Landlocked. Doris Lessing
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which meant that he didn’t want to wake up.
‘How are you?’
‘Oh, much the same, I suppose.’
She stayed there a few moments, but he kept his eyes shut. Anguish, the enemy, appeared: but no, she was not going to weep, feel pain, suffer. If she did, they would get her, drag her down into this nightmare house like a maze where there could be only one end, no matter how hard one ran this way, that way, like a scared rabbit.
‘Did you get to that Victory thing?’ asked the old man in a normal voice, as she straightened herself to leave.
‘No. Well, is it likely?’
‘She wanted me to go.’
‘So I hear.’
Mr Quest’s lips moved: he planned a humorous remark. Martha waited. But he lost interest and said: ‘Well, good night, old chap.’
‘Good night.’
‘He’s asleep,’ said Martha to her mother on the veranda, just as she had done the night before. She went to the bicycle and slid herself on the seat.
‘I don’t know how you can bicycle decently in a skirt as tight as that.’
‘I wasn’t thinking about bicycling decently,’ said Martha, sullenly. Then she smiled. Mrs Quest smiled too. ‘And where are you gallivanting off to now?’
Martha sat on her bicycle, with one foot on the wall of the steps. She smiled steadily. She was thinking she might say: Well, as it happens, I’ve got to meet Athen – he’s a communist newspaper-seller from Greece. Maisie’s on the thorny path to hell, he thinks. Maisie? Well, she’s the mother of Binkie Maynard’s by-blow. Yes, I did say Binkie Maynard. And the reason why Mrs Maynard wants me in her gang is so she can get her hooks into Maisie. And that’s why she’s being nice to you – if that’s the word for it. Yes, and Athen wants me to give Maisie a helpful lecture of a moral nature … The sheer imbecility of this caused Martha to smile even more brightly. She said: ‘See you soon,’ and bicycled off. At the foot of the garden she turned briefly to take a last look at the pink jersey which from here seemed a small, pathetic blob which said: Help me, help me, help me.
Mrs Quest went in to her supper, alone. She had ordered enough for two, had even cooked some jam tart. Martha is so fond of it, she had thought. Though she knew quite well Martha never ate sweets of any kind. Imagining the scene, where she put a slice of tart, with its trickles of sweet cream, before Martha, but she shook her head, Mrs Quest’s eyes filled with rejected tears.
She ate a good deal, though she was not hungry, and smoked several cigarettes. Then she listened to the nine o’clock news. All over Europe people danced among ruins, danced in a frenzy of joy because of the end of the war. Mrs Quest sat imagining the scenes in London. As a small girl she had been taken by her father to join the rioting crowds on Mafeking night. She re-created those memories and filled London with them in her mind. Then, the radio ceased to talk of victory, the day was over. Mrs Quest ‘settled her husband for the night’ – which meant, this evening, since he was half-asleep and did not want to be awakened, giving him an injection and another sedative, in case he woke in the early dawn, which is what he dreaded more than anything. Mrs Quest patted her little white dog, went to the kitchen to find him a tit-bit from the refrigerator, then she went to bed herself. Her powerful unused energies surged through her, and soon she was again lying wakeful, thinking in hatred of her daughter. The fantasy of expulsion from Mrs Maynard’s drawing-room had gone a stage further. Mrs Maynard had arranged for Martha’s arrest for ‘communist activities’. Martha was in front of judge and jury. Mrs Quest, chief witness, was testifying that Martha had always been difficult: ‘She’s as stubborn as a mule, your honour!’ But with careful handling, she would become a sensible person. Martha was let off, by the judge, on condition that she lived in her mother’s house, in her mother’s custody.
Mrs Quest drifted towards sleep. The scent of roses came in through the window, and she smiled. This time they remained in her hand – three crimson roses. The brutal woman, her beautiful mother, remained invisible in her dangerous heaven. The painful girl, Martha, was locked in her bedroom, under orders from Court and Judge. Mrs Quest had become her own comforter, her own solace. Having given birth to herself, she cradled Mrs Quest, a small, frightened girl, who lay in tender arms against a breast covered in the comfort of bright salmon-pink, home-knitted wool.
Martha bicycled through streets which tried to create Victory night. Knots of people walked about with feather blowers and balloons. In the hotels they were dancing. Sometimes a car went past with its hooter screeching. But it was no good. Hard enough for most of these people to feel the war; how then were they to feel the peace? Besides, the Colony’s men were still up North, or in Burma, or in England, or in prison camps.
In the office was evidence of a just-concluded political meeting. The ash-trays were filled with mess, and the air was foul. Whose meeting? Probably one of the African groups. There were two or three now. But there was a new African leader, so it was rumoured, called Mr Zlentli, and he had nothing to do with the white sympathizers, so he would not have been here.
Martha sat down, doing nothing about tidying the place, simply submitting to the fug and the mess. She was waiting to argue with Athen. It was Athen’s contention that she, Martha, should make Maisie leave her job as barmaid, and take what he called ‘a job for a nice girl’. It was Martha’s contention that if Athen did not want to take on Maisie himself, then he should not interfere. Last time he had raised the question, Martha said: ‘Athen, if you’re so concerned, then why don’t you save Maisie by marrying her?’
To which he had replied by nodding and saying: ‘Yes, I had thought of it. She is a good girl and she needs a man to look after her. But I think it would not be a good thing for Maisie to be made a widow again.’
When the door opened, it was Thomas Stern who came in. He wore the uniform of the medical corps, and carried in his hand a bundle of civilian clothes. He smiled at Martha and said: ‘You’ll excuse me, but I’m going to change.’ He proceeded to do so, while she turned her back and looked out over the dark town. The National Anthem seemed to be oozing from a dozen different sources, played at different rates and in different manners.
‘Tonight is more than I can take,’ said Thomas Stern. ‘Otherwise I would offer to escort you around the celebrations.’ He arrived beside her, on the bench.
He now wore a thick brown sweater. His broad face was scarcely less brown. He smiled at Martha from six inches’ distance and she smiled back. There was a total lack of haste, of urgency, in this exchange. They regarded each other steadily, then he took her hand and held it against his cheek.
‘What a pity I have to go back to the farm tonight.’
‘And that I have to see Athen!’
‘Are you having an affair with Athen?’
‘Good heavens, no!’
He now held her hand pressed down with his on his warm knee.
‘Why shouldn’t you?’
‘Have you seen Athen’s new suit?’
‘Of course.’
‘Has he talked to you about it?’
‘Martha, I tell you, there are some things spoiled people like you don’t understand.’
‘Rubbish. But I believe that Athen has sentenced himself to death because he is ashamed of liking nice wine and looking beautiful in his new suit.’
Thomas regarded her steadily. Her hand, between his hot knee and his large hand, seemed to be melting into his flesh. He was waiting for her to stop being childish.
‘Just imagine all the people today who are secretly sorry the war is over because now they have to start living.’
‘Yes, but Athen is not one of them. Why are you so angry with him? I agree with him. There’s nothing wrong with being a barmaid, but it’s not