A Proper Marriage (15 page)

After a short pause she said, ‘I hope you’ll be friends with Elaine, Matty. She’s such a sweet thing, so sensitive, and she doesn’t make friends easily. Sometimes I feel it is my fault - but we’ve always been so much together, and I don’t know why it is, but …’

Now Martha’s look was far more hostile than she had intended; and Mrs Talbot’s thick white skin coloured evenly. She looked like an embarrassed young girl, in spite of the faint look of wear under her eyes. Martha could not imagine herself being friends with that gentle, flower-gathering maiden; she could not prevent a rather helpless but ironical smile, and she looked direct at Mrs Talbot as if accusing her of being wilfully obtuse.

Mrs Talbot cried out, ‘But you’re so artistic, Matty, and you would have so much in common.’

Martha saw tears in her eyes. ‘But I’m not at all artistic,’ she observed obstinately - though of course with a hidden feeling that she might prove to be yet, if given the chance!

‘But all those books you read, and then anyone can see …’ Mrs Talbot was positively crying out against the fate that persisted in making Martha refuse to be artistic. ‘And Elaine is so sweet, no one knows as well as I do how sweet she is and - but sometimes I wonder if she’s strong enough to
manage
things the way all you clever young things do. You are all so sure of yourselves!’

Here Martha could not help another rueful smile, which checked Mrs Talbot. She was regarding Martha with extraordinary shrewdness. Martha, for her part, was waiting for the proper talk to begin; what was it that Mrs Talbot wanted to say to her?

Mrs Talbot sighed, gave the shadow of a shrug, and went back to her dressing table. Here she applied one cream after another, with steady method, and continued to talk, in between pauses for screwing up her mouth or stretching her eyelids smooth. ‘I would so much like Elaine to get married. If she could only get properly married, and I needn’t worry any more … There is no greater happiness, Matty, none! She meets so few people, always my friends, and she is so shy. And you meet so many people, Matty, all you young people are so brave and enterprising.’

For the life of her Martha could not see Elaine with the wolves of the Club, with the boys, the kids and the fellows. ‘I don’t think Elaine would like the sort of men we meet,’ observed Martha; and she caught another shrewd glance. She felt there were things she ought to be understanding, but she was quite lost.

‘There’s your Douglas,’ said Mrs Talbot, a trifle reproachfully. ‘He’s such a nice boy.’

Surely, wondered Martha, Mrs Talbot could not have wanted Douglas for Elaine? The idea was preposterous - even brutal.

‘So kind,’ murmured Mrs Talbot, ‘so helpful, so clever with everything.’

And now Martha was returned, simply by the incongruity of Douglas and Elaine, into her private nightmare. She could not meet a young man or woman without looking around anxiously for the father and mother; that was how they would end, there was no escape for them. She could not meet an elderly person without wondering what the unalterable influences had been that had created them just so. She could take no step, perform no action, no matter how apparently new and unforeseen, without the secret fear that in fact this new and arbitrary thing would turn out to be part of the inevitable process she was doomed to. She was, in short, in the grip of the great bourgeois monster, the nightmare
repetition.
It was like the obsession of the neurotic who must continuously be touching a certain object or muttering a certain formula of figures in order to be safe from the malevolent powers, like the person who cannot go to bed at night without returning a dozen times to see if the door is locked and the fire out. She was thinking now, But Mrs Talbot married Mr Talbot, then Elaine is bound to marry someone like Mr Talbot, there is no escaping it; then what connection is there between Douglas and Mr Talbot that I don’t see?

But Mrs Talbot was talking, ‘I’ll show you something, Matty - I would like to show you, I don’t everyone.’

Mrs Talbot was searching hurriedly through her drawers. She pulled out a large, leather-framed photograph. Martha came forward and took it, with a feeling that the nightmare was being confirmed. It was of a young man in uniform, a young man smiling direct out of the frame, with a young, sensitive, rueful look. ‘Hardly anybody knows,’ Mrs Talbot cried agitatedly, ‘but we were engaged, he was killed in the war — the other war, you know — he was so sweet, you don’t know. He was so nice.’ Her lips quivered. She turned away her face and held out her hand for the photograph.

Martha handed it back and returned to her chair. She was thinking, Well, then, so Elaine must get engaged to that
young man; is it conceivable that Mrs Talbot sees Douglas like that?

But more: her mother, Mrs Quest, had been engaged to such another charming young man. This boy, weak-faced and engaging, smiled up still from a small framed photograph on her mother’s dressing table, a persistent reminder of that love which Mr Quest could scarcely resent, since the photograph was half submerged, in fact practically invisible, among a litter of things which referred to her life with him. Martha had even gone so far as to feel perturbed because this boy had not appeared in her own life; she had looked speculatively at Douglas with this thought - but no, weak and charming he was not, he could not take that role.

She sat silent in her chair, frowning; when Mrs Talbot looked at her, it was to see an apparently angry young woman, and one very remote from her. She hesitated, came forward, and kissed Martha warmly on her cheek. ‘You must forgive me,’ she said. ‘We are a selfish lot, we old women - and you probably have troubles of your own. We forget …’ Here she hesitated. Martha was looking through her, frowning. She continued guiltily: ‘And to have children - that’s the best of all, I wish I had a dozen, instead of just one. But Mr Talbot …’ She glanced hastily at Martha and fell silent.

There was a very long silence. Martha was following the nightmare to its conclusion: Well then, so Elaine will find just such a charming young man, and there’s a war conveniently at hand so that he can get killed, and then Elaine will marry another Mr Talbot, and for the rest of her life, just like all these old women, she’ll keep a photograph of her real and great love in a drawer with her handkerchiefs.

‘There’s nothing nicer than children, and you look very well, Matty,’ said Mrs Talbot suddenly.

Martha emerged from her dream remarking absently, ‘I’m always well.’ Then she heard what Mrs Talbot had said; it seemed to hang on the air waiting for her to hear it. She thought tolerantly, She’s heard a rumour that I’m pregnant. She smiled at Mrs Talbot and remarked, ‘I shan’t have children for years yet - damn it, I’m only nineteen myself.’

Mrs Talbot suppressed an exclamation. She surveyed
Martha up and down, a rapid, skilled glance, and then, colouring, said, ‘But, my dear, it’s so nice to have your children when you’re young. I wish I had. I was
old
when she was born. Of course, people say we are like sisters, but it makes a difference. Have them young, Matty - you won’t regret it.’ She leaned forward with an urgent affectionate smile and continued, after the slightest hesitation, ‘You know, we old women get a sixth sense about these things. We know when a woman is pregnant, there’s a look in the eyes.’ She put a cool hand to Martha’s cheek and turned her face to the light. Narrowing her eyes so that for a moment her lids showed creases of tired flesh, she looked at Martha with a deep impersonal glance and nodded involuntarily, dropping her hand.

Martha was angry and uncomfortable; Mrs Talbot at this moment seemed to her like an old woman: the utterly impersonal triumphant gleam of the aged female, the old witch, was coming from the ageless jewelled face.

‘I can’t be pregnant,’ she announced. ‘I don’t want to have a baby yet.’

Mrs Talbot let out a small resigned sigh. She rose and said in a different voice, ‘I think I shall have my bath, dear.’

‘I’ll go,’ said Martha quickly.

‘You and Douggie’ll be coming to dinner tomorrow?’

‘We’re looking forward to it very much.’

Mrs Talbot was again the easy hostess; she came forward in a wave of grey silk and kissed Martha. ‘You’ll be so happy,’ she murmured gently. ‘So happy, I feel it.’

Martha emitted a short ungracious laugh. ‘But, Mrs Talbot!’ she protested - then stopped. She wanted to put right what she felt to be an impossibly false position; honesty demanded it of her. She was not what Mrs Talbot thought her; she had no intention of conforming to this perfumed silken bullying, as she most deeply felt it to be. She could not go on, The appeal in the beautiful eyes silenced her. She was almost ready to aver that she wanted nothing more than to be happy with the dear boy Douglas, for Mrs Talbot; to have a dozen children, for Mrs Talbot; to
take morning tea with Elaine every day, and see her married to just such another as Douglas.

Mrs Talbot, arm lightly placed about her waist, gently pressed her to the door. She opened it with one hand, then gave Martha a small squeeze, and smiled straight into her eyes, with such knowledge, such ironical comprehension, that Martha could not bear it. She stiffened; and Mrs Talbot dropped her arm at once.

‘Elaine, dear,’ said Mrs Talbot apologetically past Martha to the sun porch, ‘if you’d like to run my bath for me.’

Elaine was now painting the row of pink and mauve sweet peas in the fluted silver vases. ‘Ah!’ exclaimed Mrs Talbot delightedly, moving forward quickly to look at the water colour. She leaned over, kissing Elaine’s hair. The girl moved slightly, then remained still under her mother’s restraining arm. ‘Isn’t this lovely, Matty, isn’t she gifted?’

Martha looked at the pretty water colour and said it was beautiful. Elaine’s glance at her now held a real embarrassment; but she remained silent until her mother had gained her meed of admiration.

Then Mrs Talbot waved goodbye and returned to her bedroom; and Elaine rose, and said, ‘Excuse me, Matty, I’ll just do Mummy’s bath - she likes me to do it, rather than the boy, you know.’ Martha looked to see if there was any consciousness here of being exploited, but no: there was nothing but charming deference.

They said goodbye, and Martha, as she turned away, saw Elaine knocking at the door that led into Mrs Talbot’s bedroom. ‘Can I come in, Mummy?’

Martha walked away down the street, thinking of that last deep glance into her eyes. Nonsense, she thought; it’s nothing but old women’s nonsense, old wives’ superstition. There seemed nothing anomalous in referring to the youthful Mrs Talbot thus at this moment. ‘How can there be a look in my eyes?’

When she reached home, it was nearly lunchtime. The butcher’s boy had left a parcel of meat. For some reason she was unable to touch it. The soggy, bloody mass turned her stomach - she was very sick. But this was nonsense, she
told herself sternly. She forced herself to untie the wet parcel, take out the meat, and cook it. She watched Douglas eating it, while she made a great joke of her weakness. Douglas remarked with jocularity that she must be pregnant. She flew into a temper.

‘All the same, Matty, it wouldn’t do any harm just to drop along to old Stern, would it? We don’t want kids just when the war’s starting, do we?’

That afternoon, since Stella was not there to gain priority for her, she sat out her time of waiting with the other women; and in due course found herself with Dr Stern. He gave her instructions to undress. She undressed and waited. Dr Stern, whose exquisite tact had earned him the right to have his waiting room perpetually filled with women who depended on him, explored the more intimate parts of Martha’s body with rubber-clothed fingers, and at the same time made conversation about the international situation. Finally he informed Martha that he did not think she was pregnant; she might set her mind at rest.

He than made the mistake of complimenting her on her build, which was of the best kind for easy child-bearing. Martha was stiff-lipped and resentful and did not respond. He quickly changed his tone, saying that she needn’t think about such things yet; and suggested that there was no reason why she should be pregnant if she had been carrying out his instructions? The query dismayed Martha; but she had decided to remember that he had been definite about it.

When she had left, he remarked to his new nurse that it was just as well for the medical profession that laymen had such touching faith in them. The nurse laughed dutifully and summoned the next patient.

Martha walked home very quickly; she could not wait to tell Douglas that everything was all right.

Chapter Four

Officially pronounced not pregnant, Martha determined to use her freedom sensibly. But if there was a weight off her mind, her flesh remained uncomfortable, She might say that she would settle her future once and for all; but it was not so easy: she was feeling - but how did she feel? For no matter how many charts of her emotions and flesh she may be armed with, it is not so easy for a very young woman, newly married, to discriminate between this sensation and that. Her body, newly licensed for use by society, stimulated - as Dr Stern had so humorously and succinctly put it - three times a day after meals, was in any case a web of sensations. Buzzings, burnings, swarmings: she was like a hive. And as for her tendency to feel dizzy or queasy in the mornings – what could one expect if one slept so little, ate so erratically, and, it must be confessed, drank such a lot? That is, regarded statistically, she drank a lot. But not more than everybody else. Still, from six in the evening until four the next morning she was unlikely to be without a glass in her hand, or at least, without a glass standing somewhere near. Drunk, no; one did not get drunk. A person who drinks too much is he who drinks more than the people around him. Besides, she was persistently tipsy as much from excitement as from alcohol; for the wave of elation which rose as the sun went down was as much the expectation of another brilliant, festive dancing night where the braziers burned steadily into the dawn. So Martha shifted the load of worry about how uneasy and unpredictable she felt on to how she was behaving, which she would have been the first to describe as idiotic. But then, it would not last long: the
very essence of those exciting weeks was nostalgia for something doomed.