The Sweetest Dream

  Twenty years of war, beginning with isolated outbreaks of ‘civil unrest’ or ‘disobedience’ or strikes, or sullen angers erupting into murder or arson, but all those rivulets had become the flood that was the war, twenty years of it and soon to be forgotten except in celebratory occasions. The noise in the hall was tumultuous, and did not abate. People shouted and wept and embraced each other and kissed strangers and on the platform speakers followed each other, black and white. Franklin spoke, then again. The crowd liked him, this round cheerful man who–so it was said–would soon be in a government formed by Comrade Matthew Mungozi who had unexpectedly won a majority in the recent elections: President Mungozi, until recently only one name among half a dozen potential leaders. And there was Comrade Mo, arriving late, grinning, waving, excited, jumping up on the platform to describe how he had just returned from the lines of freedom fighters giving up their weapons, and planning how to make real the sweet dreams that had kept them going for years. Comrade Mo, gesticulating, agitated, weeping, told the audience of those dreams: they had been so occupied with news of the war that they had not had time to think how soon they would hear, ‘And now we shall build a future together.’ Comrade Mo was not actually a Zimlian, but never mind, no one else there had actually so recently been with the freedom fighters, not even Comrade Matthew, who had been too busy with discussions with Whitehall and in international meetings. Most of the world’s leaders had already assured him of their support. Overnight, he had become an international figure.

  There was no way for Frances and Sylvia to leave, and the shouting and tears and speeches went on till the hall’s caretaker came to say there were ten minutes left of paid-for time. Groans and boos and cries of fascists. Everyone pressed towards the doors. Frances stayed looking up at Johnny, thinking that surely he should at least acknowledge her presence, and he did give her a stern and unsmiling nod. There, climbing up on the platform was Rose, to greet Johnny, who did acknowledge her with a nod. Then Rose stood in front of Franklin, blocking the people who wanted to shake his hand, embrace him, or even carry him shoulder high out of the hall.

  When Frances and Sylvia had reached the foyer Rose arrived, bursting with her triumph. Franklin had promised her an interview with Comrade Matthew. Yes, at once. Yes, yes, yes, he promised, he would speak to Comrade Matthew who would be in London next week and Rose would get her interview.

  ‘See?’ Rose said to Frances, ignoring Sylvia. ‘And so I’m on my way.’

  ‘Where to?’ was the expected reply, and Frances made it.

  ‘You’ll see,’ said Rose. ‘All I wanted was a break, that’s all.’

  She went off to resume her duties as a steward.

  Frances and Sylvia stood on the pavement, while happy people unwilling to part from each other, milled about them.

  ‘I have to see you, Frances,’ said Sylvia. ‘It’s important–not just you, everybody.’

  ‘Everybody!’

  ‘Yes, you’ll see why.’

  They would all meet in a week, and Sylvia would come home for the whole night, she promised.

  Rose read every article she could find on comrade Matthew, President Mungozi. Not so much on Zimlia. A great deal was being said, and most of it complimentary, by people who had often written unpleasantly. For one thing, he was a communist. What was that going to mean, in the Zimlian context, was being asked. Rose did not intend to pose such questions, or at least not in a confrontational manner. She had written a draft of her interview before even meeting The Leader, all taken from other interviews. As a freelance journalist she had written little pieces about local issues, mostly on information supplied to her by Jill, now on several committees on the Council. She had always fitted together information, or other people’s articles, to make her articles, so this job was the same, only larger in import and–she hoped–in consequences. She used none of the criticism of Comrade Matthew, and ended with a couple of paragraphs of optimistic euphemism of the kind she had heard so often from Comrade Johnny.

  This article, she took, in draft, for her interview to The Leader, at his hotel. He was not a communicative interviewee, at least to start with, but when he had read her draft he lost his suspicions, and gave her some helpful quotes. ‘As President Mungozi told me. . .’

  • • •

  It was a week later. Frances had extended the table to its former state, hoping people would say, Just like old times. She had cooked a stew and made a pudding. Who was coming? Told that Sylvia was, Julia said she would come down, and bring Wilhelm. Colin, hearing of the subject of what Sylvia was calling ‘a meeting’ said he would certainly be there. Andrew, who had been on a honeymoon with Sophie–his word, though they were not married–said they would both come.

  Julia and Frances waited together. Andrew arrived first, but alone. One glance was enough: he had a depleted, even haggard look, and there was no sign of the debonair Andrew. He was sombre. His eyes were red.

  ‘Sophie might be in later,’ he said, and poured himself copious drafts of red wine, one after the other. ‘All right, mother,’ he said. ‘I know. But I’ve taken a beating.’

  ‘Has she gone back to Roland?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably. The bonds of love are hard to break, quote unquote, but if that’s love then give me the other thing.’ His voice was already slurred. ‘I’m really here because I never see Sylvia. Sylvia–who is she? Perhaps it is Sylvia I love. But you know what, Frances, I think she’s a nun at heart.’ And so he ran on, the stream of words slowing and thickening, until he got up, strode to the sink, and splashed water on his face. ‘There is a superstition . . .’–he said thuperthtition–‘that cold water subdues the flames of alcohol. Untrue.’ His head fell forward as he sat down, and he got up again and said, ‘I think I’ll have a bit of a lie down.’

  ‘Colin’s using your room.’

  ‘I’ll use the sitting-room.’ He went noisily up the stairs.

  Sylvia arrived and embraced Julia who could not prevent herself from saying, ‘I never see you these days.’

  Sylvia smiled, and took the other end of the table from Frances, and spread papers around her.

  ‘Aren’t you having supper with us?’ asked Julia, and Sylvia said, ‘Sorry,’ and pushed the papers to one side.

  Colin came down the stairs in big leaps. Sylvia’s pale face warmed to him in a smile and she held out her arms. They embraced.

  Wilhelm knocked, as he always did, enquired if he might join them, sat near Julia, having first kissed her hand and given her a close enquiring look. He was worried about her? She looked the same, they both did. He might be on his way to ninety but he was hale, he was hearty.

  Having heard that Andrew was sleeping it off upstairs, Colin said, ‘La belle dame sans merci. I told you so, Frances, didn’t I?’

  At which point Sophie herself arrived, full of apologies. She was in a loose white dress, her black hair cascading over it; her face seemed unmarked by love or by pain, but her eyes–now that was a different matter.

  Frances was serving food, her hands occupied. She turned her head so that Sophie might kiss her cheek. Sophie slid into a chair opposite Colin, and found him gravely examining her.

  ‘Darling Colin,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Your victim is upstairs, he’s flaked out,’ said Colin.

  ‘That’s not nice,’ said Frances.

  ‘It wasn’t meant to be,’ said Colin.

  Sophie’s eyes were full of tears.

  Wilhelm said to Colin, ‘Beautiful women should never be reproached for the damage they do. They have the permission of the Gods to torment us.’ He gathered up Julia’s hand, kissed it once, twice, sighed, laid down the old hand, and patted it.

  Rupert arrived. Without a word of explanation offered or asked for, he was a fixture, and–Frances hoped–accepted. Colin was giving him a long, not unfriendly look, but it was a bleak one, as if loneliness had been confirmed. Rupert sat in the place next to Frances, and nodded to everyone.

  ‘A meeti
ng,’ he said. ‘But it’s a meal.’

  Frances was laying filled plates in front of everyone, family style, and setting bottles of wine down the middle of the table.

  ‘This is marvellous, Frances, it’s so wonderful–like old times, oh I often think of them, all of us sitting around here, wonderful evenings,’ Sophie chattered. But she was on the point of tears and was destroying a piece of bread with the long thin fingers that were made for rings.

  Here the little dog, having escaped from some confinement, rushed into the kitchen and up on to Colin’s lap, where it stayed, its feathery tail like an energetic duster.

  ‘Down, Vicious,’ said Colin. ‘Down at once.’ But the creature had settled on Colin’s lap, and was trying to lick his face.

  ‘It is not healthy to let dogs lick your face,’ said Sylvia.

  ‘I know,’ said Colin.

  ‘That dog,’ said Julia, ‘couldn’t you call it something sensible? Every time I hear Vicious I need to laugh.’

  ‘A laugh a day keeps the doctor away,’ said Colin. ‘What do you say to that, Sylvia?’

  ‘I wish we could just get on with the supper,’ said Sylvia. She had hardly touched her food.

  ‘This is so wonderful,’ said Sophie, eating as if starved.

  Now Andrew appeared, ill but upright. He and Sophie exchanged miserable glances. Frances put a plate of food before Andrew, who said, ‘Couldn’t we just begin? Sophie and I have to rush off.’ His look at Sophie was a humble enquiry but she seemed embarrassed.

  ‘Do we have to recapitulate?’ asked Sylvia, pushing aside her plate with relief, and arranging her papers in front of her. ‘I sent everyone a resumé.’

  ‘And very good it was,’ said Andrew. ‘Thank you.’

  This was the situation. A group of young doctors wanted to start a campaign to get the government to build shelters against fall-out; that first, and then possibly against a full-scale nuclear attack. The trouble was, the organisation in the field, the Campaign for Unilateral Nuclear Disarmament, a noisy, vigorous efficient force, opposed any attempt to provide shelter of any kind, or even inform the populace about elementary protection. The tone of their polemic was scornful of criticism, was violent, even hysterical.

  Julia said, ‘I need to have something explained to me. Why do these people complain so much that the government is making provision to shelter itself and the Royal Family?’ A persistent jeer was that ‘the government is making very sure that it will be protected, never mind about us’. ‘I simply do not understand,’ said Julia. ‘If there is a war then it is essential to maintain a government, surely that is commonsense?’

  ‘I do not think commonsense has much to do with this campaign,’ said Wilhelm. ‘These are people who have not experienced war, or they would not talk so foolishly.’

  ‘They think like this,’ said Colin. ‘A bomb will fall and everyone in the world will be dead. Therefore there is no need for shelters.’

  ‘But it is not logical,’ said Julia. ‘It is not consistent.’

  Frances and Rupert were looking at the wodges of articles and cuttings, from The Defender, they looked at each other, they shared resignation. The Defender was committed to the campaign’s ‘line’. Members of its staff were on the campaign’s committees. Its journalists wrote its articles.

  ‘The argument is,’ said Colin, ‘that if the government thinks itself protected and safe, then it will be more ready to drop the bomb.’

  ‘What bomb?’ said Julia. ‘Why one bomb? What is this bomb they keep talking about? In a war there is not one bomb.’

  ‘That is the point, Julia. It is the point we have to get across,’ said Sylvia.

  ‘Perhaps Johnny could enlighten us,’ said Wilhelm. ‘He is on their committee.’

  ‘What committee is Johnny not on?’ enquired Colin.

  ‘Why don’t we telephone him and ask him to come and defend himself?’ suggested Rupert.

  People were impressed with this idea; it had not occurred to the family. Andrew went to the telephone. He dialled, Johnny answered. He was told there was a meeting, and he agreed to come.

  While they waited they studied Sylvia’s cuttings, and Julia said, ‘This is the strangest thing I have ever known. These people are like children.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Sylvia, ‘they are.’

  Grateful for this little crumb, Julia took Sylvia’s hand and held it. ‘Ah, my poor girl, you do not eat, you do not look after yourself.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Sylvia. ‘We all eat too much.’

  Frances’s stew, rebuked, was nevertheless being offered for second helpings.

  Johnny arrived, but not alone. With him was James. Both men wore Mao-style black jackets, and boots from the army surplus shop. Johnny, who had recently been in Cuba with Fidel, wore a scarf in Cuban colours. James was a large man now, smiling, affable, everyone’s good fellow. Not pleased to see James? Impossible! He embraced Frances, he clapped Andrew and Colin on the shoulders, he kissed Sophie, he hugged a bonily resistant Sylvia, he gave Julia the closed-fist salute, at shoulder level–modified for social purposes. ‘Good to be here again,’ he said. He sat in an empty chair, looking expectant, and Johnny came to sit by him, but, feeling lowered from the perpendicular and on the same level as the others, stood up and resumed his old stance, back to the window, arms out, hands resting on the sill. ‘I’ve eaten,’ he said. ‘How are you, Mutti?’

  ‘As you see.’

  James was heartily at work on the food. ‘You’re missing a treat,’ he said to his guide and mentor. He spoke in cockney, and Julia went Tsk, tsk, in annoyance.

  Johnny hesitated, then succumbed and sat down as a plate arrived in front of him, Frances having known that this would be the outcome.

  Sylvia said, ‘This is serious. Johnny, James, we are having a serious discussion.’

  ‘When are situations not serious?’ said Johnny. He had nodded at his sons on arriving, and now said to Andrew, ‘Pass the bread.’

  ‘Life,’ said Colin, ‘as we all know, is intrinsically serious.’

  ‘Seriouser and seriouser, as far as I am concerned,’ said Andrew.

  ‘Stop it,’ said Sylvia. ‘We’ve invited Johnny here for a reason.’

  ‘Shoot!’ said Johnny.

  ‘There is a group of young doctors. We have formed a committee. We have all been worried for some time, but the clinching factor was a letter brought out of the Soviet Union . . .’

  Johnny, with dramatic intent, laid down his knife and fork and held up a hand to stop her.

  She went on. ‘It was from a group of doctors in the Soviet Union. They say there have been accidents at nuclear plants, a lot of deaths and people dying. Large areas of country are contaminated with fall-out . . .’

  ‘I am not interested in anti-Soviet propaganda,’ said Johnny. He resumed his place, back to the window, leaving his plate. James, with reluctance, left his and stood by Johnny, captain and lieutenant.

  Sylvia said, ‘This letter was brought out by someone who was there on a delegation. Smuggled out. It reached us. It is genuine.’

  ‘In the first place,’ said Johnny, his speech becoming ever more clipped, ‘the comrades in the Soviet Union are responsible and would never permit nuclear installations to be faulty. And in the second place, I am not prepared to listen to information which so obviously comes from fascist sources.’

  ‘Oh, Lord,’ said Sylvia. ‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Johnny? Just going on and on saying the same old stuff everyone knows . . .’

  ‘And who is this everybody?’ sneered Johnny.

  Julia broke in: ‘I want to know why your–mob–insists that it is in some way criminal for a government and the Royal Family to be kept safe in the event of war? I do not understand you.’

  ‘It is perfectly simple,’ said Andrew. ‘These are people who hate anybody in authority–as a matter of course.’

  James said, laughing, ‘And quite right too.’ And repeated it, ‘An’ qui’ righ’ too.’


  ‘Children,’ said Julia. ‘Idiot children. And they have such influence. If you had lived through a war you would not talk such nonsense.’

  ‘You forget,’ said James. ‘Comrade Johnny fought in the Spanish Civil War.’

  Now, a silence. The younger ones had scarcely heard of Johnny’s feats, and the older ones had long ago tried to forget. Johnny only looked modestly downwards, and then nodded, taking control again, and said, ‘If the bomb falls then that will be curtains, for everybody in the world.’

  ‘What bomb?’ said Julia. ‘Why do you always talk about the bomb, the bomb?’

  ‘It’s not the Soviet Union we should be worried about,’ said Johnny. ‘It’s American bombs.’

  Sylvia said, ‘Oh, Johnny, I do wish you’d be serious. You always talk so much nonsense.’

  Johnny, goaded by this nonentity, this squit of a girl, slowly losing his temper. ‘I do not think I am often told that I talk nonsense.’

  ‘That is because you only mix with people who talk nonsense,’ said Colin.

  Frances, who was silent because from the moment Johnny had entered she knew nothing sensible could be said or achieved, was removing the plates and putting down glass bowls of lemon cream, apricot mousse and whipped cream. James, seeing this, actually groaned with greed, and resumed his place at the table.

  ‘Who makes pudding these days?’ said Johnny.

  ‘Only lovely Frances,’ said Sophie, tucking in.

  ‘And not often,’ said Frances.

  Sylvia said, ‘Very well, Johnny, let us assume that these terrible nuclear accidents in the Soviet Union never happened . . .’

  ‘And of course they did not.’

  ‘Then what is your objection to the people of this country being protected against fall-out? You won’t even agree to information about how to prepare a house against fall-out. You won’t agree to any kind of protection for people. I don’t get it. None of us can. The mere idea of any kind of protection and you all start squealing.’