Stories

by Doris Lessing

  Once she said: “Why do you always look cross when I say what I think about something?” Now, that surprised him—didn’t she always say what she thought? “I don’t get cross, Rosie, but why do you take everything so serious?” To this she remained silent, in the darkness. He could see the small, thoughtful face turned away from him, lit by the bleak light from the window. The thoughtfulness seemed to him like a reproach. He liked her childish and responsive. “Don’t I make you happy, Rose?” He sounded miserable. “Happy?” she said, testing the word. Then she unexpectedly laughed and said: “You talk so funny sometimes you make me laugh.” “I don’t see what’s funny, you’ve no sense of humour, that’s what’s wrong with you.” But instead of responding to his teasing voice, she thought it over and said seriously: “Well, I laugh at things, don’t I? I must be laughing at something then. My dad used to say I hadn’t any sense of humour. I used to say to him, ‘How do you know what I laugh at isn’t as funny as what you laugh at?’” He said, wryly, after a moment, “When you laugh, it’s like you’re not laughing at all, it’s something nasty.” “I don’t know what you mean.” “I ask you if you’re happy and you laugh—what’s funny about being happy?” Now he was really resentful. Again she meditated about it, instead of responding—as he had hoped—with a laugh or some reassurance that he made her perfectly happy. “Well, it stands to reason,” she concluded, “people who talk about happy or unhappy, and then the long words—and the things you say, women are like this, and men are like that, and polygamous and all the rest—well …” “Well?” he demanded. “Well, it just seems funny to me,” she said lamely. For she could have found no words at all for what she felt, that deep knowledge of the dangerousness and the sadness of life. Bombs fell on old men, lorries killed people, and the war went on and on, and the nights when he did not come to her she would sit by herself, crying for hours, not knowing why she was crying, looking down from the high window at the darkened, ravaged streets—a city dark with the shadow of war.

  In the early days of their love Jimmie had loved best the hours of tender, aimless, frivolous talk. But now she was, it seemed, always grave. And she questioned him endlessly about his life, about his childhood. “Why do you want to know?” he would enquire, unwilling to answer. And then she was hurt. “If you love someone, you want to know about them, it stands to reason.” So he would give simple replies to her questions, the facts, not the spirit, which she wanted. “Was your mum good to you?” she would ask, anxiously. “Did she cook nice?” She wanted him to talk about the things he had felt; but he would reply, shortly: “Yes” or “Not bad.”

  “Why don’t you want to tell me?” she would ask, puzzled.

  He repeated that he didn’t mind telling her; but all the same he hated it. It seemed to him that no sooner had one of those long companionable silences fallen, in which he could drift off into a pleasant dream, than the questions began. “Why didn’t you join up in the war?” she asked once. “They wouldn’t have me, that’s why.” “You’re lucky,” she said fiercely. “Lucky nothing, I tried over and over. I wanted to join.”

  And then, to her obstinate silence he said: “You’re queer. You’ve got all sorts of ideas. You talk like a pacifist; it’s not right when there’s a war on.”

  “Pacifist!” she cried angrily. “Why do you use all these silly words? I’m not anything.”

  “You ought to be careful, Rosie, if you go saying things like that where people can hear you, they’ll think you’re against the war, you’ll get into trouble.”

  “Well, I am against the war, I never said I wasn’t.”

  “But Rosie—”

  “Oh shut up. You make me sick. You all make me sick. Everybody just talks and talks, and those fat old so-and-so’s talking away in Parliament, they just talk so they can’t hear themselves think. Nobody knows anything and they pretend they do. Leave me alone, I don’t want to listen.” He was silent. To this Rose he had nothing to say. She was a stranger to him. Also, he was shocked: he was a talker who liked picking up phrases from books and newspapers and using them in a verbal game. But she, who could not use words, who was so deeply inarticulate, had her own ideas and stuck to them. Because he used words so glibly, she tried to become a citizen of his country—out of love for him and because she felt herself lacking. She would sit by the window with the newspapers and read earnestly, line by line, having first overcome her instinctive shrinking from the language of violence and hatred that filled them. But the war news, the slogans, just made her exhausted and anxious. She turned to the more personal. WAR TAKES TOLL OF MARRIAGE, she would read, WAR DISRUPTS HOMES. Then she dropped the paper and sat looking before her, her brow puzzled. That headline was about her, Rose. And again, she would read the divorces; some judge would pronounce: “This unscrupulous woman broke up a happy marriage and …” Again the paper dropped while Rose frowned and thought. That meant herself. She was one of those bad women. She was The Other Woman. She might even be that ugly thing, A Co-Respondent…. But she didn’t feel like that. It didn’t make sense. So she stopped reading the newspapers; she simply gave up trying to understand.

  She felt she was not on an intellectual level with Jimmie, so instinctively she fell back on her feminine weapons—much to his relief. She was all at once very gay, and he fell easily into the mood. Neither of them mentioned his wife for a time. It was their happiest time. After love, lying in the dark, they talked aimlessly, watching the sky change through moods of cloud and rain and tinted light, watching the searchlights. They took no notice of raids or danger. The war was nearly over, and they spoke as if it had already ended. “If we was killed now, I shouldn’t mind,” she said, seriously, one night when the bombs were bad. He said: “We’re not going to get killed, they can’t kill us.” It sounded a simple statement of fact: their love and happiness was proof enough against anything. But she said again, earnestly: “Even if we was killed, it wouldn’t matter. I don’t see how anything afterwards could be as good as this, now.”

  “Ah, Rosie, don’t be so serious always.”

  It was not long before they quarrelled again—because she was so serious. She was asking questions again about his past. She was trying to find out why the Army wouldn’t have him. He would never tell her. And then he said, impatiently, one night: “Well, if you must know, I’ve got ulcers…. Ah for God’s sake, Rosie, don’t fuss, I can’t stand being fussed.” For she had given a little cry and was holding him tight. “Why didn’t you tell me? I haven’t been cooking the proper things for you.”

  “Rose, for crying out aloud, don’t go on.”

  “But if you’ve got ulcers you must be fed right, it stands to reason.” And next evening when she served him some milk pudding, saying anxiously: “This won’t hurt your stomach,” he flared up and said, “I told you, Rosie, I won’t have you coddling me.” Her face was loving and stubborn and she said: “But you’ve got no sense….”

  “For the last time, I’m not going to put up with it.”

  She turned away, her mouth trembling, and he went to her and said desperately: “Now don’t take on Rosie, you mean it nicely, but I don’t like it, that’s why I didn’t tell you before. Get it?” She responded to him, listlessly, and he found himself thinking angrily: I’ve got two wives, not one…. They were both dismayed and unhappy because their happiness was so precarious it could vanish overnight just because of a little thing like ulcers and milk pudding.

  A few days later he ate in heavy silence through the supper she had provided, and then sarcasm broke out of him: “Well, Rosie, you’ve decided to humour me, that’s what it is.” The meal had consisted of steamed fish, baked bread, and very weak tea, which he hated. She looked uncomfortable, but said obstinately: “I went to a friend of mine who’s a chemist at the corner, and he told me what it was right for you to eat.” Involuntarily he got up, his face dark with fury. He hesitated, then he went out, slamming the door.

  He stood moodily in the pub, drinking. Pearl came across and sai
d: “What’s eating you tonight?” Her tone was light, but her eyes were sympathetic. The sympathy irritated him. He ground out: “Women!” slammed down his glass and turned to go. “Doesn’t cost you anything to be polite,” she said tartly, and he replied: “Doesn’t cost you anything to leave me alone.” Outside he hesitated a moment, feeling guilty. Pearl had been a friend for so long, and she had a soft spot for him—also, she knew about his wife, and about Rose, and made no comment, seemed not to condemn. She was a nice girl, Pearly was—he went back and said, hastily: “Sorry, Pearl, didn’t mean it.” Without waiting for a reply he left again, and this time set off for home.

  The woman he called his wife looked up from her sewing and asked briefly: “What do you want now?”

  “Nothing.” He sat down, picked up a paper and pretended to read, conscious of her glances. They were not hostile. They had gone a long way beyond that, and the fact that she seemed scarcely interested in him was a relief after Rose’s persistent, warm curiosity—like loving white fingers strangling him, he thought involuntarily. “Want something to eat?” she enquired at last.

  “What have you got?” he enquired cautiously, thinking of the tasteless steamed fish and baked bread he had just been offered.

  “Help yourself,” she returned, and he went to the cupboard on the landing, filled a plate with bread and mustard pickles and cheese, and came back to the room where she was. She glanced at his plate, but made no comment. After a while he asked sarcastically: “Aren’t you going to tell me I shouldn’t eat pickles?”

  “Couldn’t care less,” she returned equably. “If you want to kill yourself, it’s your funeral.” At this he laughed loudly, and she joined him. Later, she asked: “Staying here the night?”

  “If you don’t mind.” At this she gave a snort of derisive laughter, got up and said: “Well, I’m off to bed. You can’t have the sofa because the kids have got a friend and he’s got it. You’ll have to put a blanket and a cushion on the floor.”

  “Thanks,” he said, indifferently. “How are the kids?” he enquired, as an afterthought.

  “Fine—if you’re interested.”

  “I asked, didn’t I?” he replied, without heat. All this conversation had been conducted quietly, indifferently, and the undercurrent was almost amiable. An outsider would have said they hardly knew each other. When she had gone he took a blanket from a drawer, wrapped it round his legs, and settled himself in a chair. He had meant to think about himself and Rose, but instead he dropped off at once. He left the house early, before anyone was awake. All day at the factory he thought: About Rose, what must I do about Rose? After work he went instinctively to the pub. Pearl stood quietly behind the counter, showing him by her manner that she was not holding last night’s bad humour against him. He meant to have one drink and go, but he had three. He liked Pearl’s cheerful humour. She told him that her young man was playing about with another girl, and added, as if it hardly concerned her: “There’s plenty of fish in the sea after all.”

  “That’s right,” he said, non-committally.

  “Well, we all have our troubles,” she said, with a half-humorous sigh.

  “Yes—for all they’re worth.” At this he felt a pang of guilt because he had been thinking of Rose. Pearl was giving him a keen look. Then she said: ? didn’t say he hadn’t been worth it. But now that other girl’s getting all the benefit….” Here she laughed grimly.

  He liked this cheerful philosophy, and could not prevent himself saying: “He’s got no sense, turning you up.” He looked with appreciation at her crown of bright yellow curls, at her shapely body. Her eyes brightened, and he said goodnight quickly, and left. He mustn’t get mixed up with Pearl now, he was thinking.

  It was after eight. Usually he was with Rose by seven. He lagged down the street, thinking of what he would say to her, and entered the flat with a blank mind. For some reason he was very tired. Rose had eaten by herself, cleared the table, and now sat beside it, frowning over a newspaper. “What are you reading?” he asked, for something to break the ice. Looking over her shoulder he saw that she had marked a column headed: surplus women present problem to churches. He was surprised.

  “That’s what I am, a surplus woman,” she said, and gave that sudden, unexpected laugh.

  “What’s funny?” he asked, uncomfortably.

  “I’ve a right to laugh if I want,” she retorted. “Better than crying, anyhow.”

  “Oh, Rose,” he said helplessly. “Oh, Rose, stop it now….” She burst into tears and clung to him. But this was not the end, and he knew it. Later that night she said: “I want to tell you something …” and he thought: Now I’m for it—whatever it is.

  “You were home last night, weren’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said, alertly.

  A pause and then she asked: “What did she say?”

  “About what?” It was a fact that he did not immediately understand her. “Jimmie” she said incredulously, under her breath, and he said: “Rosie, it’s no good, I told you that before.”

  She did not immediately reply, but when she did her voice was very bitter: “Well, I see how it is now.”

  “You don’t see at all,” he said sarcastically.

  “Well, then, tell me?” He was silent. Her silence was like a persistent question. Again he felt as if the warm, soft fingers were wrapping around him. He felt suffocated. “There’s nothing to explain, I just can’t help it.” A pause, and then she said in the flat, laconic way he hated: “Yes?” That was all. For the time being, at least. A week later she said, calmly: “I went to see Jill’s granny today.”

  His heart faltered and he thought: Now what? “Well?” he enquired.

  “George was killed last month. In Italy.”

  He felt triumph, then he said guiltily: “I’m sorry.” She waved this away and said: “I told her granny that I want to adopt Jill.”

  “But Rose …” Then he saw her face and quailed.

  “I want kids,” she said fiercely. He dropped his gaze.

  “Her granny won’t give her up.”

  “I’m not so sure. At first she said no, then she thought it over a bit. She’s getting old now—eighty next year. She thinks perhaps Jill’d be better with me.”

  “You want to have the kid here?” he asked, incredulously. “Why shouldn’t I? You’re working all day.” She was silent; he looked at her—and slowly coloured.

  “Listen a minute,” she began, persuasively—not unpleasantly at all, though every word wounded Jimmie. “I furnished this place. It was my furniture and my money. And I’ve got a hundred still in the post office in case of accidents—I’ll need it; now the war’s over we won’t be earning so much money, if I know anything. So far, I’ve not been …” But here her instinctive delicacy overcame her, and she could not go on. She wanted to say that she paid for the food, paid for everything. Lately, even the rent. One week he had said, apologetically, that he hadn’t the cash, and that if she could do it this once—but now it was a regular thing.

  “You want me to give you the money so you can stay here with the kid?” he enquired, cautiously. She was blushing with embarrassment. “No, no,” she said, quickly. “Listen. If you can just pay the rent—that would be enough. I could get a part-time job, just the mornings. Jill goes to school now, and I’d manage somehow.”

  He digested this silently. He was thinking, unbelievingly: She wants to have a kid here, a kid’s always in the way—that means she can’t love me any more. He said slowly: “Well, Rosie, if that’s what you want, then go ahead.”

  Her face cleared into vivid happiness and she came running to him in the old way and kissed him and said: “Oh, Jimmie; oh, Jimmie….” He held her and thought, bitterly, that all this joy was not because of him; all she cared about was the kid—women! But at the back of his mind were two other thoughts: First, that he did not know how he would find the money to pay the rent unless he passed that examination soon, and the other was that the authorities would never let
Rose have Jill.

  Next evening Rose was despondent. “Did you see the officials?” he asked at last.

  “Yes.” She would not look at him. She was staring helpless down from the window.

  “Wasn’t it any good?”

  “They said I must prove myself a fit and proper person. So I said that I was. I told them I’d known Jill since she was born. I said I knew her mother and father.”

  “That’s true enough,” he could not help interjecting, jealously. She gave him a cold look and said: “Don’t start that now. I told them her granny was too old, and I could easily look after her.”

  “Well then?”

  She was silent; then, wringing her hands unconsciously, she cried out: “They wasn’t nice, they wasn’t nice to me at all. There were two of them, a woman and a man. They said: How could I support Jill? I said I could get money. They said I must show them papers and things….” She was silently crying now, but she did not come to him. She stayed at the window, her back turned, shutting him out of her sorrow. “They asked me, how could a working girl look after a child, and I said I’d do it easy, and they said, did I have a husband….” Here she leaned her head against the wall and sobbed bitterly. After a time he said: “Well, Rosie, it looks as if I’m no good for you. Perhaps you’d better give me up and get yourself a proper husband.” At this she jerked her head up, looked incredulously at him and cried: “Jimmie! How could I give you up….” He went to her, thinking, in relief: She loves me better after all. He meant: better than the child.

  It seemed that Rose had accepted her defeat. For some days she talked sorrowfully about those “nosey-parkers” at the Council. She was even humorous, though in the way that made him uneasy. “I’ll go to them,” she said, smiling grimly. “I’ll go and I’ll say: I can’t help being a surplus woman. Don’t blame me, blame the war, it’s not my fault that they keep killing all the men off in their silly wars….”

  And then his jealousy grew unbearable and he said: “You love Jill better than me.” She laughed in amazement, and said: “Don’t be a baby, Jimmie.” “Well, you must. Look how you go on and on about that kid. It’s all you think about.”