A Proper Marriage

by Doris Lessing

  Douglas watched a group of girls he had danced and played with for so many years flirting with some young officers, and then remarked, with grumbling good humour, ‘I begin to see there’s a war on.’ He laughed unhappily, and she joined him in relief. The colour had come back to his face, and it wore a look of ironical acceptance.

  ‘We ought to go,’ said Martha. ‘It’s time to put Caroline to bed.’ He got up immediately; he was pleased to go.

  As they walked down the veranda, various girls called out. ‘Well, Douggie, and how’s the war?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he returned good-humouredly, ‘I never reached it.’

  When they got home, Caroline would not allow herself to be put to bed. She was delighted to have a father, her father was delighted with her. He played with her. He felt surprised respect at the little person she had become. When he laid her down, he loosened the tiny delicate arms from around his neck reluctantly. She at once climbed to her feet and rattled the bars of the cot, looking at this new man with her black alert eyes.

  ‘We shouldn’t have this cot in our bedroom now,’ he said, and at once he began pushing it into the other room. Martha said nothing; she felt a pang of loss at her daughter being so unceremoniously removed; then reminded herself that she had not really liked having the child in her room; she was relieved that the cause of the inexplicable tension should be removed a little farther - physically at least.

  ‘Let’s go out and have a bite,’ suggested Douglas, having left Caroline shouting protests on the veranda.

  ‘We can’t go out and leave Caroline,’ said Martha promptly. It sounded almost as if she were scoring a point over him.

  She was sitting on the edge of the bed, slumped forward, very still, very distant. She had changed a great deal, he decided; and tried to define the change. She felt his eyes on her and turned and looked at him defensively, flashing a guilty smile. At once he was beside her, had clasped her. ‘Well, Matty, it would be nice if you were a little pleased to see me.’

  ‘Of course I’m pleased to see you.’ But he felt she was stiff under his hands. She seemed to be listening. ‘Caroline’s not asleep,’ she said warningly, meaning that she could not give her mind to love-making while the child’s sounds and movements were twanging at her nerves.

  He did not understand this, and said stiffly, ‘Oh, very well, then let’s eat instead.’

  She quickly escaped and began to prepare a meal. He lay on his elbow on the bed reading, or rather, looking vaguely at the book while he thought in a wave of bitter longing, Up north now they’re in the real thing.

  Almost at once Martha produced an omelette and some stewed fruit. She seemed surprised and hurt when he suggested this was not a meal to greet a soldier with. He ate it all in a few hearty mouthfuls, and said, ‘Now let’s eat properly.’

  ‘But what about your ulcer?’

  ‘Oh, to hell with my ulcer.’

  Caroline was asleep, lying loose among her blankets, fists at the level of her head, the small face flushed.

  ‘I’ll tell the woman over the corridor,’ Martha said, and left him to do so. She was away inside the other flat some time; he listened to the women’s voices, and it occurred to him for the first time that Martha had built up a life of her own, with obligations and responsibilities. He heard her say as she came out, ‘If you want to go out tomorrow, let me know.’

  ‘Who’s she?’ he asked her, trying to show an interest.

  ‘Oh - she has a baby,’ said Martha evasively.

  ‘She’s a friend of yours?’

  ‘A friend?’ said Martha in surprise.

  ‘Well - do you see much of her?’

  ‘We don’t like each other, actually. But she keeps an eye on Caroline when I’m shopping, and I look after her kid.’

  ‘Let’s go to McGrath’s.’

  ‘Oh, no, not McGrath’s,’ said Martha nervously, and he flashed out again belligerently, ‘I said McGrath’s!’

  She had been wanting to save him from another disappointment; now she felt meanly pleased that it would serve him right.

  At the entrance to the big marble-and-gilt lounge he paused, with a boyish, expectant look on his face. His face changed. It was, of course, filled with the RAF. Not a soul looked up to greet him. He moved stoically through under the gilded pillars. Then he saw a waiter he knew and greeted him like an old friend. The Indian bowed and smiled over his tray of filled glass beer mugs and said it was fine to have Mr Knowell back again.

  Douglas and Martha went into the big dining room. Uniforms … There was room for them at the end of a large crowded, noisy table. They ate one of those vast meals which must be among the worst offered to suffering humanity anywhere, the southern-African hotelier’s contribution to the British tradition in food. Douglas ate steadily, and with great satisfaction, speaking very little.

  ‘Well, I needed that,’ he announced at last, laying his spoon down after the Pears au Paris. Then: ‘Now, let’s have a drink.’ They moved to the lounge and drank brandy and ginger beer for an hour, while the band played gypsy music. It was a very good band now. The influx of refugees from Hitler had brought musicians who had played to very different crowds, who played now and remembered Vienna, Munich, Hamburg, Berlin.

  When they got home Caroline had hardly moved. The sight of the small white exquisite limbs loosened in sleep always gave Martha acute pleasure. She covered them reluctantly, and went to the bedroom, There Douglas was already naked: a stout young man, very white, with ruddy-brown arms and knees and face. She hung about nervously and then took her nightclothes to undress in the bathroom.

  ‘We haven’t any contraceptives,’ she announced defiantly as she came back.

  ‘Well, that means you’ve been behaving yourself at least,’ he said, laughing hopefully, She got into bed beside him as if in a room full of strangers, tucking her feet in chastely with the nightgown around her ankles. ‘Have you, by the way?’ he asked casually.

  ‘As much or as little as you have,’ she said quickly, and then, as if she herself found this banner of feminism absurd, added a short unhappy laugh, Mistakenly encouraged by the laugh, he rolled over, prodded her in the ribs and said, ‘Ah come off it, Matty. Let’s take a chance for tonight.’

  ‘Oh no, you don’t,’ she exclaimed involuntarily.

  ‘Well, why not? It would be nice for Caroline to have a brother nearly her own age.’

  ‘You see no reason why I shouldn’t be made pregnant on the first night you’re home?’ she inquired in a fine cold voice. But it sounded forlorn.

  He lay on his back, arms behind his head, looking at the ceiling. On his face was an ugly, angry look; he grinned after a while with ironic appreciation. ‘There’s no place like home,’ he produced at last.

  At this Martha felt a confused sort of anguish, partly because she was unable to compete with the attractions of ‘the boys’, of whom he was thinking at that moment; partly because she was behaving like the unpleasant female who gave or withheld favours; partly because she thought there must be something very wrong with her not to want him. She turned out the light. There was moonlight splashing all over the bottom of the bed. She saw, for the first time that season, the shape of the big wheel in the window - they must have set it up that morning. She suddenly wanted to cry.

  He rolled over, and she understood that he had been by no means discouraged. She set herself to be as compliant as possible; to her astonishment, even a certain pride, he was not able to distinguish the difference between this and the real thing. Afterwards, full of childish affection and a gratitude which grated on her, he said, ‘I was careful, Matty.’

  ‘So I should think,’ she said, with a sort of bright desperation. She was terrified of becoming pregnant.

  The next few days, which were occupied in seeing the house, deciding it was satisfactory, and moving into it, going to parties, giving them, making and receiving visits, were interspersed also with love-making. She was tense with anxiety that she might have b
ecome pregnant that first night. The old trapped feeling had her again; she was sleeping badly, although for a year she had slept very well; she was again lying through the nights listening to the sad music of the fun fair, and conscious of every twinge or response of her body as if it might vouchsafe to give up its secrets if only she concentrated on it hard enough. Then she knew she was not pregnant. She was able to give her mind fully to this new task of managing a large house, four servants, Caroline and a husband.

  Part Four

  He must be a dubious hero, a man with possibilities.

  C. G. JUNG, On Marriage

  Chapter One

  The house was in the older part of the city, at the corner of a block. From its gate one could see a mile in four directions along tree-bordered avenues. The town planners, when faced with a need for more houses, always solved the problem by laying a rule neatly over a map which represented a patch of unused veld, causing a pattern of streets to come into existence which crossed each other regularly at right angles. Everything was straight, orderly, unproblematical; grey strips of tarmac stretched endlessly, the naked earth at either side sprouted grass and wild-flowers. Above, trees: the glossy dark masses of the cedrelatoona, the sun-sculptured boughs of the Jacarandas, and, between, those small stiff trees the bauhinias, with their pink-and-white blossoms perched on them like butterflies. It was October, and the Jacarandas were purple and the streets were blue, as if they ran water or reflected the sky, which was unrelievedly blue and pulsing with heat.

  Inside the gate was a large tree, under which Martha stood looking out. Behind her was a rough lawn, where Caroline was playing with a native girl who now attended to her. Martha turned her back on the tiring glitter of the street, and surveyed the house, which was a series of large rooms casually assembled and surrounded by a wide creeper-curtained veranda, reached by a deep flight of red cement steps. The garden was big and untidy. The garden boy squatted beside a border, gently prodding the earth with a fork while he dreamed of his own affairs. He was a young lad of about fifteen, who from time to time turned admiring eyes towards the girl. She, however, was mission-trained and sat very neat and proper in her clean white dress, legs tucked soberly to one side, her head, outlined in a scarlet crocheted cap, bent over her knitting. She did not look at him, but occasionally called out shrilly to Caroline, who was supposed to stay in the shade. The little girl, in a brief white dress, her wisps of black hair shining iridescent in the sun, was running over the rough grass in bare feet. She stopped when she saw her mother, smiled, took two steps towards her, then turned and trotted off to the garden boy, who laid down his fork and began clapping his hands regularly to attract her.

  ‘Caroline?’ the girl called, but did not move.

  Martha reflected that the boy was supposed to be digging a bed for vegetables at the back of the house, where, however, he would not see the girl; and she was supposed to be ironing at this hour. If she, Martha, were really efficient, she would at once raise her voice and put things right. But she could see no reason why they should not all stay as they were; so she left the shade of the big tree and went rapidly through the blazing sun to the house. Caroline let out a protesting wail, then lost interest, and began digging with the garden boy’s fork, while he watched her, smiling proudly.

  Martha gained the veranda, stood behind the creeper, and looked out. The sunlight made her eyes ache. She hastily called to the girl to take Caroline away into the shade, and turned her back on the scene of persuasion and protest that followed. As usual she was feeling uncomfortable; she hated giving orders and was always at a disadvantage with her servants. Since she could not look at Alice, the native nurse, without thinking that she ought to be married and looking after her own children, or at the garden boy without thinking that he should be at school, or at the cook in the kitchen without finding it intolerable that a grown man should be under the orders of a girl a third his age, her voice always had a tinge of guilt when she spoke to them. The houseboy, a young man of twenty bursting with health and energy, was engaged in polishing bits of furniture in the dining room. She stopped to watch him. From where she stood, greasy polish marks showed on the shining table, and she knew that it was her duty to instruct him in polishing tables. She continued through the house to the back veranda. Here the piccaninny – the small black child who was engaged, according to custom, for odd jobs – was playing with Caroline’s toys on the steps. Since Martha pretended not to see him, he continued to roll a small green car along the edge of a step, growling like an engine in his throat.

  The kitchen was large, equipped with all kinds of modern devices. The cook was putting away the vegetables and groceries which had just been delivered from the stores. She left the kitchen and went towards the large refrigerator which stood on the veranda. She proudly opened it; it was her secret pride that it was always stocked with jars of sauces and mayonnaise, pastry of various kinds folded in stiff white slabs ready for cooking, biscuit dough that needed only to be put in the oven, jugs of iced tea and coffee, ice cream and complicated iced puddings that had taken hours to make. Martha told Douglas with satisfaction that she could serve a meal for ten any time at half an hour’s notice, and he was pleased with her. But the cook, who after all existed solely to serve meals for two adults and a child, and was delighted if half a dozen people dropped in, suffered this organization unwillingly. Sometimes Martha told him he might take a few hours off, and cooked what she thought of as her own meals; and then, hurt in his pride, he retired to the back garden, where he watched her disapprovingly. He was a very good cook.

  There was nothing to do in the refrigerator, so Martha went to the pantry. This was a room large enough to be a room for sleeping or working in; it was cool, with a gauze window that overlooked the vegetable beds at the back. It had a stone floor, stone shelves, dazzling white walls. There was a delicious cool smell of sugar and spices, the warm fresh tang of new flour. Sacks of sugar, flour, meal, stood along the floor. Martha dipped her fingers through the dry glisten of the sugar, touched soft clinging flour, and gazed along shelves where, in neat tins, were stored the groceries: tea and coffee; the starches in all their amazing variations; corn flour and bean flour, soya flour and the grades of oatmeals, rapoka meal and pea flour and split peas and beans; the rices, short and long and wild and cleaned, and ground and polished - six variations of them; the pastas from Italy, long and thin, long and fat, and moulded into all their possible forms, shells and buttons and letters and animals - these last for Caroline; the sagos and the tapiocas, and flour of the same; potato flour and lentils, red and brown and grey, and samp and sugar - all the colours and grades of it, from the fine thin white to the masses of heavy black treacle from the West Indies. From the sugar the cans and bottles shaded through to the exotics: dried cherries and almonds, coriander and ginger root and preserved and dried ginger; vanilla and candied peel, and currants and sultanas and raisins and the fine fresh crystallized fruits from the Cape. Beyond, jars of preserved peaches and apricots and plums and guavas; jams, chutneys, spiced mangoes and fruit syrups.

  Martha opened one tin after another, sniffing the stored exhaling odours with keen delight, while she ran her eyes along the rows of massed and glistening bottles of fruit. This was her favourite room in the house. But she shut the door on its pleasures and went back to the veranda. A large ginger cat now sat on the steps, patting at the little car as the small black child rolled it past.

  The cook came out of his kitchen and said, ‘Madam, what shall I cook for lunch?’

  Martha consulted with him at leisure; he went back to the kitchen, and she through several rooms to the bedroom. It was large, with a pleasant high white ceiling, and windows opening on three sides into the garden. It had a conventional suite of bedroom furniture, rather ugly, and twin beds covered in green silk.

  She had a choice of three rooms to sit in, but she sat on her bed, and looked at the white trumpets of the moonflowers hanging outside the window. She thought that she might ver
y well run across the street into Mrs Randall’s for morning tea. She resisted it like a temptation, although she grumbled humorously to Douglas that these women’s tea parties were driving her crazy. Gossip, gossip about their servants, she complained; and then their doctors, and how they brought up their children (she did not add, ‘And the dullness of their husbands’). The fact was, there was something about these daily orgies of shared complaint, for they were nothing if not that, which was beginning to attract her like a drug.

  How extraordinary it was that within a month after Douglas had returned from up north she was in this large house, with all these servants, and supplied with a new circle of friends. For all the wives of Douglas’s associates had come to see her, and she had gone to see them.

  She was one of a set. She had been now for over a year.

  They were all married couples, and the wives were pregnant, or intended to be soon, or had just had a baby. They all earned just so much a month, owned houses which they would finish paying for in about thirty years’ time, and in the houses was furniture bought on hire-purchase, including refrigerators, washing machines, fine electric stoves. They all had cars, and kept between two and five servants, who cost them about two pounds a month each. They were all heavily insured.