A Proper Marriage Read online

  When Douglas returned that afternoon, he was welcomed by an extremely cheerful young woman, who proceeded to amuse him with a satirical account of how she had rushed down to see Solly - all intelligent in blue trousers and sunburn - and how she had wanted to join the settlement. Because, as everyone knows, we girls go through these moments of not wanting to be married.

  ‘And me too,’ confessed Douglas, apologetically, kissing her with a rueful laugh. This mutual confession delighted them. They were back together in the warmest affection, which almost at once led to the bed - there was half an hour to fill in, as he pointed out. The half-hour was hilarious. In a mood of tearing gaiety, they experimented with a couple of new positions sanctioned by the book, and were freshly delighted with their efficiency. Then, seeing the time, six o’clock, that hour sacred to sundowner parties, they hastened off the bed and got dressed. They drove off to the party with the look of competent unconcern that they had both already learned to wear in public.

  Colonel Brodeshaw’s house was in the part of the town which had been the most fashionable before the new suburbs began to spread. There were several avenues of big sprawling shady houses in big gardens - these were the nearest approach to an individual architecture the colony had achieved. They had been built for comfort, for the climate, by people with money and enough self-confidence not to need the extra boost of that kind of smart house which was now being built. They were the natural expression, in fact, of the type of English person whose families have been in the habit of administering this part or that of the British Empire, accustomed to making themselves comfortable in a difficult climate. Comfort was their keynote. The servants’ quarters, built in a row along the end of the back garden, and reminiscent of stables, were vast - not because these people intended to make their servants comfortable, but because they meant to have plenty of servants. The rooms were large and cool, the verandas enormous; whatever these houses might look like from outside, sprawling, shapeless, often shabby, they were a delight to live in.

  The young Knowells drove through several avenues filled with such houses, and were able to feel a pleasant regret for the past. They murmured that it was a pity people did not build like that these days. They parked the car with a dozen others in the ditch outside a flaring hibiscus hedge, and walked up a narrow drive that was like a green tunnel. Through gaps in the foliage, hoses could be seen playing on a smooth green lawn, and beyond that the garden was bounded by a warm red-brick wall draped with morning glory, a vivid sky blue which was beginning – the sun was setting – to show edges of white. Soon it would be as if scraps of limp dirty-white linen hung among the green. A few steps further, and the front veranda was in sight, a garden inside a garden, for it was filled with painted tubs of flowering plants, and festooned with golden shower. People too, of course; but the veranda was as big as a large room, and able to absorb large numbers of people among the columns of brick and tubs of flowers.

  From outside, Martha caught a glimpse of faces she knew, and felt a stab of disappointment: she could not rid herself of the belief that being married would introduce her to something new and exciting. She could see Donovan, and Ruth Manners; and was looking for others, when Douglas remarked, ‘Mr Player is going to be here, I believe.’ He tried to sound casual, but could not prevent a note of pleased deference.

  Martha was looking for Mr Player, when they arrived at the top of the steps and were met by Colonel Brodeshaw and Mrs Brodeshaw. The Colonel was a tall, thin, bent man, with a small dark moustache and mahogany skin, so much the colonel in manner and appearance that it must save Martha the effort of looking for further individuality. His wife was competently dispensing hospitality in a black-and-white flowered dress, a colonel’s lady, clipped, brisk and smiling.

  Martha had not taken two steps before she was absorbed into the warm embrace of Mrs Talbot, and welcomed with a warm but timid smile by Mrs Talbot’s daughter. Martha knew that of all the people who were being made happy by this marriage, Mrs Talbot was perhaps the happiest. She had received no less than three charming notes from her in the last week, welcoming her into – what? And now she was putting her arm around Martha’s shoulders, turning her away from other groups on the veranda, and leading her to a chair beside her own. Over her shoulder she smiled and murmured to Douglas, ‘You really must allow me to deprive you of Matty for just a few minutes.’ And Douglas, smiling and touched, seemed prepared to wait.

  Mrs Talbot was, above all, a lady of charm. In each movement, each tone of her voice, was this suggestion of deferential murmuring grace; and as she seated herself beside Martha she did so with a hurried, almost apologetic movement of her hindquarters, as if even this personal necessity was something deplorable because it detracted from the wholehearted attention she was determined to bestow upon Martha. Both she and her daughter then leaned towards her, smiling with warm friendship, and proceeded to tell her how happy they were that Douggie was married at last, how wonderful, how suitable, how … As one woman arrived at the end of a breathless phrase, searching for the superlatives that could not express what she felt, the other took it up; and it was a duet of self-immolation towards Martha.

  Martha seated, smiling a little awkwardly, looked from one to the other, trying to see them, for she felt herself in danger of being smothered by this perfumed attack. She was able at last to see Mrs Talbot as a tall, fair-haired woman, slight, pliant, with a smooth oval face tinted uniformly pink, like a fine breathing enamel. Everything, hair, face, dress, was so smoothly perfect, so exquisitely created, that one felt impelled to look at the daughter to find the raw materials from which this work of art had been begun. Elaine was like her mother, a slight graceful creature, but the oval face, the large grey eyes, showed signs of strain and ill-health. The skin was pale, flawed; there were faint blue shadows under the eyes. Martha looked from one to the other, noting the looks of affectionate reassurance that continually passed between them, and thought only that for a girl of eighteen to be so close to her mother must in itself be perverse. She felt herself menaced by it. But since there was no need for her to say anything but ‘Thank you’ and ‘How very kind of you’, she allowed her attention to pass to that other problem which was so much her preoccupation. For the spiritual hangers-on which every marriage attracts must certainly expect to suggest the question, What is it they themselves have found, or lack, in marriage? Since Mrs Talbot and her daughter could not be delighted that it was Martha who had married Douglas - they did not know her, as Martha reminded herself - it must be the idea of marriage that fed this delight? Martha tried to form some sort of image of Mr Talbot, and it was only then that she realized that she did not even know whether there was one. She had heard a great deal about Mrs Talbot during the past weeks, but it was always ‘Mrs Talbot and Elaine’, ‘Elaine and Mrs Talbot’ - that was how the world spoke of the Talbot family. Together they enveloped Martha in caressing affection, and together they rose, after a long, smiling, intimate look at her which - even in this small matter of agreeing that it was time to release Martha - overflowed into a glance of understanding between them. The young Knowells were invited to spend the evening very soon with Mrs Talbot and Elaine, and (for of course he was so happy about the marriage, too) Mr Talbot - if he wasn’t out (‘He always has so much to do’); and the two women withdrew into chairs further away, where they proceeded to allow their reservoirs of charm to overflow on to Douglas.

  Martha was therefore left alone for a moment, looking down the great veranda, which was like a room with three walls of green leaves. The last rays of sunlight fell through the leaves, patterning the faces of the guests. Perhaps forty people were sitting, with glasses in their hands, in this green-dappled glow. Martha could see Donovan poised on the edge of his chair, addressing Ruth Manners. ‘But, my dear, it was the funniest thing you ever saw,’ she heard his light voice say, before he let it drop and leaned forward to continue the sentence in a lower key; it was a bit of gossip: the discreetly malicious smile on Ruth’s face
showed it. Beside Ruth sat a young man whom Martha had not seen before. She immediately recognized him as being fresh from England, because of his pink-faced, cautious look of one on trial. From the way he and Ruth smiled at each other, it was clear they were a couple.

  Far down the veranda, in a well of green shadow, Mr Maynard was surveying the guests with his look of sardonic but controlled contempt. Beside him was that formidable lady his wife, who in a high, firm, commanding voice was saying the last word about something she felt strongly: ‘And so I said to her, “It is quite out of the question!’” She turned to look at her husband, commanding agreement; but Mr Maynard continued to gaze in front of him, lightly flipping his fingers against the glass he held. The clink, clink, clink, came travelling softly down among the voices and laughter, like irritation made audible; and Martha looked at this black-browed energetic woman, and remembered, with a strong feeling of incongruity, that sick headaches were her weapon of choice. She was convicting Mrs Maynard of having no sense of period, when she saw Mr Anderson, sitting not far from his son, a small dapper man radiating bad temper because it was necessary to be here at all and to make conversation. He was making it, Martha saw with surprise, to Mrs Anderson, who sat near him. The fact that Mr Anderson could be persuaded to leave his solitude reminded Martha that this was an important sundowner party, and she searched for Mr Player. Remembering a brief glimpse of a large, red-faced man, she searched in vain - he could not have arrived.

  The chair beside her was still empty. Donovan rose from his place and joined her, remarking gaily, ‘Well, Matty, so here you are nicely settled at last.’ This reference to her marriage she let pass; she was looking to see if there was anything in his face which might suggest that he remembered the ugliness of their last meeting. But it seemed not. He proceeded to entertain her with a scandalous story about their hostess. To which Martha replied that the moment he left her he would undoubtedly make a spitefully funny story about her marriage. He giggled gracefully and said that he had been dining out on stories about her for the last week. ‘Really, Matty, why do you waste such an occasion for being on show? Now, look at Ruth, she’s got herself engaged, and she’s having a nice engagement party, and we’ll all give her expensive presents, and everything’s so satisfactory for her and her friends.’

  ‘On the other hand, there won’t be any funny stories about her wedding,’ she pointed out. ‘You can’t have it both ways.’

  ‘True,’ he conceded, ‘true.’

  He was looking among the guests to see if there might be someone to inspire an anecdote, when Martha inquired, ‘What’s Ruth’s young man like?’

  ‘On the way up. Secretary to the secretary of Mr Player. Money, family, everything.’ Then with his usual gay spite: ‘One could hardly expect less of Ruth, after all, considering what’s been done for her.’

  ‘Yes, but what’s he like?’ inquired Martha naively, looking at the neat little English face, all the features correctly in place, the small fair moustache, the sober clothes that succeeded in suggesting only what the limbs and body must be like underneath - correct, controlled, adequate.

  Donovan grinned pleasantly; then he said in a soft lowered voice which for the first time allowed that they did, after all, know each other quite well, ‘Really, Matty, you’ll never learn! Surely that’s enough!’

  Here she laughed with him, in genuine appreciation of that wit which, however, he was determined should never be more than socially agreeable. But he went on, with the astounding frankness with which he said what he really felt: ‘Anyway, Matty, if a girl marries a man with money and so on, what more can she want?’ He sounded really aggrieved. She let out a snort of laughter; saw him flush, and then he rose gracefully. ‘Well, Matty, I shall now leave you.’ His smile was cold; their eyes met unpleasantly; then he sailed, in a way which was reminiscent of his mother, across the veranda to another empty chair.

  Martha’s glass was refilled for her. She was becoming depressed as the alcohol took effect. She was disappointed that there was anyone here that she knew; and looked back to her first weeks in town, when the people she met seemed like glorious and disconnected phenomena, meteors and rockets that went shooting across her vision, only to disappear. But certainly not tamely connected in social circles. That Donovan, Ruth, even Mr Maynard, should be brought to this veranda on this evening by a mysterious connection gave her a feeling of oppression. She could feel the nets tightening around her. She thought that she might spend the rest of her life on this veranda, or others like it, populated by faces she knew only too well. It was at this point, and for the first time, that she found herself thinking, The war will break it up, it won’t survive the war. Then she was sincerely dismayed and ashamed. She said it must be her own fault that she could see no face, hear no voice, which could make her happy at the idea of being here.

  Half a dozen chairs away, Mrs Talbot and Elaine were discussing with a third lady a new method of cutting sandwiches, and, Martha noted, with precisely the same allowance of deferential charm that they had given her marriage. Opposite them, two ladies were arguing - what else? the iniquities of their servants. Mrs Maynard, at the other end of the veranda, and at the top of her confident voice, was discussing hers. Mr Maynard, from the depths of his resigned boredom, took up the theme with a slow, deliberate account of a case he had judged that morning. A native youth had stolen some clothes from his employer; the question before him, the magistrate, had been: Should the sentence be prison or an official beating? He told his story with a calm objectivity that sounded brutal. But Martha, as she watched that heavy and handsome face, saw the full, authoritative eyes move slightly from one face to another, saw suddenly that he was using this audience, which, after all, was not so arbitrarily associated, as a sort of sounding board.

  Everyone was listening now, waiting to jump into the discussion with their own opinions; for certainly this was a subject, the subject, on which they were all equipped to speak. But Mr Maynard was not yet ready to throw the ball out for play. Having concluded with the bare facts of the case, he turned to a similarly large and authoritative gentleman in a neighbouring chair, and remarked, ‘It is a question, of course, of whether a sentence should be regarded as a punishment or a deterrent. Until that is decided — and they certainly haven’t decided it even in England - I can hardly be expected to have any opinions?’

  The half-dozen people who had been leaning forward, mouths half open, ready to say what they thought, were taken aback by the depths of intellectuality into which they were expected to plunge. They waited. One lady muttered, ‘Nonsense, they should all be whipped!’ But she turned her eyes, with the rest, towards the gentleman appealed to.

  He appeared to be thinking it over. He sat easily in his chair, an impressive figure, his body and face presenting a series of wide smooth surfaces. His corpulence was smoothly controlled by marvellous suiting, the fat pink areas of cheek and chin seemed scarcely interrupted by the thin pink mouth, the small eyes. When he lifted his eyes, however, in a preliminary circling glance before speaking, it was as if the bulk of ordinary flesh, commonplace cheeks, took an unimportant position behind the cold and deliberate stare. Those eyes were not to be forgotten. It was as if the whole personality of this man struggled to disguise itself behind the appearance of a man of business who was devoted to good, but good-natured, living - struggled and failed, for the calculating, clever eyes betrayed him. He said in a casual voice that in his opinion the whole legal system as affecting the Africans was ridiculously out of date and should be radically overhauled.

  One could hear the small suppressed gasp of dismay from his listeners. But Mr Maynard kept his full prompting eyes fixed on the cold grey ones, and merely nodded; whether in agreement or not, he intended to convey, was quite unimportant, for it was his task to administer the law and not to change it. Martha was expecting an outburst from these people; she had not spent the greater part of her nineteen years listening to talk about the native problem for nothing. She was a
stounded that they remained silent.

  It was Mrs Maynard who spoke for them; it was the politeness of her disagreement that told Martha that this fat pig of a man must be Mr Player. She could not easily believe it; a man cannot become a legend without certain penalties, and it seemed to her altogether too simple that people so inevitably become like the caricatures that their worst enemies make of them; besides, it was hard to connect the groomed pink face with that large hot red one she had once caught a glimpse of on a racecourse. Mrs Maynard was announcing firmly that it was obvious the natives were better served by being whipped than being sent to prison, for they didn’t mind prison, it was no disgrace to them. They were nothing but children, after all. At this a dozen ladies angrily flung out their agreement. Martha listened with tired familiarity - this was something one could always be sure of. One after another, it was stated in varying ways that the natives should be kept in their place - and then Martha lost a few remarks, because she was considering something she had just realized. Two familiar words had not been used: nigger and kaffir; either this was an evolution in opinion or this circle of people were different and less brutal than those she had been used to.

  There was a silence in progress when Martha became attentive again. Then the second camp made itself heard. It was Mrs Talbot who said, with a breathless air of defiance, that the poor things shouldn’t be whipped, everyone should be kind to everyone else. Her daughter murmured agreement, and was rewarded by a glance of grateful affection from her mother, who was flushed by her own daring. For while ‘poor things’ was certainly not a new note, the suggestion that poor things and children should not be whipped for their own good, was.

  At this point, the young man from England, the secretary of the secretary, gave it as his opinion, with a quick and rather nervous glance towards Mr Player, that public opinion in the colony was behind the times. The silence that followed was a delicate snub to the newcomer because of the burden of problems that they all carried. Ruth remarked in a detached voice that progressive people thought that whipping only made people worse. The word ‘progressive’ was allowed to pass; she was very young, and had been educated largely in England. Then Douglas stoutly averred, with the slight stammer which Martha was only just beginning to see could be a delicate compliment to superiors, that what was needed in the colony was good housing and good feeding, and the colony could never move forward while the bulk of the population was so backward. A silence again, during which Martha looked with grateful affection towards him; and everyone looked towards Mr Player.