The Sweetest Dream (12 page)

Colin, having stared at his father, and then at his mother:
Why
did you let him sit down? Why do you let him . . . ?
now got up,
scraping back his chair, and pushing it back against the wall with
a bang. He went out.

‘I feel this is a real home from home,' said Comrade Mo,
consuming chocolate pudding. ‘And I do not know these cakes?
Are they like some cakes we have from the Arab cuisine?'

‘Cypriot,' said Johnny, ‘almost certainly influenced from the
East . . .' and began a lecture on the cuisines of the Mediterranean.

They were all listening, fascinated: no one could say that
Johnny was dull when not talking about politics, but it was too
good to last. Soon he was on to Kennedy's murder, and the
probable roles of the CIA and the FBI. From there he went on
to the American plans to take over Africa, and in proof told them
that Comrade Mo had been propositioned by the CIA offering
vast sums of money. All his teeth and gums showing, Comrade
Mo confirmed this, with pride. An agent of the CIA in Nairobi
had approached him with offers to finance his party, in return for
information. ‘And how did you know he was CIA?' James wanted
to know, and Comrade Mo said that ‘everyone knew' the CIA
roamed around Africa, like a lion seeking its prey. He laughed,
delightedly, looking around for approval. ‘You should all come
and visit us. Come and see for yourself and have a good time,'
he said, having little idea he was describing a glorious future.
‘Johnny has promised to come.'

‘Oh, I thought he was going now–at once?' said James, and
now Comrade Mo's eyes rolled in enquiry to Johnny, while he
said, ‘Comrade Johnny's welcome any time.'

‘So, you didn't tell Andrew you were going to Africa?' asked
Frances, to elicit the reply, ‘Keep them guessing.' And Johnny
smiled and offered them the aphorism, ‘Always keep them
guessing.'

‘Who?' Rose wanted to know.

‘Obviously, Rose, the CIA,' said Frances.

‘Oh, yes, the CIA,' said James, ‘of course.' He was absorbing
information, as was his talent and his intention.

‘Keep them guessing,' said Johnny. And, in his severest manner
to his willing disciple, James, ‘In politics you should never let
your left hand know what your right hand does.'

‘Or perhaps,' said Frances, ‘what your left hand does.'

Ignoring her: ‘You should always cover your tracks, Comrade
James. You should never make things easy for the enemy.'

‘Perhaps I shall come to Cuba too?' said Mo. ‘Comrade Fidel
is encouraging links with the liberated African countries.'

‘And even the non-liberated ones,' said Johnny, letting them
all in on secrets of policy.

‘What are you going to Cuba for?' asked Daniel, really wanting
to know, confronting Johnny across the table with his
inflammatory red hair, his freckles, and eyes always strained by the
knowledge that he was not worthy to lick the boots of–for instance,
Geoffrey. Or Johnny.

James said to him, ‘One should not ask that kind of question,'
and looked to Johnny for approval.

‘Exactly,' said Johnny. He got up, and resumed his lecturer's
position, back to the window, at ease, but on the alert.

‘I want to see a country that has known only slavery and
subjection build freedom, build a new society. Fidel has done
miracles in five years, but the next five years will show a real
change. I am looking forward to taking Andrew and Colin, taking
my sons, to see for themselves . . . Where are they, by the way?'
For he had not noticed their absence until now.

‘Andrew is with Sylvia,' said Frances. ‘We are going to have
to call her that now.'

‘Why, has she changed her name?'

‘That
is
her name,' said Rose, sullen: she continually said she
hated her name and wanted to be called Marilyn.

‘I have only really known her as Tilly,' said Johnny, with a
whimsical air that momentarily recalled Andrew. ‘Well, then,
where's Colin?'

‘Doing homework,' said Frances. A likely story, though
Johnny would not know that.

Johnny was fidgeting. His sons were his favourite audience,
and he did not know what a critical one it was.

‘Can you go to Cuba, just like that, as a tourist?' asked James,
evidently disapproving of tourists and their frivolity.

‘He's not going as a tourist,' said Comrade Mo. Feeling out
of place at the table, while his comrade-in-arms stood in front of
them, he got up and lounged there by Johnny. ‘Fidel invited him.'

This was the first Frances had heard of it.

‘And he invited you too,' said Comrade Mo.

Johnny was clearly displeased: he had not wanted this to be
revealed.

Comrade Mo said, ‘A friend of Fidel's is in Kenya for the
Independence celebrations, and he told me that Fidel wants to
invite Johnny and Johnny's wife.'

‘He must mean Phyllida.'

‘No, it was you. He said Comrade Johnny and Comrade
Frances.'

Johnny was furious. ‘Comrade Fidel is clearly unaware of
Frances's indifference to world affairs.'

‘No,' said Comrade Mo, not noticing apparently that Johnny
was about to explode, just at his elbow. ‘He said he had heard
she is a famous actress, and she is welcome to start a theatre group
in Havana. And I'll add our invitation to that. You could start a
revolutionary theatre in Nairobi.'

‘Oh, Frances,' breathed Sophie, clasping her hands together,
her eyes melting with pleasure, ‘how wonderful, how absolutely
wonderful
.'

‘Frances's line seems rather more to be advice on family
problems,' said Johnny, and, firmly putting an end to this nonsense, raised
his voice, addressing the young ones, ‘You are a fortunate
generation,' he told them. ‘You will be building a new world, you young
comrades. You have the capacity to see through all the old shams,
the lies, the delusions–you can overturn the past, destroy it, build
anew . . . this country has two main aspects. On the one hand it is
rich, with a solid and established infrastructure, while on the other,
it is full of old-fashioned and stultifying attitudes. That will be the
problem. Your problem. I can see the Britain of the future, free,
rich, poverty gone, injustice a memory . . .'

He went on like this for some time, repeating the exhortations
that sounded like promises.
You
will transform the world . . . it is
your
generation on whose shoulders the responsibility will fall . . .
the future is in
your
hands . . .
you
will live to see the world a
better place, a glorious place, and know that it was
your
efforts
. . . what a wonderful thing to be
your
age, now, with everything
in
your
hands . . .

Young faces, young eyes, shone, adored him and what he was
saying. Johnny was in his element, absorbing admiration. He was
standing like Lenin, one hand pointing forward into the future,
while the other was clenched on his heart.

‘He is a great man,' he concluded in a soft, reverential voice,
gazing severely at them. ‘Fidel is a genuinely great man. He is
pointing us all the way into the future.'

One face there showed an incorrect alignment to Johnny:
James, who admired Johnny as much as Johnny could possibly
wish, was in the grip of a need for instruction.

‘But, Comrade Johnny . . .' he said, raising his hand as if in
class.

‘And now goodnight,' said Johnny. ‘I have a meeting. And
so has Comrade Mo here.'

His unsmiling but comradely nod excluded Frances, to whom
he directed a cold glance. Out he went, followed by Comrade
Mo, who said to Frances, ‘Thanks, Comrade. You've saved my
life. I was really hungry. And now it seems I have a meeting.'

They sat silent, listening to Johnny's Beetle start up, and leave.

‘Perhaps you could all do the washing-up,' said Frances. ‘I've
got to work. Goodnight.'

She lingered to see who would take up this invitation. Geoffrey
of course, the good little boy; Jill, who was clearly in love with
handsome Geoffrey; Daniel because he was in love with Geoffrey
but probably didn't know it; Lucy . . . well, all of them, really.
Rose?

Rose sat on: she was fucked if she was going to be made use
of.

 • • •

The influences of Christmas Day, that contumacious festival, were
spreading dismay as early as the evening of the 12th of December
when, to Frances's surprise, she found she was drinking to the
independence of Kenya. James lifted his glass, brimming with
Rioja, and said, ‘To Kenyatta, to Kenya, to Freedom.' As always,
his warm friendly, if public, face under the tumbling locks of
black hair, sent messages all around of unlimited reservoirs of
largesse of feeling. Excited eyes, fervent faces: Johnny's recent
harangues were still reverberating in them.

A vast meal had been consumed, a little of it by Sylvia, who
was as always by Frances's left elbow. In her glass was a stain of
red: Andrew had said she must drink a little, it was good for her,
and Julia had supported him. The cigarette smoke was denser than
usual; it seemed that everyone was smoking tonight, because of
the liberation of Kenya. Not Colin, he was batting away waves
of smoke as they reached his face. ‘Your lungs will rot,' he said.
‘Well, it's just tonight,' said Andrew.

‘I'm going to Nairobi for Christmas,' James announced,
looking around, proud but uneasy.

‘Oh, are your parents going?' Frances unthinkingly asked, and
a silence rebuked her.

‘Is it likely?' sneered Rose, stubbing out her cigarette and
furiously lighting another.

James rebuked her with, ‘My father was fighting in Kenya.
He was a soldier. He says it's a good place.'

‘Oh, so your parents are living there? Or planning to? Are
you visiting them?'

‘No, they aren't living there,' said Rose. ‘His father is an
income tax inspector in Leeds.'

‘So, is that a crime?' enquired Geoffrey.

‘They are such squares,' said Rose. ‘You wouldn't believe
it.'

‘They aren't so bad,' said James, not liking this. ‘But we have to
make allowances for people who are not yet politically conscious.'

‘Oh, so you are going to make your parents politically
conscious–don't make me laugh,' said Rose.

‘I didn't say so,' said James, turning away from his cousin, and
towards Frances. ‘I've seen Dad's photographs of Nairobi. It's
groovy. That's why I'm going.'

Frances understood that there was no need to say anything as
crass as, Have you got a passport? A visa? How are you going to
pay for it? And you are only seventeen.

James was floating in the arms of a teenage dream, which was
not underpinned by boring realities. He would find himself as if
by magic in Nairobi's main street . . . there he would run into
Comrade Mo . . . be one of a group of loving comrades where
he would soon be a leader, making fiery speeches. And, since he
was seventeen, there would be a girl. How did he imagine this
girl? Black? White? She had no idea. James went on talking about
his father's memories of Kenya. The grim truths of war had been
erased, and all that remained were high blue skies, and all that
space and a good chap (corrected to a
good type
) who had saved
his father's life. A black man. An Askari, risking his life for the
British soldier.

What had been Frances's equivalent dream at, not sixteen, she
had been a busy schoolgirl; but nineteen? Yes, she was pretty sure
she had had fantasies, because of Johnny's immersion in the
Spanish Civil War, of nursing soldiers. Where? In a rocky
landscape, with wine, and olives. But where? Teenage dreams do not
need map points.

‘You can't go to Kenya,' said Rose. ‘Your parents will stop
you.'

Brought down, James reached for his glass and emptied it.

‘Since the subject has come up,' said Frances, ‘I want to talk
about Christmas?' Faced with already apprehensive faces, Frances
found herself unable to go on. They knew what they were going
to hear, because Andrew had already warned them.

Now he said, ‘You see, there isn't going to be a Christmas
here this year. I am going to Phyllida for Christmas lunch. She
rang me and said she hasn't heard from my . . . from Johnny, and
she says she dreads Christmas.'

‘Who doesn't?' said Colin.

‘Oh, Colin,' said Sophie, ‘don't be like that.'

Colin said, not looking at anyone, ‘I am going to Sophie's
because of her mother. She can't be alone on Christmas Day.'

‘But I thought you were Jewish,' said Rose to Sophie.

‘We have always done Christmas,' said Sophie. ‘When
Daddy was alive . . .' She went silent, biting her lips, her eyes
filling.

‘And Sylvia here is going with Julia to Julia's friend,' said
Andrew.

‘And I,' said Frances, ‘propose to ignore Christmas altogether.'

‘But, Frances,' said Sophie, ‘that's awful, you can't.'

‘Not awful. Wonderful,' said Frances. ‘And now, Geoffrey,
don't you think you should go home for Christmas? You really
should, you know.'

Geoffrey's polite face, ever attentive to what might be
expected of him, smiled agreement. ‘Yes, Frances. I know. You
are right. I will go home. And my grandmother is dying,' he
added, in the same tone.

‘Then, I'll go home too,' said Daniel. His red hair flamed,
and his face went even redder, as he said, ‘I'll come and visit you,
then.'

‘As you like,' said Geoffrey revealing by this ungraciousness
that perhaps he had been looking forward to a Daniel-free hols.