The Sweetest Dream (7 page)

Frances was shown an office where a secretary was sorting
through letters addressed to Aunt Vera, and putting them in heaps,
since even the nastiest predicaments of humanity must fall into
easily recognised categories. My husband is unfaithful, an
alcoholic, beats me, won't give me enough money, is leaving me for
his secretary, prefers his mates in the pub to me. My son is
alcoholic, a druggie, has got a girl pregnant, won't leave home, is
living rough in London, earns money but won't contribute to the
household. My daughter . . . Pensions, benefits, the behaviour of
officials, medical problems . . . but a doctor answered those. These
more common letters were dealt with by this secretary, signing
Aunt Vera, and it was a flourishing new department of
The
Defender
. Frances's job was to scan these letters, and find a theme
or concern that predominated, and then use it for a serious article,
a long one, which would have a prominent place in the paper.
Frances could write her articles and do her research at home. She
would be of
The Defender
but not in it, and for this she was
grateful.

When she got out of the Underground, coming home from
the newspaper, she bought food, and walked down the hill, laden.

Julia was standing at her high window, looking down, when
she saw Frances approaching. At least this smart coat was an
improvement, not the usual duffel-coat: perhaps one could look
forward to her wearing something other than the eternal jeans
and jerseys? She was walking heavily, making Julia think of a
donkey with panniers. Near the house she stopped, and Julia could
see that Frances's hair had been done, the blondeish hair falling
straight as straw on either side of a parting, as was the mode.

From some of the houses she had passed, the music pounded
and beat, as loud as an angry heart, but Julia had said she would
not tolerate loud music, she could not bear it, so while music was
played, it was soft. From Andrew's room usually came the muted
tones of Palestrina or Vivaldi, from Colin's traditional jazz, from
the sitting-room where the television was, broken music and
voices, from the basement, the throb, throb, throb, that ‘the kids'
needed.

The whole big house was lit up, not a dark window, and it
seemed to shed light from walls as well as windows: it exuded
light and music.

Frances saw Johnny's shadow on the kitchen curtains, and at
once her spirits took a fall. He was in the middle of a harangue,
she could see, from gesticulating arms, and when she reached the
kitchen, he was in full flood. Cuba, again. Around the table was
an assortment of youngsters, but she did not have time to see who
was there. Andrew, yes, Rose, yes . . . the telephone was ringing.
She dropped the heavy bags, took up the receiver, and it was
Colin from his school. ‘Mother, have you heard the news?' ‘No,
what news, are you all right, Colin, you just went off this
morning . . .' ‘Yes, yes, listen, we've just heard, it's on the news.
Kennedy's dead.' ‘
Who?
' ‘President Kennedy.' ‘Are you sure?'
‘They shot him. Switch on the telly.'

Over her shoulder she said, ‘President Kennedy is dead. He's
been shot.' A silence, while she reached for the radio, switched
it on. Nothing on the radio. She turned to see every face blank
with shock, Johnny's too. He was being kept silent by the
need to find
a correct formulation
, and in a moment was able to
bring out, ‘We must evaluate the situation . . .' but could not go
on.

‘The television,' said Geoffrey Bone, and as one ‘the kids' rose
from the table and went out of the room and up the stairs to the
sitting-room.

Andrew said, calling after them, ‘Careful, Tilly's watching.'
Then he ran after them.

Frances and Johnny were alone, facing each other.

‘I take it you came to enquire after your stepdaughter?' she
asked.

Johnny fidgeted: he wanted badly to go up and watch the
Six
O'clock News
, but he planned to say something, and she stood,
leaning back against the shelves by the stove, thinking, Well now,
let me guess . . . And as she had expected, he came out with, ‘It's
Phyllida, I am afraid.'

‘Yes?'

‘She's not well.'

‘So I heard from Andrew.'

‘I'm going to Cuba in a couple of days.'

‘Best if you take her with you, then.'

‘I am afraid the funds wouldn't run to it and . . .'

‘Who is paying?'

Here appeared the irritated what-can-you-expect look from
which she was always able to judge her degree of stupidity.

‘You should know better than to ask, comrade.'

Once she would have collapsed into a morass of inadequacy
and guilt–how easily, then, he had been able to make her feel
an idiot.

‘I am asking. You seem to forget, I've got reason to be
interested in your finances.'

‘And how much are you being paid in this new job of yours?'

She smiled at him. ‘Not enough to support your sons and
now your stepdaughter as well.'

‘And feed Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and anyone who turns up
expecting a free meal.'

‘What? You wouldn't have me turn away potential material
for the Revolution?'

‘They're layabouts and junkies,' he said. ‘Riff-raff.' But he
decided not to go on, and changed his tune to a comradely appeal
to her better nature. ‘Phyllida really isn't well.'

‘And what am I expected to do about it?'

‘I want you to keep an eye on her.'

‘No, Johnny.'

‘Then Andrew can. He's got nothing better to do.'

‘He's busy looking after Tilly. She is really ill, you know.'

‘A lot of it is just playing for sympathy.'

‘Then why did you dump her on us?'

‘Oh . . . fuck it,' said Comrade Johnny. ‘Psychological
disorders are not my line, they're yours.'

‘She's ill. She's really ill. And how long are you going for?'

He looked down, frowned. ‘I said I'd go for six weeks. But
with this new crisis . . .' Reminded of the crisis, he said, ‘I'm going
to catch the news.' And he ran out of the kitchen.

Frances heated soup, a chicken stew, garlic bread, made a
salad, piled fruit on a dish, arranged cheeses. She was thinking
about the poor child, Tilly. The day after the girl had arrived,
Andrew had come to where she was working in her study, and
said, ‘Mother, can I put Tilly into the spare room? She really can't
sleep in my room, even though that's what I think she'd like.'

Frances had been expecting this: her floor really had four
rooms, her bedroom, her study, a sitting-room, and a small room
which, when Julia ran the house, had been a spare room. Frances
felt that this floor was hers, a safe place, where she was free from
all the pressures, all the people. Now Tilly and her illness would
be across a small landing. And the bathroom . . . ‘Very well,
Andrew. But I can't look after her. Not the way she needs.'

‘No. I'll look after her. I'll clear the room for her.' Then, as
he turned to run up the stairs, he said quietly, urgently, ‘She really
is in a bad way.'

‘Yes, I know she is.'

‘She's afraid we are going to put her in a loony bin.'

‘But of course not, she's not crazy.'

‘No,' he said, with a twisted smile, more of an appeal than
he knew, ‘But perhaps I am?'

‘I don't think so.'

She heard Andrew bring the girl down from his room, and
the two went into the spare room. Silence. She knew what was
happening. The girl was lying curled on the bed, or on the floor,
and Andrew was cradling her, soothing her, even singing to her–she had heard him do that.

And that morning, she had observed this scene. She was
preparing food for this evening, while Andrew sat at the table with
Tilly, who was wrapped in a baby's shawl, which she had found
in a chest, and appropriated. In front of her was a bowl of milk
and cornflakes, and another was before Andrew. He was playing
the nursery game. ‘One for Andrew . . . now one for Tilly . . .
one for Andrew . . .'

At ‘one for Tilly' she opened her mouth, while the great
anguished blue eyes stared at Andrew. It seemed she did not know
how to blink. Andrew tilted in the spoon, and she sat with her
lips closed, but not swallowing. Andrew made himself swallow
his mouthful, and started again. ‘One for Tilly . . . one for
Andrew . . .' Minute amounts of food arrived in Tilly's mouth,
but at least Andrew was getting something down him.

Andrew said to her, ‘Tilly doesn't eat. No, no, it's much worse
than me. She doesn't eat at all.'

That was before anorexia was a household word, like sex, and
AIDS.

‘Why doesn't she? Do you know?' Meaning, please tell me
why you find it so hard to eat.

‘In her case I would say it's her mother.'

‘Not in your case, then?'

‘No, I would say that in my case it's my father.' The humorous
deprecation, the winning ways of that personality that Eton had
created in him, seemed at this moment to have slipped out of
alignment with his real self, and become a series of grotesqueries,
like out-of-place masks. His eyes stared, sombre, anxious, all
appeal.

‘What are we going to do?' said Frances, as desperate as he
was.

‘Just wait, wait a bit, that's all, it'll be all right.'

When ‘the kids'–she really must stop using the phrase–came crowding down to sit around the table, waiting for food,
Johnny was not with them. Everyone sat listening to the quarrel
that was going on at the top of the house. Shouts, imprecations–words could not be distinguished.

Andrew said, ‘He wants Julia to go and live in his flat and
look after Phyllida while he is in Cuba.'

They looked at her, to see her reaction. She was laughing.
‘Oh, my God,' she said. ‘He's really not possible.'

Now they glanced at each other–disapproval. All, that is,
except Andrew. They admired him, and thought Frances bitter.
Andrew said to them, seriously, ‘It simply isn't on. It's not fair to
ask Julia.'

The top of the house, where Julia had her being, was often
a subject for mockery, and Julia had been referred to as ‘the old
woman'. But since Andrew had been home, and had become
friends with Julia, they were having to take their cue from him.

‘Why should she look after Phyllida?' said Andrew. ‘She's got
her hands full with us.'

This new view of the situation caused a thoughtful silence.

‘She doesn't like Phyllida,' said Frances, supporting Andrew.
And she suppressed: and she doesn't like me. She has never liked
Johnny's women.

‘Who could?' said Geoffrey, and Frances looked at him
enquiringly: there was something new here.

‘Phyllida came here this afternoon,' said Geoffrey.

‘She was looking for you,' said Andrew.

‘Here? Phyllida?'

‘She's nuts,' said Rose. ‘I was here. She's bonkers. Round the
twist.' And she giggled.

‘What did she want?' said Frances.

‘I sent her off,' said Andrew. ‘I told her she shouldn't be here.'

Upstairs doors were slamming, Johnny was shouting, and he
came leaping down the stairs followed by the single word from
Julia, ‘Imbecile!'

He arrived, sparking off anger.

‘Old bitch,' he said, ‘fascist bitch.'

‘The kids' looked for guidance to Andrew. He was pale,
seemed ill. Loud voices–quarrelling–too much for him.

‘Too
much
,' said Rose, in admiration of the general
unpleasantness.

Andrew said, ‘Tilly'll be upset again.' He half rose and Frances
appealed, afraid that he would find this an excuse not to eat,
‘Please sit down, Andrew.' He did, and she was surprised that he
obeyed her.

‘Did you know that your . . . that Phyllida was here?' said
Rose to Johnny, giggling. Her face was flushed, her little black
eyes sparkled.

‘
What?
' said Johnny, sharp, with a quick glance at Frances.
‘She was here?'

No one said anything.

‘I'll speak to her,' said Johnny.

‘Has she got parents?' asked Frances. ‘She could go home
while you're in Cuba.'

‘She hates them. With good reason. They're lumpen scum.'

Rose had the back of her hand against her mouth, pressing
back more hilarity.

Meanwhile Frances was looking around, taking in who was
here this evening. Apart from Geoffrey–well, of course, and
Andrew, and Rose, there was Jill, there was Sophie, and she was
crying. There was also a boy unknown to her.

At this moment the telephone rang and it was Colin again.
‘I've been thinking,' he said. ‘Is Sophie there? She must be terribly
upset. Let me speak to her.'

This reminded everyone that Sophie had to be upset, because
her father had died of cancer last year, and the reason why she
was here most evenings was because in her own home her mother
wept, and claimed Sophie for grief. Kennedy's death would of
course . . .

At the telephone Sophie sobbed, and they heard, ‘Oh, Colin,
thank you, oh, thank you, you understand, Colin, oh, I knew
you would, oh, you are coming, oh, thank you, thank you.'

She returned to her place at the table, saying, ‘Colin'll catch
the last train tonight.' She buried her face in her hands, long
elegant hands pink-tipped in the shade prescribed that week by
the fashion arbiters of St Joseph's, of whom she was one. Long
glistening black hair fell to the table, like the thought made visible
that she would never ever have to sorrow alone for long.