Landlocked. Doris Lessing

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СКАЧАТЬ mockery, that needed it. Something older, more savage, more knowledgeable in the tidily hatted matron who let her eyes fill with tears at The Last Post waited for and needed the old soldier’s ribaldry. Three days ago, when she had taken the official letter to him, she had expected him to laugh.

      But he had lowered faded eyes to the government letter, and remained silent, his lips folding and refolding as if he was tasting something from the past. Then he looked up at his wife with a face adjusted to an appropriate humility (a look which appalled Mrs Quest, so unlike him was it) and said in a voice false with proper feeling: ‘Well, perhaps if I wrap up, how about it?’

      Mrs Quest had been shaken to her depths. Perhaps for the first time she really felt what the nurse in her had always known, that her husband really was not ‘himself’. Not even intermittently, these days, was he himself, and for hours they had discussed in every painful detail how it could be possible for him to attend the ceremony, while his face preserved the terrifyingly unreal expression of a man who has given his all for his country and now submits in modesty to his country’s thanks.

      There were two main questions involved. One was, sleep or the absence of it. The other: Mr Quest’s bowels. But the problem was the same, in effect: it was impossible to predict anything. The point was, Mr Quest’s body had been so wrenched and twisted by every variety of drug, that drugs themselves had become like symptoms, to be discussed and watched. It was not a question of Mr Quest’s having taken so many grains of – whatever it was, which would have a certain effect. A sleeping draught, an aperient, might ‘work’ or it might not, and if it did work, then it was unpredictably and extraordinarily, and information must be saved for the doctor, who would be interested scientifically in what surely must be unprecedented, from the medical point of view?

      The Parade was at eleven, and would be over by twelve. During this hour Mr Quest would be in a wheel-chair with his medals pinned to his dressing-gown – permission had been obtained for him to appear thus. But he must not fall asleep. And he must not …

      They had discussed the exact strength of the dose appropriate to make Mr Quest sleep all night yet wake alert enough to face the ceremony. It had been decided that seven-tenths of his usual dose would be right, if the doctor would agree to give a stimulant at ten o’clock. As for the bowels – well, that was more difficult. An enema at about nine-thirty would probably do the trick.

      So it all had been planned and decided. And Mrs Quest, last night, kissing her husband’s cheek as he sank off to sleep already in the power of the drug that would keep him unconscious till nine next morning, had looked young for a moment, fresh – tomorrow she would be at the Parade, and she would be taken by Mrs Maynard, who had been so kind as to offer them a lift.

      For this, the Maynards’ offer, Mr Quest had been duly grateful, and had not made one critical comment. Yet he did not like Mrs Maynard, he said she put the fear of God into him, with her committees and her intrigues.

      Mrs Quest had noted, but not digested, her husband’s compliance. She had told Mrs Maynard that they would be ready at ten-thirty. Mrs Maynard had been ‘infinitely kind’ about drugs and arrangements.

      To get Mr Quest to the Victory in Europe Parade had taken the formidable energies of one matron, and the readiness to be infinitely kind of another. But of course he wasn’t there yet. He was still asleep.

      Seven in the morning. Mrs Quest, having decided that she might as well get into her best clothes – did nothing of the kind. She dressed rapidly in an old brown skirt and pink jersey. The bedroom she still shared with her husband was dim, and smelt of medicines, and he lay quite still, absolutely silent, while she banged drawers and rummaged in the wardrobe and brushed her hair and clattered objects on the dressing table. Partly, she was deaf, and did not know what noise she made. Partly, it was because it did not matter, ‘he would sleep through a hurricane when he had enough drugs inside him’. Partly, this noise, this roughness of movement, was a protest against the perpetually narrowing cage she lived in.

      When she was inside her thick jersey, and she felt warm and more cheerful, she went into the kitchen for the second time and told the cook to make some more tea. Letters lay on the kitchen table. Mrs Quest trembled with excitement and took up the letter from her son in England and went back to the veranda. The sun was above the trees now, and sharp, cool shadows lay across the lawns.

      Mrs Quest read the letter smiling. Before the end she had to rise to pin back a trail of creeper that waved too freely, unconfined, off a veranda pillar. She had to express her pleasure, her joy, in movement of some kind.

      Jonathan, the young man convalescing in a village in Essex, had written a pleasantly filial letter, saying nothing of his deep feelings. He had been very ill with his smashed arm, had been frightened he would lose it. He did not want to worry his mother by telling her this, and so he chatted about the village, which was charming, he said; and the doctors and nurses in the hospital, who were so kind; and the village people – ‘really good types’. He allowed his own emotions to appear for half a sentence, but in reverse, as it were ‘Perhaps I might settle here, I could do worse!’ What this meant was that he had a flirtation with the doctor’s daughter in the village, and for an occasional sentimental half-hour thought of marrying her and living for ever in this quiet ancient place that in fact spoke to nothing real in him. For he longed for Africa, and for a farm where he would have space ‘to be myself’ – as he felt it.

      But before Mrs Quest had read the letter twice, old daydreams had been revived. She had worked it all out: they – Mr Quest and herself – would go to England and take a little cottage in the village where Jonathan would settle with his wife – for of course he had a girl, perhaps even a fiancée, the letter could mean no less! – and she and Mr Quest would be done for ever with this country where the family had known nothing but disappointment and illness. Besides, the English climate would be better for Mr Quest, it might even cure him.

      The servant brought tea, and found Mrs Quest smiling out at her shrubs and lawns. ‘Nice morning,’ he ventured. She did not hear, at first, then she smiled: she was already far away from Africa, in a village full of sensible people where she would never see a black face again. ‘Yes, but it’s cold,’ she said, rather severely, and he went back in silence to his kitchen.

      When Mr Quest woke up, she would tell him about going to England. She ached with joy. She had forgotten about the ugly dream, and the three days of miserable planning for the Parade. She was free of the patronage of Mrs Maynard (now she was free, she acknowledged that Mrs Maynard was patronizing). She would find her old friends and ‘when something happened’ (which meant when her husband died – the doctor said it was a miracle she had kept him alive for so long) she would live with her old school friend Alice and devote herself to Jonathan’s children.

      At which point Mrs Quest remembered the existence of her grand-daughter Caroline. Well, she could come and spend long holidays in England with her, Mrs Quest; perhaps she should even live there, because the education was so much better there than in this country where there were no standards … as for Martha, she said she was going to England too.

      Her wings were beginning to drag. She remembered the dream. Her face set, though she had no idea of it, though she was planning happily for the Parade, into lines of wary resignation. She ought to go and dress properly. She stayed where she was, an old lady with a sad set face looking into a beautiful garden where a small dog pranced around a dry white bone. She sat, shivering slightly, for the cold was sharp, and thought – that she would give anything in this world for a cigarette.

      The longing came on her suddenly, without warning. At the beginning of the war, when her son went into danger with the armies up North, Mrs Quest gave up smoking. ‘As a sacrifice for Jonathan’s getting through the war safely.’ Mrs Quest did nothing if not ‘live on her nerves’ and smoking was a necessity СКАЧАТЬ