The Sweetest Dream (3 page)

As far as Johnny was concerned, he had done as much as could
be expected of him. When his mother told him he should support
his sons, get a job that paid him a salary, he shouted at her that
she was a typical member of an exploiting class, thinking only of
money, while he was working for the future of the whole world.
They quarrelled, frequently and noisily. Listening, Colin would
go white, silent, and leave the house for hours or for days. Andrew
preserved his airy, amused smile, his poise. He was often at home
these days, and even brought friends.

Meanwhile Johnny and Frances had divorced because he had
married properly, and formally, with a wedding that the comrades
attended, and Julia too. Her name was Phyllida, and she was not
a comrade, but he said she was good material and he would make
a communist of her.

 • • •

This little history was the reason why Frances was keeping her
back to the others, stirring a stew that didn't really need a stir.
Delayed reaction: her knees trembled, her mouth seemed full of
acid, for now her body was taking in the bad news, rather later
than her mind. She was angry, she knew, and had the right to
be, but she was angrier with herself than with Johnny. If she had
allowed herself to spend three days inside a lunatic dream, fair
enough–but how could she have involved the boys? Yet it was
Andrew who had brought the telegram, waited until she showed
it to him, and said, ‘Frances, your errant husband is at last going
to do the right thing.' He had sat lightly on the edge of a chair,
a fair, attractive youth, looking more than ever like a bird just
about to take off. He was tall and that made him seem even
thinner, his jeans loose on long legs, and with long elegant bony
hands lying palms up on his knees. He was smiling at her, and
she knew it was meant kindly. They were trying hard to get on,
but she was still nervous of him, because of those years of him
rejecting her. He had said ‘your husband', he had not said ‘my
father'. He was friendly with Johnny's new wife, Phyllida, while
reporting back that she was on the whole a bit of a drag.

He had congratulated her on her part in the new play and
had made graceful fun of agony aunts.

And Colin, too, had been affectionate, a rare thing for him,
and had telephoned friends about the new play.

It was all so bad for them both, it was all
terrible
, but after all
only another little blow in years and years of them–as she was
telling herself, waiting for her knees to get back their strength,
while she gripped the edge of a drawer with one hand and stirred
with the other, eyes closed.

Behind her Johnny was holding forth about the capitalist press
and its lies about the Soviet Union, about Fidel Castro, and how
he was being misrepresented.

That Frances had been scarcely touched by years of Johnny's
strictures, or his lexicon, was shown by the way, after a recent
lecture, she had murmured, ‘He seems quite an interesting person.'
Johnny had snapped at her, ‘I don't think I've managed to teach
you anything, Frances, you are unteachable.'

‘Yes, I know, I'm stupid.' That had been a repetition of the
great, primal, but at the same time final, moment, when Johnny
had returned to her for the second time, expecting her to take
him in: he had shouted that she was a political cretin, a lumpen
petite bourgeois, a class enemy, and she had said, ‘That's right,
I'm stupid, now get out.'

She could not go on standing here, knowing that the boys
were watching her, nervously, hurt because of her, even if the
others were gazing at Johnny with eyes shining with love and
admiration.

She said, ‘Sophie, give me a hand.'

At once willing hands appeared, Sophie's and, it seemed,
everyone's, and dishes were being set down the centre of the
table. There were wonderful smells as the covers came off.

They sat down at the head of the table, glad to sit, not looking
at Johnny. All the chairs were full, but others stood by the wall,
and, if he wanted, he could bring one up and sit down himself.
Was he going to do this? He often did, infuriating her, though
he believed, it was obvious, that it was a compliment. No, tonight,
having made an impression, and got his fill of admiration (if he
ever did) he was going to leave–surely? He was not leaving.
The wine glasses were full, all around the table. Johnny had
brought two bottles of wine: open-handed Johnny, who never
entered a room without offerings of wine . . . she was unable to
prevent this bile, these bitter words, arriving unwanted on her
tongue. Just go away, she was mentally urging him. Just leave.

She had cooked a large, filling, winter stew of beef and
chestnuts, from a recipe of Elizabeth David, whose
French Country
Cooking
was lying open somewhere in the kitchen. (Years later
she would say, Good Lord, I was part of a culinary revolution
and didn't know it.) She was convinced that these youngsters did
not eat ‘properly' unless it was at this table. Andrew was dispensing
mashed potatoes flavoured with celeriac. Sophie ladled out stew.
Creamed spinach and buttered carrots were being allotted by
Colin. Johnny stood watching, silenced for the moment because
no one was looking at him.

Why didn't he leave?

Around the table this evening were what she thought of as
the regulars: or at least some of them. On her left was Andrew,
who had served himself generously, but now sat looking down
at the food as if he didn't recognise it. Next to him was Geoffrey
Bone, Colin's schoolfriend, who had spent all his holidays with
them since she could remember. He did not get on with his
parents, Colin said. (But who did, after all?) Beside him Colin
had already turned his round flushed face towards his father, all
accusing anguish, while his knife and fork rested in his hands. Next
to Colin, was Rose Trimble, who had been Andrew's girlfriend, if
briefly: an obligatory flutter with Marxism had taken him to a
weekend seminar entitled, ‘Africa Bursts Its Chains!', and there
Rose had been. Their affair (had it been that?–she was sixteen)
had ended, but Rose still came here, seemed in fact to have moved
in. Opposite Rose was Sophie, a Jewish girl in the full bloom of
her beauty, slender, black gleaming eyes, black gleaming hair, and
people seeing her had to be afflicted with thoughts of the intrinsic
unfairness of Fate, and then of the imperatives of Beauty and its
claims. Colin was in love with her. So was Andrew. So was
Geoffrey. Next to Sophie, and the very opposite, in every way,
of Geoffrey, who was so correctly good-looking, English, polite,
well-behaved, was stormy and suffering Daniel, who had just been
threatened with expulsion from St Joseph's for shoplifting. He
was deputy head boy, and Geoffrey was head boy, and had had
to convey to Daniel that he must reform or else–an empty threat,
certainly, made for the sake of impressing the others with the
seriousness of what they all did. This little event, ironically
discussed by these worldly-wise children, was confirmation, if any
was needed, of the inherent unfairness of the world, since Geoffrey
shoplifted all the time, but it was hard to associate that open
eagerly-polite face with wrongdoing. And there was another
ingredient here: Daniel worshipped Geoffrey, always had, and to
be admonished by his hero was more than he could bear.

Next to Daniel was a girl Frances had not seen before, but
she expected to be enlightened in good time. She was a fair
well-washed well-presented girl whose name appeared to be Jill.
On Frances's right was Lucy, not from St Joseph's: she was Daniel's
girlfriend from Dartington, often here. Lucy, who at an ordinary
school would certainly have been prefect, being decisive, clever,
responsible and born to rule, said that progressive schools, or
at least Dartington, suited some people well, but others needed
discipline, and she wished she was at an ordinary school with rules
and regulations and exams one had to work for. Daniel said that
St Joseph's was hypocritical shit, preaching freedom but when it
came to the point clamping down with morality. ‘I wouldn't
say clamping down,' explained Geoffrey pleasantly to everyone,
protecting his acolyte, ‘it was more indicating the limits.' ‘For
some,' said Daniel. ‘Unfair, I'll grant you,' said Geoffrey.

Sophie said she adored St Joseph's and adored Sam (the
headmaster). The boys tried to look indifferent at this news.

Colin continued to do so badly at exams that his unthreatened
life was a tribute to the school's famous tolerance.

Of Rose's many grievances against life, she complained most
that she had not been sent to a progressive school, and when their
virtues or otherwise were discussed, which happened frequently
and noisily, she would sit silent, her always rubicund face ever
redder with anger. Her shitty horrible parents had sent her to a
normal girls' school in Sheffield, but though she had apparently
‘dropped out', and appeared to be living here, her accusations
against it did not lessen, and she tended to burst into tears, crying
out that they didn't know how lucky they were. Andrew had
actually met Rose's parents, who were both officials in the local
council. ‘And what is wrong with them?' Frances had enquired,
hoping to hear well of them, because she wanted Rose to go,
since she did not like the girl. (And why did she not tell Rose to
leave? That would not have been in the spirit of the times.) ‘I am
afraid they are just ordinary,' replied Andrew, smiling. ‘They are
conventional small-town people, and I do think they are a bit out
of their depth with Rose.'

‘Ah,' said Frances, seeing the possibility of Rose's returning
home recede. And there was something else here too. Had she
not said of her parents that they were boring and conventional?
Not that they were shitty fascists, but perhaps she would have
described them thus had the epithets been as available to her as
they were to Rose. How could she criticise the girl for wanting
to leave parents
who did not understand her
?

Second helpings were already being piled on to plates–all
except Andrew's. He had hardly touched his food. Frances
pretended not to notice.

Andrew was in trouble, but how bad it was hard to say.

He had done pretty well at Eton, had made friends, which
she gathered was what they were meant to do, and was going to
Cambridge next year. This year, he said, he was loafing. And he
certainly was. He slept sometimes until four or five in the
afternoon, looked ill, and concealed–what?–behind his charm, his
social competence.

Frances knew he was unhappy–but it was not news that her
sons were unhappy. Something should be done. It was Julia who
came down to her layer of the house to say, ‘Frances, have you
been inside Andrew's room?'

‘I wouldn't dare go into his room without asking.'

‘You are his mother, I believe.'

The gulfs between them illumined by this exchange caused
Frances, as always, to stare helplessly at her mother-in-law. She
did not know what to say. Julia, an immaculate figure, stood there
like Judgement, waiting, and Frances felt herself to be a schoolgirl,
wanting to shift from foot to foot.

‘You can hardly see across the room for the smoke,' said Julia.

‘Oh, I see, you mean pot–marijuana? But Julia, a lot of them
smoke it.' She did not dare say she had tried it herself.

‘So, to you it's nothing? It's not important?'

‘I didn't say that.'

‘He sleeps all day, he fuddles himself with that smoke, he
doesn't eat.'

‘Julia, what do you want me to do?'

‘Talk to him.'

‘I can't . . . I couldn't . . . he wouldn't listen to me.'

‘Then I will talk to him.' And Julia went, turning on a crisp
little heel, leaving the scent of roses behind her.

Julia and Andrew did talk. Soon Andrew took to visiting Julia
in her rooms, which no one had dared to do, and returned often
with information meant to smooth paths and oil wheels.

‘She's not as bad as you think. In fact, she's rather a poppet.'

‘Not the word that would immediately come to my mind.'

‘Well, I like her.'

‘I wish she'd come downstairs sometimes. She might eat with
us?'

‘She wouldn't come. She doesn't approve of us,' said
Colin.

‘She might reform us,'–Frances attempted humour.

‘Ha! Ha! But why don't you invite her?'

‘I'm scared of Julia,' said Frances, admitting it for the first
time.

‘She's frightened of you!' said Andrew.

‘Oh, but that's absurd. I am sure she's never been frightened
of anyone.'

‘Look, mother, you don't understand. She has had such a
sheltered life. She's not used to our rackety ways. You forget that
until grandfather died I don't think she boiled an egg for herself.
And you cope with hungry hordes and speak their language. Don't
you see?' He had said
their
not
our
.

‘All I know is she sits up there eating a finger of smoked
herring and two inches of bread and drinking one glass of wine
while we sit down here guzzling great meals. We could send up
a tray, perhaps.'

‘I'll ask her,' Andrew said, and presumably did, but nothing
changed.

Frances made herself go up the stairs to his room. Six o'clock,
and already getting dark. This had been a couple of weeks ago.
She knocked, though her legs had nearly taken her downstairs
again.

After quite a wait, she heard, ‘Come in.'

Frances went in. Andrew lay dressed on the bed, smoking.
The window beyond him showed a blur of cold rain.

‘It's six o'clock,' she said.