The Sweetest Dream (35 page)

Twenty years of war, beginning with isolated outbreaks of
‘civil unrest' or ‘disobedience' or strikes, or sullen angers erupting
into murder or arson, but all those rivulets had become the flood
that was the war, twenty years of it and soon to be forgotten except
in celebratory occasions. The noise in the hall was tumultuous, and
did not abate. People shouted and wept and embraced each other
and kissed strangers and on the platform speakers followed each
other, black and white. Franklin spoke, then again. The crowd
liked him, this round cheerful man who–so it was said–would
soon be in a government formed by Comrade Matthew Mungozi
who had unexpectedly won a majority in the recent elections:
President Mungozi, until recently only one name among half a
dozen potential leaders. And there was Comrade Mo, arriving
late, grinning, waving, excited, jumping up on the platform to
describe how he had just returned from the lines of freedom
fighters giving up their weapons, and planning how to make real
the sweet dreams that had kept them going for years. Comrade
Mo, gesticulating, agitated, weeping, told the audience of those
dreams: they had been so occupied with news of the war that
they had not had time to think how soon they would hear, ‘And
now we shall build a future together.' Comrade Mo was not
actually a Zimlian, but never mind, no one else there had actually
so recently been with the freedom fighters, not even Comrade
Matthew, who had been too busy with discussions with Whitehall
and in international meetings. Most of the world's leaders had
already assured him of their support. Overnight, he had become
an international figure.

There was no way for Frances and Sylvia to leave, and the
shouting and tears and speeches went on till the hall's caretaker
came to say there were ten minutes left of paid-for time. Groans
and boos and cries of
fascists
. Everyone pressed towards the doors.
Frances stayed looking up at Johnny, thinking that surely he should
at least acknowledge her presence, and he did give her a stern
and unsmiling nod. There, climbing up on the platform was Rose,
to greet Johnny, who did acknowledge her with a nod. Then
Rose stood in front of Franklin, blocking the people who wanted
to shake his hand, embrace him, or even carry him shoulder high
out of the hall.

When Frances and Sylvia had reached the foyer Rose arrived,
bursting with her triumph. Franklin had promised her an interview
with Comrade Matthew. Yes, at once. Yes, yes, yes, he promised,
he would speak to Comrade Matthew who would be in London
next week and Rose would get her interview.

‘See?' Rose said to Frances, ignoring Sylvia. ‘And so I'm on
my way.'

‘Where to?' was the expected reply, and Frances made it.

‘You'll see,' said Rose. ‘All I wanted was a break, that's all.'

She went off to resume her duties as a steward.

Frances and Sylvia stood on the pavement, while happy people
unwilling to part from each other, milled about them.

‘I have to see you, Frances,' said Sylvia. ‘It's important–not
just you, everybody.'

‘Everybody!'

‘Yes, you'll see why.'

They would all meet in a week, and Sylvia would come home
for the whole night, she promised.

Rose read every article she could find on comrade Matthew,
President Mungozi. Not so much on Zimlia. A great deal was
being said, and most of it complimentary, by people who had
often written unpleasantly. For one thing, he was a communist.
What was that going to mean, in the Zimlian context, was being
asked. Rose did not intend to pose such questions, or at least
not in a confrontational manner. She had written a draft of
her interview before even meeting The Leader, all taken from
other interviews. As a freelance journalist she had written little
pieces about local issues, mostly on information supplied to her
by Jill, now on several committees on the Council. She had always
fitted together information, or other people's articles, to make her
articles, so this job was the same, only larger in import and–she
hoped–in consequences. She used none of the criticism of
Comrade Matthew, and ended with a couple of paragraphs of optimistic
euphemism of the kind she had heard so often from Comrade
Johnny.

This article, she took, in draft, for her interview to The Leader,
at his hotel. He was not a communicative interviewee, at least to
start with, but when he had read her draft he lost his suspicions,
and gave her some helpful quotes. ‘As President Mungozi told
me. . .'

 • • •

It was a week later. Frances had extended the table to its former
state, hoping people would say, Just like old times. She had
cooked a stew and made a pudding. Who was coming? Told that
Sylvia was, Julia said she would come down, and bring Wilhelm.
Colin, hearing of the subject of what Sylvia was calling ‘a meeting'
said he would certainly be there. Andrew, who had been on a
honeymoon with Sophie–his word, though they were not
married–said they would both come.

Julia and Frances waited together. Andrew arrived first, but
alone. One glance was enough: he had a depleted, even haggard
look, and there was no sign of the debonair Andrew. He was
sombre. His eyes were red.

‘Sophie might be in later,' he said, and poured himself copious
drafts of red wine, one after the other. ‘All right, mother,' he said.
‘I know. But I've taken a beating.'

‘Has she gone back to Roland?'

‘I don't know. Probably. The bonds of love are hard to break,
quote unquote, but if that's love then give me the other thing.'
His voice was already slurred. ‘I'm really here because I never see
Sylvia. Sylvia–who is she? Perhaps it is Sylvia I love. But you
know what, Frances, I think she's a nun at heart.' And so he ran
on, the stream of words slowing and thickening, until he got up,
strode to the sink, and splashed water on his face. ‘There is a
superstition . . .'–he said thuperthtition–‘that cold water subdues
the flames of alcohol. Untrue.' His head fell forward as he sat
down, and he got up again and said, ‘I think I'll have a bit of a
lie down.'

‘Colin's using your room.'

‘I'll use the sitting-room.' He went noisily up the stairs.

Sylvia arrived and embraced Julia who could not prevent
herself from saying, ‘I never see you these days.'

Sylvia smiled, and took the other end of the table from Frances,
and spread papers around her.

‘Aren't you having supper with us?' asked Julia, and Sylvia
said, ‘Sorry,' and pushed the papers to one side.

Colin came down the stairs in big leaps. Sylvia's pale face
warmed to him in a smile and she held out her arms. They
embraced.

Wilhelm knocked, as he always did, enquired if he might join
them, sat near Julia, having first kissed her hand and given her a
close enquiring look. He was worried about her? She looked the
same, they both did. He might be on his way to ninety but he
was hale, he was hearty.

Having heard that Andrew was sleeping it off upstairs,
Colin said, ‘La belle dame sans merci. I told you so, Frances,
didn't I?'

At which point Sophie herself arrived, full of apologies. She
was in a loose white dress, her black hair cascading over it; her
face seemed unmarked by love or by pain, but her eyes–now
that was a different matter.

Frances was serving food, her hands occupied. She turned her
head so that Sophie might kiss her cheek. Sophie slid into a chair
opposite Colin, and found him gravely examining her.

‘Darling Colin,' said Sophie.

‘Your victim is upstairs, he's flaked out,' said Colin.

‘That's not nice,' said Frances.

‘It wasn't meant to be,' said Colin.

Sophie's eyes were full of tears.

Wilhelm said to Colin, ‘Beautiful women should never be
reproached for the damage they do. They have the permission of
the Gods to torment us.' He gathered up Julia's hand, kissed it
once, twice, sighed, laid down the old hand, and patted it.

Rupert arrived. Without a word of explanation offered or
asked for, he was a fixture, and–Frances hoped–accepted. Colin
was giving him a long, not unfriendly look, but it was a bleak
one, as if loneliness had been confirmed. Rupert sat in the place
next to Frances, and nodded to everyone.

‘A meeting,' he said. ‘But it's a meal.'

Frances was laying filled plates in front of everyone, family
style, and setting bottles of wine down the middle of the table.

‘This is marvellous, Frances, it's so wonderful–like old times,
oh I often think of them, all of us sitting around here, wonderful
evenings,' Sophie chattered. But she was on the point of tears and
was destroying a piece of bread with the long thin fingers that
were made for rings.

Here the little dog, having escaped from some confinement,
rushed into the kitchen and up on to Colin's lap, where it stayed,
its feathery tail like an energetic duster.

‘Down, Vicious,' said Colin. ‘Down at once.' But the creature
had settled on Colin's lap, and was trying to lick his face.

‘It is not healthy to let dogs lick your face,' said Sylvia.

‘I know,' said Colin.

‘That dog,' said Julia, ‘couldn't you call it something sensible?
Every time I hear Vicious I need to laugh.'

‘A laugh a day keeps the doctor away,' said Colin. ‘What do
you say to that, Sylvia?'

‘I wish we could just get on with the supper,' said Sylvia. She
had hardly touched her food.

‘This is so wonderful,' said Sophie, eating as if starved.

Now Andrew appeared, ill but upright. He and Sophie
exchanged miserable glances. Frances put a plate of food before
Andrew, who said, ‘Couldn't we just begin? Sophie and I have
to rush off.' His look at Sophie was a humble enquiry but she
seemed embarrassed.

‘Do we have to recapitulate?' asked Sylvia, pushing aside her
plate with relief, and arranging her papers in front of her. ‘I sent
everyone a resumé.'

‘And very good it was,' said Andrew. ‘Thank you.'

This was the situation. A group of young doctors wanted to
start a campaign to get the government to build shelters against
fall-out; that first, and then possibly against a full-scale nuclear
attack. The trouble was, the organisation in the field, the
Campaign for Unilateral Nuclear Disarmament, a noisy, vigorous
efficient force, opposed any attempt to provide shelter of any
kind, or even inform the populace about elementary protection.
The tone of their polemic was scornful of criticism, was violent,
even hysterical.

Julia said, ‘I need to have something explained to me. Why
do these people complain so much that the government is making
provision to shelter itself and the Royal Family?' A persistent jeer
was that ‘the government is making very sure that it will be
protected, never mind about us'. ‘I simply do not understand,'
said Julia. ‘If there is a war then it is essential to maintain a
government, surely that is commonsense?'

‘I do not think commonsense has much to do with this
campaign,' said Wilhelm. ‘These are people who have not experienced
war, or they would not talk so foolishly.'

‘They think like this,' said Colin. ‘A bomb will fall and
everyone in the world will be dead. Therefore there is no need for
shelters.'

‘But it is not logical,' said Julia. ‘It is not consistent.'

Frances and Rupert were looking at the wodges of articles and
cuttings, from
The Defender
, they looked at each other, they shared
resignation.
The Defender
was committed to the campaign's ‘line'.
Members of its staff were on the campaign's committees. Its
journalists wrote its articles.

‘The argument is,' said Colin, ‘that if the government thinks
itself protected and safe, then it will be more ready to drop the
bomb.'

‘What bomb?' said Julia. ‘Why one bomb? What is this bomb
they keep talking about? In a war there is not one bomb.'

‘That is the point, Julia. It is the point we have to get across,'
said Sylvia.

‘Perhaps Johnny could enlighten us,' said Wilhelm. ‘He is on
their committee.'

‘What committee is Johnny not on?' enquired Colin.

‘Why don't we telephone him and ask him to come and
defend himself?' suggested Rupert.

People were impressed with this idea; it had not occurred to
the family. Andrew went to the telephone. He dialled, Johnny
answered. He was told there was a meeting, and he agreed to
come.

While they waited they studied Sylvia's cuttings, and Julia said,
‘This is the strangest thing I have ever known. These people are
like children.'

‘I agree,' said Sylvia, ‘they are.'

Grateful for this little crumb, Julia took Sylvia's hand and held
it. ‘Ah, my poor girl, you do not eat, you do not look after
yourself.'

‘I'm fine,' said Sylvia. ‘We all eat too much.'

Frances's stew, rebuked, was nevertheless being offered for
second helpings.

Johnny arrived, but not alone. With him was James. Both
men wore Mao-style black jackets, and boots from the army
surplus shop. Johnny, who had recently been in Cuba with Fidel,
wore a scarf in Cuban colours. James was a large man now,
smiling, affable, everyone's good fellow. Not pleased to see James?
Impossible! He embraced Frances, he clapped Andrew and Colin
on the shoulders, he kissed Sophie, he hugged a bonily resistant
Sylvia, he gave Julia the closed-fist salute, at shoulder level–modified for social purposes. ‘Good to be here again,' he said. He
sat in an empty chair, looking expectant, and Johnny came to sit
by him, but, feeling lowered from the perpendicular and on the
same level as the others, stood up and resumed his old stance,
back to the window, arms out, hands resting on the sill. ‘I've
eaten,' he said. ‘How are you, Mutti?'