Doris Lessing Three-Book Edition: The Golden Notebook, The Grass is Singing, The Good Terrorist
she asked vaguely, actually looking around the room as if these unfortunate children were visible there, in their house.
He remembered how isolated she was, how she had never become part of the life of the district. But this irritated him again. It had been years before she stirred herself to find out about the farm; after all this time she still did not know how people lived all around them – she hardly knew the names of their neighbours. ‘Have you never seen Charlie’s Dutchman?’
‘What Dutchman?’
‘His assistant. Thirteen children! On twelve pounds a month. Slatter is hard as nails with him. Thirteen children! They run round like puppies, in rags, and they live on pumpkin and mealiemeal like kaffirs. They don’t go to school…’
‘Just one child?’ persisted Mary, her voice weak and plaintive. It was a wail. She felt she needed one child to save her from herself. It had taken weeks of slow despair to bring her to this point. She hated the idea of a baby, when she thought of its helplessness, its dependence, the mess, the worry. But it would give her something to do. It was extraordinary to her that things had come to this; that it was she pleading with Dick to have a child, when she knew he longed for them, and she disliked them. But after thinking about a baby through those weeks of despair, she had come to cling to the idea. It wouldn’t be so bad. It would be company. She thought of herself, as a child, and her mother; she began to understand how her mother had clung to her, using her as a safety-valve. She identified herself with her mother, clinging to her most passionately and pityingly after all these years, understanding now something of what she had really felt and suffered. She saw herself, that barelegged, bareheaded, silent child, wandering in and out of the chicken-coop house – close to her mother, wrung simultaneously by love and pity for her, and by hatred for her father; and she imagined her own child, a small daughter, comforting her as she had comforted her mother. She did not think of this child as a small baby; that was a stage she would have to get through as quickly as posible. No, she wanted a little girl as a companion; and refused to consider that the child, after all, might be a boy.
But Dick said: ‘And what about school?’
‘What about it?’ said Mary angrily.
‘How are we going to pay school fees?’
‘There aren’t any school fees. My parents didn’t pay fees.’
‘There are boarding fees, books, train fares, clothes. Is the money going to come out of the sky?’
‘We can apply for a Government grant.’
‘No,’ said Dick, sharply, wincing. ‘Not on your life! I’ve had enough of going hat in hand into fat men’s offices, asking for money, while they sit on their fat arses and look down their noses. Charity! I won’t do it. I won’t have a child growing up knowing I can’t do anything for it. Not in this house. Not living this way.’
‘It’s all right for me to live this way, I suppose,’ said Mary grimly.
‘You should have thought of that before you married me,’ said Dick, and she blazed into fury because of his callous injustice. Or rather, she almost blazed into anger. Her face went beef-red, her eyes snapped – and then she subsided again, folding trembling hands over each other, shutting her eyes. The anger vanished: she was feeling too tired for real temper. ‘I am getting on for forty,’ she said wearily. ‘Can’t you see that very soon I won’t be able to have a child at all? Not if I go on like this.’
‘Not now,’ he said inexorably. And that was the last time a child was ever mentioned. She knew as well as he did that it was folly, really, Dick being what he was, using his pride over borrowing as a last ditch for his self-respect.
Later, when he saw she had lapsed back into that terrible apathy, he appealed again: ‘Mary, please come to the farm with me. Why not? We could do it together.’
‘I hate your farm,’ she said in a stiff, remote voice. ‘I hate it, I want nothing to do with it.’
But she did make the effort, in spite of her indifference. It was all the same to her what she did. For a few weeks she accompanied Dick everywhere he went, and tried to sustain him with her presence. And it filled her with despair more than ever. It was hopeless, hopeless. She could see so clearly what was wrong with him, and with the farm, and could do nothing to help him. He was so obstinate. He asked her for advice, looked boyishly pleased when she picked up a cushion and trailed after him off to the lands; yet, when she made suggestions his face shut into dark obstinacy, and he began defending himself.
Those weeks were terrible for Mary. That short time, she looked at everything straight, without illusions, seeing herself and Dick and their relationship to each other and to the farm, and their future, without a shadow of false hope, as honest and stark as the truth itself. And she knew she could not bear this sad clear-sightedness for long; that, too, was part of the truth. In a mood of bitter but dreamy clairvoyance she followed Dick around, and at last told herself she should give up making suggestions and trying to prod him into commonsense. It was useless.
She took to thinking with a dispassionate tenderness about Dick himself. It was a pleasure to her to put away bitterness and hate against him, and to hold him in her mind as a mother might, protectively, considering his weaknesses and their origins, for which he was not responsible. She used to take her cushion to the corner of the bush, in the shade, and sit on the ground with her skirts well tucked up, watching for ticks to crawl out of the grass, thinking about Dick. She saw him standing in the middle of the big red land, balanced among the huge clods, a spare, fly-away figure with his big flopping hat and loose clothing, and wondered how people came to be born without that streak of determination, that bit of iron, that clamped the personality together. Dick was so nice – so nice! she said to herself wearily. He was so decent; there wasn’t an ugly thing in him. And she knew, only too well, when she made herself face it (which she was able to do, in this mood of dispassionate pity) what long humiliation he had suffered on her account, as a man. Yet he had never tried to humiliate her: he lost his temper, yes, but he did not try to get his own back. He was so nice! But he was all to pieces. He lacked that thing in the centre that should hold him together. And had he always been like that? Really, she didn’t know. She knew so little about him. His parents were dead; he was an only child. He had been brought up somewhere in the suburbs of Johannesburg, and she guessed, though he had not said so, that his childhood had been less squalid than hers, though pinched and narrow. He had said angrily that his mother had had a hard time of it; and the remark made her feel kin to him, for he loved his mother and had resented his father. And when he grew up he had tried a number of jobs He had been clerk in the post office, something on the railways, had finally inspected watermeters for the municipality. Then he had decided to become a vet. He had studied for three months, discovered he could not afford it; and, on an impulse, had come to Southern Rhodesia to be a farmer, and to ‘live his own life’.
So here he was, this hopeless, decent man, standing on his ‘own’ soil, which belonged to the last grain of sand to the Government, watching his natives work, while she sat in the shade and looked at him, knowing perfectly well that he was doomed: he had never had a chance. But even then it seemed impossible to her, that such a good man should be a failure. And she would get up from the cushion, and walk across to him, determined to have one more try.
‘Look, Dick,’ she said one day, timidly, but firmly, ‘look. I have an idea. Next year, why not try to stump another hundred acres or so, and get a really big crop in, all mealies. Plant mealies on every acre you have, instead of all these little crops.’
‘And what if it is a bad season for mealies?’
She shrugged: ‘You don’t seem to be getting very far as you are.’
And then his eyes reddened, and his face set, and the two deep lines scored from cheekbones to chin deepened.
‘What more can I do than I am doing?’ he shouted at her. ‘And how can I stump a hundred acres more? The way you talk! Where am I to get the labour from? I haven’t enough labour to do what I have got to do now. I can’t afford to buy niggers at five pounds a head any longer. I have to rely