the First. Isn’t that a funny name for a pooh dog?’ The dog rolled adoring eyes, and flickered a pink tongue at the child’s face. Martha heard her mother charging down the passage, and she withdrew from the window.
‘I’m sorry about that, Matty, but I gave him a washout earlier, and as I thought, he wanted the bedpan.’
‘Oh, it’s really all right. I’ll see him tomorrow.’
‘I really don’t know what I’m going to do if it goes on like this. It’s been five days without any real result and I gave him two washouts yesterday alone. Yes, cook?’
‘Missus, the meat’s ready, missus.’
‘Well, I think you’d better try to keep it hot. The doctor’s coming, he might like some supper.’
Martha tried not to show her relief. ‘But mother, I can’t wait for supper for hours.’
‘I wasn’t expecting you to,’ said Mrs Quest, hoity-toity, but triumphant. ‘Anton has telephoned me three times, he was expecting you hours ago.’
‘Then he must have misunderstood.’
‘One of us certainly did, because I got in a beautiful bit of sirloin, and now it’s going to be wasted, unless the doctor eats it.’
‘I’ll get home then,’ said Martha. She almost ran down the steps to her bicycle, with Mrs Quest after her: ‘I had a letter from Jonathan today.’
‘Oh, did you?’
‘Yes, he’s got sick-leave in Cairo, but he’s being sent to a hospital in England.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘He didn’t say.’
Jonathan had been wounded slightly in the leg at El Alamein, but recovered. Recently he had been wounded again in the arm, and the arm showed no signs of properly healing, much to everyone’s relief. As Mr Quest said: ‘If he gets out of it with nothing worse than a gammy arm, he’ll be doing quite well.’
‘Shhhhh,’ said Mrs Quest suddenly, as Caroline said from the window where she was swinging from the burglar bars: ‘Who’s that lady, Granny, who is that lady?’
Martha picked up her bicycle, jumped on it, and cycled fast through the bushes to the invisibility which would enable Mrs Quest to turn the child’s attention to something else. At a telephone box, Martha rang the Piccadilly . Johnny was happy to bring his compatriot to the telephone. Martha told Athen she could not see him that evening.
‘I’m sorry,’ came Athen’s voice, raised against the clatterof a hundred eating humans. ‘Well then, I’ll see you in about a week, and in the meantime, will you please see my friend Clive de Wet?’
‘I met him this evening at Johnny’s. I don’t think he wants to see me. I’m sure of it.’
‘No, I spoke to him about you. He wants to see you.’
‘When did you speak to him?’
‘I’ve just been to his house, he was there and I spoke to him. He said he thought you were associated with Mrs Van.’
‘I don’t understand, he was reading to Johnny, doesn’t he approve of Johnny?’
‘He does, very much. But he does not trust Mrs Van, I think.’
‘That’s ridiculous—how can he like Johnny and not like Mrs Van?’
‘At any rate, it would be helpful if you explain things to him. They need much help—they have no books, and wish to be taught many things.’
‘Oh well, in that case…and I’ll see you next week.’
‘Yes. And give my greetings to your husband.’
And now, at last, she must go home to Anton. Home was a new place, half a flat, half a house—two little rooms, a bathroom and a shared kitchen that was really a screened-off veranda over a patch of shared dirty lawn. The woman they shared with was a Mrs Huxtable. Martha did not like her, but as there was never any time for cooking anyway, it didn’t matter.
Anton had telephoned her three times. Three times. The information had been received apprehensively by her nerves. Her emotions repeated, with monotony: It’s not fair, it’s not fair—meaning that this kind of demand, or reproach, was not in the bargain of her marriage with Anton. Meanwhile her brain was sending messages of
‘I’m sorry about that, Matty, but I gave him a washout earlier, and as I thought, he wanted the bedpan.’
‘Oh, it’s really all right. I’ll see him tomorrow.’
‘I really don’t know what I’m going to do if it goes on like this. It’s been five days without any real result and I gave him two washouts yesterday alone. Yes, cook?’
‘Missus, the meat’s ready, missus.’
‘Well, I think you’d better try to keep it hot. The doctor’s coming, he might like some supper.’
Martha tried not to show her relief. ‘But mother, I can’t wait for supper for hours.’
‘I wasn’t expecting you to,’ said Mrs Quest, hoity-toity, but triumphant. ‘Anton has telephoned me three times, he was expecting you hours ago.’
‘Then he must have misunderstood.’
‘One of us certainly did, because I got in a beautiful bit of sirloin, and now it’s going to be wasted, unless the doctor eats it.’
‘I’ll get home then,’ said Martha. She almost ran down the steps to her bicycle, with Mrs Quest after her: ‘I had a letter from Jonathan today.’
‘Oh, did you?’
‘Yes, he’s got sick-leave in Cairo, but he’s being sent to a hospital in England.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘He didn’t say.’
Jonathan had been wounded slightly in the leg at El Alamein, but recovered. Recently he had been wounded again in the arm, and the arm showed no signs of properly healing, much to everyone’s relief. As Mr Quest said: ‘If he gets out of it with nothing worse than a gammy arm, he’ll be doing quite well.’
‘Shhhhh,’ said Mrs Quest suddenly, as Caroline said from the window where she was swinging from the burglar bars: ‘Who’s that lady, Granny, who is that lady?’
Martha picked up her bicycle, jumped on it, and cycled fast through the bushes to the invisibility which would enable Mrs Quest to turn the child’s attention to something else. At a telephone box, Martha rang the Piccadilly . Johnny was happy to bring his compatriot to the telephone. Martha told Athen she could not see him that evening.
‘I’m sorry,’ came Athen’s voice, raised against the clatterof a hundred eating humans. ‘Well then, I’ll see you in about a week, and in the meantime, will you please see my friend Clive de Wet?’
‘I met him this evening at Johnny’s. I don’t think he wants to see me. I’m sure of it.’
‘No, I spoke to him about you. He wants to see you.’
‘When did you speak to him?’
‘I’ve just been to his house, he was there and I spoke to him. He said he thought you were associated with Mrs Van.’
‘I don’t understand, he was reading to Johnny, doesn’t he approve of Johnny?’
‘He does, very much. But he does not trust Mrs Van, I think.’
‘That’s ridiculous—how can he like Johnny and not like Mrs Van?’
‘At any rate, it would be helpful if you explain things to him. They need much help—they have no books, and wish to be taught many things.’
‘Oh well, in that case…and I’ll see you next week.’
‘Yes. And give my greetings to your husband.’
And now, at last, she must go home to Anton. Home was a new place, half a flat, half a house—two little rooms, a bathroom and a shared kitchen that was really a screened-off veranda over a patch of shared dirty lawn. The woman they shared with was a Mrs Huxtable. Martha did not like her, but as there was never any time for cooking anyway, it didn’t matter.
Anton had telephoned her three times. Three times. The information had been received apprehensively by her nerves. Her emotions repeated, with monotony: It’s not fair, it’s not fair—meaning that this kind of demand, or reproach, was not in the bargain of her marriage with Anton. Meanwhile her brain was sending messages of
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