A Proper Marriage (56 page)

On his way downtown, he passed the Knowells’ house and asked to see Martha. The cook said she was out. For some time he stood watching Caroline at play under the trees, allowing himself to dream of the daughter he had so badly wanted. Then he pulled himself away, and hurried off to the Courts. At the third attempt to find Martha, he met her on the pavement outside the house, files packed under her arm, hurrying past him. He had to catch her arm to make her see him. She was looking animated and eager. He knew the look.

Having put the proposition - briefly, since she was impatient of it from the first word - he waited rather ironically.

‘Let’s get this straight,’ said Martha. ‘You want Jasmine Cohen and myself and Boris and Betty Krueger to come and help your wife run a concert to raise money for the Coloureds?’ She sounded fully as derisive as he had expected.

He instinctively made a mental note of the names for future use, and inquired, mildly, ‘Why not?’

‘It is not,’ said Martha, ‘the nineteenth century.’

‘Ah.’

‘Charity,’ said Martha aggressively, ‘has always been an expression of the guilty consciences of a ruling class.’

Thus confirmed in his diagnosis of intellectual influences not Zambesian, he inquired casually, ‘You know a man called Hesse?’

She looked at him suspiciously. They were standing facing each other under the tree outside her gate. She was angry and earnest. That quality of sincere enthusiasm sanctioned his own youth, and he said suddenly, ‘You know, my dear, I’m very fond of you.’

Martha’s face softened; but she was looking at a kindly old gentleman, he could see that. For one reason and another, he abruptly set himself in motion away from her.

‘I’ll ask them,’ she called after him; and he raised his hat to her with an elaborate irony that was altogether lost on her, for she had turned away before he concluded the gesture.

She mentioned to Jasmine and Anton later that day that that bunch of reactionaries wanted them to run a charity concert for the Coloured community. They smiled, briefly.

She forgot the concert. But two days later there arrived a letter from Douglas. She read it with disquiet - the letter was not from the Douglas she had been creating for herself. He was returning home in a few days. Why did she not write - And she had signed her last letter to him ‘Yours sincerely, Martha Quest’ — what did she think she was doing? As a postscript he said he was glad to hear that she was helping the Maynards with their Coloured children; it was just up her street, he thought.

The letter conveyed a peevish and rasping complaint. Guilt, unacknowledged, began its work. She rang up Mrs
Maynard to offer her services for the concert, and felt that this gesture would be enough to convince Douglas of her goodwill. She had not clearly considered what she must do when he came back, but she held long imaginary conversations with that image of him about the future. She would make certain adjustments, he others. Her sacrifice would consist in not leaving him altogether for the group - which was not yet in existence. She saw him as a calm, sensible, brotherly young man who would fully understand what she felt.

As for William, she knew herself to be in love with him. He had kissed her one night after a meeting. That kiss had called into being a Martha she had recently forgotten - it was chalked up against Douglas that she had been able to forget, except as a question of principle, the other Martha, In short, she clamoured with every impulse for a love affair with William. But it had been agreed that a sensible talk with Douglas was the minimum concession to decency. Besides, with meetings following one another, sometimes three and four a night, there was no time for love-making. They sat on opposite sides of a room, discussing the state of affairs in Uzbekistan, while their eyes met, and neither knew whether they loved each other or the revolution. In between one meeting and another, they stood on the veranda outside the office for a moment, hands touching, while they discussed if they might arrange matters to spend half an hour folding leaflets together tomorrow. Romance can be no keener than this. Happiness flooded through them at a touch or a glance.

In the meantime, Martha was reasoning thus: her marriage with Douglas was essentially sensible – which was her euphemism for the word ‘modern’, too old-fashioned to be used. It had always been understood that they did not believe in jealousy or even infidelity. Besides - and this secretly justified Martha far more than these reasonable arguments - she had heard through devious routes that he was having an affair with a girl in Y—. It was obvious, then, that he should be no more than interested in the news that she intended to have a love affair with William. Everything
should be honest and above board - this above all. She loved William for understanding why they must wait until Douglas came back.

Two more letters came from Douglas. One complained that she had not written. But, being nothing if not dutiful, she had written twice a week since he left. The other was hysterical: Mrs Talbot had written saying something – she could not make out what - and she, Martha was clearly going mad. He had managed to arrange his affairs so as to be home by tomorrow morning.

Martha read these letters with fear; but instantly she revived that picture of a brotherly understanding Douglas, and looked forward to the moment when she would tell him everything. But she had torn up the letters in a panic need to get them out of sight and thought.

At seven in the morning she was standing on the long grey platform, waiting for the train to come in. She was light-hearted and confident. The train came, black and serpentine, across the veld; vanished behind factories; appeared, enormous and black, in a rush of filthy blue smoke. She stood peering along it for Douglas. Then she saw him getting out of the carriage. The image collapsed, and she stood staring at him in incredulity and horror. It was that moment again when he had returned from up north - but then he had been in uniform, another person; now he came smiling angrily towards her, a fat and ordinary young man in a thick grey suit striped with white. She remembered her father’s ‘commercial traveller’ - that was the truth. She thought, while she looked at this stranger who was her husband, that while her father might despise clothes, he never despised them enough to wear clothes like these.

Her heart was pounding. She understood she was terrified. There was a gleam in the small blue eyes, a working of the lips, that literally terrified her. By now he had reached her, and was holding out his arms. She received his kiss on her cheek, and instantly moved away, saying, ‘Let’s get to the car. You must be ready for breakfast.’

A nervous glance showed him to be red and glaring. But they went to the car in silence. She got into the driver’s seat;
she needed to be doing something. Usually she moved aside to let him drive. He was looking at her with a deadly black anger which made her feel faint. But she drove fast and straight up through Indian stores and kaffir-truck shops, through the shady avenues; parked the car neatly under the tree, and walked before him through the flower beds and shrubs to the veranda. He came after her with set shoulders, reddened eyes, and a look of pursuit.

They reached the bedroom. She sat on the edge of her bed as if it were her last place of refuge, and waited for him to speak. He, however, stood threateningly near her, glowering. Suddenly she let out a short and angry laugh; at once she was dismayed, because it was the first sound either had made since they had left the station.

‘Don’t be so damned silly, Douglas,’ she said, trying to sound placatory, although her voice was embarrassed.

He shouted suddenly, his face swelling up, ‘Why didn’t you write to me?’

‘But I did write to you.’

He came nearer and bent, his face working. ‘Why did you sign yourself like that - “Yours sincerely”?’

His face, which was so genuinely puzzled and hurt, moved her. It was the last time she was to allow herself to feel moved. ‘But, Douglas,’ she said, almost humorously. ‘It’s not very important, is it? And I had just signed about a thousand circulars.’

‘You signed it “Martha Quest”?’

‘Yes.’ Then she added, cold and angry, ‘You are always talking about the danger to your career.’

He straightened himself and stood blinking at her. She could see that he was finding, and then discarding, one point of attack after another.

‘What did Mrs Talbot write?’ she inquired.

He turned his face aside; began to say something; changed his mind. Then: ‘Why are you spending all your time with this ridiculous - outfit?’

She said contemptuously, ‘So you’re afraid of the left wing?’

At once he said in clumsy appeal, like a child, ‘But, Matty,
you know how it is with the Service. You know I can’t do as I like.’

‘When we got married you said you wouldn’t stay in the Service,’ she pointed out.

He looked wounded: he felt it very unfair of her to remember things he had said then. But if she was going to take that line, he thought, it was true that he always said he hated the Service, hated the life, hated this damned second-rate country. He jerked out, ‘What’s all this I hear about your having an affair with a corporal in the Air Force?’

‘Well, what did Mrs Talbot say?’ she asked satirically.

But he flushed up again, turned his eyes aside, and began in an indignantly sulky tone, ‘And Caroline - haven’t you any sense of responsibility towards her?’

She let out a peal of angry laughter. He watched her, fascinated.

‘Where is Caroline?’ he urged reproachfully. ‘What have you done with her?’

‘Caroline was playing in the garden three feet from you when you came in – as you must have seen, since you are so worried about her.’

He blinked again, moving his lips. Then he turned and began hanging things up in his wardrobe. She waited for him to attack again, while she noted with calm satisfaction the thick redness of his neck, which seemed a justification of her attitude.

He turned and said, ‘Matty …’ in a thick pleading voice. He came stumbling towards her, clutched her in his arms, tried to kiss her. Then, as he began fumbling with her breasts in a determined and aggressive way, she twisted herself free in a flash of such pure hate for him that her eyes went black for a moment. She allowed to raise themselves in her memory all the other times he had tried to rouse her physically when she was set against him in spirit. She moved to the dressing table, and brushed her hair, sitting with her back to him.

‘What’s got into you, Matty?’ he shouted at last, on an aggrieved note which sounded so comically inadequate that she laughed again.

‘What do you suppose can have got into me?’ she inquired after a pause, calmly. She rose and faced him. She began speaking in a tone of final contempt. ‘I am working for the Communist Party. Though there isn’t one yet, but if there is I shall join it. Also, I am attracted by a “corporal in the Air Force”. I should have told you about it myself, there was no need to spy on me through Mrs Talbot. And I propose to have a love affair with him. Since you’ve been having an affair with Mollie in Y—, I don’t see why you should object.’

Again he stumbled across and tried to embrace her. ‘Matty!’ he brought out. ‘Matty! We’re all right, aren’t we? We’re all right?’

This echo of the rallying cry of the Club made her laugh again, though she had no intention of laughing. He fell back from her, and this time he was grinding his teeth and glaring.

‘Your breakfast is on the table,’ she remarked breathlessly into that glaring, working face. To her surprise, he turned and went blindly out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

She went back to the edge of her bed. She could not think. Her mind was dim, and confused, and she felt sick. For the last few weeks she had perhaps slept four hours a night; the group felt sleep to be a waste of being alive, and they had no time to eat proper meals. She felt tired, even indifferent. The ugliness of the scene seemed impossible - it was impossible that he should be so stupid and obtuse, and she so stridently self-righteous. In the space of the few minutes he was away eating breakfast, she had again succeeded in creating him as that friend with whom she could talk things over.

When he entered the room, it was cautiously, and apparently in command of himself, and she looked hopefully towards him. ‘Now, listen, Douglas,’ she began in a different voice, almost friendly, ‘do let’s stop all this – nonsense, and be sensible.’

His face was still rather swollen and red, but she was unable to make out what he was thinking. Encouraged, however, she said, ‘I want to suggest that I should go away for a while - two or three weeks. Let me get over it.’ This
last phrase seemed to her as being nice to him – putting the blame for everything on herself.

‘Where are you going?’ he ground out.

‘I don’t know – anywhere.’

‘Where, I said?”

It astounded her that he thought it mattered. ‘I really haven’t thought. Why?’

‘Somewhere near an Air Force camp, I suppose.’ She flushed, but let it pass. ‘Which camp is the corporal in?’

‘Oh, I see!’ She let out another peal of laughter, and he ground his teeth again.