The Four-Gated City. Doris Lessing

I don’t want that job.

      ‘Henry, I was ‘phoning to say I’ve done some serious thinking and thanks ever so much, I don’t think I’ll take the job.’ A pause. The two ‘wrong’ phrases, carefully planted into this arrangement of words to emphasize what Henry must find so hard to take in her, were doing their work. ‘Well, Martha … if you’re sure, but we would be so pleased to have you.’ ‘Yes, I’m sure …’ and now she made a mistake, from nervousness. ‘I’ve been working, as a matter of fact …’ Too late to think of a satisfactory lie, she had to go on, ‘In a pub.’ Silence. ‘How very enterprising of you. You did promise to ring, Martha. Look, how about a bite and a sup. Have you time?’ ‘Yes, I’d love to.’

      ‘How about Baxter’s? Do you know it?’ This meant, as Martha knew perfectly well, are you properly dressed for it?

      ‘Of course, how should I not know? It’s in all those novels about the twenties?’

      ‘Is it? Dear me. How very well read you are – so much, better than I am. Well then, if you get there before I do, tell old Bertie – he’s the head man, you know, that you’re supping with me.’

      ‘I’ll do that. In about an hour?’

      ‘Yes, we can have a drink first and you can tell me all your adventures.’

      It was now raining hard: a dirty rain. Martha would have stayed in the box, but a girl was knocking on the door. Martha opened it. The girl had a wet headscarf and a thick, damp mackintosh. Beneath this disguise she was a pretty dapple-cheeked English girl. ‘Did you want to get out of the rain, or to telephone?’ A short offended laugh. ‘Actually to telephone.’ ‘In that case, I’ll leave.’ Another, but an appeased laugh. She watched Martha, wary, offering her smile like a shield. These were people totally on the defensive. The war? Their nature? But Martha was so clearly an outsider, breaking the rules with a smile in an alien accent, that had she persisted, talked, broken barriers, the girl would have enjoyed it, would have been grateful to have the defences broken, but also resenting, also wary, like an animal accepting overtures but ready to bite at a clumsy movement.

      It was pouring. Martha went into a cigarette shop. The woman behind the counter raised eyes to Martha’s face and then looked at Martha’s feet. Water dripped from Mrs Van’s coat to the floor, which was already smeared and wet.

      And now Martha thought – although it meant she would have instantly to leave the shop and go out into the rain, asked: ‘Can I have a dozen boxes of matches?’

      Sullen: ‘You can have one box.’

      ‘Oh, I’d like a dozen. Half a dozen?’

      ‘There’s been a war on, you know.’

      Martha had asked for three boxes of matches in a kiosk during her first week. Since then, she had made a point of asking for a dozen, in kiosks in every area of London.

      ‘There’s been a war on, you know.’

      And with what hostility, what resentment. And what personal satisfaction. ‘I’m sorry, I was forgetting.’ ‘I suppose some people can.’

      Martha got one box of matches in return for her tuppence, and smiled into a frozenly angry face. But the face said she must leave, must get soaked in punishment for her heartless indifference to the sufferings of her nation.

      Martha left. A bus looked as if it might have room. She jumped on, and the conductor said: Hold on then, love. She smiled, he smiled. Disproportionate relief! She had discovered, swapping notes with other aliens in pubs, that it was not only she who had to fight paranoia, so many invisible rules there were to break, rules invisible to those who lived by them, that was the point. Warming herself at the conductor’s smile, the journey was made up Fleet Street, invisible behind cold rain, past Trafalgar Square, where lions loomed in a cold grey steam, and up to Piccadilly Circus, where the conductor sent her on her way with smiles, a wink, and an injunction to look after herself and enjoy her holiday.

      It was with Henry that she had first seen this place, on a clear gold evening, the sky awash with colour. She looked at the haphazard insignificance of it, and the babyish statue, and began to laugh.

      ‘My dear Martha?’

      ‘This,’ she tried to explain, ‘is the hub of the Empire.’

      For him a part of London one passed through, he attempted her vision, and smiled his failure: ‘Isn’t that rather more your problem than it is ours?’

      ‘But, Henry, that’s so much the point, can’t you see?’ For this exchange seemed to sum up hours of their failure to meet on any sort of understanding; during which nagged the half memory of a previous failure – what, who, when? Yes, as a child, when her mother had laid down this attitude, this dogmatism, this ‘It’s right, it’s wrong’ and Martha, reacting, had examined, criticized, taken a stand, brought back a stand to the challenger – who had lost interest, was no longer there, had even forgotten.

      ‘Well, it’s quite a jolly little place, isn’t it?’ he inquired, uncomfortably facing her – but only just.

      ‘Well, I suppose it’s the war again,’ she said at last, ‘all that myth-making, all that shouting, the words – but you can’t say things like “jolly little place”.’

      ‘You’re a romantic,’ he said, sour.

      ‘Ah, but you’re having it both ways, always – having it both ways, sliding out …’ She had, for a moment, been unable to conceal a real swell of painful feeling, all kinds of half-buried, half-childish, myth-bred emotions were being dragged to the surface: words having such power! Piccadilly Circus, Eros, Hub, Centre, London, England … each tapped underground rivers where the Lord only knew what fabulous creatures swam! She tried to hide pain, Henry not being a person who knew how to share it.

      She supposed she did hide it, for in a moment he was urging her into a pub, buying her drinks, talking about the war, and radiating relief that nothing was to be asked of him.

      ‘You know, Henry, after one’s been a week here, one simply wants to put one’s arms around you – oh no, not you personally.’

      ‘Oh dear, I was rather hoping …’ said he, laughing with relief that he would have to suffer no such demonstration. He had even involuntarily glanced around to see if there was anyone near that he knew.

      ‘No, the whole island, all of you.’

      ‘Oh but why? Do tell me!’

      ‘If I could, you see, there’d be no need to feel that.’

      The exterior of Baxter’s was in no way more distinguished than that of Joe’s. A modest brown door had Baxter’s on it – just the word, nothing more. There was a window completely covered by white muslin that needed washing. Martha stood outside for a moment, holding this delicious moment known only to newcomers in a city: behind this door, which was just like so many others, what will there be? A southern courtyard with a lemon-tree beside a fountain and a masked Negro lute-player asleep? A man with a red blanket slung across his shoulder, stands by a black mule? A pale girl in sprigged muslin goes upstairs with a candle in her hand? Two old men in embroidered skullcaps play chess beside a fire? Why not? Since what actually does appear is so improbable. Last week she had opened a door by mistake on a staircase in Bayswater and a woman in a tight black waspwaisted corset, pearls lolling between two great naked breasts, stood by a cage made of gold wire the size of a fourposter bed, in which were a dozen or so brilliantly fringed and tinted birds. Martha said: ‘I’m sorry.’ The woman said: ‘If you are looking for Mr Pelham, he’s in Venice this week.’

      She went in. A man in shabby dinner clothes and sleeked-down dandruffy hair came forward, already disapproving. Through his eyes, she saw a young woman with damp hair, a damp coat, and a stretched smile. For Martha was suddenly bloody-minded, because of this man’s automatic bad manners, though she knew they were the stuff of his life and what he earned his wages for. A subordinate man, a waiter, came to stand by the first, the