Martha Quest (19 page)

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 spirits, 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.

And when she threaded her way between the crowded tables, smiling automatically, like royalty, at the people who greeted her, shaking her head with playful regret when they asked her to join them, she could see Donovan energetically defending the empty seat beside him, and knew that he was very angry: he looked exactly like his father, morose and bad-tempered.

‘Matty
dear
,’ he said shrilly, as she struggled to her seat, ‘what’s all this about your mamma and my mamma? My mamma has telephoned me for the third time, and she is really furious.’

‘I’m not responsible for my mother,’ Martha said flatly, and added, ‘For God’s sake get me a drink.’

He ordered two enormous glass jugs of the strong local beer, and went on: ‘What are we to do, Matty? I told my mamma that I hadn’t seen you for as good as a week, you’ve practically thrown me over, but she wouldn’t listen.’

This was an invitation to confess what she had been doing, but Martha said impatiently, ‘Yes, but what’s happened?’

‘Why haven’t you been seeing me? A little bird told me that you were all mixed up with the local Reds, and that won’t do you any
good, Matty dear. Did you know the police go to their meetings? They’ll put you in prison one of these days.’

Martha laughed crossly, and said, ‘Oh don’t be such a baby.’

The beer was slammed down in front of them by one of the hurrying waiters, and Martha seized hers and drank half of it.

‘You’re getting quite a little toper, Matty dear,’ said Donovan unpleasantly.

‘Well, one must do something,’ said Martha defensively. She unconsciously glanced at her fingers: on both hands, they were stained to the middle joints with nicotine. As she decided she would cut down smoking, she reached for her bag and lit a new one from the stub of the last, and thought, I’ll stop smoking when this business with my mother is settled.

‘They’re a bunch of Jews, too,’ said Donovan gracefully. ‘After knowing me for so long, you should have learned discrimination.’

‘But they aren’t all Jews—’ Martha began, and stopped, furious with herself. ‘I thought you had asked me here to discuss our respected parents?’ she inquired at last, and with that rueful smile she knew put him at a disadvantage.

‘You’re a naughty girl,’ said Donovan, more gently. ‘My mamma says she wants to see us. It’s a crisis, Matty, a crisis.’

A group of lads in black-and-white-striped jerseys and white shorts, which exposed what seemed to be several yards of long, thick, red-brown thighs, entered the lounge and emitted a series of shrieks and yodels, began slapping the seated men nearest to them across the shoulders, and bending over the girls with yearning, sentimental faces.

‘Now here are the Sports Club crowd,’ said Donovan sulkily. ‘If you let them sit here, it’s the end, really it is.’

Seeing Martha, the lads let out a yell expressing agonized frustration, and came pushing towards her. ‘Matty, Matty,’ they moaned inarticulately, ‘beautiful Matty.’ They were watching a passing waiter, and, even as they paid their fee to beauty, reached out for mugs of beer and turned their backs as the waiter protested, ‘Baas, baas, someone else paid for this beer.’

‘Beautiful,’ continued the ringleader, ignoring the waiter, ‘why are you so toffee-nosed, why—’

‘This table is engaged,’ said Donovan, rising to the bait as he had been intended to.

‘Keep your hair on,’ said the sportsman, and he lifted his glass mug and tilted his head back, exposing a long, lumpy throat, and began to drink.

‘Down, down, down,’ chanted the people at the tables nearby. ‘Here’s to Donny, drink it down…’ The Adam’s apple moved steadily up and down, the golden liquid sank in its foam, and everyone began to clap. The young man set down his mug, which had held nearly a quart of beer, and looked about proudly, so that the applause grew louder. Then he shook his hands together in self-congratulation over his head, and, his eyes happening to fall on Martha, turned up his eyes and staggered away, clutching his brow in a parody of despair. Everyone laughed, while Donovan sat moodily silent.

‘If you can tear yourself away from these fascinating athletes, Matty darling, let’s go and face my mamma.’

‘I still don’t know what we have to face,’ said Martha, rising.

They went out; while Martha acknowledged the homage from various young men, who were putting on the despairing faces required of them by convention, with a careless smile.

‘It must be nice to be such a success,’ said Donovan spitefully, as the swing doors revolved behind them, for Martha had a self-satisfied look on her face, although she was reminding herself that it was a convention and meant nothing.

They drove in silence to the Andersons’ house, where a message had been left by Mrs Quest: ‘Sorry have no time to see you again, must go and get Daddy from hospital, such a pleasant morning with Mrs Anderson, will let you know the result of the test.’

With this piece of paper in her hand, Martha followed Donovan into the drawing room, and found Mrs Anderson poised amid clouds of mulberry chiffon on her purple satin chair. She was smiling, but looked annoyed.

‘Now, I want to speak to you young people frankly,’ she began, and Donovan muttered, ‘Oh, hell,’ and flung himself down on a settee and took up
Vogue
. ‘No, Donny, it’s for you too, and you must listen. Now both of you must realize that you are very young and…’ Here she paused, gave them a doubtful glance and took a cigarette from a tortoiseshell cigarette case. She lit it slowly, and it appeared that the impulse of anger that had carried her thus far was already failing her.

Martha sat on the end of the settee, at Donovan’s feet, and tried to smile. ‘I don’t know what my mother has been saying,’ she said, ‘but I think you are jumping to conclusions.’

‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted Mrs Anderson impatiently, though she sounded relieved. ‘I expect you think I’m an interfering old lady—’ here she laughed and looked flirtatiously at Donovan, who was looking at her coldly, ‘but I feel that your mother has perhaps—I mean—’ She paused and sighed. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, and she put her hands to her forehead in a helpless way, ‘I’m so tired and cross and…’ Impulsively she rose, came to Martha and kissed her, but Martha accepted the embrace stiffly. ‘Well, I daresay I got the wrong idea,’ she murmured, and looked in appeal at both of them.

‘I think you have, Mamma dear,’ said Donovan icily, throwing aside
Vogue
and sitting up. ‘Matty and I are ever so platonic, you’ve no idea, and it’s very upsetting to have you two dirty-minded old girls behaving like this.’

‘
Donny
!’ gasped Mrs Anderson, and she began to cry, pressing a piece of ivory-coloured silk to her eyes in such a way that it would damage neither the silk nor her make-up. Donovan, with elaborate courtesy, handed her a handkerchief, and now she began to cry in earnest, in great shuddering sobs. ‘I’m so sorry, darling,’ she wept. ‘You must forgive me. I don’t know why, but I was so upset, and Mrs Quest was—I mean—’

‘Well, don’t cry, Mamma,’ said Donovan gracefully. ‘But I really do think you should tell us what this is all about. You can’t summon
Matty and me for an audience, and then get us all upset, and suddenly say that you’re sorry and leave it like that.’

He stood poised on one hip, a brown suede shoe extended easily in front of him, looking sternly down at his mother, who shook herself, laughed as she saw the black streaks on the handkerchief, dabbed her eyes again and said clumsily, ‘Mrs Quest was talking as if you were getting married. I told her that you were both too young, and that we hadn’t the money for Donny to marry—’