment’s standards, in his opinion. He wasn’t interested in nature at all, especially not the fynbos or Red Disas on display. But he was fascinated by how they were drawn.
There was something unequivocally clinical about the way the pieces had been illustrated, some with blue and black ink, others in pencil. All with crafted care. Their sterility lent a beauty Harley had never seen outside of impressionism, even though it was very different from it. The bareness of the botany art pieces yearned for his attention. If only there was a way to incorporate the style into his own work and —
Asher was suddenly at his side. Harley could see the gentleman’s closed-lip smile in his periphery and had to restrain the eye-roll he could sense was to follow.
“Your mother caught a few of her society friends gawking at an African Protea, so she abandoned me to go greet them,” Asher confided in a teasing tone, no doubt expecting Harley to join in with the banter.
Oh, so now I’m fit for conversation. What a bleeding honour. “Don’t expect me to feel sorry for you, Mister van Dijk. There are plenty of elderly women at this venue for you to befriend. Many of whom have been peeling you raw with their peepers since we walked in.”
He spoke the truth. Asher had attracted many a voracious eye as he strode around the room, arm linked with Harley’s mother’s, whispering factoids in her ear about this plant and that tree. He was naïve if he hadn’t noticed, or simply blind.
From the steps to their far left, the ones that lead to the offices of the museum, Theodore descended one at a time, his father at his side. The elderly man whispered something in his ear, his left hand clamped down on the boy’s shoulder as they walked. Mister Quick seemed to be midway through a vicious lecture, his flat nose pressed against his son’s ear as Theodore attempted to wriggle out of his father’s grip. Eventually, Mister Quick removed his hand from Theodore’s shoulder and shook his head, as though deeply irritated. The man’s eyes met Harley’s and he sneered, turning his back and returning to his offices at the top of the staircase.
Asher rambled his reply, but Harley didn’t hear a word.
Theodore’s face was crimson. It bloomed that way when he was either embarrassed or fuming mad. Something told Harley he was experiencing both at that moment. His old friend removed a white cotton handkerchief from his blazer pocket and dabbed his glistening forehead. A jolt of urgency surged through Harley when Theodore looked his way. Where is his beloved tulip heiress?
Asher was still mumbling on about God-knows-what, so Harley pretended to find the conversation both hilarious and fascinating. He burst into hearty laughter, rocking his head back as his shoulders shook in fake ecstasy. Harley placed a hand on a confused Asher’s bicep and give it a slight squeeze. Theodore watched them, his hue changing from crimson to blood orange.
With an eyebrow raised, Asher frowned and followed the direction of Harley’s attention.
When Theodore’s eyes darted to the gentleman next to Harley, the blood orange glow drained into a deathly pale pallor. The boy brought a trembling hand to his mouth and hunched over. He gagged, then raced for the open entrance, his shoes slapping against the marble floor. Their echo bounced off the museum walls.
“A friend of yours?” Asher muttered.
Harley forgot he was still clasping Asher’s bicep. As if it were a hot coal, he let go and cleared his throat. “Not anymore, Mister van Dijk.” He was in no mood to discuss Theodore, especially after the disturbing display he’d just witnessed.
“More than friends, then?”
“How do you mean?”
“I think you know.”
