She looked at their dresses, as Donovan had taught her to look, but understood at once that here was a standard that refused to acknowledge Donovan. Their appearance had something in common which was difficult to define; Martha made no attempt to define it, she merely felt derisive. They were not at all unashamedly housewifely women of the district; nor were they fashionable—clearly they disdained fashion. Their dresses tended to be discordantly colourful, and too long for the year; their hair was looped or braided or fringed, in a consciously womanly way; they wore bright beads and ‘touches’ of embroidery—Martha found herself fiddling with her embroidered belt and with her scarf, which was now uncomfortable. She was stifled by it.
A native servant rolled a wagon with tea things across the lawn, and there began a business of pouring, handing cups and passing cakes. Martha joked and lit a cigarette, and said she was slimming. The women looked sharply at her, and said that at her age it was ridiculous; they looked at the men for support, and did not find it. If there was an edge on their voices when they spoke to her, they could hardly be judged for it; for Martha’s gaze was expressing the most frank criticism, even scorn; and she, in her turn, ranged herself with the men as if it were her due to have their support.
With the arrival of the ladies, the rights of the intellect were at once asserted; and Martha was informed of times of meetings, the origin of the Left Book Club, the courage and force and foresight of a Mr Gollancz, and that we were trying to raise aid for Spain. But no sooner had this conversation begun than the children began to shriek, and all three women rushed off, as one, to the rescue, in spite of the two native nannies, who might have been considered sufficient to deal with them. And so it went on: the three women came back, hurriedly apologizing, firmly took up the threads of their respective remarks, a general conversation began to develop, and then either a child would come rushing across the lawn, shouting ‘Mummy, Mummy!’ or one, or all, of the women found it necessary to go to the children.
And Martha heard that fierce and passionate voice repeating more and more loudly inside her, I will not be like this; for, comparing these intelligent ladies, who nevertheless expressed resentment against something (but what?) in every tone of their voices, every movement of their bodies, with the undemanding women of the district, who left their men to talk by themselves while they made a world of their own with cooking and domesticity—comparing them, there could be no doubt which were the more likeable. And if, like Martha, one had decided to be neither one nor the other, what could one be but fierce and unhappy and determined?
She did not know when she had spent a more uncomfortable afternoon. It was not until the women had gone off, saying brightly and irritably, ‘Well, I suppose now we’ve got to return to our chores,’ and Martha was left with the men, that she felt at all at ease, but by now the men had acquired, in her eyes, a pathetic and hangdog look, and she was impatient.
She rose, saying, ‘I’m afraid I must go, I’ve got a sundowner party.’
There was a slight hesitation before Mr Pyecroft inquired, in the humorous light tone which was the counter of conversation among the men (though certainly not the women), ‘And so I take it you agree with us?’
Martha replied, even rather offended that the question could be put at all, ‘But of course.’
‘And we can expect you at the meetings?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Martha lightly; but more was being asked of her than that light statement.
‘What newspapers do you take?’ asked Mr Perr suddenly. She had gathered that he was the chairman of the Left Book Club, the leader of the group. His length of body and face, his bony look, his humorousness, were distinguished from the others by an emphasis in everything. He must be well over six feet, the flesh of his face was hollowed over big bones as if by a bold sculptor; and everything he said had a cautious space around it, while he curled his large mouth in a deprecating smile. ‘Newspapers are everything,’ he remarked humorously. ‘One must be certain of the complete impartiality of one’s sources.’ And he spoke as if he were amused at himself, and at the idea of any newspaper, or in fact anything at all, being taken seriously.
‘I—I read the Observer,’ confessed Martha, understanding that he did not mean local newspapers.
They involuntarily exchanged glances. Mr Pyecroft said reproachfully, ‘But, Miss Quest, surely…’
Martha flushed and said quickly, ‘But I’ve never been introduced to any other.’
At the appeal, the men looked relieved, and were able to say protectively that this was easily remedied. Mr Pyecroft picked up a journal that was lying on the grass by his side, apologized that it was damp, and offered it to her. ‘I think you will find you will never read another,’ he suggested.
Martha thanked him and said goodbye, and suggested she should walk home. Mr Pyecroft would not hear of this, so she said goodbye again and they went to the car.
Inside, she looked at the paper and saw the name New Statesman and Nation. It was familiar, because the local newspaper used it whenever it wanted to frighten its readers with a suggestion of sinister lawlessness. They were bad words, like ‘Fabian’ or ‘Communist.’ Martha felt that warmth of recognition with which one greets a person one had heard about from friends.
She was leafing curiously through it when Mr Pyecroft said, ‘Here’s our Jasmine,’ and drew the car in under a tree. Walking slowly towards them was a small, dark girl in orange slacks and a purple sweater. At first glance she might be taken for a child, she was such a miniature figure, her black hair curled all over her head and held with a ribbon. But the walk was composed and mature, even dignified; and Mr Pyecroft said with a laugh, ‘Our Jasmine always takes her time.’ It was a critical laugh; and Martha, in her turn, was critical that every member of this group seemed to find the others absurd, or, at the most, tolerable.
Jasmine at last came to a stop beside the car door, and said, ‘Hya.’ This bizarre greeting was made additionally extraordinary by the careful way she used it; it was as if she were saying, very formally, ‘Good afternoon.’ To Martha she said, with casual dignity, ‘Oh, hullo, so there you are at last,’ and added some information about the next meeting. It appeared she was secretary and intended to behave only in this capacity, for, having told Mr Pyecroft that she was having some trouble with the press—information which he understood at once, for he nodded casually—and that these reactionaries were getting her down, she said, ‘Well, I’m in a terrible hurry,’ and nodded and walked on, with neat, slow, precise steps.
‘Our Jasmine is an interesting figure at the moment, because her great love has gallivanted off to Spain,’ said Mr Pyecroft, as he started the car; and he said it with what can only be described as a sneer.
Martha was altogether at sea. If Abraham was not to be approved, who was? ‘Don’t you like Abraham?’ she inquired like a child.
My Pyecroft glanced at her, and said immediately in a sentimental voice that Abe was a fine chap, an altogether unusually intelligent chap; he added at once, however, in his customary light, denigrating way, that all one had to do these days to be a hero was to go dashing off to Spain. He glanced again at Martha, inviting her to laugh with him, and saw her huddled away from him, inside her shawl-like scarf, which she was holding close around her throat as if she were cold, her eyes bent down, her face puzzled and frowning.
He was silent, waiting for the self-possessed young woman to reappear, for this stubborn child was not at all to his taste.
As for Martha, she had discovered she disliked Mr Pyecroft. She thought dimly, It’s all very well for these old people…and sympathetically dreamed of Jasmine, who loved a modern hero.
When they reached her room she was opening the car door, prepared to thank him politely and get out, when he asked, ‘Perhaps you’d like to come and have supper with me one evening?’
She was struck by an eager but uneasy look on his face. At once she went scarlet, and said quickly, ‘I’ll be seeing you at the meetings, I expect.’ Sh
e ran away from the car, repeating to herself, ‘Dirty old man’ and she did not look around until the car, after a long silence, began to grind its gears. ‘Disgusting, filthy, horrible,’ she muttered angrily to herself, inside her room; and poor Mr Pyecroft had assumed, in her eyes, the very figure of an old lecher. But in her hand was his New Statesman, and she went to the telephone and left a message with Mrs Anderson that she was ill and could not go to the sundowner party with Donovan.
Then she lay on her bed and read the journal; for she had already decided to cancel the Observer and order this instead. Perhaps it is not correct to say that she read it, for unfortunately the number of people who actually read magazines, papers or even books is very small indeed. As she turned the pages and the lines of print came gently up through her eyes to her brain, without assault, what she gained was a feeling of warmth, of security; for here were ideas which she had been defending guiltily for years, used as the merest commonplaces. She was at home, she was one of a brotherhood. Yet when she laid down the journal she could not have said in detail what she had read, what were the facts; but she gave, unconsciously, a great quivering sigh, and lay back on her bed, eating chocolate and dreaming of a large city (it did not matter which, for it shared features of London and New York and Paris, and even the Moscow of the great novelists) where people who were not at all false and cynical and disparaging, like the men she had met that afternoon, or fussy and aggressive, like the women—where people altogether generous and warm exchanged generous emotions.
Apart from this dream she passed to her older one, so much older than she knew, of that golden city whose locality was vague, but until now had been situated somewhere between the house on the kopje and the Dumfries Hills (which area was in fact inhabited by the Afrikaans community), the white-piled, broad-thoroughfared, tree-lined, four-gated dignified city where white and black and brown lived as equals, and there was no hatred or violence.
Towards morning she awoke, rather stiff and cold, and went to the french door which stood open to the garden. She leaned her head against the doorframe, and shivered at the cold and starlit sky. There was no moon. Along the silent street came the clip-clopping of hooves. A small white donkey glimmered into sight, and behind it a milk cart, rattling its cans, and behind that ran a small and ragged piccaninny, a child of perhaps seven years, whose teeth were rattling so loudly they sounded like falling pebbles even across the width of the garden. She felt sad and depressed; the ideas with which she had fallen asleep seemed ridiculous now; she thought dimly that if the world was going to be changed it would not be changed by the people she had met the previous afternoon, and at that decision she became even sadder. She shut the door and decided that, since it was already four o’clock and she must be at the office by eight, it would be a waste of time to sleep. She looked for a book among the piles on the dressing table, the table, even on the floor. She wanted something which would include that deprived black child, her own fierce unhappiness (which was likely at any moment, as she knew, to turn into as fierce a joy); even the unattractive and faithless group of people whom Joss very properly despised. She wanted it all explained. The titles of her book seemed faded, what the print said had nothing to do with her life; and as the sun rose, Martha was lying fully dressed on the floor, copying out titles of books advertised in the New Statesman, which had no better recommendation than their names were included in the glow which surrounded that magic title.
She had decided she would go to the next meeting of the Left Book Club, but would treat Mr Pyecroft coldly, as he deserved, for even the thought of him filled her with the most violent disgust.
She was just about to telephone Jasmine, when the phone rang for her; but not at all as simply as that statement sounds. First, the instrument on Mrs Buss’s desk gave a shrill and prolonged peal, so that Martha, who had been about to pick it up, jumped and went back to her desk, already jarred, even apprehensive. She saw Mrs Buss give her an interested and then emotional look as she switched the instrument through to Mr Jasper Cohen. Mrs Buss continued to type, her vivid, but now professionally reticent, gaze hovering around Martha. Then the instrument clicked, Mrs Buss listened again, and switched it through to Mr Max. Finally, Martha was called into Mr Jasper Cohen’s office, where she was told kindly that her father was ill and she must hurry back to her room, where her mother was waiting for her. Martha’s irritation that her mother’s sense of drama had succeeded in disturbing two busy men, and in fact the whole office, over what should concern herself alone, was only just allayed by concern over her father. She left the office with all those interested eyes following her, while she instinctively modulated her walk to one of deprecating dignity. Mrs Buss did not fail to point out that this was the second time within a week that Martha had allowed ‘personal matters’ to call her out of the office, and Mr Cohen was kindness itself.
Martha walked as fast as she could along the few streets which led to her room, and found her mother there alone, waiting at the door, restless with energetic excitement.
‘So there you are,’ she exclaimed reproachfully, and, as she kissed her daughter’s cheek, announced, ‘Your father’s really ill, he really is very ill, Matty.’
Martha felt guilty, as usual, and inquired, ‘What’s the matter?’
She expected to hear of some crisis in the diabetes; but Mrs Quest said, ‘Well, we’re not quite sure, they’re finding out at the hospital. I’ve left him there for the day.’ Mrs Quest was drawing on her gloves, and was looking at a list of things she must do, which she had taken from her bag.
‘Why did you call me at the office, then?’ inquired Martha sullenly.
‘I don’t like driving in town, you can drive for me,’ said Mrs Quest, and Martha said angrily, ‘I can’t just leave the office to act as your chauffeur.’
‘But your father’s ill,’ said Mrs Quest antagonistically; and Martha exclaimed, ‘Mother!’ Mrs Quest, evading the accusing eyes, said briskly, ‘I must go and see Mrs Anderson, she wrote to me, and I think it would be nice if you were there, too.’
‘Mother, what is the matter with Daddy?’
‘I told you, they’re finding out. He’s having a barium meal,’ announced Mrs Quest, using the technical words with a satisfaction which reminded her daughter that she had been a nurse.
Hastily, in order to avoid the repulsive details which would certainly follow, described with the same cool satisfaction, Martha said, ‘I can’t possibly spend all day having tea and gossiping. You didn’t tell Mr Cohen you wanted me as a chauffeur, did you?’
‘He was very kind,’ said Mrs Quest, smiling. ‘And now let’s go quickly, Matty, because it will be too late for the morning tea otherwise.’
‘I’m not taking you to tea with Mrs Anderson, what do you want to see her for—’ She stopped, on the verge of saying, ‘behind my back.’ As usual she was feeling the impotent resentment that as soon as she made a friend, created anything of her own, her mother followed her, assuming first place. She spoke as if she had been an intimate friend of Mrs Anderson for years, whereas they had not seen each other since they met on the boat when the Quests first arrived in the colony.
‘Don’t be so unreasonable, Matty. It’s only natural the two mothers should want to talk over their children.’ And she looked suggestive and coy.
‘What have you got into your head now?’ asked Martha disgustedly; but Mrs Quest, not at all upset, said impatiently, ‘Oh, come along, Matty, don’t waste time.’
‘I’m not coming,’ said Martha, with calm fury.
Seeing her face, Mrs Quest said hurriedly, ‘Well, you needn’t stay, just run me over and leave me there. You can walk back, it isn’t far.’ She looked into the mirror, composing her face and adjusting her hat, which was a severe navy-blue felt and suited her regular, dominant features. Her suit was of navy linen, squarely cut, and she looked altogether an efficient woman, a committee woman. Martha thought of the perfumed, billowing Mrs Anderson, and wanted to laugh. On a wave of good spir
its, inspired by the malicious thought of ‘the nice talk’ the two ladies would have, she became suddenly amenable, even affectionate and she drove Mrs Quest without protest to the Andersons’ house, where she left her, and walked quietly to the office.
And here she leaned her head on her hands, oblivious of the interested eyes of the other women, who were longing to be sympathetic if she would only give them the chance, and thought miserably of her own lack of feeling. She only felt resentful that at any moment it might be used as an emotional argument against her. She knew she should be thinking of Jasmine, and making arrangements to know her better, and yet all she could think of was her mother, at that moment discussing her with Mrs Anderson. She knew that because of her mother’s interference something unpleasant would happen, because it always did. Why had she not said that she had quarelled with Donovan? It was as good as the truth. Why…But soon she ceased to think, she merely waited, in a condition of locked and irritable unhappiness.
Later that afternoon Jasmine telephoned her and asked her to come to tea. She heard Martha’s remote, nervous voice saying yes, she would try, but it was difficult, and perhaps it would be better if…
Jasmine, who had telephoned the ladies Forester, Pyecroft and Perr for what she described half humorously as a ‘report’ on Martha, had been told she was conceited, affected, and her level of political understanding was indicated by the fact that she read the Observer. The last was the contribution of Mrs Pyecroft, who added that Joss must be influenced by Martha’s looks: Martha would be quite attractive if she weren’t so conscious of being attractive. Jasmine therefore gave Martha up as a waste of time, on hearing these ineffectual excuses.
By now Martha was nearly hysterical, for she had been sent a letter, by office-boy, from Donovan, saying she must meet him at McGrath’s immediately after office, because it was very urgent.