A Proper Marriage (61 page)

She paused again, seemed about to go on, then leafed through her notes, shifting one piece of paper behind another. ‘I think that’s all I have to say, ladies and gentlemen.’ She bowed forward from her waist, with a nervous smile, and retired backstage.

There was some perfunctory applause. Then, since it was observed that Mrs Player and Mrs Brodeshaw and Mrs Maynard were clapping loud and firm from the front seats, the audience took it up again. The sound died in a ragged volley as a small girl smiling a stretched, fixed smile
appeared where Miss Pattern had stood. Martha recognized her with difficulty as one of those she had brought from the slum. She was now shiningly clean; her pigtails stood stiffly out to each side of her head, tied with large pink bows; her dress was starched white. She stood for some moments stretching her head hopefully to one side, as if listening, before they realized she had forgotten her lines. Then she proceeded to repeat, phrase for phrase, in a high tense shriek, a speech whispered to her from behind a fold of green serge. Unfortunately, it was impossible to understand a word of it. She retired, in confusion, to a storm of clapping, and shouts of ‘Shame!’ from some rowdies at the back, who had come under the impression that the concert was the work of the Sympathizers of Russia - apparently Miss Pattern’s speech had confirmed their worst suspicions. But they were hushed sternly by the loyalists.

A gramophone began playing very loudly. ‘The Blue Danube.’ About fifty children flocked on to the stage, jigging and prancing, every face stretched in a prescribed smile. There was no attempt to follow the rhythm. After five minutes or so, the gramophone abruptly stopped again. Some continued to jig wildly, others stopped. Confusion. The gramophone set off in the middle of a bar, and then the green serge folds on either side shook violently. The music stopped finally with a loud squawk, and the children dived in all directions off the stage.

There was loud derisive laughter from the back. But Mrs Maynard turned and delivered a frowning stare at them.

There followed a short sketch between a little girl in a poke bonnet and crinolines and a little boy in blue knee pants. Neither wore shoes. It was a proposal of marriage, which evoked cries of ‘How sweet!’ from the front rows, and more raucous insinuating laughter from the back. After a pause, during which the stage remained empty, the same two walked down the stage as a bride and bridegroom - white butter muslin and black casement cloth — while all the other children flung confetti at them.

Then came three little girls against a bevy of other little girls: ‘Three Little Maids From School Are We’; but, as
Martha had hoped, they had forgotten ‘maids’, and sang ‘girls’.

Then a long, long pause. The audience fidgeted, and the stage remained empty. A hitch, obviously. Miss Pattern emerged and, smiling with complicity towards the audience, proceeded to play some Chopin waltzes. Her eyes were fixed anxiously on some point off stage, Suddenly she sharpened her pace, brought the waltz to a galloping end, and rose, hastily gathering her music. She almost ran off, as a little boy of about twelve was propelled on by an invisible push from someone. He was wearing a child’s Red Indian headdress, white shirt, white shorts, no shoes. He came very slowly and reluctantly to the front of the stage, sweating with terror, and, with wandering eyes and long intervals of silence, proceeded to recite selected portions from Hiawatha. Suddenly he stopped in the middle of a line; his mouth remained open for a while, then he bolted off the stage. Tumultuous applause.

And now it was the interval.

Martha worked her way to the back, and was delighted to find that groups of earnest and enraged Zambesians were forming a committee to protest to ‘the Prime Minister himself if need be’ because of this insult to white civilization.

She returned to her seat, hoping for the worst.

It appeared that protests had already been received during the interval, for the second half of the programme began with a speech by Mrs Maynard herself. She delivered it with great firmness, eyes and rings flashing, her black lace swaying, looking at the back rows. They must move with the times, she informed them decisively. Did they realize that the Coloured community lived in conditions which would disgrace pigs? (Ironical cheers from the back.) The whole area was a breeding ground for disease, which, as anybody with a ha’p’orth of sense would realize, was no respecter of persons or colour bars. If this concert did nothing else, it might make the white community realize what a danger spot it tolerated in its midst.

There were a couple more cheers, rather enfeebled, apparently by the processes of thought. Mrs Maynard stood,
subduing them all by her presence, for a few silent moments, then retired to her seat.

The programme resumed without incident. The Southern Sambos did an Irish jig with great spirit. A chorus sang ‘Tipperary’. There was a vivacious rendering of that inevitable song ‘Hold Him Down, the Zulu Warrior’. Then another pause. It was prolonged. The barrackers at the back plucked up courage and began booing. Mrs Maynard stood up in the front row, and glared at them over the intervening rows. Then something unexpected happened. Towards the middle of the hall a solid mass of grey-blue indicated the presence of the Air Force; half a hundred aircraftsmen, tired of the cinema, had come in search of entertainment. Now they began shouting, ‘Up with Uncle Joe!’ and ‘Progress, that’s what we want!’ One yelled, ‘Down with the colour bar!’

Some of the more solid citizens were observed leaving their seats and slipping out of the side doors.

Then Miss Pattern came slowly on to the stage. She was very nervous. She apologized for the delay, but the committee had been wondering whether to allow the next item in view of the - response of the audience. She had to make quite clear that the committee took no responsiblity for the next item. The leaders of the Coloured community had suggested it. It had been agreed to because … She hesitated some moments, and then remarked firmly, ‘Anyway, it shows the sort of thing we’ve got to contend with. The sketch was written by a Coloured boy, a South African Cape Coloured, now in England.’ Another pause. ‘There is talent among them - real talent. It should be directed. It
must
be directed,’ she cried out, on the verge of tears, and ran off the stage.

And now the audience leaned forward intently. The stage was completely dark.

Then a white patch gleamed in the darkness and a high, shrill voice said, ‘I am Asia. I am the teeming millions of Asia. I am …’ There was a sudden chorus of boos from the back.

Another white patch appeared, and a second voice
shouted desperately, ‘I am India …’ But the rest of this was lost in tumult.

The white patches were agitatedly swaying in the darkness on the stage, and shrill isolated voices could be heard: Hunger, Poverty, Misery.

The audience was standing up. Someone was singing ‘The Red Flag’. The lights came on to show three small urchins draped in white sheets, shouting above the din from the hall. ‘I am Africa,’ yelled one determinedly. Miss Pattern appeared on the edge of the stage, waving her hands. Africa, India and Asia rushed off the stage, tripping over their sheets, while Miss Pattern smiled appealingly at the audience. The back rows were now singing ‘Sarie Marais’, while the delighted aircraftsmen in the middle were sitting with arms linked, swaying from side to side, and singing, ‘The people’s flag is deepest red …’

Mrs Maynard rose to her feet, climbed up the wooden steps that led to the stage, and stood waiting for silence. At last she got it. She said it was a disgraceful exhibition and she was appalled at their irresponsibility.

The khaki rows at the back hissed; and were at once answered from the Air Force blue with satirical cheers.

‘You will kindly have the goodness to stand up for the last item,’ Mrs Maynard said, and stood aside while the stage filled with the children waving Union Jacks. She lifted her hand - the rings flashed and glittered - and brought it down on the first chord of the National Anthem. The audience sang it boisterously through to the end, with undercurrents of ‘Sarie Marais’ and ‘The Red Flag’.

Afterwards, the place seethed as if stirred by a vast stick. People hastily left; isolated groups of Air Force and the khaki-clad - some uniforms, some not - looked at each other and meditated whether it was worth while to fight. A couple of half-hearted dogfights were developing as Martha squeezed out, and saw Douglas waiting for her, smiling mistily, as if from emotion.

‘Wait,’ she said, ‘wait.’ She ran around to the back door, while he followed. She wanted to know what was going on behind the scenes. She found a dozen matrons energetically
divesting the children of their stage clothes, while they congratulated each other on their courage: ‘It’s time they woke up.’ ‘Yes, I think we’ve broken the ice.’

But it was not a united committee any longer. Mrs Lowe-Island, upright and sturdy in mauve chiffon, was whispering to Mrs Anderson that the Communists had introduced that disgraceful last item on to the programme, the whole town was full of Communists, they were everywhere. Miss Pattern leaned against a wall, half laughing and half crying, while Mrs Maynard gruffly urged her to pull herself together and the fat priest hovered by, making sympathetic tut-tutting noises.

And now arrived six of the other committee, all fine open-necked sunburnt young Zambesians, all angry, but earnestly reproachful. Martha heard the note she had heard so often recently from Douglas, and looked at him involuntarily to see if he recognized it. It was that sentimental appeal, the note of goodness betrayed.

Mrs Maynard confronted them, calm and majestic, and proceeded to point out that the art of good government was to make use of dissatisfaction for social ends. This being too abstract - it was countered with an indignant ‘But we can’t have the kaffirs doing as they like!’ - she translated it thus: ‘My dear young men, they will get out of hand unless you give them rope.’

They looked at each other rather doubtfully, and Mrs Lowe-Island came in to support. With her hands on her hips, eyes burning, she said that people like them encouraged the Communists. Of course Communist influence had caused the last item on the programme, but why did they behave like that, the way to treat Communists was to take no notice of them, all they wanted to do was to make trouble …

Mrs Lowe-Island’s speech and personality being more understandable to them, violent discussion continued, while Mrs Maynard stood on one side, watching thoughtfully, with no more than the faintest smile on her face. Finally, when her lieutenant ran out of breath, she stepped forward and invited all six of them up to her house for a
discussion next afternoon ‘at six o’clock, mind, because I have to be at Government House for dinner.’

They retired, prepared to control their indignation until they had heard the other side, like true democrats. Only then did Mrs Maynard allow herself to look exasperated. ‘And I’m so busy!’ she was heard to exclaim. Unfortunately nine-tenths of the time of any political leader must be spent not on defeating his opponents, but on manipulating the stupidities of his own side.

Martha’s charges were soon delivered into her hands, in their faded rags and bare feet. She was thanked profusely by Mrs Brodeshaw for her kind co-operation, while Douglas grinned a bashful boy’s smile just behind her.

She took the children to the car. Douglas came with her.

‘Well, Matty?’ he inquired eagerly. It really seemed that he expected her to show enthusiasm.

‘Everything that happens in this place is like a caricature - it simply isn’t possible that it should happen at all.’

She heard his breathing change. She said hastily, ‘Were you there? Did you see it?’

‘I saw the last part. But, Matty - it’s a beginning. It would have been impossible to have Coloured people entertaining the whites even a year ago.’

‘The beginning of what?’ she inquired reasonably. She noted with dismay how amusement and indignation, any emotion she might have been feeling, vanished instantly under the calm cold anger that rose in her the moment she heard him begin to breathe deep, saw his face redden and swell. ‘Don’t let’s start again until we’ve dropped the children,’ she said quickly.

The house in the slum was in darkness. Martha shepherded the children over the rough court, under the bits of washing. A slit of yellow showed under a door. It opened slowly. From the light of a stub of candle stuck in a bottle, she saw a room full of sleeping breathing bodies. The large woman, still dressed, came forward and received the children, who began bolting along the veranda this way and that like so many rabbits into their doors. The woman began
curtsying and bobbing, while she took her child to her skirts. ‘Thenk-you, missus, thenk-you, missus.”

Martha said good night, and went back to the car.

Douglas said: ‘My mother’s come.’

‘Oh - well, that’s good,’ she said flatly.

‘Now, do let her talk to you, Matty,’ he implored in that lover’s tone.

Mrs Knowell was sitting in the drawing room, reading. She rose at the sight of Martha, smiling uncertainly. Martha also hesitated. Then she realized they were both bothered by a problem of etiquette: Was it suitable for a young woman on the verge of leaving her husband to kiss that husband’s mother? She went forward and kissed Mrs Knowell on the cheek. The older woman grasped Martha to her in a quick anxious embrace, and then released her.