COV02 - A Proper Marriage

by Doris Lessing

  But surely Stella should be returning by now? And all this talk of generations had a stale, dead ring. Martha reacted violently against Mr Maynard, particularly because of that moment when he had invited her to flirt a little. She thought confusedly that there was always a point when men seemed to press a button, as it were, and one was expected to turn into something else for their amusement. This ‘turning into something else’ had landed her where she was now: married, signed and sealed away from what she was convinced she was. Besides – and here her emotions reached conviction - he was so old! She wished now, belatedly, that she had snubbed him for daring to think that she might have even exchanged a glance with him.

  He was inquiring, in a voice which engaged her attention, ‘I wonder if I might take this opportunity to inquire whether “the kids” - or, if you prefer it, “the gang” - behaved so badly that I may expect a bill for damages.’

  This was, underneath the severity, an appeal. Martha at once replied with compassion, ‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m sure it will be all right.’

  He retreated from the pity into gruffness, remarking, ‘I live in terror that one day Binkie’ll behave in such a way that I’ll have no alternative but to resign - not that you would see any misfortune in that,’ he added.

  Martha conceded that she was sure he was a marvellous magistrate; she sounded irritable. Then, as he did not move, she began to speak, giving him the information he was obviously waiting for, in the manner of one who was prepared to turn the knife in the wound if he absolutely insisted. ‘Binkie and the gang caught up with us that night about twelve. We shook up one of the hotels and made them open the bar …’

  ‘Illegal,’ he commented.

  ‘Well, of course. We — I mean the four of us - sneaked out while the gang were “giving it stick”’ - here she offered him an ironic smile, which he unwillingly returned - ‘and we drove all night till we reached the hotel. The gang came after us about eight in the morning. Luckily the hotel wasn’t full and there was room for everyone. The gang didn’t behave so badly, considering everything. The manager got very angry on the last day because Binkie - you remember those baboons that come up to the hotel for food? Well, Binkie and the gang caught one of the baboons and made it drunk and brought it on to the veranda. Well, it got out of control and started rampaging. But they caught it in the end, so that was all right. The baboon was sick,’ she added flatly, her mouth twisting. ‘Binkie and the baboon were dancing on the lawn. It was rather funny.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘It was - very. However,’ she pointed out coldly, ‘since the gang have been tearing the place to pieces for years, and no one has got hurt, they can’t be so crazy as they make out.’

  ‘Except for young Mandolis, who went over the edge of the Falls three years ago.’

  She shrugged. An allowable percentage of casualties, apparently. Then she added, in a different voice, hard and impatient, ‘There’s going to be a war, anyway.’

  ‘Since this will be my second world war, I have the advantage of knowing that those follies we commit under the excuse of wartime are not cancelled out when it’s over. On the contrary.’

  Again he had made a remark at random which went home. Mr Maynard, whose relations with his fellow human beings were based on the need that they should in some way defer to him, found that this young woman, who until now had clearly recognized no such obligation, was all at once transformed into a mendicant. She had come close to him, and was clutching at his sleeve. Her eyes were full of tears. ‘Mr Maynard,’ she said desperately, ‘Mr Maynard …’ But he was never to know what help she was asking of him. Afterwards he reflected that she was probably about to ask him if he could divorce her as rapidly and informally as he had married her, and was irrationally wounded because it was in his capacity as a magistrate that she was demanding help.

  A loud and cheerful voice sounded beside them. ‘Why, Mr Maynard,’ exclaimed Stella, grasping his hands and thus taking Martha’s place in front of him. ‘Why, Mr Maynard, how lovely to see you.’

  ‘How do you do?’ inquired Mr Maynard formally; in his manner was that irritation shown by a man who finds a woman attractive when he does not like her. He moved away, smiling urbanely at Martha. ‘I shall leave you in the hands of your matron - matron of honour?’ With this he nodded and left them. He was thinking irritably, Wanting it both ways … and then: Am I supposed to supply the part of priest and confessor as well? She should have got married in church. Nevertheless, he was left with the feeling of a debt undischarged, and he glanced back to see the two young women crossing the street, and apparently engaged in violent argument.

  ‘But I’ve just made the appointment,’ said Stella angrily. ‘And she’s had to cancel someone else. You can’t change your mind now.’

  ‘I’m not going to have my hair cut,’ said Martha calmly. ‘I never said I would. You said so.’ It was perfectly easy to resist now; it had been impossible ten minutes ago. She gave a glance over her shoulder at the firm and stable back of Mr Maynard, who was just turning the corner,

  ‘She’s a very good hairdresser, Matty - just out from England. Besides,’ added Stella virtuously, ‘you look awful, Matty, and it’s your duty to your husband to look nice.’

  But at this Martha laughed wholeheartedly.

  ‘What’s funny?’ asked Stella suspiciously. But she knew that this amusement, which she never understood, was Martha’s immunity to her, and she said crossly, ‘Oh, very well, I’ll cancel it again.’

  She went into Chez Paris; and in half a minute they were continuing on their way.

  ‘We’ll be late for the doctor,’ said Stella reproachfully, but Martha said, ‘We are ten minutes early.’

  The doctor’s rooms were in a low white building across the street. Looking upwards, they saw a series of windows shuttered against the sun, green against the glare of white.

  ‘Dr Stern’s got the nicest waiting room in town, it’s all modern,’ said Stella devotedly.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Martha said, and went indoors without looking back.

  On the first floor was a passage full of doors, all marked ‘Private’. Stella knocked on one of these. It opened almost at once to show a woman in a white dress, who held its edge firmly, as if against possible assault. She looked annoyed; then, seeing Stella, she said with nervous amiability, ‘It’s lovely to see you, dear, but really I’m busy.’

  ‘This is Matty,’ said Stella. ‘You know, the naughty girl who married Douggie behind everyone’s back.’

  The young woman smiled at Martha in a friendly but harassed way and came out into the passage, shutting the door behind her. She pulled a half-smoked cigarette from her deep white pocket, lit it, and puffed as if she were starved for smoke. ‘I really shouldn’t, but the doctor’ll manage,’ she said, drawing deep breaths of smoke. She was a thin girl, with lank wisps of thin black hair, and pale worried blue eyes. Her body was flat and bony in the white glazed dress, which was a uniform, but no more than a distant cousin of the stiff garments designed by elderly women to disguise the charms of young ones. ‘My Willie knows your Douggie – they’ve been boys together for years,’ she said with tired indulgence.

  Martha was by now not to be surprised at either the information or the tone, although she had never heard of Willie.

  ‘My God, but I’m dead,’ went on Alice. ‘Dr Stern is my pet lamb, but he works himself to death, and he never notices when anyone else does. I was supposed to leave an hour ago.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Stella quickly, ‘that’s easy, then. Just slip Matty quickly in for her appointment, then we’ll all go and have a drink.’

  ‘Oh, but I can’t dear,’ said Alice feebly; but Stella gave her a firm little push towards the door; so that she nodded and said, ‘All right, then, there’s lots waiting from before you, but I’ll manage it.’ She slipped the crushed end of cigarette back into her pocket, and went into the room marked ‘Private’.

  Martha followed Stella into the waiting
room. It was full. About fifteen or twenty women, with a sprinkling of children, were jealously eyeing the door into the consulting room. Martha edged herself into a seat, feeling guilty that she was about to take priority. Stella, however, stood openly waiting, with the look of one for whom the ordinary rules did not apply.

  Almost at once the consulting-room door opened, and a bland voice bade a lady goodbye; she came out blushing with pleasure and giving challenging looks to those who still waited.

  ‘Come on,’ said Stella loudly, ‘now it’s us.’

  She pushed Martha forward, as Alice looked around into the waiting room, and said in the kindly nervous voice which was her characteristic, ‘Yes, dear - it’s you, Mrs Knowell.’

  Stella went beside Martha to the door; but there Alice held out one barring hand, with a professional look, and pulled Martha forward with the other. The door shut behind Martha, excluding Stella.

  This was a large, quiet room, with a white screen in one corner which was bathed in greenish light from the shutters over the window. An enormous desk filled half the outer wall, and behind it sat Dr Stern, his back to the light. Over an efficient white coat a smooth pale heavy-lidded face lifted for a moment, the pale cool eyes flicked assessingly over Martha, and dropped again as he said, ‘Please sit down.’

  Martha sat, and wondered how she should start: she did not really want any advice. She looked at the top of Dr Stern’s head, which was bent towards her as he flicked quickly through some papers. He had a mat of thick black crinkling hair; his neck was white, thin - very young. She saw him suddenly as a young man, and was upset. Then he said, ‘If you’ll excuse me for one moment …’ and glanced up again, before continuing to leaf through the papers. The upwards look was so impersonal that her anxiety vanished. She yawned. A weight of tiredness settled on her, with the cool silence of the room. A patch of yellow sunlight slanted through the slats of the blind on to the desk. Her eye was caught by it, held. She yawned again. She heard his voice: ‘Allow me to congratulate you on carrying off young Knowell – I’ve known him quite a time.’ He sounded quietly paternal; and she was reminded again that he was probably no older than Douglas, who had agreed enthusiastically to Stella’s insistence that Martha should see the doctor at once: ‘Yes, Dr Stern’s just the ticket - yes, you go along, Matty, and get to know him, he’ll show you the ropes.’

  Yet, since Martha knew the ropes, there was nothing to say. Her eyes still fixed by the yellow patch of light, she let herself slide deeper into the comfortable chair, and Dr Stern inquired, ‘Sleepy?’

  ‘Haven’t had much sleep,’ she agreed, without moving.

  Dr Stern looked at her again and noticed that she, in her turn, was unhappily regarding Alice, who was folding something white behind the white screen.

  ‘It’s all right, Mrs Burrell, just go next door for a moment. I’ll call you.’ Alice went out, with a kind, reassuring smile at Martha. ‘And leave the door open,’ said Dr Stern, for Martha’s benefit, which she did not appreciate: she would have preferred it shut.

  And now Dr Stern, whose handling of the situation had been by no means as casual as it appeared, gave a swift downwards glance at his watch. Martha noticed it, and sat herself up.

  ‘Well, Mrs Knowell,’ he began smoothly, and, after a short silence, went on to deliver a lecture designed for the instruction of brides. He spoke slowly, as if afraid of forgetting some of it from sheer familiarity. When he had finished, Martha said obstinately that according to authority so and so another method was preferable. He gave her a quick look, which meant that this was a greater degree of sophistication than he was used to; almost he switched to the tone he used with married women of longer standing. But he hesitated. Martha’s words might be matter-of-fact, but her face was anxious, and she was gripping her hands together in her lap.

  He went off at a tangent to describe a conference on birth control he had attended in London, and concluded with a slightly risky joke. Martha laughed. He added two or three more jokes, until she was laughing naturally, and returned to the subject by a side road of ‘A patient of mine who …’ Now he proceeded to recommend the method she had herself suggested, and with as much warmth as if he had never recommended another. His calm, rather tired, remote voice was extremely soothing; Martha was no longer anxious; but for good measure he concluded with a little speech which, if analysed, meant nothing but that everything was all right, one should not worry, one should take things easy. These phrases having repeated themselves often enough he went on to remark gently that some women seemed to imagine birth control was a sort of magic; if they bought what was necessary and left it lying in a corner of a drawer, nothing more was needed. To this attitude of mind, he said, was due a number of births every year which would astound the public. He laughed so that she might, and looked inquiringly at her. She did laugh, but a shadow of worry crossed her face. He saw it, and made a mental note. There was a silence. This time his glance at his watch was involuntary: the waiting room was full of women all of whom must be assured, for various reasons, that everything was all right, there was nothing to worry about, of course one did not sleep when one was worried, of course everyone was worried at times – of course, of course, of course.

  Again Martha saw the glance and rose. He rose with her and took her to the door.

  ‘And how’s your husband keeping?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ said Martha automatically; then it struck her as more than politeness and she looked inquiringly.

  ‘His stomach behaving itself?’

  ‘Oh, we’ve both got digestions like an ostrich,’ she said with a laugh, thinking of the amount they had drunk and eaten in the last few weeks. Then she said quickly, ‘There’s surely nothing wrong with his stomach?’ Her voice was full of the arrogance of perfect health. She heard it herself. ‘What’s the matter with him?’ she repeated. The solicitude in her voice rang false.

  ‘I believe I’ve been indiscreet,’ said Dr Stern. ‘But he is silly not to tell you. Ask him.’ And now he smiled, and held out his hand, saying that if she wanted help, if she just wanted to drop in for a chat, she must give him a ring. Martha wrung the hand, and left his room with the same look of soft, grateful pleasure that the previous patient had worn.

  The other women watched her critically; they found that confused, self-confessing smile ridiculous. Then, as Stella rose to join her, they lost interest and turned their eyes back to the closed door.

  ‘Well, was he nice, did you like him?’ asked Stella urgently; and Martha said reticently that he was very nice.

  Nothing more, it seemed, was forthcoming; and Stella urged, laughing, ‘Did you learn anything new?’ And it occurred to Martha for the first time that she had not. Her sense of being supported, being understood, was so strong that she stopped in the passage, motionless, with the shock of the discovery that in fact Dr Stern had said nothing at all, and in due course Douglas would be sent a bill for half a guinea — for what?

  Stella tugged at her arm, so that she was set in motion again; and Martha remarked irritably that Dr Stern was something of an old woman, ‘sitting all wrapped up behind his desk like a parcel in white tissue paper, being tactful to a blushing bride.’

  At once Stella laughed and said that she never took the slightest notice of what he said, either; as for herself and her husband, they had used such and such a method for three years, and she distinctly remembered Dr Stern telling them it was useless.

  ‘Well,’ asked Martha ungratefully, ‘what did you send me for, then?’

  ‘Oh!’ Stella was shocked and aggrieved. ‘But he’s so nice, and so up to date with everything, you know.’

  ‘He can’t be much older than you are,’ remarked Martha, in that same rather resentful voice. She was astounded that Stella was deeply shocked – at least, there could be no other explanation for her withdrawal into offended dignity. ‘If you don’t want a really scientific; doctor then …’ Belatedly, Martha thanked her for the service; but they had reached
the door marked ‘Private’, where they must wait for Alice; and Stella forgot her annoyance in the business of wriggling the door handle silently to show Alice they were there.

  On the other side of the door, Alice was holding the handle so that it should not rattle, and watching Dr Stern to catch the right moment for announcing the next patient. Usually, having accompanied a patient to the door, he went straight back to his desk. This time, having shed his calm paternal manner over Martha’s farewells, he went to the window and looked down at the street through the slats in the shutter. He looked tired, even exasperated. Alice expected him to complain again about being a woman’s doctor, ‘I can’t understand why I get this reputation,’ he would grumble. ‘Nine-tenths of my practice are women. And women with nothing wrong with them.’

  But he did not say it. Alice smiled as she saw him adjust the shutter so that the patch of sun, which was now on the extreme edge of the desk, should return to the empty space of polished wood nearer the middle. He turned and caught the smile, but preferred not to notice it. He frowned slightly and remarked that in three months’ time Mrs Knowell would be back in this room crying her eyes out and asking him to do an abortion - he knew the type.

  Alice did not smile; she disliked him in this mood. Her eyes were cold. She noted that his tired body had straightened, his face was alert and purposeful.

  He seated himself and said, ‘Make a card out for Mrs Knowell tomorrow.’ He almost added, laughing, ‘And book her a room in the nursing home.’ But he remembered in time that one did not make this sort of joke with Mrs Burrell, who was sentimental; his previous nurse had been better company. All the same, he automatically made certain calculations. January or February, he thought. He even made a note on his pad; there was a complacent look on his face.

  ‘That will do, Mrs Burrell. Thank you for staying over your time – you mustn’t let me overwork you.’ He smiled at her; the smile had a weary charm.