Martha Quest (20 page)

Here Martha flushed with annoyance, and exclaimed, ‘It really is the limit!’

‘Yes, Matty, I’m sorry—but…Oh dear, it is so difficult. You see, we are really very poor, and…’

Matty suddenly laughed, thinking of the oblique semi-poverty of her home, and of this expensive house, and of the secret luxurious life of Mrs Anderson: also, like a black screen against which this minor anomaly was exposed stood that knowledge she had brought with her from her earliest years: the fact that the poverty of the Quest family represented unimaginable and unreachable wealth to the black serfs who supported them.

‘It’s not a joke, Matty,’ said Mrs Anderson, who was annoyed, although she smiled in the rueful, charming way that Martha herself used when pleading false claims. ‘After all Mr Anderson’s retired, and we’re not rich. I have some money but not much, and living is so expensive these days, isn’t it?’ So too the millionaire, indicating his several houses, his cars, his yacht: ‘But it all costs a lot to keep up,’ he says indignantly.

‘Well, Mamma,’ said Donovan, giving judgement, ‘I think you’re a naughty old girl, and I’m cross with you.’

Mrs Anderson brightened and reached up to kiss him. He generously extended his cheek. ‘I’m afraid I have a dinner engagement,’ she said in her normal gracious tone, standing up. ‘You two can look after yourselves. Don’t forget Mr Anderson’s tray—tell the boy scrambled egg, he’s sick of boiled eggs, he says.’ She smiled humorously. ‘Good night, dears, and forgive a silly old woman.’ And she swept
out, touching her hair delicately with one hand and her smudged and blackened eyes with the other; she was frowning now, at the thought of the time it would take to do her face, for she was very late.

Martha and Donovan, left alone, did not immediately look at each other. They were irritable. They understood that this scene had raised certain problems; and Martha, for her part, was waiting for him to put these problems into words—for a man should surely take the initiative?

And so he did, but not as she expected. ‘Well, Matty,’ he remarked at last, plucking at the beautiful rose and copper gladioli whose arrangement must have cost Mrs Anderson so much trouble, ‘well, it seems that we’re supposed to make love,’ and he looked at her gloomily, even resentfully.

She gave a snort of astonished and offended laughter. She stopped, then laughed again. She looked at Donovan, who was regarding her with puzzled annoyance, and went off into a peal of laughter that grew hysterical and broke into a fit of coughing. And then silence. She sighed; she was very tired and depressed.

‘It’s all very well,’ said Donovan resentfully, ‘it’s all very well.’ Again that critical, almost angry look; and now there was anger in the look she directed at him; for a few moments their eyes challenged each other, and then dropped away; and if Mrs Quest or Mrs Anderson had looked in then, she might have been surprised, and even disappointed, to find this couple separated by several feet of carpet and apparently on the verge of a bad quarrel.

‘I suppose we had better eat,’ said Donovan at last.

With the relieved knowledge that the moment of crisis was postponed, they went to the dining room, where Donovan regained his good humour ordering his father’s scrambled eggs. And after that they went as usual to the pictures; and again as usual, on to McGrath’s, where Donovan seemed to find no objection to sharing a large table with about a dozen others.

‘Our Donny-boy’s in good form tonight,’ said Maisie, who happened to be near Martha, under escort of one of the sportsmen.

And Donovan was—gay, malicious and amusing. He seemed determined to eclipse the sportsmen; he made fun of them, told spiteful stories at their expense, and then took the sting from it by telling stories against himself; and at midnight withdrew triumphantly with Martha, saying, ‘And now, Matty, you must get your beauty sleep, or you’ll lose your looks and then none of us will love you any more.’

The sportsmen gallantly insisted that they would love Matty, and all their girls, forever; but without their usual assurance, and this was not only because of Donovan’s triumph but because of the discordant note he always introduced.

On the pavement he said lightly, with the astonishing frankness which was possible only because he could not hear the discordancy, ‘You must admit, Matty, that I’m much more entertaining than those oafs, who have all their brains in their thighs?’ And when she assented he continued, ‘I really think you’d better stick to me, you know. The last girl I took out deserted me for them, and really you should have seen her, she was so bored I could have cried for her.’

‘And what happened to her?’ asked Martha curiously,

‘She got married—a businessman from Nairobi,’ he said, as if this served her right, a sentiment which Martha could not help sharing; though she began to dissent from it when he continued, ‘All you girls get married, you have no strength of mind at all. I really do feel that all this sex is overrated, don’t you?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Martha humorously, ‘I haven’t tried yet.’

But he would not accept the humour. He pressed her arm urgently, and looked down into her face and insisted, ‘Well, don’t you think so? All you girls want to be made love to, and really…’ His face faded in disgust.

Although Martha had every intention of agreeing for the sake of good nature, she began to laugh; and he waited until this rather strained laughter was finished, and muttered bad-temperedly, ‘Women are oversexed, that’s what I think.’

She began to chatter, in her social manner, about a book on the sexual customs of the Bantu, which she had just read; and thought it
ill-tempered of him not to accept what she imagined was a pleasant way out of personal comment: she was saying that among primitive races girls were judged to be sexually mature long before they were in civilized communities.

But he remained silent until he dropped her at her door, and slid his customary good-night kiss on her cheek, saying, ‘Well, Matty, I’ve decided to take you to a dance at the Sports Club next Saturday, and risk all; I can see you are tugging at the leash.’

‘Poor Donovan,’ said Martha, and she laughed again, she could not help it. Suddenly what she at once described to herself as a mischievous impulse (since she was immediately overwhelmed by embarrassment at herself) made her say, ‘Kiss me properly, Don.’ She held her face invitingly under his, and half closed her eyes, thankful it was dark, for she could feel a hot flush creeping up her cheeks. She waited, watching his furious eyes through her lashes, until he clasped her and shook her hard.

‘Now, stop it, Matty,’ he said firmly. ‘I will not be teased. You must behave yourself, or I won’t take you to a dance.’

On this note they parted. In her room, Martha first was angry, and then since it was her instinct to adapt herself, saw herself through Donovan’s eyes and became humiliated. Behind this confusion of feeling was another: she murmured to herself that one felt so safe with Donovan; she was relieved she was going to the Sports Club with him; and for a girl whose first article of faith was that one was entitled to lose one’s virginity as romantically and as soon as possible, this was surely an odd thing to think? The fact was, the thought of making love with Donovan was rapidly becoming impossible, even indecent: she had several times called him Jonathan, and never noticed the slip of the tongue.

The Sports Club had come into existence about five years before, and in
a way characteristic of the country. For when it was first suggested, at a ladies’ bridge party, Mrs Maynard said, ‘What a pity there isn’t a sports club in this town,’ and the others assented, without feeling it necessary to point out that there were several; they belonged to the employees of the railways, the post office, various businesses. From half-past four until sundown, every open space in the city was crowded with young people engaged in violent activity.

Mrs Maynard was large, strong-minded, black-browed and energetic, the wife of a magistrate; and she was a lady. That is, in England, where she married Mr Maynard, she had belonged to the governing class by birth. Mrs Lowe-Island was a lady only because she had married Mr Lowe-Island, whose family had connections with the English aristocracy. She was a vulgar, spiteful woman who did not pride herself on saying just what she thought, because it had never entered her head there were occasions when one should not. She at once said, ‘I quite agree with you, dear. We need a place with some class. There should be somewhere for civil servants and people like us.’ Mrs Maynard, who, because of her upbringing, understood first of all the arts
of suggestion, was naturally pained at having her thought so crudely expressed; but she did not snub Mrs Lowe-Island, because she was unsnubbable, and because in her secret heart she considered her hardly worth the effort. A third lady, Mrs Talbot, was so dissimilar to the other two that her continued friendship with them was a tribute to their mutual passion for bridge. She was a charming, elegant lady, whose chief interest was her delicate and artistic daughter; and she now murmured, with a kind of laughing tolerance which was an appeal to her companions, that it would be nice for the children to have a place where they could play games; and it is a remarkable fact that until they were mentioned the claims of youth had not occurred to the other women. Mrs Knowell, the fourth, at once exclaimed warmly and generously, ‘Oh yes, we must do something for the young people, my Douggie loves rugger, though I keep telling him he’ll break his neck.’

There was a silence, for it was apparent that here was a conflict in intention. But Mrs Knowell was aflame with excitement, and soon began talking again, and in a few minutes the Sports Club was built and furnished, and in the throes of an inaugural ball. They laughed at her, teased her; particularly Mrs Maynard and Mrs Lowe-Island, for they had imagined the Sports Club as a large shadowy veranda, with native servants standing like willing statues around the walls, plenty of sundowners, and that laughter which is the result of personal comment, while behind this imaginary veranda was a bridge room, filled with elderly ladies.

That evening Mrs Maynard talked to her husband, who expressed agreement by saying it was a paying proposition; Mrs Lowe-Island talked until Mr Lowe-Island said he was no snob, but there were times when…Mrs Talbot told her daughter tenderly that it was bad to spend so much time on her water colours, a game of tennis occasionally would help avert the migraine and fainting fits to which, like a Victorian maiden, she was addicted. And Mrs Knowell telephoned her son at the office, which he had forbidden her to do, and
irritated him until he said, ‘Yes, but for goodness’ sake, Mater, tell me another time.’

All these ladies were adept at raising money for good causes, and they found it even easier to raise a large sum for what would be a paying proposition; and very soon there was a large committee of about thirty people, not one of whom was under forty-five. They all had determined ideas about the number of bridge rooms, sundowner lounges and bars the place should possess; and they were on the verge of buying a site which would have room for a club building and perhaps one tennis court, when a new factor entered the situation—which is a mild phrase for what happened when Binkie Maynard picked up the architect’s plans (marked ‘Sports Club’) and went off into loud laughter.

‘What’s this, a home for retired civil servants?’ he demanded.

His mother reproached him; his father regarded him with a certain practised apprehension; and Binkie looked at the plans with a growing interest, until at last he said, ‘What-ho, chaps, this has got something—got something, hey?’ He flapped the plans in the air, let out a whoop, and flew out of the house in search of a fellow spirit.

Binkie had first given signs of what he was destined to become when, at the age of four, plated into tight sky-blue satin, he climbed onto the bride’s table at his sister’s wedding among the flowers and ribbons, and piped, ‘And now it is my turn to give you a toast…’ He was lifted down, kicking and bawling. At school he was at the bottom of his class, and useless at games, but he organized clubs and societies of all kinds. When he left school, his father put him into the civil service, where at least he could come to no harm, and there he soon arranged clubs-for-having-sandwiches-at-lunchtime and associations-for-saving-money-for-buying-presents-on-retirement. He was the thorn in his father’s flesh, his mother’s pride, the despair of his chief. He was a large ungainly, red-faced, black-locked youth of twenty when those plans fell like manna from heaven into his hands and gave him the outlet he needed for his genius.

He said to his father next day, ‘I say, it isn’t fair, you need the young element, I mean to say?’ His father could hardly disagree.

At the next committee meeting, Binkie, Douglas Knowell, and half a dozen other young men took the floor. Binkie was chairman, not because he had been elected, but by virtue of his deadly single-mindedness. At the second meeting, there were several girls in shorts and sweaters, who were polite to the elderly ladies and coy with the old men, but treated them as if they hardly had the right to be there at all.

Mrs Lowe-Island got up (for she had not understood, as the rest had, their complete rout) and said that she was no snob, but the club must be restricted; and Binkie climbed to his feet before she had even finished, and with those large, black, indignant eyes fixed on her said he was upset, yes, really upset to hear that anyone, even Mrs Lowe-Island, who deserved three hearty cheers for what she had done, could make remarks that really—he didn’t think anyone would disagree with him—were not in the spirit of the country. This wasn’t England, he meant to say, this was a new country; he wasn’t used to making speeches, but really, he was going to suggest that the club should be free to anyone who could find twenty shillings a year, which was a lot of money to some people, though some people (he meant no offence) might not believe it, and that’s all he wanted to say, and that was enough. Here there was a murmur of passionate agreement from all the golden girls and boys; and there was never another suggestion about snobs or restrictions.

From that time, and for several months, the Maynard house swarmed day and night with young men and women. Committee meetings were held, but as a matter of form, and to satisfy and support and confirm arrangements already made by Binkie.

There was one afternoon when Binkie caught sight of his mother playing bridge in a corner of the veranda with three other ladies, all huddled forward to escape the pressure from a throng of shouting and arguing youth; and a pang of contrition must have assailed him, for
he said to his father afterwards, ‘I say, I hope you don’t think we’ve been shoving our way in. I mean, it is a
sports
club, isn’t it?’

Mr Maynard, a suave and cultivated man, raised his eyebrows slightly and smiled; but, finding this gesture insufficient, he murmured, ‘My dear Binkie, I cannot tell you what a relief I find it that you are not, as I was beginning to suspect, without a natural bent. You have my blessing—if it turns out you cannot dispense with it, which I am afraid I find it hard to believe.’

Binkie, after a pause, gave an uncertain smile, and said heartily, ‘Oh. Well, that’s all right, then, isn’t it?’

‘So I gather you will have no objection if I resign from the committee and devote myself to reducing my handicap at golf—may I point out that you have made no provision for a golf course in your plans for the Sports Club?’

‘That’s not fair,’ said Binkie, in an aggrieved voice. ‘We’ve got first refusal on the land just behind the building site, and it’ll fall vacant in six months, so I reckon there’ll be a full-size golf course in a year’s time.’

‘My apologies,’ said Mr Maynard. ‘I withdraw completely. But, as to my first point, I suggest that I and your mother be allowed to resign. No ill feeling on either side, but now you’ve agreed that there may be a small side room where the ladies may play bridge, and I’m assured of my golf course, I feel our usefulness is at an end.’

‘I say!’ said Binkie reproachfully. ‘That’s not the spirit, Dad.’

‘But you’ve my blessing, as I’ve already said. After all, we’re more of a hindrance than a help.’

‘But who’s going to raise the money?’ asked Binkie. ‘We need another ten thousand at least if we’re going to have four squash courts and proper changing rooms, and the golf course won’t get built for nothing.’

‘Let’s get this clear,’ said Mr Maynard. ‘You want myself and your mother to remain on the committee to raise money for you?’

‘You can resign if you like,’ said Binkie kindly, ‘but we must have
the finance committee, mother and Mrs Lowe-Island and the rest, to fix the money.’

Mr Maynard’s cheeks swelled, buttoned in by a tight and commenting mouth, while his eyebrows rose like black kites; it was an appearance he had evolved for use in the law courts, where he was magistrate, to impress native offenders into an awe-ful frame of mind; but Binkie merely looked impatient. He allowed his brows to fall and his cheeks to deflate. ‘Well, well, well,’ he murmured. He nodded slowly again. ‘Tell me, what makes you think ten thousand’ll be enough? Where did you get the figures?’

‘Oh, I can show you the figures, if you want. It’s ten thousand six hundred and fifty-four pounds ten shillings and fourpence.’

‘You worked that out? You worked it out yourself with estimates and a piece of paper and a pencil?’

‘I’ve no head for figures,’ said Binkie good-naturedly. ‘I got Douggie to do it. He’s the tops with figures.’

‘Well, well, well, the born organizer. Who’d have thought it? Well, it’s worth it. I should have put you into industry,’ said Mr Maynard.

‘I say,’ said Binkie, annoyed, ‘you’re not going to start changing jobs for me now? I haven’t got time. I’m busy with the Club. Besides, they’re going to put me up a grade at Christmas. After all, you’ve got to say that for the Service, they have to put you
up
, it’s only fair.’

In 1935 the Sports Club site marked the division between the old residential quarter of shady avenues and rambling veranda’d houses and the naked veld. Its boundary fence ran along North Avenue; and for many years people had used the phrase ‘North Avenue’ adjectively. ‘She’s ever so North Avenue,’ Donovan might say approvingly. Here lived senior civil servants, the Cabinet ministers, even the Prime Minister. But now they looked across the street, through the tall creamy trunks of a double line of gum trees, over the playing fields to the club house. It was a noble building, in the Cape Colonial style, of smooth dark-red brick, with a green roof all curves and gables, and a deep veranda supported on stately white pillars. The playing fields,
several acres of them, were smooth emerald in the rains, but a scurfy brown in the dry season, in spite of the perpetually working hoses, which were dragged all day like thick black coiling serpents into different positions by a team of half a dozen natives.

Inside there was a large, high-ceilinged room with a polished dark-wood floor, comfortable chairs, and a fireplace at each end; and this room was cleared two or three times a week for dances. Off this room, on one side, were a series of bars and sundowner lounges; and on the other, hidden among changing rooms, a small room which could be used for bridge—though any ladies reckless enough to settle themselves in it for a comfortable afternoon were likely to find Binkie’s shock head poked through the door at them, with the firm injunction, ‘The squash rackets committee will be wanting this in ten minutes, I’m just giving you fair warning.’ For at about four in the afternoon, the Club, comparatively deserted until then, suddenly surged with young men in white flannels and striped jerseys, and girls in gym tunics, shorts, or coloured dungarees; and waiters ran to and fro, staggering under trays loaded with the ubiquitous glass mugs of golden beer. The veranda was crowded; dozens of bare, red-brown, hairy legs, male and female, dangled over the edge; all eyes, devoted, expert, and earnest, followed the hockey and rugger, and from time to time the sound of clapping fell thinly across the wide field, or the cry: ‘That’s
it
, Jolly, old man’ or a moan, ‘Betty, Betty, you’ll
kill
me with that pass’ and an anxious youth might fall backwards, with an exaggerated loosening of his limbs, to lie on the veranda, murmuring, ‘That kid Betty’ll kill me, she’ll kill me, I say!’ He lay waiting until someone took the cue and hastened to him with beer, when he slowly sat up, his eyes roving anxiously around his audience to test the effect of his performance, saying apologetically, ‘These kids, these girls! I can’t stand it, no, they kill me.’ And he thoughtfully drank his beer, amid sympathetic laughter, perhaps even applause, with the modest air of a good actor who knows he has been on the top of his form.

And through these groups moved Binkie, the now kingly Binkie, a carelessly generous, untidy, beer-fat young man, his black eyes
always on the watch for any sign of dissidence or discord. He would stop beside a young man, murmuring, ‘If you’ve a moment, there’s that business of the shower…’ And the youth would at once move away with him, and the two stood rather at a distance from the others, with a conscious though deprecatory importance, discussing the machinery of living. Or he would saunter down the length of the veranda, nodding here and there, the busy man for once at leisure, while the girls offered, tentatively, ‘Hello, Binks?’ ‘Hullo, kid,’ he returned, kindly, and at last might come to a standstill beside one, and put his arm about her, and his face would assume the agonized, frustrated look which was obligatory, while he said, ‘You’re killing me, baby, you’re killing me. Who’s your boy friend, let me kill him for you.’ She remained passive, with the equally obligatory look of maternal indulgence, while the other girls laughed; they were flattered, for this was a mark of attention to them all; she was their representative. But even as Binkie moaned and offered homage, his eyes were roving in a sharp lookout for the next thing that must claim his attention; and suddenly he straightened, patting the girl lightly, as if to say, ‘Well, so much for you,’ and on he strolled to tell the next group that they must drink up, they’d had the same round for half an hour, and the Club’d go bankrupt if everyone didn’t pull their weight. ‘You’re not co-operating,’ he would say earnestly. And automatically the hands reached out for the mugs. ‘Waiter!’ shouted Binkie, waving a lordly hand. ‘Waiter, fill up here!’