The Sweetest Dream (11 page)

‘We know what we are . . .' (Oh, no, we don't!) ‘. . . but not
what we may be.'

Once she would have found it hard to believe that she could
live chaste, without a man in prospect . . . but she still cherished
fantasies about a man in her life who would not be a mad egotist,
like Johnny. But what man would want to take on a tribe of
youngsters all ‘disturbed' for one reason or another. Here they
were, congratulated on living in Swinging London, promised
everything the advertisers of at least two continents could think
up, yet if ‘the kids' did swing–and they did, they were off to
the big jazz concert on Saturday, tomorrow–then they were
screwed up, and two of them, her sons, because of her and Johnny.
And the war, of course.

Frances took up her burden, heavily loaded carrier bags, paid
her bill, went home up the hill.

A pearly post-Clean Air Act fog floated outside the windows
and bedewed the hair and eyelashes of ‘the kids' who came into
the house laughing and embracing each other like survivors. Damp
duffel-coats loaded the banisters, and all the chairs around the
table except two on Frances's left, were occupied. Colin had sat
down by Sophie, saw that he would be next to his brother in the
third empty chair, and quickly moved to the end where he stood
by Geoffrey, who sat opposite Frances, and now Colin claimed
the important chair by pushing Geoffrey out with a thrust of his
buttocks. A schoolboy moment, rough and raw, too young for
their almost adult status. Geoffrey then came to sit on Frances's
right, without looking at Colin. Sophie suffered from any discord,
and she got up to go to Colin, bent to slide an arm around him,
and kissed his cheek. He did not permit himself to smile, but then
could not prevent a weak and loving smile at her which then
included everyone. They all laughed. Rose . . . James . . . Jill–these three seemed to be ensconced in the basement; Daniel was
next to Geoffrey, head boy and his deputy. Lucy was next to
Daniel, having come up from Dartington to spend the weekend
with him, here. Twelve places. They were all waiting, ravenously
eating bread, sniffing the smells that came from the stove. At last
Andrew came in, his arm around Sylvia. She was still inside the
baby shawl, but wore clean jeans, that were loose on her, and a
jersey of Andrew's. Her pale wispy hair had been brushed up,
making her look even more infantile. But she was smiling, though
her lips trembled.

Colin, who resented her being here at all, got up, smiling,
and made her a little bow. ‘Welcome, Sylvia,' he said, and tears
came into her eyes at their chorus of ‘Hello, Sylvia.'

She sat down next to Frances, and Andrew was next to her.
The meal could begin. In a moment dishes filled all the space
down the table. Colin got up to pour wine, forestalling Geoffrey,
who was about to do it, while Frances put food on to plates. A
moment of crisis: she had reached Andrew, and next would be
Sylvia. Andrew said, ‘Let me,' and there began a little play. On
to his plate he put a single carrot, and on to Sylvia's, a carrot. He
was solemn, frowning, judicious, and already Sylvia was beginning
to laugh, though her lips still made nervous painful little
movements. On to his plate, a little spoon of cabbage, and one for her,
ignoring the hand that had gone up instinctively to stop him. For
him, a mere sample of the mince, and the same for her. And then,
with an air of recklessness, a rather big lump of potato for her,
and for him. They were all laughing. Sylvia sat looking at her
plate, but Andrew, with a determined let's-get-this-over look,
had taken up a spoon of potato and waited for her to do the same.
She did–and swallowed.

Now, trying not to watch what went on, as Andrew and
Sylvia fought with themselves, Frances raised her glass of Rioja–seven shillings a bottle, for this pleasant wine had yet to be ‘discovered'–and drank a toast to Progressive Education, an old joke
which they all enjoyed.

‘Where's Julia?' came Sylvia's little voice.

An anxious silence. Then Andrew said, ‘She doesn't come to
meals with us.'

‘Why doesn't she? Why not? It's so lovely with you.'

This was a moment of real breakthrough, as Andrew described
it later to Julia–‘We've won, Julia, yes, we really have.' Frances
was gratified: she actually had tears in her eyes. Andrew put his
arm around Sylvia and, smiling at his mother, said, ‘Yes, it is. But
Julia prefers to be up there by herself.'

Having unwittingly created a picture of what must be
loneliness, it struck him, and he jumped up and said, ‘I'll go and ask
her again.' This was partly to relieve him of the burden and the
challenge of his still scarcely touched plate. As he went out and
up the stairs, Sylvia put down her spoon.

In a moment Andrew returned, and sat down with, ‘She says
perhaps she'll drop in later.'

This caused a moment not far from panic. In spite of
Andrew's efforts on his grandmother's behalf, they all tended to
see Julia as a kind of old witch, to be laughed at. The St Joseph's
contingent could not know how Julia had wrestled for a week,
two, with Sylvia's illness, sitting with her, bathing her, making
her take mouthfuls of this and sips of that. Julia had hardly
slept. And here was her reward, Sylvia, picking up her spoon
again, watching Andrew lift his, as if she had forgotten how to
use one.

The difficult moment passed, the kids appeased their teenage
appetites, and Frances ate more than she usually would, to be an
example to the two on her left. It was a wonderful evening, with
an undertone of tenderness because of Sylvia and their concern
for her. It was as if they were collectively putting their arms
around her, while she got down one mouthful after another.
Andrew too.

And then they saw she had gone white and was shaking. ‘My
father . . .' she whispered. ‘I mean, it's my stepfather . . .'

‘Oh, no,' said Colin, ‘it's all right, he's gone to Cuba.'

‘I'm afraid not,' said Andrew, and leaped up to intercept
Johnny, who was in the hall outside the kitchen. Andrew shut
the door, but everyone could hear Johnny's bluff, reasonable,
confident voice, and Andrew: ‘No, father, no, you can't come
in, I'll explain later.'

Voices loud, then low, and Andrew returned, leaving the door
open, and slid down again beside Sylvia. He was red and angry,
and he clutched his fork like a weapon.

‘But why isn't he in Cuba?' asked Colin, petulantly, like a
child.

The brothers looked at each other, suddenly as one,
exchanging understandings.

Andrew said, ‘He hasn't left, but I expect he will.' He added,
still angry, ‘Actually, I think he's going to Zanzibar–or Kenya.'
A pause, while the brothers communed, with their eyes and angry
smiles. ‘He's not alone, he's got a black man . . . a man from there
. . . an African comrade.' These adjustments to the spirit of the
times were followed carefully by the company. They had taken
Africa into their hearts and consciences, the progressive schools
had seen to that, and even Rose at a far from progressive school
chose her words with, ‘We've got to be nice to dark-skinned
people, that's what I think.'

Sylvia had not recovered. Her spoon hung listless in her thin
hand.

And now James, who was understandably at a loss, said, ‘Why
is he going to Africa instead of Cuba?'

At this the brothers laughed, together, and it was not pleasant,
while Frances prevented herself from joining in, though she would
have liked to. She had always tried never to criticise Johnny in
public.

Colin said, like an orator, ‘Keep them guessing,' and Frances,
hearing the quote, had to laugh. ‘That's it,' said Andrew, ‘keep
them guessing.'

‘Why are you laughing?' asked Sylvia, ‘what's funny?'

Andrew at once stopped his mockery, and picked up his spoon
again. But it was over, their meal, his and Sylvia's. ‘Johnny's
coming,' he said to her. ‘He's just getting something from the
car. If you want to get out of the way . . .'

‘Oh, yes, I do, yes, please,' said Johnny's stepdaughter, and
up she got, supported by Andrew's arm. The two went out. At
least they had both eaten something.

Frances called after them, ‘Tell Julia not to come down,
otherwise they'll quarrel again.'

The meal continued, subdued.

The St Joseph contingent were talking about a book Daniel
had stolen from a secondhand bookstall,
The Ordeal of Richard
Feverel
. He had read it, said it was groovy, and the tyrannical
father was just like his. He recommended it to Geoffrey who
pleased him by saying it was great, and then the novel migrated
to Sophie who said it was the best book she had ever read, it
made her cry. Now Colin was reading it. Rose said, ‘Why can't
I read it? It isn't fair.'

‘It's not the only copy in the world,' said Colin.

‘I've got a copy, I'll lend it to you,' said Frances.

‘Oh, Frances, thank you, you're so sweet to me.'

This meant, as everyone knew, I hope you are going to go
on being sweet to me.

Frances said, ‘I'll get it,' to have an excuse to go out of that
room which so soon would swirl with discordant currents. And
everything had been so nice until now . . . She went up to the
room just over the kitchen, the sitting-room, found
The Ordeal
of Richard Feverel
in a wall of books, turned and saw that Julia was
sitting there alone in the half dark. Not since Frances had taken
over the lower part of the house had she found Julia in this room.
Now, ideally, she should sit down and try to make friends with
Julia, but as always, she was in a hurry.

‘I was on my way down to you all,' said Julia, ‘but I hear
Johnny has arrived.'

‘I don't see how I can stop him coming,' said Frances. She
was listening downwards, to the kitchen–were they all right
there, no quarrels? Upwards . . . was Sylvia all right?

Julia said, ‘He has a home. It seems to me that he is not often
in it.'

‘Well,' said Frances, ‘if Phyllida is in it, who can blame him?'

She had hoped that this might make Julia at least smile, but
instead she was going on, ‘I must say this . . .' And Frances waited
for what she was sure would be a dose of disapproval. ‘You are
so weak with Johnny. He has treated you abominably.'

Frances was thinking, Then why give him the key to the
house?–though she knew the mother could hardly say to the
son that he couldn't have a key to a house he thought of as his
own. Besides, what about the boys? She said, trying to joke a
little, ‘Perhaps we could have the locks changed?'

But Julia took it seriously with, ‘I would see to it if I did not
think you would at once give him a new key.' She got up,
and Frances, who had been planning to sit down, saw another
opportunity slide away.

‘Julia,' said Frances, ‘you always criticise me, but you don't
support me.' And what did she mean by that, except that Julia
made her feel like a schoolgirl deficient in everything.

‘What are you saying?' said Julia. ‘I do not understand.' She
was furious, and hurt.

‘I don't mean . . . you have been so good . . . you are always
so generous . . . no, all I meant was . . .'

‘I do not believe that I have been lacking in my responsibilities
to the family,' said Julia, and Frances heard, incredulously, that
Julia might easily cry. She had hurt Julia, and it was the fact that
this was possible that made her stammer, ‘Julia . . . but Julia . . .
you are wrong, I didn't mean . . .' And then, ‘Oh,
Julia
,' in a
different tone, which made Julia stop on her way out of the room
to examine her, as if she was prepared to be touched, reached:
even to reach out herself.

But downstairs a door slammed, and Frances exclaimed, in
despair, ‘There he is, it's Johnny.'

‘Yes, it's Comrade Johnny,' said Julia, departing upstairs.

Frances went down into the kitchen and found Johnny in his
usual position, standing back to the window, and with him was a
handsome black man wearing clothes more expensive than anyone
else's, smiling as Johnny introduced him, ‘This is Comrade Mo,
from East Africa.'

Frances sat, pushing the novel across the table at Rose, but
she was staring in admiration at Comrade Mo, and at Johnny,
who resumed his lecture to impress Comrade Mo, on the history
of East Africa and the Arabs.

And now Frances was in a dilemma. She did not want to ask
Johnny to sit down. She had asked him–though Julia would
never believe this–not to drop in at mealtimes, and to telephone
before he came. But here was this guest and of course she must . . .

‘Would you like something to eat?' she asked, and Comrade
Mo rubbed his hands together and laughed and said he was
starving, and at once sat down in the chair next to her. Johnny, invited
to sit, said he would just have a glass of wine–he had brought
a bottle. Where Andrew and Sylvia had sat, minutes before, now
sat Comrades Mo and Johnny, and the two men put on their
plates all that was left of the pie, and the vegetables.

Frances was angry to the point where one is dispirited with
it: what was the point, ever, of being angry with Johnny? It was
obvious he had not eaten for days, he was cramming in bread,
taking great mouthfuls of wine, refilling his glass and Comrade
Mo's, in between forkfuls from his plate. The youngsters were
seeing appetites even greater than their own.

‘I'll serve the pudding,' said Frances, her voice dull with rage.

On to the table now went plates of sticky delights from the
Cypriot shops, concoctions of honey and nuts and filo pastry, and
dishes of fruit, and her chocolate pudding, made especially for
‘the kids'.