A Proper Marriage - Doris Lessing

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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

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