The Sweetest Dream (4 page)

‘I know it is six o'clock.'

Frances sat down, without the invitation she needed. The
room was a big one, furnished with old solid furniture and some
beautiful Chinese lamps. Andrew seemed the wrong inhabitant
for it, and Frances could not help bringing to mind Julia's husband,
the diplomat, who would certainly be at home here.

‘Have you come to lecture me? Don't bother, Julia already
has done her bit.'

‘I'm worried,' said Frances, her voice trembled; years, decades
of worry were crowding into her throat.

Andrew lifted his head off the pillow to inspect her. Not with
enmity, but rather with weariness. ‘I alarm myself,' he said. ‘But
I think I am about to take myself in hand.'

‘Are you, Andrew? Are you?'

‘After all, it is not as if it were heroin, or coke, or . . . after
all, there are no caches of empty bottles rolling about under the
bed.'

There were in fact some little blue pills scattered there.

‘What are those little blue pills then?'

‘Ah, the little blue pills. Amphetamines. Don't worry about
them.'

‘And,' said Frances, quoting, meaning to sound ironical and
failing, ‘it's non-addictive, and you can give it up at any time.'

‘I don't know about that. I think I'm addicted–to pot,
though. It certainly takes the edge off reality. Why don't you try
it?'

‘I did try it. It doesn't do anything for me.'

‘Too bad,' said Andrew. ‘I would say that you have more
reality than you can cope with.'

He did not say anything more, and so she waited a little, and
got up to leave and heard as she closed the door on him, ‘Thanks
for coming, Mother. Drop in again.'

Was it possible he wanted her ‘interference'–had been waiting
for her to visit him, wanted to talk?

On this particular evening she could feel the bonds between
herself and her two sons, but it was all terrible–the three of them
were close tonight because of disappointment, a blow falling where
it had before.

Sophie was talking. ‘Did you know about Frances's wonderful
new part?' she said to Johnny. ‘She's going to be a star. It's so
wonderful
. Have you read the play?'

‘Sophie,' said Frances, ‘I'm not doing the play after all.'

Sophie stared at her, her great eyes already full of tears. ‘What
do you mean? You can't . . . it's not . . . it
can't
be true.'

‘I'm not doing it, Sophie.'

Both sons were looking at Sophie, probably even kicking her
under the table:
shut up
.

‘Oh,' gasped the lovely girl, and buried her face in her
hands.

‘Things have changed,' said Frances. ‘I can't explain.'

Now both boys were looking, full of accusation, at their father.
He shifted a bit, seemed to shrug, suppressed that, smiled and then
suddenly came out with: ‘There's something else I've come to
say, Frances.'

And so that was why he hadn't left, but had stood
uncomfortably there, not sitting down: he had something more to say.

Frances braced herself and saw that Colin and Andrew did the
same.

‘I have a big favour to ask of you,' said Johnny, direct to his
betrayed wife.

‘And what is that?'

‘You know about Tilly, of course . . . you know, Phyllida's
girl?'

‘Of course I know about her.'

Andrew, visiting Phyllida, had allowed it to be understood
that it was not a harmonious household and that the child was
giving a lot of trouble.

‘Phyllida doesn't seem able to cope with Tilly.'

At this, Frances laughed loudly, for she already knew what
was bound to come. She said, ‘No, it's simply not possible, it isn't
on
.'

‘Yes, Frances, think about it. They don't get on. Phyllida's at
her wit's end. And so am I. I want you to have Tilly here. You
are so good with . . .'

Frances was breathless with anger, saw that the two boys
were white with it; the three were sitting silent, looking at each
other.

Sophie was exclaiming, ‘Oh, Frances, and you are so kind,
it's so wonderful.'

Geoffrey, who had after all been so long visiting this house that
he could with justice be described as a member of the household,
followed Sophie with, ‘What a groovy idea.'

‘Just a minute, Johnny,' said Frances. ‘You are asking me to
take on your second wife's daughter because you two can't cope
with her?'

‘That's about it,' admitted Johnny, smiling.

There was a long, long pause. It had occurred to enthusiastic
Sophie and Geoffrey that Frances was not taking this in the spirit
of universal liberal idealism they had at first assumed she would:
that spirit of
everything is for the best in the best of all possible worlds
,
which would one day be shorthand for ‘The Sixties'.

Frances managed to bring out: ‘You are perhaps planning to
contribute something to her support?'–and realised that, saying
this, she was agreeing.

At this Johnny glanced around the young faces, judging if they
were as shocked by her pettiness as he was. ‘Money,' he said
loftily, ‘is really not the point here.'

Frances was again silenced. She got up, went to the working
surface near the stove, stood with her back to the room.

‘I want to bring Tilly here,' said Johnny. ‘And in fact she's
here. She's in the car.'

Colin and Andrew both got up and went to their mother,
standing on either side of her. This enabled her to turn around
and face Johnny across the room. She could not speak. And
Johnny, seeing his former wife flanked by their sons, three angry
people with white accusing faces, was also, but just for the
moment, silenced.

Then he rallied, stretched out his arms, palms towards them,
and said, ‘From each according to their capacity, to each according
to their need.' And let his arms drop.

‘Oh, that is so beautiful,' said Rose.

‘Groovy,' said Geoffrey.

The newcomer, Jill, breathed, ‘Oh, it's lovely.'

All eyes were now on Johnny, a situation he was well used
to. He stood, receiving rays of criticism, beams of love, and smiled
at them. He was a tall man, Comrade Johnny, with already greying
hair cut like a Roman's,
at your service always
, and he wore tight
black jeans, a black leather Mao jacket especially made for him
by an admiring comrade in the rag trade. Severity was his preferred
style, smiling or not, for a smile could never be more than a
temporary concession, but he was smiling boldly now.

‘Do you mean to say,' said Andrew, ‘that Tilly's been out
there in the car waiting, all this time?'

‘Good God,' said Colin. ‘Typical.'

‘I'll go and bring her in,' said Johnny, and marched out,
brushing past his ex-wife and Colin and Andrew, not looking at
them.

No one moved. Frances thought if her sons had not been so
close, enveloping her with their support, she would have fallen.
All the faces around the table were turned towards them: that this
was a very bad moment, they had at last understood.

They heard the front door open–Johnny of course had a
key to his mother's house–and then in the doorway to this room,
the kitchen, stood a little frightened figure, in a big duffel-coat,
trembling with cold, trying to smile, but instead out of her
burst a great wail, as she looked at Frances, who she had been
told was kind and would look after her, ‘until we get things
straightened out'. She was a little bird blown by a storm, and
Frances was across the room to her, and had her arms round her,
saying, ‘It's all right, shhh, it's all right.' Then she remembered
this was not a child, but a girl of fourteen or so, and her impulse,
to sit down and hold this waif on her lap was out of order.
Meanwhile Johnny, just behind the girl, was saying, ‘I think bed
is indicated,' and then, generally around the room, ‘I'll be off.'
But did not go.

The girl was looking in appeal at Andrew, whom after all she
did know, among all these strangers.

‘Don't worry, I'll deal with it.' He put his arm round Tilly,
and turned to go out of the room.

‘I'll put her down in the basement,' he said. ‘It's nice and
warm down there.'

‘Oh, no, no, no, please,' cried the girl. ‘Don't, I cannot be
alone, I can't, don't make me.'

‘Of course not, if you don't want to,' said Andrew. Then, to
his mother, ‘I'll put a bed in with me for tonight.' And he led
her out. They all sat quiet, listening to how he coaxed her up the
stairs.

Johnny was face to face with Frances, who said to him, low,
hoping it would not be heard by the others, ‘Go away, Johnny.
Just get out.'

He tried an appealing smile around, caught Rose's eyes, who
did smile back, but she was doubtful, withstood passionate
reproach from Sophie, nodded sternly at Geoffrey, whom he had
known for years. And left. The front door shut. The car door
slammed.

Now Colin was hovering behind Frances, touching her arm,
her shoulder, not knowing what to do.

‘Come on,' he said, ‘come on upstairs.' They went out
together. Frances began swearing as she climbed the stairs, first
softly, so as not to be heard by the young, then loudly, ‘Fuck
him, fuck him, fuck, the shit, the absolute
shit
.' In her sitting-room
she sat crying, while Colin, at a loss, at last thought of getting her
tissues and then a glass of water.

Meanwhile Julia had been told by Andrew what was going
on. She came down, opened Frances's door without knocking,
and marched in. ‘Please explain it to me,' she said. ‘I don't
understand. Why do you let him behave like this?'

 • • •

Julia von Arne was born in a particularly charming part of
Germany, near Stuttgart, a region of hills, streams and vineyards. She
was the only girl, the third child in a genial gentle family. Her
father was a diplomat, her mother a musician. In July 1914 came
visiting Philip Lennox, a promising Third Secretary from the
embassy in Berlin. That fourteen-year-old Julia should fall in love
with handsome Philip–he was twenty-five–was not surprising,
but he fell in love with her. She was pretty, tiny, with golden
ringlets, and wore frocks the romantic man told her were like
flowers. She had been brought up strictly, by governesses, English
and French, and to him it seemed that every gesture she made,
every smile, every turn of her head, was formal, prescribed, as if
she moved in a dance. Like all girls taught to be conscious of
their bodies, because of the frightful dangers of immodesty, her
eyes spoke for her, could strike to the heart with a glance, and
when she lowered delicate eyelids over blue invitations to love
he felt he was being rejected. He had sisters, whom he had seen
a few days ago in Sussex, jolly tomboys enjoying the exemplary
summer that has been celebrated in so many memoirs and novels.
A sister's friend, Betty, had been teased because she came to supper
with solid brown arms where white scratches showed how she
had been playing in the hay with the dogs. His family had watched
him to see if he fancied this girl, who would make a suitable wife,
and he had been prepared to consider her. This little German miss
seemed to him as glamorous as a beauty glimpsed in a harem, all
promise and hidden bliss, and he fancied that if a sunbeam did
strike her she would melt like a snowflake. She gave him a red
rose from the garden, and he knew she was offering him her heart.
He declared his love in the moonlight, and next day spoke to her
father. Yes, he knew that fourteen was too young, but he was
asking for formal permission to propose when she was sixteen.
And so they parted, in 1914, while war was coming to a boil, but
like many liberal well-adjusted people it seemed to both the von
Arnes and the Lennoxes that it was ridiculous Germany and
England could go to war. When war was declared, Philip had left his
love in tears just two weeks before. In those days governments
seemed compelled to announce that wars must be over by
Christmas, and the lovers were sure they would see each other soon.

Almost at once xenophobia was poisoning Julia's love. Her
family did not mind her loving her Englishman–did not their
respective Emperors call themselves cousins?–but the neighbours
commented, and servants whispered and gossiped. During the
years of the war rumours followed Julia and her family too. Her
three brothers were fighting in the Trenches, her father was in
the War Office, and her mother did war work, but those few
days of fever in July 1914 marked them all for comment and
suspicion. Julia never lost her faith in her love and in Philip. He
was wounded, twice, and in devious ways she heard about it and
wept for him. It did not matter, cried Julia's heart, how badly he
was wounded, she would love him for ever. He was demobbed
in 1919. She was waiting for him, knowing he was coming to
claim her, when into the room where five years before they had
flirted came a man she felt she ought to know. An empty sleeve
was pinned up on his chest, and his face was taut and lined. She
was now nearly twenty. He saw a tall young woman–she had
grown some inches–with fair hair piled on top of her head, held
with a big jet arrow, and wearing heavy black for two dead
brothers. A third brother, a boy–he was not yet twenty–had
been wounded and sat, still in his uniform, a stiff leg propped
before him on a stool. The two so recent enemies, stared at each
other. Then Philip, not smiling, went forward with an
outstretched hand. The youth made an involuntary movement of
turning away, with a grimace, but he recovered himself and
civilisation was reinstated as he smiled, and the two men shook hands.
This scene, which after all has repeated itself in various forms since
then, did not then have as much weight on it as it would now.
Irony, which celebrates that element which we persist in excluding
from our vision of things, would have been too much for them
to bear: we have become coarser-fibred.