A Proper Marriage (40 page)

Douglas got up, went to the table, reached out his hand, laid it on the decanter, and looked at the sergeant, who nodded briefly. Douglas took glass and decanter, and went along the line of men with it. Before he reached the end, the water was finished. He handed the decanter to the black orderly, who submerged it in a petrol tin covered with a wet sack that stood in a corner, and handed it back, dripping. The water hissed into the brick floor. Douglas returned the things to the table, and sat down again.

Perry’s mouth and chin were wet with water. He raised his fist and rubbed it over the lower part of his face, then let it drop. The fist hung clenched. He banged it several times against the edge of the bench, and left it hanging. He looked at the map and said, ‘They told us we’d be examined. They’ve balled us up. What are we doing in this Goddamned dump?’

Douglas hastily agreed, ‘Bloody mess,’ and looked at him with entreaty.

Perry writhed his big body frustratedly and jumped up. He went rapidly to the table, snatched at the decanter as the sergeant instinctively jerked up his head, dived at the petrol tin, filled the decanter, and poured it all over his head and shoulders. The sergeant turned his head to watch, then went
on writing. Perry dumped the decanter down under the man’s nose.

‘Oh, sit down, damn it,’ the sergeant muttered uneasily.

Perry grinned slightly, and sat. They waited. The bricks hissed as the water sank in. Water dripped off Perry’s neck and hair.

A lorry came bumping across the airstrip. But it swerved over to the aircraft. A couple of Africans got out, uncoiled a black hose, and began feeding petrol into it. The two hawks were now black specks high in the grey-blue air. The air between here and the aircraft swam in lazy hot waves. Then the aircraft began to shake. It turned, and trundled away up the strip for the take-off. They watched it turn and come roaring down the strip past them, and up. In a moment it was away over the trees, and its silver glitter was absorbed in the vast glitter of the sky. The two hawks continued to wheel on level wings.

‘Mucking bastards, leaving us behind,’ said Perry suddenly, and his voice cracked.

The sergeant’s cheek muscles showed tense, but he went on writing fast.

Perry got to his feet with slow deliberation, and slouched over to the table. ‘Sarge?’

The sergeant laid down his pen and looked at him. ‘Steady on, man,’ he said warningly, ‘I’m not responsible for it.”

Perry, his face scarlet, his tunic soaked, drops of sweat and water scattering, leaned forward, suspending a big red, hairy fist over the table. ‘I’m not going to be messed up,’ he said, in a quiet voice.

‘I’m not messing you up,’ said the sergeant steadily. He looked past Perry to the bench, where the men sat watching. There were half-grins on their faces. The man at the far end, nearest the door, a lanky youth with a bony freckled face, was smiling hilariously. He looked as if he were about to cheer.

Douglas remained seated for a moment, but then got up and came forward, laying his hand on Perry’s shoulder. ‘Now, come on, man, don’t take it out on him.’ He sounded embarrassed.

Perry kept his shoulder still, then flung off the hand with a sudden heave. Douglas stood back a pace. Perry leaned both his fists on the table, and stared straight into the sergeant’s face. ‘I’m going to break everything up if I don’t get some sense out of you.’

The table leaned over, the sergeant put his hands down to steady it, it slid roughly over the lumpy brick tight against the sergeant’s stomach. He was now pinned back against the wall. The orderly stood, arms folded, watching with interest.

Perry deliberately pressed the table forward against the sergeant, who was pale and gasping, and trying to push it back again. ‘You mucking pen-pushing bastard …’ Using all his strength, he forced the edge of the table into the sergeant. Ink, pens, paper, glass, decanter, went rolling and crashing.

Douglas made a movement of his head towards the others. After a hesitation, three of them rose, leaving the cheerful boy alone, and came over. ‘Now stop it, damn it, man,’ said Douglas.

Perry gritted his teeth, and heaved. The sergeant had lost his footing, and was pinned in mid-air against the wall, straining for breath. His boots scraped wildly at the floor. Douglas nodded at the three; all four gripped Perry by the shoulders, with a sort of weary good humour, and pulled him back. A moment’s scrape, struggle, heave - then Perry came staggering back, the sergeant found his feet, the table shot away. The sergeant stood blinking, trying to get back his breath without showing he had lost it. He smoothed down his tunic, pulled up the fallen chair, and sat down. He nodded at the African, who began picking up things off the floor.

‘Look at him,’ gasped out Perry, ‘sitting there on his fat arse, pushing a pen.’ He shook off his captors, who had their hands laid warningly on various parts of his upper body. He looked at them, grinning. They grinned sheepishly back. Then they all turned suddenly at the sound of a wild cry of laughter from the youth who had remained sitting. His face was flushed and incoherent, his eyes lit with a blue glare. He stamped his boots a few times on the floor, let out an
‘Hurray!’ and all at once sat looking at them doubtfully, as if he did not know them.

‘For God’s sake,’ said Douglas in a rapid warning undertone, ‘he’ll be off again.’ Immediately, all five returned to their places on the bench, leaving a small space between the youth and the man next to him. Perry leaned back against the burning wall, and began a low hissing whistle between his teeth, to the tune of ‘Begin the Beguine’. From time to time he banged his big fists on his knees, in a considering way. His mouth drooped slightly open; but he looked cautiously over the youth, who was now staring straight in front of him, his clear blue eyes clouded with wonder, at the map on the wall. The African was sweeping the mess of glass, ink, and water from the brick with a fibre broom. The sergeant sat moodily, arms folded on the table.

‘I could have you court-martialled,’ he observed bitterly at last.

No one said anything. Perry continued to hiss out ‘Begin the Beguine’.

‘I’d be within my rights to have you court-martialled,’ insisted the sergeant.

‘Discipline,’ said Perry. ‘Discipline is what this war needs.’ He turned his big head slowly towards the sergeant. He surveyed him steadily.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Douglas impatiently. ‘Don’t start again.’

The sergeant glanced involuntarily through the square in the wall that called itself a window, and exclaimed, ‘Your car’s coming.’ His voice was eager with relief.

Perry lapsed back against the wall, his lips stretched in a small ugly grin.

A large army lorry stopped outside. The soldiers stood up, stretching themselves. When the distracted youth did not move, the man nearest to him unceremoniously heaved him up: he stood for a while, vaguely looking, then began with hasty officious movements to straighten his clothes and arrange his pack.

A young woman leaped down from the driver’s seat, landing with a skid in the white sand, and came forward.
She was clumsy in khaki, her cap on the back of her head, wisps of pale damp hair hanging beside her face.

At once Douglas let out a whoop, and began thumping her on her shoulders, while she stiffened herself, laughing, saying, ‘Hey, hey, steady now, boys.’ They crowded around her; she was one of the girls from the Sports Club. They had played hockey with her, danced with her, made love to her all through their glorious youth. ‘It’s fine to see you here, Bobby,’ said Douglas. She received their kisses on her offered cheek.

She was a rather tall, lumpish girl, with pale fatty cheeks which were stained wild pink in patches from the heat. Her grey eyes were slightly protuberant. She had acquired a mannish stride and a new hearty voice. ‘Well, pile in, boys.’ She made a half-serious salute to the sergeant - who returned a grin and a nod - and turned towards the lorry. ‘Here, aren’t you coming?’ she shouted cheerfully at the youth, who had sat himself down again on the bench, and was watching the proceedings from a distance. Douglas significantly tapped his head, and she gave a stare of startled distaste at the youth. One of them went back, helped him to his feet, and came with him to the back of the lorry. He was heaved in. Bobby, Perry and Douglas stood beside the front seat.

‘What the hell are you doing in this dump?’ asked Douglas. ‘We heard you’d got up north.’

‘Join the Army and see the world. If I’d known I’d land in this mucking hole … But they’re sending me up north next month, this bleeding place is being closed down.’ This slightly hoarse, good-fellow’s voice, the way she carefully seasoned in her obscenities, caused Douglas and Perry to involuntarily exchange a look.

Perry suddenly remarked, ‘For Christsake, we haven’t seen a woman in months.’ He sounded injured.

Bobby’s pale cheeks crimsoned irregularly. She looked at them in appeal. Douglas, embarrassed for her, said quickly, ‘It’s pretty good to see an old pal here, Bobby.’ She looked now in gratitude, then turned away, and climbed up into the cab. Douglas was about to climb up beside her, when Perry
laid his arm across, like a barrier, and grinned at him fiercely. For a moment Douglas glared. Then he smiled, let out a short laugh, and said, ‘Go ahead.’

Perry hoisted himself up beside the girl, shouting down, ‘You’ll be seeing your wife tomorrow.’

Douglas looked annoyed. He said through his teeth, ‘You’d better let up, Perry, I’ve just about had enough of you.’

Ever since Perry had been officially informed that he had an ulcer, he had been breaking out. Douglas had been watching over him like a father. It was his turn to feel injured. He walked moodily back to the end of the lorry, and jumped in. There was no window between the back of the lorry and the driver’s seat. But they could all hear Bobby’s loud boisterous laugh, increasingly uneasy, as the lorry turned, bumped across the bush-covered sand, found the strip, raced along it at sixty and, with a swerve that sent them sprawling, turned on to a rough track that wound through the bush. They were silent, crouching with their backs against the sides of the lorry, holding tight as it bounced and rocketed. The youth with the wild eyes had stiffened himself and was glaring at them all in turn. They were all afraid of him and ashamed to be afraid. The trees were growing thinner, and shacks of brick and tin flashed past. Then it was a proper street, tarmac, where the heat coiled and quivered, and stretches of whitish sand on either side; then Indian stores and native eating houses. Now they were in a broad empty space of dust, whose surface eddied and stirred. There was a biggish new white building, with a couple of Jacaranda trees shading it. The lorry stopped with a jolt. They swore angrily under their breaths as they banged themselves on the sides. Bobby’s loud and boisterous voice invited them to descend. They did so in silence.

Under one of the trees a native woman sat in the dust, draped in red cloth. She was suckling her baby. She looked at them indifferently. Some dogs lay stretched under the other tree, looking as if they were dead. The men stood in a group around Bobby; she seemed hot and flustered, and would not look at Perry, who was grinning savagely.

‘Now, who’s got what wrong with them?’ she inquired. ‘We’ve got stomach and respiratory separate.’

They all laughed disgustedly.

‘For crying out loud,’ said Perry. ‘What, two beds each?’

‘Well, Perry,’ said Douglas, ‘we’re together.’ They stood off to one side.

Bobby looked at the other four. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Their faces tightened. ‘Oh, very well,’ she said hastily. ‘I’ll show you where to go. Perry and Douglas - over there, that house there. The doctor’ll come over.’ She quickly turned her back on Perry, and went off with her four into the big building, the youth lagging behind and looking around him suspiciously.

Perry and Douglas crossed the dust towards a small wire-enclosed house. ‘Bloody skirts,’ said Perry.

‘Oh, go on,’ said Douglas awkwardly. ‘She’s a nice kid.’

Perry spat and began whistling between his teeth.

The shack had a veranda closed in by greenish gauze. It was raised; three red cement steps led to the gauze door. On the steps sat a native orderly. He sprang up and stood to one side, quivering at attention. Perry heaved his shoulder dispassionately into the man’s chest without looking at him, swung open the door and went in. The man saved himself from falling by clutching at the door-frame, nimbly straightened himself, and sat down on the steps, brushing whitish patches of dust from his khaki. He reached out for his hand piano where it had fallen beside the steps, and began playing it.

Inside on the veranda were four iron beds covered with neatly folded red blankets. There was no one in sight. Behind the veranda was a single room with a table and a chair in it. On the table stood a glass jar with some thermometers slanting up.

Douglas slung his pack on to one of the beds, took off his boots, and lay down on another, closing his eyes.

Perry heaved his pack beside the other, and let himself down flat on his back, his dusty boots side by side on the blanket. He waited, hands behind his head, a dangerous immobility about him.

It was about two in the afternoon. They had landed four hours ago. No one came. The expanse of dust outside the green gauze remained empty. Half a dozen native women came past with their children, chattering in their shrill voices. From a big msasa tree that shaded the veranda a pigeon was cooing regularly. The iron roof cracked in the heat. The hand piano tinkled.