The Sun Between Their Feet: Collected African Stories Volume Two. Doris Lessing
were whirling around and around, yelling and screaming. Greg and Moira stayed where they were, just outside the range of the feet, and they didn’t hear a thing.
‘You’re so pretty,’ he was saying, in that rough, cross, helpless voice. ‘I love you, Moira, there couldn’t ever be anyone but you.’
She was smiling, and he went on saying: ‘I love you, I see your face all the time, I see your hair and your face and your eyes.’
And I wished he’d go on, the poor sap, just saying it, for every minute, it was more like last night when I woke up and I thought it had rained, the feeling of the dry earth with the rain just on it, that was how she was, and she looked as if she would sit there and listen for ever to the words he said, and she didn’t want to hear him saying. Why don’t you say something Moy, you don’t say anything, you do understand don’t you? – it’s not fair, it isn’t right to bind you when we’re so young. But he started on saying it in just a minute, and then she smiled her visiting smile, and she said: Gregory Jackson, you’re a fool.
Then she got herself off the grass and went across to Mom to help load the car up, and she never once looked at Greg again, not for the rest of the holidays.
The farm was fifty miles from the nearest town, in a maize-growing district. The mealie lands began at a stone’s throw from the front door of the farm house. At the back were several acres of energetic and colourful domestic growth: chicken runs, vegetables, pumpkins. Even on the veranda were sacks of grain and bundles of hoes. The life on the farm, her husband’s life, washed around the house leaving old scraps of iron on the front step where the children played wagon-and-driver, or a bottle of medicine for a sick animal on her dressing-table among the bottles of Elizabeth Arden.
One walked straight from the veranda of this gaunt, iron-roofed, brick-barracks of a house into a wide drawing-room that was shaded in green and orange Liberty linens.
‘Stylish?’ said the farmers’ wives, when they came on formal calls, asking questions of themselves while they discussed with Lucy Grange the price of butter and servants’ aprons and their husbands discussed the farm with George Grange. They never ‘dropped over’ to see Lucy Grange; they never rang her up with invitations to ‘spend the day’. They would finger the books on child psychology, politics, art; gaze guiltily at the pictures on her walls, which they felt they ought to be able to recognize, and say: ‘I can see you are a great reader, Mrs Grange.’
There were years of discussing her among themselves before their voices held the good-natured amusement of acceptance: ‘I found Lucy in the vegetable patch wearing gloves full of cold cream.’ ‘Lucy has ordered another dress pattern from town.’ And later still, with self-consciously straightened shoulders, eyes directed primly before them, discreet non-committal voices: ‘Lucy is very attractive to men.’
One can imagine her, when they left at the end of those mercifully so-short visits, standing on the veranda and smiling bitterly after the satisfactory solid women with their straight ‘tailored’ dresses, made by the Dutchwoman at the store at seven-and-six a time, buttoned loosely across their well-used breasts, with their untidy hair permed every six months in town, with their femininity which was asserted once and for all by a clumsy scrawl of red across the mouth. One can imagine her clenching her fists and saying fiercely to the mealie fields which rippled greenly all around her, cream-topped like the sea: ‘I won’t. I simply won’t. He needn’t imagine that I will!’
‘Do you like my new dress, George?’
‘You’re the best-looking woman in the district, Lucy.’ So it seemed, on the face of it, that he didn’t expect, or even want, that she should …
Meanwhile she continued to order cook-books from town, made new recipes of pumpkin and green mealies and chicken, put skin-food on her face at night; constructed attractive nursery furniture out of packing cases enamelled white – the farm wasn’t doing too well; and discussed with George how little Betty’s cough was probably psychological.
‘I’m sure you’re right, my dear.’
Then the rich, over-controlled voice: ‘Yes, darling. No, my sweetheart. Yes, of course, I’ll play bricks with you, but you must have your lunch first.’ Then it broke, hard and shrill: ‘Don’t make all that noise, darling. I can’t stand it. Go on, go and play in the garden and leave me in peace.’
Sometimes, storms of tears. Afterwards: ‘Really, George, didn’t your mother ever tell you that all women cry sometimes? It’s as good as a tonic. Or a holiday.’ And a lot of high laughter and gay explanations at which George hastened to guffaw. He liked her gay. She usually was. For instance, she was a good mimic. She would ‘take off, deliberately trying to relieve his mind of farm worries, the visiting policemen, who toured the district once a month to see if the natives were behaving themselves, or the Government agricultural officials.
‘Do you want to see my husband?’
That was what they had come for, but they seldom pressed the point. They sat far longer than they had intended, drinking tea, talking about themselves. They would go away and say at the bar in the village: ‘Mrs Grange is a smart woman, isn’t she?’
And Lucy would be acting for George’s benefit, how a khaki-clad, sun-raw youth had bent into her room, looking around him with comical surprise, had taken a cup of tea thanking her three times, had knocked over an ashtray, stayed for lunch and afternoon tea, and left saying with awkward gallantry: ‘It’s a real treat to meet a lady like you who is interested in things.’
‘You shouldn’t be so hard on us poor Colonials, Lucy.’
Finally one can imagine how one day, when the house-boy came to her in the chicken-runs to say that there was a baas waiting to see her at the house, it was no sweating policeman, thirsty after fifteen dusty miles on a motor-cycle, to whom she must be gracious.
He was a city man, of perhaps forty or forty-five, dressed in city clothes. At first glance she felt a shudder of repulsion. It was a coarse face, and sensual; and he looked like a patient vulture as the keen heavy-lidded eyes travelled up and down her body.
‘Are you looking for my husband perhaps? He’s in the cow-sheds this morning.’
‘No, I don’t think I am. I was.’
She laughed. It was as if he had started playing a record she had not heard for a long time, and which began her feet tapping. It was years since she had played this game. ‘I’ll get you some tea,’ she said hurriedly and left him in her pretty drawing-room.
Collecting the cups, her hands were clumsy. ‘Why, Lucy!’ she said to herself, archly. She came back very serious and responsible to find him standing in front of the picture which filled half the wall at one end of the room. ‘I should have thought you had sunflowers enough here,’ he said, in his heavy over-emphasized voice, which made her listen for meanings behind his words. And when he turned away from the wall and came to sit down, leaning forward, examining her, she suppressed an impulse to apologize for the picture: ‘Van Gogh is obvious, but he’s rather effective,’ she might have said; and felt that the whole room was that: effective but obvious. But she was pleasantly conscious of how she looked: graceful and cool in her green linen dress, with her corn-coloured hair knotted demurely in her neck. She lifted wide serious eyes to his face and asked: ‘Milk? Sugar?’ and knew that the corners of her mouth were tight with self-consciousness.
When he left, three hours later, he turned her hand over and lightly kissed the palm. She looked down at the greasy dark head, the red folded neck, and stood rigid, thinking of the raw creased necks of vultures.
Then he straightened up and said with simple kindliness: ‘You must be lonely here, my dear,’ and she was astounded to find her eyes full of tears.
‘One does what one can to make a show of it,’ She kept her lids lowered and her voice light. Inside she was weeping with gratitude.