The Sweetest Dream (39 page)

Rupert went off with the children to their mother's and found
what he had dreaded. Years ago, after the birth of Margaret, she
had suffered a depression, a real one. He had seen her through it,
she had got better, but lived in terror that it might recur. It had.
Meriel sat curled up in the corner of a sofa, staring at nothing, in
a dirty dressing-gown, her hair unwashed and uncombed. The
children stood on either side of their father, staring at their mother,
then pressed close to him so he could put his arms around them.

‘Where is Jaspar?' he asked the silent woman, who was
evidently a long way off, inside the dreadful suffering of the
depressive.

After a time he repeated the question, and she said, irritated
at the interruption, ‘Gone.'

‘Is he coming back?'

‘No.'

That seemed to be all he was going to get out of her, but
then she said, in a thick indifferent mutter, not moving, not
turning her head, ‘Better take the kids. They'll get nothing here.'

Rupert collected up books, toys, clothes, school gear, under
the direction of Margaret and William, and then back to Meriel.
‘What are you going to do?' he asked. A long silence. She shook
her head, meaning, Leave me alone, and then when the three
were already at the door, she said in the same tone, ‘Get me into
hospital. Any hospital. I don't care.'

The children were installed again in their old rooms, and at
once the whole flat was awash with their possessions. They were
frightened, and silent.

Rupert rang their doctor, who would arrange for Meriel to
go into a psychiatric ward. He tried to ring Jaspar, but his call
was not returned.

Frances was having hard, cool thoughts. She knew that Jaspar
was not likely to come back to Meriel, if he had gone off in fright
at the experience of being with a depressive. He was ten years
younger, was an ornament of the fashion world, designing sports
clothes and making money. His name was often in the newspapers.
Why had he taken on a woman with two half-grown children?
Rupert had said he believed the young man had enjoyed seeing
himself as mature and responsible, proving that he was a serious
person. He had the reputation of being too trendy for his own
good, drugs, wild parties–all that. To which scene he had
presumably returned. That meant that Meriel was without a man, and
would very likely want her husband back. And here were two
children in emotional shock, and here she was, a mother substitute.
And yes, she was suffering that awed and appalled feeling that
comes when life recurs, in a familiar pattern. She thought, I am
in danger of being landed with these kids–no, I
have
been landed
with them. Do I want that?

Margaret was twelve, William was ten. They would soon be
adolescent. She was not afraid that Rupert would let her down,
relinquish responsibility to her, but that their intimacy would not
only suffer–it would have to–and it might disappear, sucked
into the insensate demands of teenagers. But she liked Rupert so
much . . . she did so like him . . . she loved the man. She could
say, seriously, she had not loved till now–yes, she would say
yes to whatever turned up. And after all, even depressions take
themselves off, and then the children would want to be with their
mother.

From the hospital where Meriel was came scrawls, you could
not call them letters, in wild handwriting. ‘Rupert, don't let the
children come here. It won't be good for them. Frances, Margaret
has asthma, she needs a new prescription.'

The doctors, telephoned by Rupert, said she was very ill but
would recover. Her previous illness had lasted two years.

Frances and Rupert lay side by side in the dark, her head on
his right shoulder, his right hand on her right breast. Her hand lay
on his inner thigh, her knuckles against his balls, a soft but
self-respecting weight that was giving her confidence. This connubial
and time-honoured scene was how they spent the half hour before
sleep, whether love-making had taken place or not. The subject
that both had been skirting around now had to be dealt with.

‘Where was Meriel when she was ill, those two years?'

‘Mostly in bed. She wasn't up to much.'

‘She can't stay in hospital for two years.'

‘No, she'll need looking after.'

‘I suppose Jaspar isn't going to rally around?'

‘Is it likely?'

He spoke quietly, even jauntily, but with a forlorn bravery
that melted her heart. ‘Look, Frances, this is just as bad as it can
be for you. Don't imagine I don't know it.' She wasn't going to
say it wasn't bad, so hesitated, and he came in quickly with, ‘I
won't blame you if you left . . .' His voice was thick.

‘I'm not leaving. I'm just thinking.' He kissed her cheek, from
which she learned that his face was wet.

‘If you sold this flat and we put our money together, and
bought a big flat, even then there would be the problem–it
would be the first wife and the second incumbent in separate
rooms, like an African polygamist.'

‘Or like Thurber's cartoon. I don't really see Meriel on the
top of a cupboard.'

They laughed. They did laugh.

‘Do we have enough money for a house?' she asked.

‘Not in any decent part of London. Not a big one.'

‘I take it Meriel is not going to be earning?'

‘She was never one for a career.' His voice was dry, indeed:
she knew that here was a history. ‘An old-fashioned woman, that's
Meriel. Or the last word in feminism. And of course she wasn't
working when she was with Jaspar, she was enjoying the high
life. So, yes, we can take it that she will have to be kept.' A pause.
‘They did say, the doctors, that we have to assume the depression
will recur.'

‘I've been thinking, Rupert. It would be two wives in one
house, but at least not on the same floor.'

‘I gather you've done that one already?'

‘I'm an old hand at it.'

‘Are you planning to marry me, Frances?'

‘It would certainly be better for the children if I did.
Fancy-woman into wife. Never underestimate the conservatism of
children.'

 • • •

Frances telephoned Colin, asked if they could talk, and he
suggested she should come and he would cook. She found herself
back in Julia's house, in the kitchen, at a table which was the
smallest she had seen it. Two chairs. Colin arrived, all energetic
welcome.

They embraced.

Frances said, ‘Where's the little dog?'

He hesitated, turned his back to lift plates from the refrigerator–using it as she had done so often to avoid or postpone notice,
set cold soup in front of her, and sat opposite her.

‘Vicious is with Sophie. She's downstairs.'

She laid down her spoon, and absorbed the shock. ‘Sophie
and you are together?'

‘She's ill. It's a kind of breakdown. The man after Andrew–no good. She appealed to me.'

She had taken all this in and now applied herself to the soup.
He was a good cook. ‘Well, that certainly puts a different face on
it.'

‘Enlighten me.'

She did, and he showed his grasp of the essentials with, ‘Well,
Ma, you're a glutton for punishment.'

‘The thing is, I really do . . .' she had been going to say, like,
but said, ‘love this man. I do.'

‘He's a good bloke,' said her son.

‘Have you moved in to Julia's flat yet?'

‘It's such a period piece, I can't bear to demolish it. But yes,
of course we're going to use it.'

‘Suppose we put Rupert's wife in the basement flat?'

‘Just like poor Phyllida.'

‘But I hope not for ever. Rupert says that Meriel couldn't wait
to get rid of him. More fool her.'

‘Right then. Meriel in the basement. Sophie and me at the
top of the house. We will use Sylvia's old room, and I will go
on working in the sitting-room. So you and Rupert and the two
kids will have the six rooms, on Andrew's floor and mine, and
your rooms. And of course, there is this ever faithful kitchen.'

‘I wouldn't have thought of it if I didn't know the house was
virtually empty. And it would give us a breathing space . . .'

‘It's not a bad idea.' With the energy he brought to everything,
he removed the soup plates and produced grilled fish. He poured
wine, he drank his down, poured himself some more.

‘And you and Sophie?'

‘Andrew wasn't good for Sophie. It was more of the same.
She says Roland was like a black hole when it came to the crunch,
and Andrew–well . . . every good intention, but he is a bit of
a lightweight, you'll have to agree to that? He doesn't
engage
,'
explained her son, with a grin that expected complicity in
understanding. ‘Whereas I,' he said, stating his case, ‘take people on. I
have victims in my past to prove it, well-gnawed and mangled,
but
taken on
. No, you don't know about them. I've taken Sophie
on
.'

‘Two loonies in one house,' said Frances.

‘Elegantly put.'

‘And not for the first time. But never mind, with children at
ten and twelve, they'll be grown-up soon, won't they?'

‘In the first place, I haven't noticed Andrew and me–or
Sylvia–not needing a family base, even when grown-up. And
in the second place–well, I wouldn't have understood your
peremptory ways with time until recently. What's four years?
Six years? Ten? Nothing. A mere breath. There's nothing like a
death to bring that home . . . and there's another thing. Has it
occurred to you that the kids might prefer you to their delinquent
mum?'

‘Delinquent! She's ill.'

‘She went off with her demon lover, didn't she? She ditched
them?'

‘No, she took them with her. But now they're–ditched.'

‘I hope they're at least passable. Are they?'

‘So far they've been on their best behaviour. I don't know.'

‘Aren't you haunted by all this recurrence?'

‘Yes. Oh, yes, I am. And it's worse than you know. Meriel
is the daughter of Sebastian Heath–you probably don't remember
that name? You do? He was a famous communist, just like Johnny.
He was arrested by the comrades in the Soviet Union and
disappeared for ever.'

‘I suppose to have a father who was shot in the back of the
neck by his own side is enough to explain a certain amount of
emotional disarray.'

‘And then her mother committed suicide. She was a
communist too. Meriel was brought up by a communist family–but
they aren't communists now, apparently.'

‘So she had what might fairly be described as a broken
childhood.'

‘Hence my feeling of being pursued by more of the same.'

‘Poor Ma,' he said cheerily. Never mind. And don't think
your housing problems will be solved permanently if you come
here. I intend to get married.'

‘Sophie!'

‘Good God, no. I'm not that mad. She's just my mate. We're
mates. But I'm definitely on the look-out for a wife. And I shall
get married and have four kids, none of your two and a half stuff.
And then I'll need this house.'

‘Right,' said his mother. ‘Fair enough.'

 • • •

Frances, supper over, remarked that it was getting late, and that
it was time Margaret and William were in bed. The girl got up,
and faced her, the fair maidenly lightly freckled forehead presented
to Frances like a little bull about to charge. ‘Why should we? You
can't order us about. You aren't our mother.' And now William
said the same. Clearly the two had discussed the situation and
decided to make a stand. Two obstinate faces, two antagonistic
bodies, and Rupert, watching, was pale, like them.

‘No, I am not your mother, but while I'm looking after you
I'm afraid you'll have to go along with what I say.'

‘I'm not going to,' said Margaret.

‘I'm not going to,' said William.

Margaret had a round little girl's face waiting to take on
definition, features that at a few yards seemed to disappear into a
pale outline where only a little pink mouth asserted itself. Now
the mouth was primly virtuous with disapproval.

‘We hate you,' said William carefully, having rehearsed the
line with Margaret.

Frances was inordinately, irrationally angry.

‘Sit down,' she snapped, and, surprised, the children slid back
into their chairs.

‘Now, you listen. I did not expect I would have to look after
you. It wasn't something I wanted.' But here she glanced at
Rupert, who was so hurt by the whole awful situation. She went
on, ‘I don't mind doing things for you. I don't mind cooking and
your clothes and all that–but I'm not putting up with nonsense.
You can forget about the sulks and making scenes, because I won't
put up with them.' She was really getting into her stride, and the
two pale dismayed faces were not enough to stop her. ‘You don't
know this–and why should you–but I've had all I'm going to
take of slamming doors and adolescent rebellions and all that
infantile
rubbish.' She was shouting at them. Never, ever, had she
shouted at a child before. ‘Do you hear? And if you start all that
I'm going to leave. So I'm giving you due warning. I shall simply
go.' Lack of breath stopped her. Rupert's eyebrows, usually ready
for irony, were signalling that she was overdoing it.

‘Sorry,' she said–to him rather than to them. And then, ‘No,
I'm not at all sorry. I said that because I mean it. So think about
it.'

Without a word the children got up and silently went off to
their rooms. But they would join each other in either his or hers
to discuss Frances.