He was holding her as if she were a child in a nightmare, comforting her. She was back in herself, with the man comforting her, in a room where it was now dark: the candles had burned right down; and beyond the lowered blackout curtain a greying of light-morning.
‘Oh Cod, Jack, it was like a nightmare, ’ she wept in his arms.
‘What, tell me, what was it? ’
‘Do you see pictures, Jack? Do you hear voices? ’
‘I see scenes sometimes-do you mean the pictures like scenes from a film? ’
‘Yes, but, oh my God, Jack, this time it really was awful.’
‘Tell me then, tell me, tell me …’
But the house had gone with its load of half-grown children and the woman who was responsible for it, for them. She could not ‘remember’ it: she only knew it had been there, because of the fearful sadness that filled her now.
‘I don’t know. It’s all gone. And it was silly …’ She sat up, Jack with her, she was back in her day-time self and it was silly. She was soaked with her tears. All her face and her breasts were wet with tears.
‘I’m sorry, ’ she said.
‘You gave me such a scare, Martha. I was right away, and then I heard you crying, and I wondered, who’s that crying? And then it came to me, yes, it must be Martha. So I brought us down again.’
They sat side by side on the crumpled hot bed. Behind the
blackout curtains, the light was already stronger: the sun must be up over the roofs and treetops of London.
‘Look, Martha, you were terribly tired last night, you were upset. Perhaps this was really just a time for us both to come and then off to sleep. Shall I make you come properly, Martha, and then we’ll sleep a bit? ’
‘Oh, jack, I feel so sad, there was something awful, but I’ve just remembered, there was something lovely as well: a lovely picture, like the golden age, men and women and animals and children all together walking along. I want to cry.’
When she woke up, he was making coffee at the spirit stove. He stood naked with his back to her. A tall thin man-a body. A woman lying on the bed, a body.
She knew from the alert concentration with which he turned with the cups in his hands that he was adjusting the tension that now lay slack between them for a new curve upwards. It was about seven in the morning. She had five hours before meeting Phoebe for lunch. They sat by each other, and slowly, without talking, let the wheel carry them up and over. This time, when her mind finally clicked off, went beyond the pictures and the voices, she did not retain any memory of it; was aware again only as she made the slow descent. The different rhythms disengaged and she entered normality: which was, she understood now, a condition of disparateness. She had never really seen before how the separate parts of herself went on working individually, by themselves, not joining: that was the condition of being ‘normal’ as we understand it. Breath flows on, blood beats on, separately from each other; my sex lives on there, responding, or not; my heart feels this and that, and my mind up here goes working on, quite different from the heart; yet when the real high place of sex is reached, everything moves together, it is just that moment when everything does move together that makes the gears shift up. Yet people regarded sex as the drainer, the emptier, instead of the maker of energy. They did not know. But why was it that people didn’t know? There was a knowledge that was no part of our culture, hinted at merely; you could come across references. Or you could stumble on it. Like Jack, who had said to a hand numbed by a loss of blood and cold: hold on, and it held on because it had been given orders, for twelve hours. A moment of extremity in war had taught Jack a simple law about his own body. Supposing he had not had that chance, could
Jack have become one of the men who regard sex as a kind of currency to be measured out. Well, whatever Jack could have been, it had to be an extreme, that was certain. Jack could as easily have been a sex-hating bigot, he could have been as violently afraid of sex as he now passionately pursued the knowledge of its laws, of its control and understanding. He would have been violent and extreme whatever course he had taken-or been set on, by the accidents of his experience.
But now, Jack and Martha, having made love for hours, came to themselves light and easy, and as if they had been washed through and through by currents of energy. She felt as if she had been connected to a dynamo, the centre of her life. But Jack could not be the centre of her life-he would not be the centre of any woman’s life.
Why not
? And as she came around again to this warning thought, she opened her eyes, smiling, to hide that she was thinking it. They lay there washed up side by side, smiling and delighted and rested.
At half past twelve she rang Phoebe to say she could not make lunch that day, it would have to be tomorrow: and heard Phoebe’s gruff but business-like reproaches knowing that she had earned them. And he rang Joanna to say that he could not see her today, but he would love to see her tomorrow. ‘You see, Joanna, Martha’s here, and we don’t want to stop yet.’ The conversation went on, amiable and brotherly on his side; but Martha could not make out from the tones of Joanna’s voice what she was feeling: she probably didn’t know herself.
‘She’ll come tomorrow, ’ said Jack with satisfaction.
They began to dress, so as to go out and eat. ‘You are an extraordinary man, ’ she said, and he kissed her gratefully. But she was thinking: Then, why don’t we take you seriously? But this thought, when with him she was initiated into so much knowledge about the capacities of her own body, kept her silent and pondering; while he was silent, because he was so hungry he felt almost crazy with it. Hunger hit Jack like a mania, a fever: when he had to eat it was, he said, as if he were being eaten alive by a nestful of ants. He cut a hunk of bread and gnawed it, feeding hunger, while she finished dressing and thought: Is it because for Jack it is an end in itself, is that it? But she could not go on with this-for what ought to be an end then? She had gone way out past any buoys, lighthouses, or charted points in her knowledge of herself: and that
meant that moments of criticism must be resisted, they would probably be nervous reactions, that was all.
They walked out into the ugly street, where now workmen clustered around a crater in the road; and went up the channel between flaking dingy houses which was Rogers Street in the daytime, until they came to a new Indian restaurant about a mile away, spent an hour or so eating a great deal, for they were both very hungry, and then strolled back to his house again. They hardly spoke. They had reached a condition that made speaking irrelevant. Yet for her it was not a contented silence. For now, as she and Jack returned to his room for another afternoon and night of making love, she began to feel bad about letting Phoebe down; she ought to have gone to lunch! All this was a delaying, a putting-off of something she had to do. She could spend weeks in Jack’s country and still at the end of it she must go to Phoebe and whatever it was she represented. If she had gone to lunch with Phoebe then she would not now be facing with Jack-but what? Why was she so uneasy? Tired? No. Flat? No-this condition of light well-being was not anywhere near that. But anguish lay somewhere just beneath the surface and threatened to well up: it was the pain that had accompanied the scene of the London house and the sad children. There had been the lovely picture of the golden age, the golden man, the woman and their children and animals; but the joy which had accompanied that was not as strong as the pain that came with the other. Oh, if she wasn’t careful she was going to cry and cry-and that wouldn’t do, not this afternoon when she had to be so strong. A decision or something of the kind lay ahead, she could feel it.
Back in the white and black room, new candles were lit. They were quite alone in the big house. The room was stark and bare now, the bed had a brown blanket stretched over it. There was only one chair; so Martha and Jack sat on a rug by the bed, leaning against it. He seemed nervous. ‘What’s the matter, Martha? ’
‘I don’t think I’m going to be a good partner for you today. Perhaps you should have let Joanna come.’
‘Joanna’s gone off racing with her cricketer. What’s the matter? I can see there is something wrong. Perhaps it’s my fault. I’ve had a thought in my mind all this time and I didn’t tell you. If you’re with a woman and you are holding some thought back, then it breaks the contact. That’s why you keep going away from me.’
‘Perhaps.’ But Martha had in her mind a hundred thoughts she could not share with Jack. He really was a boy, after all. He sat there, his strong face above his brown sweater, brown eyes anxious, intense; a boy with a boy’s fear that he’s not strong enough to keep what he holds. He was nearly thirty-five. Yet she could have believed him to be twenty-five. Meeting him somewhere for the first time, she would have thought: a strong, simple boy, rather naive. That’s what she had thought, allowing herself to be picked up by him on the underground. Everything he knew was in his body: it never reached his face, which was stiff with the fear that she would not accept the thought he wanted to share with her: with Thomas they had not set out to ‘share’ thoughts. With Jack, you set up a simple communion of the flesh, and then your mind went off by itself-that was all right, what was wrong with it? If she couldn’t have Thomas … do you know what you’ve done, said Martha to herself in despair: I’ve become one of those women that used to frighten me! I’ve got a dead man. Like my mother. Like Mrs. Talbot. Like Maisie. I say to myself ‘Thomas’ as if that were the end of it! What does it mean? I say ‘Thomas’ and-play with Jack! Except you can’t possibly use the word play, for anyone as desperately singleminded as Jack. All right then-imagine Jack dead, would I then be saying ‘Oh Jack!’ and playing with someone else? No. I took Thomas seriously. I don’t take Jack seriously. Why? It doesn’t matter why.
‘Martha, I don’t know how to tell you what I’ve been thinking. I don’t know how you’ll take it. Why don’t you come and live here. No, don’t say no, think about it-there’s the floor under this one. You could live there. The wiring’s done, and the plumbing and the telephone’s in.’
‘You mean, live with you? But how? ’
‘Well, why not? ’ he muttered, already rejected, sullen. ‘You ask it as if-you don’t trust me, that’s it, that’s what I was afraid of.’
‘But what would Garibaldi Vasallo make of it? ’-trying to joke.
‘What could he say? You don’t understand. I’ve got the whip-hand. He didn’t want to give me a half-share of this house at all. But he did-I made him. Besides, he knows I know how he operates, with all his dirty tricks.’
‘Blackmail? ’
His face darkened, clenched, was ugly. ‘Blackmail! That’s a word you use for decent people, not a dirty little dago.’
‘I hate that word.’ She was discouraged: all her energy had leaked away; she wished now that she could wrap a blanket around her head, like an African, and turn her face to the wall and sleep. ‘When I left home I really thought I’d be free of the race thing. Isn’t that funny? There’s no end to our being stupid. One’s always making up day-dreams about places somewhere else. But since I’ve been here-things are just as ugly as they are back home, but people don’t know, it’s all hidden. And now you start talking about dagoes.’
‘That’s not racialism! That’s just-accurate. That’s what he is, a nasty little dago. A crook. You deal with crooks in their own coin. If he plays me up, I’ll go to the police with what I know about him. I’m not taking anything from him that isn’t fair. By the time I’ve finished with this house it will be a real house, and it’ll have cost him nothing. If he’d paid a builder, it would have cost hundreds-he knows that. So why is what I’m doing wrong? This house is my house. When I came into it that day and saw it, and started work on it-I knew it was mine. It’s my house because I’ve worked on it.’
Every word of this being true, why did Martha feel uneasy: the intensity Jack put into his pleas, exactly as if it were a false case, was that it? ‘Why didn’t you simply go and buy it? He bought it for £500. You’ve got £1, 000 tucked away.’
‘No, I’m not going to waste that. It’s my future. I’ve got to have that money. And this is my house. I’m in my rights if I say you can come and live here.’
‘But, Jack-you’ll live up here on this floor, and I’ll live on the floor beneath? ’
And now he was crying: the fearful intensity of his need was wringing his body, making tears spill from his brown eyes. ‘What’s wrong with that? You don’t trust me, Martha.’
‘Look, Jack, you must see it’s one thing coming here-by appointment, to make love-but surely you wouldn’t want me or any woman just beneath you? What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over!’
Oh. I hate that. I hate that attitude. That’s what I mean by not trusting me. I’d not tell lies to any girls who came here. I don’t tell lies. Well, not unless I’ve got to-only if there’s a girl who wouldn’t come to me if I didn’t-they’d know that you lived here.’
‘A sort of senior wife? ’
‘Well, what’s wrong with that. You don’t want to get married, do you? I mean not really married.’
‘No. I don’t think I do.’ She nearly asked: ‘And what about children? ’ But the nightmare vision of the house with the children and herself in it came back, and she shivered.
‘You’re cold, Martha. I’ll start the heaters.’ He Rot up, glad to be able to take his tears away; and she was glad to have the pressure farther away for a few moments.
He knelt by the paraffin heaters, first one, and then the other. His back was to her. From the set of his shoulders she knew something important was coming: what had gone before was not after all what mattered: the tears, the apprehension were for what he was about to say now.
‘There’s something else, Martha. I can’t say it easily though. Give me a minute. There-we’ll be warm. Listen Martha-oh, hell man, I’m afraid of saying because I don’t want you to take it wrong. But would you like to have a baby? I mean, let me give you a baby? ’
And now she was silent because she was shocked. That she ought to be, if not flattered, at least warmed, she knew. But he had taken flight somewhere away from any kind of reality she understood. Because this was the point.
His
point. She had not expected it.