But she did not have time to think of the Laceys for long; for the house began to stir into life as the parents came to rouse their children, and the family units separated themselves off in the dark outside the house, where the cars were parked. For this time, that other pattern was finished with, for now ordinary life must go on.
In the back of the car, heavily covered by blankets, for the night was cold, Kate lay half asleep, and heard her father say: “I wonder who we’ll get this time?”
“More successful, I hope,” said Mrs. Cope.
“Horses, I heard.” Mr. Cope tested the word.
Mrs. Cope confirmed the doubt in his voice by saying decisively: “Just as bad as the rest, I suppose. This isn’t the place for horses on that scale.”
Kate gained an idea of something unrespectable. Not only the horses were wrong; what her parents said was clearly a continuation of other conversations, held earlier in the evening. So it was that long before they arrived the Laceys were judged and judged as vagrants.
Mr. Cope would have preferred to have the kind of neighbours who become a kind of second branch of one’s own family, with the children growing up together, and a continual borrowing back and forth of farm implements and books and so forth. But he was a gentle soul, and accepted each new set of people with a courtesy that only his wife and Kate understood was becoming an effort . . . it was astonishing the way all the people who came to Old John’s place were so much not the kind that the Copes would have liked.
Old John’s house was three miles away, a comparatively short distance, and the boundary between the farms was a vlei which was described for the sake of grandness as a river, though most of the year there was nothing but a string of potholes caked with cracked mud. The two houses exchanged glances, as it were, from opposite ridges. The slope on the Copes’ side was all ploughed land, of a dull yellow colour which deepened to glowing orange after rain. On the other side was a fenced expanse that had once been a cultivated field, and which was not greening over as the young trees spread and strengthened.
During the very first week of the Laceys’ occupation this land became a paddock filled with horses. Mr. Cope got out his binoculars, gazed across at the other slope, and dropped them after a while, remarking: “Well, I suppose it is all right.” It was a grudging acceptance. “Why shouldn’t they have horses?” asked Kate curiously.
“Oh, I don’t know, I don’t know. Let’s wait and see.” Mr. Cope had met Mr. Lacey at the station on mail-day, and his report of the encounter had been brief, because he was a man who hated to be unfair, and he could not help disliking everything he heard about the Laceys. Kate gathered that the Laceys included a Mr. Hackett. They were partners, and had been farming in the Argentine, in the Cape, and in England. It was a foursome, for there was also a baby. The first wagon load of furniture had consisted of a complete suite of furniture for the baby’s nurseries and many cases of saddles and stable equipment; and while they waited for the next load the family camped on the verandah without even so much as a teapot or a table for a meal. This tale was already making people smile. But because there was a baby the women warmed towards Mrs. Lacey before they had seen her; and Mrs. Cope greeted her with affectionate welcome when she arrived to make friends.
Kate understood at first glance that it was not Mrs. Lacey’s similarity to Mrs. Sinclair that had caused the latter to accept her, in advance, as a companion in failure.
Mrs. Lacey was not like the homely mothers of the district. Nor did she—like Mrs. Sinclair—come into that category of leathery-faced and downright women who seemed more their husbands’ partners than their wives. She was a tall, smooth-faced woman, fluidly moving, bronze hair coiled on her neck with a demureness that seemed a challenge, taken with her grace, and with the way she used her eyes. These were large, grey, and very quick; and Kate thought of the swift glances, retreating immediately behind smooth lowered lids, as spies sent out for information. Kate was charmed, as her mother was; as her father was, too—though against his will; but she could not rid herself of distrust. All this wooing softness was an apology for something of which her parents had a premonition, while she herself was in the dark. She knew it was not the fact of the horses, in itself, that created disapproval; just as she knew that it was not merely Mrs. Lacey’s caressing manner that was upsetting her father.
When Mrs. Lacey left, she drew Kate to her, kissed her on both cheeks, and asked her to come and spend the day. Warmth suddenly enveloped the child, so that she was head over ears in love, but distrusting the thing as a mature person does. Because the gesture was so clearly aimed, not at her, but at her parents, that first moment resentment was born with the love and the passionate admiration; and she understood her father when he said slowly, Mrs. Lacey having left; “Well, I suppose it is all right, but I can’t say I like it.”
The feeling over the horses was explained quite soon: Mr. Lacey and Mr. Hackett kept these animals as other people might keep cats. They could not do without them. As with the Sinclairs, there was money somewhere. In this district people did not farm horses; they might keep a few for the races or to ride around the lands. But at Old John’s Place now there were dozens of horses, and if they were bought and sold it was not for the sake of the money, but because these people enjoyed the handling of them, the business of attending sales and the slow, shrewd talk of men as knowledgeable as themselves. There was, in fact, something excessive and outrageous about the Laceys’ attitude towards horses: it was a passionate business, to be disapproved of, like gambling or women.
Kate went over to “spend a day” a week after she was first asked; and that week was allowed to elapse only because she was too shy to go sooner. Walking up the road beside the paddock, she saw the two men, in riding breeches, their whips looped over their arms, moving among the young animals with the seriousness of passion. They were both lean, tough, thin-flanked men, slow-moving and slow-spoken; and they appeared to be gripping invisible saddles with their knees even when they were walking. They turned their heads to stare at Kate, in the manner of those so deeply engrossed in what they are doing that outside things take a long time to grow in to their sight, but finally their whips cut a greeting in the air, and they shouted across to her. Their voices had a burr to them conveying again the exciting sense of things foreign; it was not the careful English voice of the Sinclairs, nor the lazy South African slur. It was an accent that had taken its timbre from many places and climates, and its effect on Kate was as if she had suddenly smelt the sea or heard a quickening strain of music.
She arrived at Old John’s Place in a state of exaltation; and was greeted perfunctorily by Mrs. Lacey, who then seemed to remind herself of something, for Kate once more found herself enveloped. Then, since the rooms were still scattered with packing-cases, she was asked to help arrange furniture and clear things up. By the end of that day her resentment was again temporarily pushed to the background by the necessity for keeping her standards sharp in her mind; for the Laceys, she knew, were to be resisted; and yet she was being carried away with admiration.
Mrs. Sinclair might have brought something intangible here that to her was valuable, and she was right to have been afraid that Mrs. Lacey would destroy it. The place was transformed. Mrs. Lacey had colour-washed the walls sunny yellow, pale green, and rose, and added more light by the sort of curtains and hangings that Kate knew her own mother would consider frivolous. Such rooms were new in this district. As for Mrs. Lacey’s bedroom, it was outrageous. One wall had been ripped away, and it was now a sheet of glass; and across it had been arranged fifty yards of light transparent material that looked like crystallized sunlight. The floor was covered right over from wall to wall with a deep white carpet. The bed, standing out into the room in a way that drew immediate notice, was folded and looped into oyster-coloured satin. It was a room which had nothing to do with the district, nothing to do with the drifts of orange dust outside and the blinding sunlight, nothing to do with anything Kate had ever experi
enced. Standing just outside the door (for she was afraid she might leave orange-coloured footprints on that fabulous carpet), she stood and stared, and was unable to tear her eyes away even though she knew Mrs. Lacey’s narrowed grey gaze was fixed on her. ‘Pretty?” she asked lightly, at last; and Kate knew she was being used as a test for what the neighbours might later say. “It’s lovely,” said Kate doubtfully; and saw Mrs. Lacey smile. “You’ll never keep it clean,” she added, as her mother would certainly do, when she saw this room. “It will be difficult, but it’s worth it,” said Mrs. Lacey, dismissing the objection far too lightly, as Kate could see when she looked obliquely along the walls, for already there were films of dust in the grain of the plaster. But all through that day Kate felt as if she were continually being brought face to face with something new, used, and dismissed: she had never been so used; she had never been so ravaged by love, criticism, admiration and doubt.
Using herself (as Mrs. Lacey was doing) as a test for other people’s reactions, Kate could already hear the sour criticisms which would eventually defeat the Laceys. When she saw the nursery, however, she felt differently. This was something that the women of the district would appreciate. There were, in fact, three rooms for the baby, all conveying a sense of discipline and hygiene, with white enamel, thick cork floors and walls stencilled all over with washable coloured animals. The baby himself, at the crawling stage, was still unable to appreciate his surroundings. His nanny, a very clean, white-aproned native girl, sat several paces away and watched him. Mrs. Lacey explained that this nanny had orders not to touch the baby; she was acting as a guard; it was against the principles which were bringing the child up that the germs (which certainly infested every native, washed or not) should come anywhere near him.
Kate’s admiration grew; the babies she had known were carried about by piccanins or by the cook’s wife. They did not have rooms to themselves, but cots set immediately by their mothers’ beds. From time to time they were weighed on the kitchen scales, for feeding chairs and baby scales had been encountered only in the pages of women’s magazines that arrived on mail-days from England.
When she went home that evening she told her mother first about the nurseries, and then about the bedroom; as she expected, the first fact slightly outweighed the second. “She must be a good mother,” said Mrs. Cope, adding immediately: “I should like to know how she’s going to keep the dust out of that carpet.” Mr. Cope said: “Well, I’m glad they’ve got money, because they are certainly going to need it.” These comments acted as temporary breakwaters to the flood that would later sweep through such very modified criticism.
For a while people discussed nothing but the Laceys. The horses were accepted with a shrug and the remark: “Well, if they’ve money to burn . . .” Besides, that farm had never been properly used; this was merely a perpetuation of an existing fact. The word found for Mrs. Lacey was that she was “clever.” This was not often a compliment; in any case it was a tentative one. Mrs. Lacey made her own clothes but not in the way the other women made theirs. She cut out patterns from brown paper by some kind of an instinct; she made the desserts and salads from all kinds of unfamiliar substances; she grew vegetables profusely, and was generous with them. People were always finding a native at the back door, with a basket full of fresh things and Mrs. Lacey’s compliments. In fact, the women were going to Old John’s house these days as they might have gone to raid a treasure cave; for they always returned with some fresh delight: mail-order catalogues from America, new recipes, patterns for nightdresses. Mrs. Lacey’s nightdresses were discussed in corners at parties by the women, while the men called out across the room: “What’s that, eh? Let us in on the fun.” For a while it remained a female secret, for it was not so often that something new offered itself as spice to these people who knew each other far, far too well. At last, and it was at the Copes’ house, one of the women stood up and demonstrated how Mrs. Lacey’s nightdresses were cut, while everyone applauded. For the first time Kate could feel a stirring, a quickening in the air; she could almost see it as a man slyly licking his lips. This was the first time, too, that Mr. Cope openly disapproved of anything. He might be laughed at, but he was also a collective conscience; for when he said irritably: “But it is so unnecessary, so unnecessary, this kind of thing . . .” everyone became quiet, and talked of something else. He always used that word when he did not want to condemn, but when he was violently uncomfortable. Kate remembered afterwards how the others looked over at him while they talked: their faces showed no surprise at his attitude, but also, for the moment, no agreement; it was as if a child looked at a parent to see how far it might go before forfeiting approval, for there was a lot of fun to be had out of the Laceys yet.
Mrs. Lacey did not give her house warming party until the place was finished, and that took several weeks. She did all the work herself. Kate, who was unable to keep away, helped her, and saw that Mrs. Lacey was pleased to have her help. Mr. Lacey was not interested in the beautiful house his wife was making; or, at any rate, he did not show it. Provided he was left enough room for books on horses, equipment for horses, and collections of sombreros, belts and saddles he did not mind what she did. He once remarked: “Well, it’s your money, if you want to pour it down the sink.” Kate thought this sounded as if he wished to stop her; but Mrs. Lacey merely returned, sharply: “Quite. Don’t let’s go into that again, now.” And she looked meaningly at Kate. Several times she said: “At last I can feel that I have a home. No one can understand what that is like.” At these moments Kate felt warm and friendly with her, for Mrs. Lacey was confiding in her; although she was unable to see Old John’s Place as anything but a kind of resthouse. Even the spirit of Mrs. Sinclair was still strong in it, after all; for Kate summoned her, often, to find out what she would think of all this. She could positively see Mrs. Sinclair standing there looking on, an ironical, pitying ghost. Kate was certain of the pity; because she herself could now hardly bear to look at Mrs. Lacey’s face when Mr. Lacey and Mr. Hackett came into meals, and did not so much as glance at the work that had been done since they left. They would say: “I heard there was a good thing down in Natal,” or “that letter from old Perry, in California, made me think . . .” and they were so clearly making preparations for when the restless thing in them that had already driven them from continent to continent spoke again, that she wondered how Mrs. Lacey could go on sewing curtains and ordering paints from town. Besides, Mrs. Sinclair had known when she was defeated: she had chosen, herself, to leave. Turning the words over on her tongue that she had heard Mrs. Sinclair use, she found the right ones for Mrs. Lacey. But in the meantime, for the rest of the district, she was still “clever,” and everyone looked forward to that party.
The Copes arrived late. As they climbed out of the car and moved to the door, they looked for the familiar groups on the verandah, but there was no one there, although laughter came from inside. Soon they saw that the verandah had been cleared of furniture, and the floor had been highly polished. There was no light, save for what fell through the windows; but this gave an appearance, not so much of darkness, but of hushed preparedness. There were tubs of plants set round the walls, forming wells of shadow, and chairs had been set in couples, discreetly, behind pillars and in corners.
Inside the room that opened from the verandah, there were men, but no women. Kate left her parents to assimilate themselves into the group (Mrs. Cope protesting playfully that she was the only woman, and felt shy) and passed through the house to the nurseries. The women were putting the children to bed, under the direction of Mrs. Lacey. The three rooms were arranged with camp-beds and stretchers, so that they looked like improvised dormitories, and the children were subdued and impressed, for they were not used to such organisation. What Mrs. Lacey represented, too, subdued them, as it was temporarily subduing their mothers.
Mrs. Lacey was in white lace, and very pretty; but not only was she in evening dress and clearly put out because the other women wer
e in their usual best dresses of an indeterminate floral crepiness that was positively a uniform for such occasions, there was that contrast, stronger now then ever, between what she seemed to want to appear, and what everyone felt of her. Those heavy down-looping, demure coils of hair, the discreet eyelids, the light white dress with childish puffed sleeves, were a challenge, but a challenge that was being held in reserve, for it was not directed at the women.
They were talking with the hurried forced laughter of nervousness. “You have got yourself up, Rosalind,” said one of them; and this released a chorus of admiring remarks. What was behind the admiration showed itself when Mrs. Lacey left the nurseries for a moment to call the native nanny. The same sycophantic lady said tentatively, as if throwing a bird into the air to be shot at: “It is a sort of madonna look, isn’t it? That oval face and smooth hair, I mean . . .” After a short silence someone said pointedly: “Some madonna,” and then there was laughter, of a kind that sickened Kate, torn as she was between passionate partisanship and the knowledge that here was a lost cause.
Mrs. Lacey returned with the native girl; and her brief glance at the women was brave; Kate could have sworn she had heard the laughter and the remark that prompted it. It was with an air of womanly dignity that fitted perfectly with her dress and appearance that she said: “Now we have got the children into bed, well leave the girl to watch them and feel safe.” But this was not how she had said previously: “Let’s get them out of the way, and then we can enjoy ourselves.” The women, however, filed obediently out; ignoring the small protests of the children, who were not at all sleepy, since it was before their proper bedtime.
In the big room Mrs. Lacey arranged her guests in what was clearly a planned compromise between the family pattern and the thing she intended should grow out of it. Husbands and wives were put together, yes; but in such a way that they had only to turn their heads to find other partners. Kate was astonished that Mrs. Lacey could have learned so much about these people in such a short time. The slightest suggestion of an attraction, which had merited no more than a smile or a glance, was acknowledged frankly by Mrs. Lacey in the way she placed her guests. For instance, while the Wheatleys were sitting together, Nan Fowler was beside Andrew Wheatley, and an elderly farmer, who had flirted mildly with Mrs. Wheatley on a former occasion, was beside her. Mrs. Lacey sat herself by Mr. Fowler, and cried gaily: “Now I shall console you, my dear—no, I shall be jealous if you take any notice of your wife tonight.” For a moment there was a laughing, but uneasy pause, and then Mr. Lacey came forward with bottles, and Kate saw that everything was working as Mrs. Lacey had intended. In half an hour she saw she must leave, if she wanted to avoid that uncomfortable conviction of being a nuisance. By now Mrs. Lacey was beside Mr. Lacey at the sideboard, helping him with the drinks; there was no help here—she had been forgotten by her hostess.
African Stories Page 20