The Sweetest Dream (9 page)

In a few hours she would sit down and write her article and
say what?

If she had not taken a stand against stealing, in her own home,
and even when she had come most strongly to disapprove, then
what right had she to tell other people what to do?

And how confused these poor children were. As she had left
the kitchen last night she had heard them laughing, but uneasily;
had heard James's voice louder than the others, because he wanted
so much to be accepted by all these free spirits. Poor boy, he had
fled from boringly provincial parents (as she had) to the delights
of Swinging London, and a house described by Rose as Freedom
Hall–she loved the phrase–where he had heard exactly the
same condemnation–he was bound to be stealing, they all did–as he had from his parents.

It was nine o'clock by now, late for her. She must get up.
She opened the door on to the landing and saw Andrew sitting
on the floor where he could look across at the door of the room
where the girl was. It was open. He mouthed up at her: Look,
just look.

Pale November sun fell into the room opposite, where a slight
erect figure with an aureole of fair hair, in an old-fashioned pink
garment–a housecoat?–was perched on a high stool. If Philip
were to see this vision now, how easily he could have been
persuaded that this was the girl Julia, his long-ago love. On the
bed, wrapped tight in her baby's shawl, Tilly was held up by
pillows, and staring with her unblinking gaze at the old woman.

‘No,' came Julia's cool precise voice, ‘no, your name is not
Tilly. That is a very foolish name. What is your real name?'

‘Sylvia,' lisped the girl.

‘So, why do you call yourself Tilly?'

‘I couldn't say Sylvia when I was little, so I said Tilly.' These
were more words than any of them had heard from her, at one
time.

‘Very well. I shall call you Sylvia.'

Julia had in her hand a mug of something with a spoon in it.
Now she carefully, beautifully, caused an appropriate amount of
the mug's contents–there was a smell of soup–to fill the
spoon, which she held to Tilly's, or Sylvia's, lips. Which were
tight shut.

‘Now, listen carefully to me. I am not going to let you kill
yourself because you are foolish. I won't allow it. And now you
must open your mouth and begin eating.'

The pale lips trembled a little, but opened, and all the while
the girl was staring at Julia, apparently hypnotised. The spoon
was inserted, and its contents disappeared. The watchers waited,
breathless, to see if there was a swallowing movement. There was.

Frances glanced down at her son and saw that he was
swallowing in sympathy.

‘You see,' Julia was going on, while the spoon was again
being recharged, ‘I am your step-grandmother. I do not allow
my children and grandchildren to behave so foolishly. You must
understand me, Sylvia . . .' In went the spoon–a swallow. And
again Andrew made a swallowing movement. ‘You are a very
pretty clever girl . . .'

‘I'm horrible,' came from the pillows.

‘I don't think you are. But if you have decided to be horrible
then you will be, and I won't allow that.'

The spoon went in, a swallow.

‘First, I shall make you well again, and then you will go to
school and take your examinations. After that you will go to
university and be a doctor. Now I am sorry I wasn't a doctor,
but you can be a doctor in my place.'

‘I can't. I can't. I can't go back to school.'

‘Why can't you? Andrew has told me that you were clever at
your lessons, before you became foolish. And now take this cup
and drink the rest by yourself.'

The observers hardly breathed, at this moment of–surely?–crisis. Suppose Tilly–Sylvia refused the cup with its life-giving
soup, and put that thumb back in her mouth? Suppose she
shut her lips tight? Julia was holding the mug against the hand
that was not clutching the shawl around her. ‘Take it.' The
hand trembled, but opened. Julia put the mug carefully into the
hand, and held the hand around the cup. The hand did lift, the
cup reached the lips and over it came the whisper, ‘But it's so
hard.'

‘I know it's hard.'

The trembling hand was holding the cup to her lips, while
Julia steadied it. The girl took a sip, swallowed. ‘I'm going to be
sick,' she whispered.

‘No, you are not. Stop it, Sylvia.'

Again Frances and her son waited, holding their breaths. Sylvia
wasn't sick, though she had to conquer retching, when Julia said,
‘Stop it.'

Meanwhile, down the stairs from the ‘boys' floor' came Colin,
and behind him, Sophie. The two stopped. Colin was blushing
bright red, and Sophie was half laughing, half crying, and seemed
about to run back upstairs, but instead came to Frances, put her
arms around her, and said, ‘Dear, dear Frances,' and ran off down
the stairs, laughing.

‘It's not what you think,' said Colin.

‘I'm not thinking anything,' said Frances.

Andrew merely smiled, keeping his counsel.

Now Colin saw the little scene through the door, took it in,
and said, ‘Good for Grandma,' and went off down the stairs in
big leaps.

Julia who had taken no notice of her audience, got down
from the stool, and smoothed down her skirts. She took the mug
from the girl. ‘I'm going to come back in an hour and see how
you are,' she said. ‘And then I'll take you up to my bathroom,
and you can put on clean clothes. You'll be better in no time,
you'll see.'

She picked up the cup of cold chocolate left last night by
Frances, and came out of the room and handed it to her. ‘I think
this is yours,' she said. And then, to Andrew, ‘And you can stop
being foolish too.' She left the door into the room open, and
went up the stairs, holding up her pink skirt, which rustled, with
one hand.

‘So that's all right,' said Andrew to his mother. ‘Well done,
Sylvia,' he called to the girl, who smiled, if weakly. He ran upstairs.
Frances heard one door shut, Julia's and then another, Andrew's.
In the room opposite a blotch of sunlight lay on a pillow, and
Sylvia, for there is no doubt that this was who she was now, held
her hand in it, turning it back and forth, examining it.

At this moment there was a banging on the front door, the
bell rang repeatedly, and a woman's voice was shouting. The girl
sitting in the sun on her bed let out a cry, and dived under the
bedclothes.

As the door opened, the shout of ‘Let me in' could be heard
through the house. A hoarse hysterical voice, ‘Let me in, let me
in
.'

Andrew's door opened with a bang, and he came leaping
down the stairs saying, ‘Leave this to me, oh,
Christ
, shut Tilly's
door.' Frances shut the door, as Julia called down, ‘What is it,
who is it?' Andrew called up to her, but softly, ‘Her mother,
Tilly's mother.'

‘Then I am sorry to say that Sylvia will have a setback,' said
Julia, and continued to stand there, on guard.

Frances was still in her nightdress, and she went into her room,
and dragged on jeans and a jersey and ran down the stairs towards
voices in altercation.

‘Where is she? I want Frances,' shouted Phyllida, while
Andrew was saying quietly, ‘Hush, don't shout, I'll get her.'

‘I'm here,' said Frances.

Phyllida was a tall woman, thin as a bone, with a mass of
badly dyed reddish hair, and long needle nails, painted bright
purple. She pointed a large angry hand at Frances and said, ‘I want
my daughter. You have stolen my daughter.'

‘Don't be silly,' said Andrew, hovering about the hysterical
woman like an insect trying to decide where it should dart in.
He laid a calming hand on Phyllida's shoulder but she shook it
off, and Andrew shouted at her, suddenly out of control and
surprised at himself. ‘Stop it.' He leaned back against a wall,
composing himself. He was trembling.

‘And what about me?' demanded Phyllida. ‘Who is going to
look after me?'

Frances found that she was trembling too; her heart thumped,
her breathing was tight: she and Andrew were being affected by
this dynamo of emotional energy. And in fact Phyllida, whose
eyes stared blankly like a ship's figurehead's, who stood there erect
and triumphant, seemed calmer than they were.

‘It's not fair,' announced Phyllida, pointing her purple
talons at Frances. ‘Why should she come to live here and not
me?'

Andrew had recovered. ‘Now, Phyllida,' he said, and the
humorous smile that protected him was back in place, ‘Phyllida,
you really can't do this, you know.'

‘Why shouldn't I? she asked, turning her attention to him.
‘Why should she have a home and not me?'

‘But you have a home,' said Andrew. ‘I've visited you there,
don't you remember?'

‘But he's going away and leaving me.' Then, shrieking, ‘He's
going away and leaving me alone.' Then, more calmly, to Frances,
‘Did you know that? Well, did you? He's going to leave me the
way he left you.'

This rational remark seemed to prove to Frances how
thoroughly the hysteria had transferred itself to her: she was
shaking and her knees were weak.

‘Well, why don't you say something?'

‘I don't know what to say,' Frances brought out. ‘I don't
know why you are here.'

‘Why? You actually have the nerve to ask why?' And she
began shouting, ‘Tilly, Tilly, where are you?'

‘Leave her alone,' said Andrew. ‘You always complain you
can't handle her, so let us have a shot at it.'

‘But she's here.
She's
here. And what about me? Who is going
to look after me?'

This cycle was likely to continue.

Andrew said quietly, but his voice was shaking, ‘You can't
expect Frances to look after you. Why should she?'

‘But what about me? What about me?' Now it was more of
a grumble, and for the first time those angry eyes seemed actually
to see Frances. ‘It's not as if you're Brigitte Bardot, are you? So
why does he come here all the time?'

This threw an unexpected light on things. Frances was unable
to speak.

Andrew said, ‘He comes here because we are here, Phyllida.
We are his sons, remember? Colin and I–have you forgotten
us?'

It seemed she had. And suddenly, having stood there for a
few moments, she lowered that outstretched accusing finger, and
stood blinking, apparently coming awake. Then she turned and
slammed out of the door.

Frances felt her whole self go loose. She was shaking so she
had to lean against the wall. Andrew stood limply there, pitifully
smiling. She thought, But he's too young to cope with this sort
of thing. She staggered to the kitchen door, held on to it while
she went in, and saw Colin and Sophie at the table, eating toast.

Colin, she could see, was in his mood of disapproving of her.
Sophie had been crying again.

‘Well,' said Colin, coldly furious, ‘what do you expect?'

‘What do you mean?' said Frances, absurdly, but she was trying
to gain time. She slid into her chair and sat with her head in her
arms. She knew what he meant. It was a general accusation: that
she and his father had screwed things up, that she was not a
conventional comfortable mother, like other mothers, and there
was this bohemian household, which he had moods of violently
resenting, while admitting he enjoyed it.

‘She just comes here,' said Colin, ‘she just turns up and makes
a scene and now we have to look after Tilly.'

‘She wants to be called Sylvia,' said Andrew, who had come
in and was at the table.

‘I don't care what she's called,' said Colin. ‘Why is she
here?'

And now he was tearful, and looked like a ruffled little owl,
with his black-rimmed spectacles. If Andrew was all length and
leanness, then Colin was round, with a soft open face, which was
at this moment puffy with crying. Now Frances understood that
all last night these two, Colin and Sophie, had probably lain in
each other's arms weeping, she for her dead father, and he for his
misery over–well, everything.

Andrew, who like Frances was still cold and shaking, said,
‘But why take it out on Mother? It's not her fault.'

If something were not done the brothers would start
quarrelling; they often did, always because Andrew took Frances's side,
while Colin accused her.

Frances said, ‘Sophie, please make me a cup of tea–and I am
sure Andrew could do with one.'

‘God, could I,' said Andrew.

Sophie jumped up, pleased at being asked. Colin, having lost
the support of her being there, just opposite him, sat blinking
vaguely about, so unhappy that Frances wanted to take him in
her arms . . . but he would never tolerate that.

Andrew said, ‘I'll go and see Phyllida later. She'll have calmed
down. She's not so bad when she's not in a state.' And then
he jumped up. ‘
Christ
, I'd forgotten Tilly, I mean Sylvia, and
she'll have heard. She goes to pieces when her mother starts in
on her.'

‘And I am certainly in pieces,' said Frances. ‘I can't stop
shaking.'

Andrew ran out of the room, but did not return. Julia had
descended to sit with Sylvia, who hid beneath the clothes, wailing,
‘Keep her away, keep her away,' while Julia said over and over
again, ‘Shhhh, be quiet. She'll go in a minute.'

Frances drank tea in silence while her shaking subsided. If she
had read in a book that hysteria was contagious she would have
said, Well, yes, that makes sense! But she had not experienced it.
She was thinking, If that's what Tilly has been living with, no
wonder she's in a mess.