Sophie had said she wasn’t going back to school after Christmas, but perhaps she would change her mind to be with Colin. But he said he was doing badly, and didn’t want to take his final exams, due this coming summer. He was eighteen. He said exams were stupid, and he was too old for school. Rose–not her responsibility–had ‘dropped out’. So had James. Sylvia hadn’t been to school in months. Geoffrey did well, always had, and it looked as if he would be the only one who would actually sit the exams. Daniel would because Geoffrey did, but he wasn’t clever, like his idol. Jill was more often here than at school. Lucy, from Dartington, would sit exams and do brilliantly, that was evident.
Frances herself, obedient girl, had gone to school, was punctual, sat exams, and would have gone to university if the war and Johnny had not intervened. She could not understand what the problem was. She had not much enjoyed school, but had seen the process as something that had to be undergone. She would have to earn her living, that was the point. These youngsters never seemed to think about that.
Now she wrote down the letter she would like to send, but of course would not.
Dear Mrs Jackson, I haven’t the faintest idea what to advise. We seem to have bred a generation that expects food simply to fall into their mouths without their working for it. With sincere regrets, Aunt Vera.
Julia was getting up. She gathered up her bag, her gloves, a newspaper, and as she came past Frances, nodded. Frances, too late, got up to push a chair towards her, but Julia was already gone. If she had handled it properly, Julia would have sat down–there had been a little moment of hesitation. And then at last she might have become friends with her mother-in-law.
Frances sat on, ordered more coffee, then soup. Andrew had said that if one was lucky with one’s timing and ordered goulash soup, you got the thick part at the bottom of the pot, like stew, very good. Her goulash when it came was evidently from the middle of the pot.
She did not know what to write for her third piece. The second had been on marijuana, and it was easy. The article had been cool and informative, that was all, and many letters came in response.
What an attractive crowd this was, the Cosmo crowd, these people from all over Europe, and of course, by now, the kind of British attracted by them. Many of them Jews. Not all.
Julia had remarked, in front of ‘the kids’ when one of them asked if she had been a refugee, ‘I am in the unfortunate situation of being a German who is not a Jew.’
Shock and outrage. Julia’s fascist status had been confirmed: though they all used the word fascist as easily as they said fuck, or shit, not necessarily meaning much more than this was somebody they disapproved of.
Sophie had wailed that Julia gave her the creeps, all Germans did.
Of Sophie, Julia had remarked, ‘She has the Jewish young girl’s beauty, but she’ll end up an old hag, just like the rest of us.’
If Sylvia–Tilly was coming down to supper then the food had to be right for her. She could not be given a dish different from the others, and yet she did not eat anything but potato. Very well, Frances would cook a big shepherd’s pie, and the girls who were slimming could leave the mash and eat the rest. There would be vegetables. Rose would not eat vegetables, but would salad. Geoffrey never ate fish or vegetables: she had been worrying about Geoffrey’s diet for years, and he was not even her child. What did his parents think, when he hardly ever went home, was always coming to them–rather, to Colin? She asked him and he said that they were quite pleased he had somewhere to go. It seemed they both worked hard. Quakers. Religious. A dull household, it seemed. She had become fond of Geoffrey but was damned if she was going to spend time worrying about Rose. Careful, Frances: if there was one thing she had learned, it was not to say what one will accept or refuse from Fate, which had its own ideas.
But perhaps one’s fate is just one’s temperament, invisibly attracting people and events. There are people who (probably unconsciously, when young, until it is forced on them that this is their character) use a certain passivity towards life, watching to see what will arrive on their plate, or drop in their lap, or stare them in the face–‘What’s wrong with you? Are you blind?’–and then, try not so much to grasp it as wait, allowing the thing to develop, show itself. Then the task is to do your best with it, do what you can.
Would she have believed, aged nineteen, marrying Johnny when there was no reason to expect anything ever but war and bad times, that she would find herself a kind of house-mother–but ‘earth-mother’ was the current term. Where along the road should she have said (if she had been determined to avert this fate) ‘No, I won’t.’ She had fought against Julia’s house, but probably it would have been better if she had succumbed much earlier, saying yes, yes, to what was happening, and consciously saying it, accepting what had arrived in front of her, as was now her philosophy. Saying no is often like those people who divorce one partner only to marry another exactly the same in looks and character: we carry invisible templates as ineluctably ourselves as fingerprints, but we don’t know about them until we look around us and see them mirrored.
‘We know what we are . . .’ (Oh, no, we don’t!) ‘. . . but not what we may be.’
Once she would have found it hard to believe that she could live chaste, without a man in prospect . . . but she still cherished fantasies about a man in her life who would not be a mad egotist, like Johnny. But what man would want to take on a tribe of youngsters all ‘disturbed’ for one reason or another. Here they were, congratulated on living in Swinging London, promised everything the advertisers of at least two continents could think up, yet if ‘the kids’ did swing–and they did, they were off to the big jazz concert on Saturday, tomorrow–then they were screwed up, and two of them, her sons, because of her and Johnny. And the war, of course.
Frances took up her burden, heavily loaded carrier bags, paid her bill, went home up the hill.
A pearly post-Clean Air Act fog floated outside the windows and bedewed the hair and eyelashes of ‘the kids’ who came into the house laughing and embracing each other like survivors. Damp duffel-coats loaded the banisters, and all the chairs around the table except two on Frances’s left, were occupied. Colin had sat down by Sophie, saw that he would be next to his brother in the third empty chair, and quickly moved to the end where he stood by Geoffrey, who sat opposite Frances, and now Colin claimed the important chair by pushing Geoffrey out with a thrust of his buttocks. A schoolboy moment, rough and raw, too young for their almost adult status. Geoffrey then came to sit on Frances’s right, without looking at Colin. Sophie suffered from any discord, and she got up to go to Colin, bent to slide an arm around him, and kissed his cheek. He did not permit himself to smile, but then could not prevent a weak and loving smile at her which then included everyone. They all laughed. Rose . . . James . . . Jill–these three seemed to be ensconced in the basement; Daniel was next to Geoffrey, head boy and his deputy. Lucy was next to Daniel, having come up from Dartington to spend the weekend with him, here. Twelve places. They were all waiting, ravenously eating bread, sniffing the smells that came from the stove. At last Andrew came in, his arm around Sylvia. She was still inside the baby shawl, but wore clean jeans, that were loose on her, and a jersey of Andrew’s. Her pale wispy hair had been brushed up, making her look even more infantile. But she was smiling, though her lips trembled.
Colin, who resented her being here at all, got up, smiling, and made her a little bow. ‘Welcome, Sylvia,’ he said, and tears came into her eyes at their chorus of ‘Hello, Sylvia.’
She sat down next to Frances, and Andrew was next to her. The meal could begin. In a moment dishes filled all the space down the table. Colin got up to pour wine, forestalling Geoffrey, who was about to do it, while Frances put food on to plates. A moment of crisis: she had reached Andrew, and next would be Sylvia. Andrew said, ‘Let me,’ and there began a little play. On to his plate he put a single carrot, and on to Sylvia’s, a carrot. He was solemn, frowning, judicious, and already Sylvia wa
s beginning to laugh, though her lips still made nervous painful little movements. On to his plate, a little spoon of cabbage, and one for her, ignoring the hand that had gone up instinctively to stop him. For him, a mere sample of the mince, and the same for her. And then, with an air of recklessness, a rather big lump of potato for her, and for him. They were all laughing. Sylvia sat looking at her plate, but Andrew, with a determined let’s-get-this-over look, had taken up a spoon of potato and waited for her to do the same. She did–and swallowed.
Now, trying not to watch what went on, as Andrew and Sylvia fought with themselves, Frances raised her glass of Rioja–seven shillings a bottle, for this pleasant wine had yet to be ‘discovered’–and drank a toast to Progressive Education, an old joke which they all enjoyed.
‘Where’s Julia?’ came Sylvia’s little voice.
An anxious silence. Then Andrew said, ‘She doesn’t come to meals with us.’
‘Why doesn’t she? Why not? It’s so lovely with you.’
This was a moment of real breakthrough, as Andrew described it later to Julia–‘We’ve won, Julia, yes, we really have.’ Frances was gratified: she actually had tears in her eyes. Andrew put his arm around Sylvia and, smiling at his mother, said, ‘Yes, it is. But Julia prefers to be up there by herself.’
Having unwittingly created a picture of what must be loneliness, it struck him, and he jumped up and said, ‘I’ll go and ask her again.’ This was partly to relieve him of the burden and the challenge of his still scarcely touched plate. As he went out and up the stairs, Sylvia put down her spoon.
In a moment Andrew returned, and sat down with, ‘She says perhaps she’ll drop in later.’
This caused a moment not far from panic. In spite of Andrew’s efforts on his grandmother’s behalf, they all tended to see Julia as a kind of old witch, to be laughed at. The St Joseph’s contingent could not know how Julia had wrestled for a week, two, with Sylvia’s illness, sitting with her, bathing her, making her take mouthfuls of this and sips of that. Julia had hardly slept. And here was her reward, Sylvia, picking up her spoon again, watching Andrew lift his, as if she had forgotten how to use one.
The difficult moment passed, the kids appeased their teenage appetites, and Frances ate more than she usually would, to be an example to the two on her left. It was a wonderful evening, with an undertone of tenderness because of Sylvia and their concern for her. It was as if they were collectively putting their arms around her, while she got down one mouthful after another. Andrew too.
And then they saw she had gone white and was shaking. ‘My father . . .’ she whispered. ‘I mean, it’s my stepfather . . .’
‘Oh, no,’ said Colin, ‘it’s all right, he’s gone to Cuba.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Andrew, and leaped up to intercept Johnny, who was in the hall outside the kitchen. Andrew shut the door, but everyone could hear Johnny’s bluff, reasonable, confident voice, and Andrew: ‘No, father, no, you can’t come in, I’ll explain later.’
Voices loud, then low, and Andrew returned, leaving the door open, and slid down again beside Sylvia. He was red and angry, and he clutched his fork like a weapon.
‘But why isn’t he in Cuba?’ asked Colin, petulantly, like a child.
The brothers looked at each other, suddenly as one, exchanging understandings.
Andrew said, ‘He hasn’t left, but I expect he will.’ He added, still angry, ‘Actually, I think he’s going to Zanzibar–or Kenya.’ A pause, while the brothers communed, with their eyes and angry smiles. ‘He’s not alone, he’s got a black man . . . a man from there . . . an African comrade.’ These adjustments to the spirit of the times were followed carefully by the company. They had taken Africa into their hearts and consciences, the progressive schools had seen to that, and even Rose at a far from progressive school chose her words with, ‘We’ve got to be nice to dark-skinned people, that’s what I think.’
Sylvia had not recovered. Her spoon hung listless in her thin hand.
And now James, who was understandably at a loss, said, ‘Why is he going to Africa instead of Cuba?’
At this the brothers laughed, together, and it was not pleasant, while Frances prevented herself from joining in, though she would have liked to. She had always tried never to criticise Johnny in public.
Colin said, like an orator, ‘Keep them guessing,’ and Frances, hearing the quote, had to laugh. ‘That’s it,’ said Andrew, ‘keep them guessing.’
‘Why are you laughing?’ asked Sylvia, ‘what’s funny?’
Andrew at once stopped his mockery, and picked up his spoon again. But it was over, their meal, his and Sylvia’s. ‘Johnny’s coming,’ he said to her. ‘He’s just getting something from the car. If you want to get out of the way . . .’
‘Oh, yes, I do, yes, please,’ said Johnny’s stepdaughter, and up she got, supported by Andrew’s arm. The two went out. At least they had both eaten something.
Frances called after them, ‘Tell Julia not to come down, otherwise they’ll quarrel again.’
The meal continued, subdued.
The St Joseph contingent were talking about a book Daniel had stolen from a secondhand bookstall, The Ordeal of Richard Feverel. He had read it, said it was groovy, and the tyrannical father was just like his. He recommended it to Geoffrey who pleased him by saying it was great, and then the novel migrated to Sophie who said it was the best book she had ever read, it made her cry. Now Colin was reading it. Rose said, ‘Why can’t I read it? It isn’t fair.’
‘It’s not the only copy in the world,’ said Colin.
‘I’ve got a copy, I’ll lend it to you,’ said Frances.
‘Oh, Frances, thank you, you’re so sweet to me.’
This meant, as everyone knew, I hope you are going to go on being sweet to me.
Frances said, ‘I’ll get it,’ to have an excuse to go out of that room which so soon would swirl with discordant currents. And everything had been so nice until now . . . She went up to the room just over the kitchen, the sitting-room, found The Ordeal of Richard Feverel in a wall of books, turned and saw that Julia was sitting there alone in the half dark. Not since Frances had taken over the lower part of the house had she found Julia in this room. Now, ideally, she should sit down and try to make friends with Julia, but as always, she was in a hurry.
‘I was on my way down to you all,’ said Julia, ‘but I hear Johnny has arrived.’
‘I don’t see how I can stop him coming,’ said Frances. She was listening downwards, to the kitchen–were they all right there, no quarrels? Upwards . . . was Sylvia all right?
Julia said, ‘He has a home. It seems to me that he is not often in it.’
‘Well,’ said Frances, ‘if Phyllida is in it, who can blame him?’
She had hoped that this might make Julia at least smile, but instead she was going on, ‘I must say this . . .’ And Frances waited for what she was sure would be a dose of disapproval. ‘You are so weak with Johnny. He has treated you abominably.’
Frances was thinking, Then why give him the key to the house?–though she knew the mother could hardly say to the son that he couldn’t have a key to a house he thought of as his own. Besides, what about the boys? She said, trying to joke a little, ‘Perhaps we could have the locks changed?’
But Julia took it seriously with, ‘I would see to it if I did not think you would at once give him a new key.’ She got up, and Frances, who had been planning to sit down, saw another opportunity slide away.
‘Julia,’ said Frances, ‘you always criticise me, but you don’t support me.’ And what did she mean by that, except that Julia made her feel like a schoolgirl deficient in everything.
‘What are you saying?’ said Julia. ‘I do not understand.’ She was furious, and hurt.
‘I don’t mean . . . you have been so good . . . you are always so generous . . . no, all I meant was . . .’
‘I do not believe that I have been lacking in my responsibilities to the family,’ said Julia,
and Frances heard, incredulously, that Julia might easily cry. She had hurt Julia, and it was the fact that this was possible that made her stammer, ‘Julia . . . but Julia . . . you are wrong, I didn’t mean . . .’ And then, ‘Oh, Julia,’ in a different tone, which made Julia stop on her way out of the room to examine her, as if she was prepared to be touched, reached: even to reach out herself.
But downstairs a door slammed, and Frances exclaimed, in despair, ‘There he is, it’s Johnny.’
‘Yes, it’s Comrade Johnny,’ said Julia, departing upstairs.
Frances went down into the kitchen and found Johnny in his usual position, standing back to the window, and with him was a handsome black man wearing clothes more expensive than anyone else’s, smiling as Johnny introduced him, ‘This is Comrade Mo, from East Africa.’
Frances sat, pushing the novel across the table at Rose, but she was staring in admiration at Comrade Mo, and at Johnny, who resumed his lecture to impress Comrade Mo, on the history of East Africa and the Arabs.
And now Frances was in a dilemma. She did not want to ask Johnny to sit down. She had asked him–though Julia would never believe this–not to drop in at mealtimes, and to telephone before he came. But here was this guest and of course she must . . .
‘Would you like something to eat?’ she asked, and Comrade Mo rubbed his hands together and laughed and said he was starving, and at once sat down in the chair next to her. Johnny, invited to sit, said he would just have a glass of wine–he had brought a bottle. Where Andrew and Sylvia had sat, minutes before, now sat Comrades Mo and Johnny, and the two men put on their plates all that was left of the pie, and the vegetables.
Frances was angry to the point where one is dispirited with it: what was the point, ever, of being angry with Johnny? It was obvious he had not eaten for days, he was cramming in bread, taking great mouthfuls of wine, refilling his glass and Comrade Mo’s, in between forkfuls from his plate. The youngsters were seeing appetites even greater than their own.
The Sweetest Dream Page 8