Landlocked. Doris Lessing

that this girl, or woman (she was vivacious rather than pretty, with green eyes too quick and wary for youth), had publicly claimed him. She was now taking his arm. Just so, Martha thought, a young man publicly announced, without saying it in words, ‘this is my girl’. He stood smiling, while the others looked on, not looking at Martha. And Anton did not look at Martha. The girl did, however. Not more, though, than she did at the others: she included Martha in her rapid self-conscious glances, while she kept laughing up towards Anton’s pale and handsome face.

      Martha felt, as she knew she was bound to feel, a pang. But she suppressed it: I don’t want him, I don’t enjoy him, but if someone else takes him then I start crying! She was thinking: Well, and so the conversation we had last week was meant to be taken seriously, was it? He really does mean to get himself a woman? Well, good for him.

      The group was drifting across the street to a tea-room. Martha was introduced, at last, to Millicent; Millicent, Martha. Hello, how are you?

      Martha thought: Thomas and Solly and Joss are going to feel sorry for me because Anton has a girl! This caused Martha genuine pain, genuine resentment. She was furious with herself.

      Outside the tea-room, the group hesitated, not knowing whether it would remain a unit for another hour, or allow itself to separate into its parts. Martha arranged a smile and looked towards her husband and Millicent. But their arms were no longer linked. Anton stood on one side, apparently embarrassed. Solly bent over the girl, or woman, who stared straight up at the tall young man, her face almost flat under the white lights of the tea-room entrance, as if she had had a tuck taken in the back of her neck, or as if her head had been cut off and carelessly laid on her shoulders. At any rate, what with her red beads, and her agonized smile (from which Martha gathered that she had not known until now that Anton was married, or at least had not known that Martha, so very much present, was his wife) and a white pleated dress which carried out the same innocent sacrificial theme, she looked like a victim. Anton stood quietly apart, smiling, smiling. But socially – just as if nothing had happened, as if he had not been on show with a young woman not his wife. Solly’s face was ecstatic with jeering triumph: it shouted to everyone: ‘Look, this old stick Anton’s got a girl.’ And, of course: ‘Martha’s free!’ for his eyes were alive with dramatic intention, playing over Millicent’s face, darting sideways at Martha, to see how she took it, swivelling to the others, to make sure they understood. ‘You can’t go yet,’ he said to Millicent. ‘What is all this? The night’s yet young.’ She protested and said that she must. Her eyes were almost closed in the energy of her outstretched painful smile which pride forced her to maintain. Anton stood silently by, waiting for Solly to put an end to it. Athen, Joss, Thomas Stern, stood watching. Athen as usual looked from a distance: it was not for him to criticize, his attitude said. Thomas Stern, disapproving, juggled objects in the pockets of his khaki shorts – uniform shorts still, they would be for months yet. Joss stared at his brother as Martha felt he must have been doing all his life, with an affectionate but bitter smile of criticism. During the few moments of this cruel scene under the white harsh lights of the Old Vienna Tea Room, Martha repudiated Solly for ever: his ‘childishness’, his open jeering triumph, and above all, his humiliation of the unfortunate girl, lost him any possibility (if there had been one! Martha defended herself, hastily) of ever, at any time, having an affair with Martha. Then Joss put out his hand, laid it on Martha’s shoulder, and said with a smile clumsily tactful: ‘Well Matty, and what are we all going to do with you, taking us to the wrong film?’

      He took Martha into the tea-room with him, and by the time they sat side by side, the group had come in after them. Millicent was not with them. Anton sat opposite Martha, giving her a smile both triumphant and apologetic. Athen sat near Anton, and began talking to him: which was his way of saying he did not propose to pass any judgment on what had been happening. Thomas Stern sat on the other side of Martha and he said again: ‘Well Matty, I always thought you were attractive, but not for me, man. I’m a peasant myself, and so are you. But now you’re sick, you’ve got everything – as far as I am concerned, I’m telling you, you can have me any time!’

      They all laughed, even Athen. But there sat Thomas, leaning forward to look into Martha’s face, absolutely serious. Martha thought that he spoke as if they had been alone. Her nerves were telling her he meant what he said.

      She said, joking to lessen the tension: ‘So I’m a peasant?’

      ‘Yes,’ he said, still with the same straight pressure of his strong blue eyes. ‘Yes. But don’t you get well too quickly, I like you all strange and delicate.’

      ‘It’s the first time I’ve heard that Matty is ill,’ Anton said, on a ‘humorous’ grumbling note that restored normality.

      ‘Where’s Solly?’ asked Martha quickly, to stop them examining her.

      ‘I told him to get lost,’ said Joss.

      ‘Who was eating all those kebabs with him last week?’

      ‘Look,’ said Joss, suddenly very serious – with an intensity not far off that which Thomas had shown a few minutes before. ‘Listen. He’s my brother – for my sins. I see him for meals. Etcetera. For my sins. After all, when he’s at home we even live in the same house. But I tell you, keep clear of him! He’s one of the people to keep clear of.’

      Martha said, after a moment: ‘Well, well!’ meaning to remind him of what he had said about ‘contradictions’.

      Again he looked at her, straight and intent, determined to make her accept what he was saying. ‘He’s the kind of person things go wrong for. Always. If you tell him to bring a tray in from the kitchen, he drops it. If he drives a car to the garage, he’ll take the wrong turning. I tell you, better watch out, I’m warning you.’

      They all began to laugh, because of his intensity, because they thought: families! Joss maintained his calm while they laughed, and when they had finished: ‘All right. But remember I said so when I’ve gone.’

      Of course, Joss was going: Martha had forgotten. The fact that she was disappointed was announced by her flesh, which had been relaxing in the most pleasant of understandings with Joss. Good Lord! she said to herself. Quite obviously I’m determined to have an affair with somebody. And I’ve only this very moment realized it. Well – if Joss is going, then it’s a pity, because this is the first time since we’ve known each other that he’s actually been attracted to me I can feel he is.

      ‘And now,’ remarked Athen, ‘we shall all eat cream cakes and drink real coffee.’ He meant to remind them of the newsreel they had just seen. They looked towards Anton, towards the fair and handsome German. The waitress, a pretty woman in a frilled lace pinafore and a frilled mob cap designed to remind customers of the films they had all seen of Old Vienna, stood smiling by their table, and Anton said: ‘Coffee, with cream, and cakes.’ Having made his point, he looked at his friends, and made it again: ‘I’m not going to starve myself for them. They deserve a good hiding, and that’s what they are getting.’

      ‘It’s natural you should feel like that, comrade,’ said Athen, in gentle, sorrowful rebuke.

      Thomas Stern said: ‘If we all ate fifty cream cakes each, what difference would it make to them?’ His them were the victims of the concentration camps, and as the plate of cakes descended between them from the manicured hand of the waitress, he took an éclair, making a public statement, and instantly bit a large piece out of it. Anton took a cake, so did Joss, so did Martha. But Athen shook his head and sat frowning, suffering.

      ‘Have a heart,’ said Thomas. ‘You’re making us feel terrible.’

      Athen hesitated, then he said: ‘Yes, I know, and I’m sorry for it. But recently I understood: these days, after being with you, I find myself thinking, this wine is bad, or this wine is good, I can’t eat this meat, this is a bad meal. I find myself going into a good restaurant.’

      ‘Cheer up,’ said Joss. ‘There aren’t any good restaurants. You couldn’t corrupt yourself if you tried.’

      They all laughed, wanting to laugh. They were irritated by Athen, and ashamed that