The Sweetest Dream (25 page)

Franklin was distressed, because he had wanted so much to
give Frances a present, and had expected that some of this ‘liberated' stuff would find its way to him, but he saw now this wouldn't
happen. Rose said, ‘And this is for Frances.' It was a kangaroo,
with a baby in its pouch. She held it up, grinning around, waiting
for applause, but Geoffrey took it from her, offended at the
criticism of Frances. Franklin admired the kangaroo, and thought it
a wonderful compliment to Frances, a mother to them all; he had
not understood Geoffrey's reaction, and now he reached out for
the kangaroo. Geoffrey gave it to him. Franklin sat taking the
baby from its pouch and putting it back again.

‘You could introduce a few kangaroos into Zimlia,' said
Johnny. He raised his glass. ‘To the liberation of Zimlia.'

Franklin looked among the debris on the table for a glass, held
it out to Rose to be filled, and drank ‘To the liberation of Zimlia'.

This kind of joke both excited Franklin and scared him. He
knew all about the terrible war in Kenya: they had ‘done' it in
class, and he could not see why Johnny–or for that matter the
teachers at St Joseph's–were so keen on Zimlia's going through
a war. But now, happy with food and drink and the kangaroo,
he drank again to Derek's toast, ‘To the Revolution', while
wondering which Revolution and where.

Then he said, ‘I'm going to give this to Frances,' and was
halfway up the stairs with it when he remembered that it was
stolen and that Frances had ticked him off that morning. But he
didn't want to return to the kitchen with it, and that was how it
found its way to Sylvia, who was carrying a big loaded tray up
to Julia's.

‘Oh, how lovely,' she said as Franklin tucked the kangaroo
under her arm, her hands being full. But she put the tray down
on the landing, and admired the kangaroo. ‘Oh, Franklin, it's so
nice.' And she kissed him, with the warm close hug that made
him expand with happiness.

In the sitting-room were now Andrew, asleep in a chair,
stretched out, his hands on his stomach. Colin, with Sophie on
the divan, arms around each other, both asleep.

Franklin stood looking at them while his heart took a dive
again, and he remembered how puzzled he was by everything.
He knew that Colin and Sophie had been ‘friends' but were not
friends now, and that Sophie had a ‘friend' who had gone to his
own family for Christmas. Why then were these two in each
other's arms, Sophie's head on Colin's shoulder? Franklin had not
slept with a girl yet. At the mission there were no girls, and the
boys were watched by the Fathers who knew everything that
went on. At home with his parents it was the same. Visiting his
grandparents he had teased the girls and joked with them, but no
more than that.

Like so many newcomers to Britain, Franklin had been
confused from the start about what went on. At first he had thought
there were no morals at all, but soon suspected that there must
be. But what were they? At St Joseph's, girls and boys slept with
each other, he knew: at least that's what it seemed like. In the
meadow behind the school, couples lay together in the grass,
and Franklin, solitary, listened to their laughter, and, worse, their
silences. He felt that the females of this island were available to
everyone, available to him, if only he could find the right words.
Yet he had seen a Nigerian boy, just arrived at St Joseph's, go up
to a girl and say, ‘Can I come into your bed tonight if I give you
a nice present?' She had slapped him so hard that he fell down.
Franklin had been turning over in his mind similar words, to try
his luck. Yet the same girl who had done the slapping cuddled
on the bed with a boy who had a room in the same corridor,
leaving the door open so everyone could see what went on. No
one took any notice.

He went back down the stairs, stopping to listen at the door
to the kitchen, where Johnny's lecture on guerilla tactics to destroy
the military imperialistic complex was similar to Derek's:
shoplifting was apparently considered a major weapon. He went down
to his room, and to the drawer where his money was. It looked
less: he counted it: there was less than half. He was standing there
counting when he heard Rose behind him.

‘Half my money's gone,' he said wildly.

‘I took half. I deserve it, don't I? You got all the clothes for
nothing. If you had bought clothes you couldn't have got anything
as nice for that money. So you've gained, haven't you? You've
got new clothes and half the money.'

He stared at her, his face puckered up with suspicion, sullen,
angry. That money, to him, was more than a gift from Frances,
who was a mother to him. It was like a welcome into this family,
making him part of it.

Rose was cold, and full of contempt. ‘You don't understand
anything,' she said. ‘I deserve it, don't you see?'

He gave a helpless shrug, and she stood there for a moment,
staring him out and then went up the stairs.

He looked for a place to hide the money in this room that
had no place where one could hide anything. At home you could
slide forbidden things into thatch or bury them in the earth floor,
or in the bush. At his parents' house were bricks that could be
loosened and fitted back. In the end he put the money back
into the drawer. He sat on the edge of his bed and cried, from
homesickness, for shame because Frances was angry with him,
and because he did not feel at home with those revolutionaries
upstairs and yet they treated him as one of themselves. In the end
he slept a little, and went up to the kitchen to find the two men
gone, and everyone doing the washing-up. In this he joined, with
relief, and with pleasure, one of them. It seemed there was going
to be supper, though everyone joked it would be impossible to
eat a thing. Rather late, about ten, the turkey carcass appeared
again, and all kinds of stuffings and relishes, and there was a big
tray of roast potatoes. They were all sitting around, drinking, tired,
pleased with themselves and with Christmas, when there was a
knock on the front door. Frances peered through the window,
and saw a woman on the pavement, uncertain whether to knock
again or go off. Colin came to stand by his mother. Both were
afraid that it might be Phyllida.

‘I'll go,' said Colin, and went out, and Frances saw him talking
to the stranger, who was swaying a little. He put his hand on her
shoulder to steady her, and then brought her in, with an arm right
around her.

She had been wandering in the dark or half-lit streets and now
stood blinking at the bright hall light. Frances appeared. The
stranger said to her, ‘Are you the darling of my heart?' She seemed
middle-aged, but it was hard to say, because her face was grimy,
so were the rather beautiful white hands that clutched at Colin.
She looked like someone rescued from a fire or a catastrophe.
Colin's face was wrenched with pain, the tender-hearted youth
was in tears. ‘Mother,' he said in appeal, and Frances went to the
other side, and together she and Colin took the poor stray up the
stairs and into the living-room, which was empty now, and tidy.

‘What a lovely room,' said the woman, and nearly fell. Colin
and Frances laid her down on the big sofa, and at once she lifted
her soiled hand and kept time while she sang . . . what was it?–yes, an old music-hall song, ‘I dillied and I dallied, I dallied and
I dillied and I . . . yes, I did dilly, darlings, I did, and now I'm
far from home.' She had a light clear voice, accurate, sweet. The
clothes she wore were not poor, and she did not seem to be poor,
though she was certainly ill. There was no smell of alcohol on
her breath. Now began another song, ‘Sally . . . Sally . . .' The
sweet voice rose true to the high note and held it. ‘Yes, darling,
yes,' she said to Colin, ‘you've a kind heart, I can see that.' Big
blue eyes, innocent eyes, even babyish eyes, were turned to Colin.
She was ignoring Frances. ‘Kind, but be careful. Kind hearts get
you into trouble, and who knows that better than Marlene?'

‘What's your name, Marlene?' asked Frances, holding a grubby
hand which was too cold, and lacked vitality. It lay weakly
trembling, in hers.

‘My name is lost, dear. It's lost and gone, but Marlene will
do.' And now she spoke German, endearments, in German. Then
more singing, fragments of songs. World War Two songs, with
Lili Marlene again and then again, and more German. ‘
Ich liebe
dich
,' she told them, ‘Yes, I do.'

Frances said, ‘I'll get Julia.' Up she went and found Julia having
supper with Wilhelm, on either side of a small table set with silver
and bright glass. She explained, and Julia said, meaning to be jocular,
but it was a complaint, ‘I see this house has acquired another waif.
There are limits to hospitality, Frances. Who is this lady?'

‘No lady,' said Frances. ‘But a waif, certainly.'

When she got back to the sitting-room, Andrew had arrived,
with a glass of water, which he held to the unknown's lips.

‘I'm not much of one for the water,' she said, and lay back
and sang that another little drink wouldn't do her any harm. And
then, again, it was German. Julia stood listening. She gestured to
Wilhelm, and the two sat in chairs, side by side, prepared to give
judgement.

Wilhelm said, ‘May I call you Marlene?'

‘Call me what you like, dear, call me what you fancy. Sticks
and stones may break my bones. They did once but it was a long
time ago.' And now she wept a little, with gulping sobs, like a
child's. ‘It hurt,' she informed them. ‘It hurt when they did that.
But the Germans were gentlemen. They were nice boys.'

‘Marlene, have you come from hospital?' asked Julia.

‘Yes, darling. I'm an escapee from hospital, you could say that,
but they'll take poor Molly back, they are good to poor Molly.'
And she sang, ‘There's none like pretty Sally. She is the darling
of my heart . . .' And then high and sweet, ‘
Sally, Sally
 . . .'

Julia got up, signed to Wilhelm to stay where he was, and
gestured Frances out to the landing. Colin came too. He said, ‘I
think we should take her in here. She's ill, isn't she?'

‘Ill and mad,' said Julia. Then, with delicacy softening her
sternness, she addressed Colin, ‘Do you know what she is–what
she was?'

‘Not a clue,' said Colin.

‘She was entertaining the Germans in Paris during the last
war. She's a whore.'

Colin groaned, ‘But it's not her fault.'

The Spirit of the Sixties, with passionate eyes, a trembling
voice, and outstretched pleading hands, was confronting the whole
past of the human race, responsible for all injustice, embodied in
Julia, who said, ‘Oh, you foolish boy, her fault, our fault, their
fault, what does it matter? Who is going to look after her?'

Frances said, ‘What's an English girl doing working as a whore
in Paris under the Germans?'

And suddenly, in a tone neither of them had heard from her
before, Julia said, ‘Whores don't have any problems with passports,
they're always welcome.'

Frances looked at Colin, Colin at Frances: what was that all
about? But often with the old these moments arrive, in a change
of voice, a painful grimace, a harshness–as now–which is all
that is left of some hurt or disappointment . . . and then, that's
that, it's over, it's gone. No one will ever know.

‘I shall telephone Friern Barnet,' said Julia.

‘Oh, no, no, no,' said Colin.

Julia went back into the room, interrupted
Sally
, and bent
over to ask, ‘Molly? You are Molly? Tell me are you from Friern
Barnet?'

‘Yes, I ran away for Christmas. I ran away to see my friends
but where are they, I don't know. But Friern is kind and Barnet
is kinder, they'll take poor Molly Marlene back.'

‘Go and telephone,' said Julia to Andrew. He went out.

‘I'm not going to forgive anyone,' said Colin, fierce, forlorn
and rejected.

‘Poor boy,' said Wilhelm.

‘Sending her back to . . . to . . .'

‘To a loony bin, that's what you wanted to say, darling,
but it's all right, don't be sad. Don't be mad either,' and she
laughed.

Andrew came back from telephoning. They all sat and waited,
Colin with wet eyes, and they listened to the mad woman lying
on the divan singing her
Sally
, over and over, and that high sweet
clear note broke their hearts, not only Colin's.

Downstairs, the supper table was quietened by the crisis, which
had been discussed, and had divided the company to the point
where it had had to disperse.

The doorbell rang. Andrew went down. He returned with a
tired middle-aged woman in a grey garment like an overall, and
over her arm was–yes, it was a straitjacket.

‘Now, Molly,' said this woman reproachfully, to the wanderer.
‘What a time to do this to us. You know we are always
short-staffed at Christmas.'

‘Bad Molly,' said the sick woman, getting up, supported by
Frances. And she actually smacked herself on the hand. ‘Naughty
Molly Marlene.'

The official examined her charge, and decided there was no
need for force. She put her arm around Molly, or Marlene, and
walked her to the door, and down the stairs, all but Julia following.

‘Goodbyeeee . . . don't cryeeee . . .' She turned in the hall to
face them. ‘Those were good times,' she said. ‘That was my
happiest time. They always asked for me. They called me Marlene
. . . that's my war name really. They always wanted me to sing
my Sally,' and, singing her Sally she went out first, on the arm
of her minder, who turned to say to them, ‘It's Christmas, you
see. They all of them get upset at Christmas time.'