Landlocked. Doris Lessing

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СКАЧАТЬ was first wounded, and they had not been told how badly. Then no cigarettes for days, weeks, months. Today was Victory Day, the war was over (in Europe, anyhow) and she was now free to smoke? No, for the bargain she had made with God was that she would not smoke until he was safely home. Yes, but in this letter he had said he might stay in England for good? Therefore she was free, released from her part of the bargain? No, her conscience told her she was not. And besides, an old mine, or floating explosive of some kind might blow up the ship Jonathan came home in. She must not smoke yet.

      Mrs Quest went into the living-room where a carved wooden box held cigarettes for visitors, and her hand went out to the lid. The small bell tinkled which meant that her husband was awake.

      Immediately her spirits lifted into expectation: yes, it was just right. Eight o’clock in the morning, that meant she could talk, and gossip and coax him into wakefulness in good time for the car’s arrival at ten-thirty.

      When she reached the bedroom, it seemed that he was asleep again, his hand around the little silver bell. She fussed around for a while, looking at her watch, trying to make out from his face in the darkened room how he would feel when he woke.

      Then he started awake, on a groan, and wildly stared around the room. ‘Lord!’ he said, ‘that was a dream and a half!’

      ‘Well, never mind,’ said Mrs Quest, briskly.

      She moved to straighten the covers and help him sit up.

      ‘Lord!’ he exclaimed again, watching his dream retreat. ‘What time is it?’

      ‘It’s after eight.’

      ‘But it’s early, isn’t it?’ he protested. He had already turned over to sleep again, but she said swiftly: ‘What would you like for breakfast?’

      He lay seriously thinking about it: ‘Well, I had a boiled egg yesterday, and I don’t think the fat if I had a fried egg … how about a bit of haddock?’

      ‘We haven’t got any haddock,’ she said. She realized he had forgotten all about the Parade, and from her spirits’ slow fall into chill and resignation, knew more than that, though she had not admitted it yet. She said brightly: ‘Well, if you remember, we had decided it would be better if you just had a bit of dry toast and some tea?’

      He stared at her, blank. Then, horror came on to the empty face. Then it showed the purest dismay. Then came cunning. These expressions followed each other, one after another, each as clean and unmixed as those on masks for an actors’ school. Mr Quest, totally absorbed in himself, never thinking how he appeared to others, utterly unselfconscious in the way a child is – was as transparent as a child.

      He said in a voice which he allowed to become weak and trembling: ‘Oh dear, I don’t think I really feel up to all that.’

      ‘Well, never mind, it doesn’t matter,’ she said. But her eyes were wet, her lips shook, and so she went out of the room so as not to upset him. Of course he was not going. He had never really been ready to go. How could she have been so ridiculous as to think he would? For three days she had allowed herself to be taken in … she stood in the stuffy little living-room, trembling now with disappointment, her whole nature clamouring because of its long deprivation of everything she craved: the fullness of life, warmth, people, things happening … her body ached with lack and with loss. She had lit a cigarette before she knew it. She stood drawing in long streams of the acrid fragrance, eyes shut, feeling the delicious smoke trickle through her. But her eyes were shut, holding in tears, and she put down one hand to pat the head of the little dog. ‘There Kaiser, there Kaiser.’

      She thought: I’m breaking my bargain with God. Almost, she put out the cigarette, but did not. She went back into the bedroom where her husband was dozing. She looked quietly at the grey-faced old man, with his grey, rather ragged moustache, his grey eyebrows, his grey hair. A small, faded, shrunken invalid, that was her handsome husband. He opened his eyes and said in a normal, alert voice: ‘I smell burning.’

      ‘It’s all right, go to sleep.’

      ‘But I do smell burning.’

      ‘It’s my cigarette.’

      ‘Oh. That’s all right then.’ And he shut his eyes again.

      Wild self-pity filled his wife. She had not smoked through the war, except for those five days – could it be that Jonathan’s arm had taken so long to heal because – no, God could not be so unkind, she knew that. She felt it. Yet now her husband, whose every mood, gesture, pang, look she knew, could interpret, could sense and foresee before it happened – this man knew so little, cared so little for her, that he did not even remark when she had started to smoke again.

      There was a long silence. She sat on the bottom of her unmade bed, smoking deliciously, while her foot jerked restlessly up and down, and he lay, eyes shut.

      He said, eyes shut: ‘I’m sorry, old girl, I know you are disappointed about the Victory thing.’

      She said, moved to her depths: ‘It’s all right.’

      He said: ‘But they’re damned silly, aren’t they, I mean, Victory Parades … in the Great Unmentionable, medals, that sort of thing, it was all just … I don’t think I’ll risk haddock, old girl. Just let me have a boiled egg.’

      She immediately rose to attend to it.

      ‘Well, don’t rush off so. You’re always rushing about. And you’ve forgotten my injection.’

      ‘No, I haven’t. I’ve had a letter from Jonathan.’

      ‘Oh, have you?’

      ‘Yes. He says his arm is clearing up at last.’ She could not bring herself to say: He’ll be coming home soon, thus putting an end to her brief, and after all, harmless dream, about England.

      ‘He’s a good kid. Nice to have him back again,’ said Mr Quest, drowsily. He would be asleep again, unfed, if she did not hurry.

      ‘When is Matty coming?’

      ‘She was here last night, but you were asleep.’

      She boiled the egg, four minutes, took the tray in, gave him his injection, sat with him while he ate, chatted about Jonathan, gave him a cigarette and sat by while he smoked it, then settled him down for his morning’s sleep.

      She then telephoned Mrs Maynard: so sorry, but he isn’t well enough. Mrs Maynard said it was too bad, but reminded Mrs Quest that there was a committee meeting tomorrow night to consider the problems arising from Peace, and she did so hope Mrs Quest could attend. Mrs Quest’s being again sprang into hopeful delight at the idea of going to the meeting. She had managed to attend two of them: the atmosphere of appropriately dressed ladies, all devoted to their fellow human beings, ‘the right kind of’ lady, banded together against – but there was no need to go into what right-minded people were against – was just what she needed. But on the other evenings she had been invited, her husband had been ill, and she could not go.

      Mrs Maynard now said: ‘And how’s that girl of yours, what’s her name again?’

      ‘You mean Martha?’ said Mrs Quest, as if there might be other daughters.

      ‘Yes, Martha. Martha Knowell, Hesse, whatever she calls herself now – would she like to СКАЧАТЬ