The Sweetest Dream

  ‘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, d
id 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.’

  ‘Poor Andrew.’

  ‘Poor Sophie. Well, she’s a masochist. You should understand that.’

  ‘Is that what I am?’

  ‘You do have a certain talent for long-suffering, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘Not now. Not for a long time now.’

  He hesitated. This scene might have ended there, but he leaped up, put another teabag in his cup, poured on water that was not boiling, saw his error, fished out the teabag and threw it into the sink, swore, picked it out to drop it into the rubbish bin, caused the kettle to boil, chose another teabag, poured on boiling water–all this in clumsy haste that told Frances that he was not enjoying this encounter. He came back, he put down his cup. He got up and gave the little dog a hasty stroke, and sat down.

  ‘It’s not personal,’ he said. ‘But I’ve been thinking. It’s your generation. It’s all of you.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Frances, relieved that they had chosen the familiar ground of abstract principles.

  ‘Saving the world. Paradise on every new agenda.’

  ‘You are confusing me with your father.’ Then she decided to go on the attack herself. ‘I do get fed up with this. I am always implicated in Johnny’s crimes.’ She contemplated the word. ‘Yes, crimes. You could call them that by now.’

  ‘When could we not have called them that? And do you know what? I actually read in The Times that he said, Yes, mistakes have been made.’

  ‘Yes. But I did not commit the crimes, nor condone them.’

  ‘No, but you’re a world saver, all the same. Just like him. The whole lot of you. What conceit you all have. Do you know that? You must be the most conceited hubristic generation there has ever been.’ He smiled still: he was enjoying this attack, but was feeling guilty too. ‘Johnny for ever making speeches and you filling the house with waifs and strays.’

  Ah, now they were at the nub of it. She said, ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t see what that has got to do with it. I don’t remember him ever helping anybody.’

  ‘Helping? Is that what you call it. Well, his place is full all the time of Americans dodging the draft–not that I’ve got anything against that–and comrades from everywhere.’

  ‘It’s not the same thing.’

  ‘Has it ever occurred to you to ask yourself, what would have happened to them if you hadn’t taken in Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all?’

  ‘One of them was your Sophie.’

  ‘She never actually moved in.’

  ‘She was practically living here. And how about Franklin? He was here for over a year. He was your friend.’

  ‘And that bloody Geoffrey. I had him day and night at school and then all the holidays here, for years and years.’

  ‘But I never knew you disliked him so much. Why didn’t you say? Why don’t children ever say when they’re unhappy about something.’

  ‘There you are–you didn’t even have enough insight to see it.’

  ‘Oh, Colin. And you’re going to say we shouldn’t have let Sylvia stay here.’

  ‘I’d never say that.’

  ‘You may not now but you certainly used to. You’ve made my life a misery with your complaints. Anyway, I’m fed up with this. It’s a long time ago.’

  ‘The results are not a long time ago. Did you know that little bitch Rose is going around saying that Julia is a lush and you are a nymphomaniac?’

  Frances laughed. It was angry, but genuine. Colin hated that laugh: his stare at her was all miserable accusation. ‘Colin, if you only knew what a chaste life I’d led . . .’ But now, summoning the spirit of these times, she said, ‘And anyway, if I had a new man every weekend, it was my right, why not? You’d have no right to say a bloody word.’

  The absurdity of this showed itself at once. Colin went white, and sat silent. ‘Colin, for God’s sake, you know perfectly well . . .’ The dog intervened. ‘Yap, yap,’ it went, ‘yap, yap.’

  Frances collapsed laughing. Colin smiled, bitterly.

  The fact was, the weight of his main accusation lay there between them, a poisoned thing.

  ‘Where did you get all that confidence? Father saving the world, a few million dead here, a few million dead there and you, Do come in and make yourself at home, I’ll just kiss the sore places and make them better.’ He sounded beaten into the earth by years of his miserable childhood, and he actually looked like a little boy, eyes full, lips trembling. And Vicious, leaving his chair, came to his master, leaped up on to his knee and began licking his face. Colin put his face–as much of it as would go–into the tiny dog’s back, to hide it. Then he lifted it to say, ‘Just where did you get it all from, you lot? Who the bloody hell are you–world-savers every one, and making deserts . . . Do you realise? We’re all screwed up. Did you know Sophie dreams of gas chambers and none of her family was anywhere near them?’ And he got up, cuddling the dog.

  ‘Wait a minute, Colin . . .’

  ‘We’ve dealt with the main item on the agenda–Sophie. She is unhappy. She will go on being unhappy. She will make Andrew unhappy. Then she will find someone else and go on being unhappy.’

  He ran out of the room and up the stairs, the little dog barking in his arms, its high absurd yap, yap, yap.

  ***

  Something was going on in Julia’s house that none of the family knew about. Wilhelm and Julia wanted to get married, or at least, for Wilhelm to move in. He complained, humorously at first, that he was being forced to live like a teenager, with little assignations to meet his love at the Cosmo, or for visits to restaurants; he might spend all day and half the night with Julia, but then had to go home. Julia fended off the situation, with jokes to the effect that at least they were not yearning like teenagers for a bed. To which he replied that there was more to a bed than sex. He seemed to remember cuddles, and conversations in the dark, about the ways of the world. Julia did wonder about sharing a bed after so many years as a widow, but increasingly saw his point. She always felt bad, staying comfortably in her room, when he had to go home, through whatever weather there was. His home was a very large flat, where once his wife, who was dead long ago, and two children, now in America, had lived. He was hardly ever in this flat. He was not a poor man, but it was not sensible, keeping up his flat with its doorman and the little garden, while there was this big house of Julia’s. They discussed, then argued, then bickered about how things could be arranged.

  For Wilhelm to live with Julia in the four little rooms that were enough for her–out of the question. And what would he do with his books? He had thousa
nds of them, some of them part of his stock as a book dealer. Colin had taken over the floor beneath Julia, had colonised Andrew’s room. He could not be asked to move–why should he? Of all the people in this house, except Julia herself, he needed most his place, his little secure place in the world. Below Colin was Frances in two good rooms and a little one. And on that floor was the room that was Sylvia’s, even if she only came back to it once a month. It was her home and must remain so.

  But why should Frances not be asked to move?–Wilhelm wanted to know. She earned enough money these days, didn’t she? But Julia refused. She saw Frances as a woman used by the Lennox family to do the job of bringing up two sons, and now –out. Julia had never forgotten how Johnny had demanded that she should go away, into some little flat or other, when Philip died.

  Beneath Frances was the big sitting-room that stretched from front to back of the house. It might take more shelves for Wilhelm’s books? But Wilhelm knew Julia did not want this room to be sacrificed. There remained Phyllida. She could now well afford to find her own place. She had the money Sylvia had assured her and she earned steady money as a psychic and fortune teller, and–increasingly–a therapist. When the family heard that Phyllida was now a therapist, the jokes, all on the lines of ‘but herself she cannot save’, were unending. But she was attracting patients. To get rid of Phyllida and her persistent customers–no one in the house would object. Yes, one, Sylvia, whose attitude towards her mother was now maternal. She worried about her. And to what end would be Phyllida’s moving out? Only useful if Frances would move down, or if Colin did. Why should they? And there was something else, very strong, which Wilhelm only guessed at. Julia’s dream was that when Sylvia married or found ‘a partner’–a silly phrase Julia thought–that she would move in to the house. Where? Well, Phyllida could leave the basement, and then . . .