The Sweetest Dream (64 page)

‘I don't have a dress.'

He gave her a frank once-over, making allowances, and said,
‘But it's not evening dress, you'll do.'

And now she had to find somewhere to spend the night. She
had come away without enough money: had come away, she saw
now, inefficiently, in an unplanned and foolish way. It was all a
bit of a haze: she remembered Father McGuire taking command.
Had she been a bit sick, perhaps? Was she now? She didn't feel
herself, whatever that meant, for if she was not the Doctor Sylvia
everyone knew at her hospital, who was she?

She rang Sister Molly, who was in, and asked to stay the night.
Sylvia took a taxi there, was welcomed, and heard a good deal
of on the whole good-natured mockery of the conference on the
Ethics of International Aid, and all similar conferences.

‘They talk,' said Sister Molly. ‘They get paid to travel to some
beauty spot and talk nonsense you'd not believe.'

‘I'd hardly call Senga a beauty spot.'

‘That is true, but they are off every day to see the lions and
the giraffes and the dear little monkeys and I don't think they
notice that the land is perishing from the drought.'

Sylvia told Molly about the dinner, said she had only what
she had on, heard that it was a pity Molly was at least four sizes
larger than Sylvia, who could otherwise borrow her one and only
dress but as it was she personally would see to it that the suit was
cleaned and ready by six o'clock. Having forgotten these amenities
of real civilisation, Sylvia was perhaps disproportionately moved,
and took off her suit, lay down on her little iron bed, just like
the one she had at the Mission, and was asleep. Sister Molly stood
over her for a while, the green suit folded over her arm, her face
shedding beams of benevolent enquiry, judicious and experienced:
after all, she did spend her life assessing people and situations from
one end of Zimlia to the other. She did not like what she saw.
Bending closer she checked up on this and that feature, sweaty
brow, dry lips, flushed face, and lifted Sylvia's hand to look at the
wrist where visibly pounded an intemperate pulse.

When Sylvia woke, her suit, nicely pinned and presented,
hung on the door. On the chair was a selection of knickers, and
a silk slip. ‘I got too fat for these ages ago.' Also some smart shoes.
Sylvia washed dust out of her hair, got dressed, put on the shoes,
hoping she could still manage heels, and took a taxi to Butler's.
She suspected she was feverish, but because it would be so
inconvenient to be ill, decided she wasn't.

Outside Butler's the international crowd stood chatting,
waving to each other, resuming conversations that might have been
interrupted in Bogota or Benares. Andrew was waiting for Sylvia,
on the steps. Mona was beside him in a pink floaty dress that
made her look like one of the species tulips, jagged petals, that
seemed cut out of crystallised light. Sylvia knew Andrew was
anxious about how she might look, for if evening dress was not
obligatory then none of the women was less smart than Mona.
But his smile said, You're all right, and he took her arm. The
three went to the staircase which was grand enough for a film
set, though in the best possible taste. It delivered them to a terrace
where little flowering trees and a fountain filled the dusk with
freshness. Lights from inside picked out a face, the dazzle of a
white suit, the flash of a necklace. People greeted Andrew: how
popular he was, this handsome and distinguished grey-haired
gentleman, who must deserve the glamorous girl with him, since
the
fait accompli
of the marriage proved he did.

When they went into dinner it was a private room, but large
enough for the hundred or so guests, and what a delightful room it
was, achieving what its designers had intended, that the privileged
people who used it would not be able to say whether they were
in Benares or Bogota or Senga.

Sylvia knew some faces from this morning in the café, but at
others she had to look and look again . . . yes, Good Lord, there
was Geoffrey Bone, as handsome as ever, and beside him the
incendiary head, now subdued to a well-brushed russet, of Daniel,
his shadow. And there was James Patton. For some people you
have to wait decades before understanding what Nature has
intended for them all along: in this case he had reached his
culmination as man of the people, affable and amiable, comfily
rotund, his right hand ever at the ready to reach out and clasp
whatever flesh presented itself. There he was, a Member of
Parliament in a safe Labour seat, and on this occasion a guest of Caring
International, at Geoffrey's invitation. And Jill . . . yes, Jill, a large
woman with a greyish coiffure, senior councillor in a London
borough notorious for its mismanagement of funds, though the
word corrupt could never, surely, be associated with this solid
citizen whose police-bashing, rioting,
American-Embassy-storming days were so long behind one could be pretty sure she
had forgotten them or was murmuring, Oh, yes, I was a bit of a
Red once.

Sylvia had not been put next to Andrew who was at the head
of the table, flanked by two important South Americans, but
beside Mona, some places away. Sylvia knew she was as invisible
as an anonymous little brown bird next to a displaying peacock,
for people looked so often at Mona whose name everyone knew
if they followed fashion at all. And why was Mona here? She said to
Sylvia that she was attending the conference as Andrew's personal
assistant, and congratulated Sylvia, giggling, on her new status as
Andrew's assistant secretary, which is how she was being described
when introduced. Sylvia was able to sit quietly and observe, and
imagine how Clever and Zebedee would look in these attractive
uniforms, scarlet and white and so striking on the black skins of
the smiling waiters. She knew, very well, how these youths had
had to work, intrigue, beg for these jobs, and how their parents
had sacrificed for them, so they could serve these international
stars with food most of them had never heard of until coming to
this hotel.

Sylvia was offered the choice of crocodile tails, in pink
mayonnaise, and palm hearts imported from South East Asia, and all the
time her heart was weeping, yes it was, a quiet wailing went on
inside her, as she sat there beside Andrew's beautiful bride. It
would not last, this marriage, you had only to look how they
presented themselves, with the sleek complacency of well-fed cats,
to know that she had said yes to Andrew probably for no better
reason than she enjoyed saying, ‘I have always liked older men,'
to annoy younger ones, and he, who had not been married and
had had to suffer the usual rumours, although he had been the
‘friend' of a dozen well-known women, had finally needed to
show his colours and make his statement, and he had, for here
she was, his child bride.

Sylvia looked around, and despaired, and thought of her
hospital, closed while people in the village were ill or had broken
limbs or . . . there were never less than thirty or forty people a
day needing help; she thought of the lack of water, the dust, the
AIDS, she could not prevent all these stale old thoughts, which
have been thought too often, and to no purpose. She imagined
Clever and Zebedee's faces, disconsolate because they had
dreamed of being doctors . . . how badly she had managed
everything, she must have, for it all to end like this.

Mona was chatting to the man on her left about her
poverty-stricken origins in a slum in Quito: she had been noticed by a
visiting delate to a conference on the Costumes of the World.
She was confiding to him that Zimlia was the pits, she saw too
much on the streets to remind her of what she had escaped from.
‘Basically, what I like is Manhattan. It has everything, hasn't it? I
don't see why anyone should ever leave it.'

Now everyone was talking about the annual conference due
soon, with two hundred delegates from all over the world, which
would last a week, with a keynote speech on ‘The Perspectives
and Implications of Poverty'. Where should it be held? The
delegate from India, a handsome woman in a scarlet sari, suggested
Sri Lanka, though they would have to be careful because of the
terrorists, but there was no more beautiful place in the world.
Geoffrey Bone said he had spent three nights in Rio for a
conference on the World's Threatened Ecostructure, and there was a
hotel there . . . but, said a Japanese gentleman, the last annual
conference had been in South America, and there was a fine hotel
in Bali, that part of the world should have the honour. Talk about
hotels and their attractions went on for most of the meal, and the
consensus was it was time they favoured Europe, how about Italy,
though probably strict policing would be essential, because they
were all of them luscious targets for kidnappers.

In the event, they were all to go to Cape Town, because
South Africa's apartheid was just about to disappear, and they
wished to show their approval of Mandela.

Coffee was served in an adjacent room, where Andrew made
a speech as it were dismissing them all, but saying how much he
looked forward to seeing them again next month in New York–a conference; and then Geoffrey, Daniel, Jill and James came
to Sylvia to say they had not recognised her, and how lovely it
was to see her. The smiling faces told Sylvia how shocked they
were at what they saw. ‘You were such a beautiful little thing,'
Jill confided. ‘Oh, no, I'm not saying . . . but I used to think you
were like a little fairy.'

‘And look at me now.'

‘And look at me. Well, conferences don't do much for one's
figure.'

‘You could try dieting,' said Geoffrey, who was as thin as
ever.

‘Or a health farm,' said James. ‘I go to a health farm every
year. I have to. Too many temptations in the House of Commons.'

‘Our bourgeois forebears went to Baden Baden or Marienbad
to lose the fat accumulated in a year of over-eating,' said Geoffrey.

‘Your forebears,' said James. ‘I am the grandson of a grocer.'

‘Oh, well done,' said Geoffrey.

‘And my grandfather was a surveyor's clerk,' said Jill.

‘And mine was a farm labourer in Dorset,' said James.

‘Congratulations,' said Geoffrey. ‘You win. None of us can
compete with that.' And off he went, with a wave of his hand to
Sylvia, Daniel just behind him.

‘He was always such a poseur,' said Jill.

‘I would have said a pouf,' said James.

‘Now, now, the least we can expect here is political
correctness.'

‘You can expect what you like. As far as I am concerned,
political correctness is just another little sample of American
imperialism,' said the man of the people.

‘Discuss,' said Jill.

And, discussing, they went off.

On the steps of Butler's, Rose Trimble agitatedly hovered, in
a smart outfit bought in the hope Andrew would invite her to
the dinner: but he had not answered her messages.

Jill appeared and ignored Rose, who had described her Council
as a disgrace to the principles and ideals of democracy.

‘I was only doing my job,' said Rose to Jill's back.

Then, cousin James, whose face hardened: ‘What the hell are
you doing here? Short of muck in London?' And he pushed her
aside.

When Andrew came down the steps with Mona and Sylvia,
he at once said, ‘Oh, Rose, how utterly delightful to see you.'

‘Didn't you get my messages?'

‘Did you send me messages?'

‘Give me a quote, Andrew. How did the conference go?'

‘I am sure it will all be in the papers tomorrow.'

‘And this is Mona Moon–oh, do give me a quote, Mona.
How is married life?'

Mona did not reply, and went on with Andrew. Rose did not
recognise Sylvia, or rather only much later thought that boring
little thing must have been Sylvia.

Abandoned, she said bitterly to the delegates who were
streaming past, ‘The bloody Lennoxes. They were my
family
.'

Sylvia was embraced by Andrew, kissed prettily by Mona and
put into a taxi: they were off to a party.

 • • •

Sister Molly's house was dark and locked. Sylvia had to ring and
ring again. The snap of locks, the grind of chains, the click of
keys, and Molly stood there in a blue baby-doll nightdress, the
silver cross sliding over her breasts. ‘Sorry, we all have to live in
a fortress these days.'

Sylvia went to her room, carefully, as if she might spill about
like a jelly. She felt she had eaten too much and knew wine didn't
suit her. She was light-headed, and trembled. Sister Molly stood
watching as she lowered herself to her bed and flopped.

‘Better take that off,' and Molly pulled off an outer layer of
linen and shoes and stockings. ‘There. I thought so. When did
you last have malaria?'

‘Oh–a year ago–I think.'

Then you have it now. Lie still. You have the devil of a
temperature.'

‘It'll go.'

‘Not by itself, it won't.'

And so Sylvia went through her bout of malaria, which was
not the bad kind, cerebral, which is so dangerous, but it was bad
enough and she shivered and she shook, and swallowed her pills–back to the old-fashioned quinine, since the new ones were not
working with her–and when she was finally herself, Sister Molly
said, ‘That was a go, if you like. But I see you are with us again.'

‘Please telephone Father McGuire and tell him.'

‘Who do you take us for? Of course I rang him weeks ago.'

‘
Weeks?
'

‘You've had it bad. Mind you, I'd say it was malaria plus, a
bit of a collapse generally. And you're anaemic, for a start. And
you have to eat.'