The Sweetest Dream (32 page)

By the time they had reached Gordon Square the light had
gone. Large raindrops fell from a dark sky and splashed invisibly
about them. It was a good house, no one need be ashamed of it:
Julia had wondered if the reason Andrew had not invited them
before was because he was ashamed of his address and if so, why
had he left home at all? It did not enter her mind that he found
her and Frances a crushing weight of authority or at least of
accomplishment. ‘What
me
?–you're joking!' parents say, as this
situation repeats itself through the generations. ‘
Me?
A threat?
This small so easily crushed thing that I am, always just clinging
on to the edges of life.' Andrew had had to leave home, for
survival, but things had been better during his return to it, to
obtain the second degree, because he discovered he no longer
feared his strict disapproving grandmother or the thoughts aroused
in him by his mother's unsatisfactory life.

There was no lift, but Julia went briskly up steep stairs whose
carpet had once been a good one, and the flat, when it was opened
to them by Andrew, continued the theme, for it was large and
full of varied furniture, and some of it had been grand but was
ending its days. This had been a students' flat, or for young people
beginning their working life, for decades, and the next step for
most things here would be the rubbish dump. Andrew did not
take them into the big general room, but into a small one at one
end, parted from it by a glass wall. There were a couple of young
men and a girl reading, or watching television in the big room,
but here was a prettily-laid table, for four–white linen, glass,
flowers, silver and proper napkins. Andrew said, ‘We are going
to have to drink our aperitifs at the table, otherwise we won't be
able to hear ourselves speak.'

And so they sat, the three of them, and a still empty place
waited for its occupant.

Andrew, his mother thought, looked tired. With adolescents
dark circles around the eyes, a pasty look, fatness, spots, or a certain
trembling self-possession on the edge of a threatened collapse–all these are signs of expected emotional disarray, but when adults
look like Andrew, one has to think, Life is so hard now, it's cruel
. . . Andrew was smiling, he was all charm, as always, he was
well-dressed enough for a big occasion, but he was radiating anxiety.
His mother was determined not to ask, but Julia said, ‘You're
keeping us on the edge of our seats. What is your news?'

Andrew allowed himself a little chuckle–a delightful sound–and he said, ‘Prepare yourself for a surprise.'

Here a young woman came in from a kitchen next door with
a tray of drinks. She was smiling and at ease and said to Andrew,
‘Andy, we're a bit low in the alcohol department. This is the last
of the decent sherry.'

‘This is Rosemary,' said Andrew. ‘She's cooking for us
tonight.'

‘I cook to earn my keep,' said Rosemary.

‘She's at London University, doing law,' said Andrew.

She dipped them a mock curtsy, and said, ‘Tell me when
you're ready for soup.'

‘This isn't about my job,' said Andrew. ‘I'm waiting to have
that confirmed.' Now he hesitated, on the brink: something was
about to become real that was still an airy or a sombre phantom:
telling the family, now that's getting real, all right. ‘It's Sophie,'
he said at last. ‘Sophie and me . . . We are . . .'

The women sat silent, stunned. Sophie and Andrew! For years
Frances had wondered if Colin and Sophie . . . but they went for
walks together, he was always at her first nights, and she came to
weep on his shoulder when Roland was again being impossible.
Mates. Siblings. So they said.

The same practical thoughts were making their way through
the two women's minds. Andrew was going abroad to work,
probably to New York, and Sophie was an increasingly
well-considered actress in London. Was she planning to throw up her
career for his? Women did: they did, too often, when they should
not. And both were thinking that Sophie was unsuitable as the
consort of a public man, being so emotional and dramatic.

‘Well, thanks,' said Andrew at last.

‘Sorry,' said his mother. ‘It's the surprise, that's all.'

Julia was thinking of those years spent apart from her love,
Philip, waiting for him. And had it all been worth it? This seditious
little thought more and more often presented itself, fair and square,
and was not refused admittance. The fact was, and Julia was
prepared to think so now, Philip should have married that English
girl, so right for him, and she–but her mind went into panic
when she contemplated what she might have done instead, with
Germany in such ruins, such disaster, and then the politics, and
then the Second World War. No. Her conclusion was, had been
for some time now, that she was right to have married Philip, but
that he should not have married her.

At last she said, ‘You must see it's a shock. She is so close to
Colin.'

‘I know,' said Andrew. ‘But they are like brother and sister.
They have never . . .' And here he called out, ‘Rosie, let's have
the champagne.' Not looking at his mother and grandmother he
said, ‘I think we should begin–she's late.'

‘Perhaps something is keeping her–the theatre–something . . .' Frances said, trying to find words to smooth away the
anguish–and it was that–gripping her son's face.

‘No. It's Roland. He takes no notice of her when he's got
her, but he's jealous. He doesn't want her to leave.'

‘She hasn't left yet?'

‘No, not yet.'

At this Frances felt better. She knew that Sophie would not
easily leave that sorcerer Roland. ‘He's my doom, Colin,' she had
cried. ‘He's my fate.' After all, she had tried to leave often enough.
And if she came to Andrew . . . one had only to look at him to
see him as an emotional lightweight, soothing perhaps, after the
peacocking Roland, but no counter-balance. Scenes, shouts,
thrown crockery–once a heavy vase, which broke her little finger–tears, pleas for forgiveness: what could civilised and ironical
Andrew offer Sophie, who would certainly miss all that . . . but
perhaps I am wrong, Frances admonished herself. I am much
too ready to see the end of a story before it has even properly
begun.

Now Julia spoke: ‘Andrew, it will not be a good thing to ask
her to give up her work.'

‘I have no intention of doing that, Grandmother.'

‘And you will be such a long way off.'

‘We'll manage somehow,' he said, and went to open the door
for Rosemary, who was bringing in the soup.

By mutual consent, the champagne was not opened. They ate
their soup. The next course was delayed, but Rosemary said it
would spoil, and so they ate it, while Andrew listened for the
doorbell or for the telephone. Then at last the telephone did
ring, and Andrew went into another part of the flat to talk to
Sophie.

The two women sat on, united by foreboding.

Julia spoke, ‘Perhaps Sophie is a young woman who needs
unhappiness.'

‘But I am hoping Andrew doesn't.'

‘And then there is the question of children.'

‘Grandchildren, Julia.' Frances spoke lightly, and did not know
that Julia was smiling because she could smell freshly washed baby's
hair, and that close to her seemed to be the ghost of–who? a
young creature, a girl perhaps.

‘Yes,' said Julia. ‘Grandchildren. I see Andrew as someone
who would like children.'

Andrew, returning, heard this. ‘I would, very much. But
Sophie sends apologies. She is . . . held up.' He was on the verge
of tears.

‘Well, has he locked her up?' enquired his mother.

‘He applies–pressure,' he said.

This was all awful, as bad as it could be, and they knew it.
He said brokenly, and sounded like a valediction, ‘I can't imagine
going on without Sophie. She's been so . . .' And now he really
was breaking down. He rushed out of the room.

‘It won't happen,' said Frances.

‘I hope not.'

‘I think we should go home.'

‘Wait until he comes back.'

It was a good half hour before he came back, and the young
people in the room through the glass wall invited the guests who
were sitting alone to come and join them. Julia and Frances were
pleased to do this. They might, they felt, easily break down
themselves.

By now there were half a dozen young men and a couple
of girls, one being Rosemary. She knew that a disaster–major?
minor?–had occurred, and was being tactful, making
conversation. A charming young woman, thought Julia: pretty,
clever–certainly a good cook. She was in law, like Andrew.
Surely they would be just right for each other?

The young men and women were talking about what they
had done during the long summer holidays: they were all still at
university. It sounded as if between them they had visited most
of the countries of the world. They talked about how things were
in Nicaragua, Spain, Mexico, Germany, Finland, Kenya. They
had all had a thoroughly good time, but they had also been in
search of information, were serious travellers. Frances was thinking
how well they contrasted with what had gone on in Julia's house
ten or more years ago. These people seemed much happier–was
that the word to use? She looked back on strain, difficulty, on
damaged creatures. Not these. Well, of course these were older
. . . but even so. Julia would say, of course, that these were none
of them war children: the shadows of war were a long way behind
them.

This half hour, which could have been agreeable, was spoiled
by the worry over Andrew, who came in briefly to say that he
had ordered a taxi for them. They must forgive him. From the
way the others looked at him, surprised, the women could see
that they were not used to debonair Andrew in disorder. In the
street, he kissed them, a hug for Julia, a hug for Frances. He held
the door of the taxi for them but he was not thinking about them.
At once he went running back up the stairs.

‘I wonder if these young ones know how fortunate they are?'
said Julia.

‘Certainly much luckier than either of us.'

‘Poor Frances, you didn't have much chance of running about
the world.'

‘Then poor Julia, too.'

Feeling kindly towards each other, they finished their journey
in silence.

‘It won't happen, Frances,' was Julia's last word.

‘No, I know it won't.'

‘So we mustn't lie awake all night worrying about it.'

 • • •

Sitting by herself in the kitchen at the table which was half the
size, these days, Frances drank tea, and hoped that Colin might
drop in. Sylvia hardly ever did. No longer a junior, but a proper
doctor, she did not instantly fall asleep as she sat down, but she
worked very hard, and the room on the landing across from
Frances's room scarcely saw her. She might come for a bath and
a change of clothes, or sometimes for the night, she might or
might not run up to embrace Julia, but that was it. So it was
Colin of all ‘the kids' Frances saw these days.

She knew nothing about his life outside this house. One day
a disreputable fellow with a big black mongrel dog rang the bell
and enquired for Colin, who came running down to make an
arrangement to meet on the Heath. At once Frances began
worrying, was Colin a homosexual, then? Unlikely, surely?–but she
was already at work on honing the appropriately correct attitudes,
if he was, when a wan girl appeared, and then another, only to
be told that he was out. But if he is not here, then why isn't he
with me?–Frances knew they were thinking, because she would
be, in their place. These incidents were hints at Colin's life. He
roamed the Heath at all hours with Vicious, talked to people on
benches, made friends with other dog-owners, sometimes went
to a pub. Julia who had said to him, ‘Colin, it is not healthy for
a young man to have no sex life,' had been rebuked with, ‘But,
Grandmother, I have a dark and dangerous secret life, full of mad
romantic encounters, so please don't worry about me.'

Tonight he came in, as always with the little dog, saw Frances,
and said, ‘I'll make myself a cup.' The dog jumped up on the
table.

‘Do get that little nuisance down.'

‘Oh, Vicious, did you hear that?' He picked up the dog, and
took it to a chair, told it to stay, and it did, wagging its tail and
watching them with black inquisitive eyes.

‘I know you want to talk about Andrew,' he said, sitting down
with his tea.

‘Of course. It would be a disaster.'

‘Can't have disasters in this family.' His smile informed his
mother that he was in combat mood. She braced herself, thinking
that she could say anything at all to Andrew, but with Colin there
was always an apprehensive moment while she waited to find out
what mood he was in. She almost said, ‘Forget it–another time'–but he was going on. ‘Julia's been at me too. What do you
expect me to do? Say, Do not be foolish, Andrew, do not be
reckless, Sophie? The point is, she needs Andrew to get free of
Roland.'

Here he waited, smiling. He was now a large bulky man, with
curly black hair, and black-rimmed spectacles that gave him a
studious air. He was always ready to go on the attack, because
for one thing he was still partly dependent financially. Julia had
said to Frances, ‘Better for me to give him an allowance than you–psychologically better.' She was right, but it was his mother he
took it out on. Frances waited too. Battle was about to commence.

‘If you want a crystal ball, then you should consult dear
Phyllida downstairs, but using my vast knowledge of human nature–the
TLS
says I have it–then I'd say she will stay with Andrew
just long enough to let Roland cool off, and then she'll leave
Andrew for someone else.'