‘I’ll serve the pudding,’ said Frances, her voice dull with rage.
On to the table now went plates of sticky delights from the Cypriot shops, concoctions of honey and nuts and filo pastry, and dishes of fruit, and her chocolate pudding, made especially for ‘the kids’.
Colin, having stared at his father, and then at his mother: Why did you let him sit down? Why do you let him . . . ? now got up, scraping back his chair, and pushing it back against the wall with a bang. He went out.
‘I feel this is a real home from home,’ said Comrade Mo, consuming chocolate pudding. ‘And I do not know these cakes? Are they like some cakes we have from the Arab cuisine?’
‘Cypriot,’ said Johnny, ‘almost certainly influenced from the East . . .’ and began a lecture on the cuisines of the Mediterranean.
They were all listening, fascinated: no one could say that Johnny was dull when not talking about politics, but it was too good to last. Soon he was on to Kennedy’s murder, and the probable roles of the CIA and the FBI. From there he went on to the American plans to take over Africa, and in proof told them that Comrade Mo had been propositioned by the CIA offering vast sums of money. All his teeth and gums showing, Comrade Mo confirmed this, with pride. An agent of the CIA in Nairobi had approached him with offers to finance his party, in return for information. ‘And how did you know he was CIA?’ James wanted to know, and Comrade Mo said that ‘everyone knew’ the CIA roamed around Africa, like a lion seeking its prey. He laughed, delightedly, looking around for approval. ‘You should all come and visit us. Come and see for yourself and have a good time,’ he said, having little idea he was describing a glorious future. ‘Johnny has promised to come.’
‘Oh, I thought he was going now–at once?’ said James, and now Comrade Mo’s eyes rolled in enquiry to Johnny, while he said, ‘Comrade Johnny’s welcome any time.’
‘So, you didn’t tell Andrew you were going to Africa?’ asked Frances, to elicit the reply, ‘Keep them guessing.’ And Johnny smiled and offered them the aphorism, ‘Always keep them guessing.’
‘Who?’ Rose wanted to know.
‘Obviously, Rose, the CIA,’ said Frances.
‘Oh, yes, the CIA,’ said James, ‘of course.’ He was absorbing information, as was his talent and his intention.
‘Keep them guessing,’ said Johnny. And, in his severest manner to his willing disciple, James, ‘In politics you should never let your left hand know what your right hand does.’
‘Or perhaps,’ said Frances, ‘what your left hand does.’
Ignoring her: ‘You should always cover your tracks, Comrade James. You should never make things easy for the enemy.’
‘Perhaps I shall come to Cuba too?’ said Mo. ‘Comrade Fidel is encouraging links with the liberated African countries.’
‘And even the non-liberated ones,’ said Johnny, letting them all in on secrets of policy.
‘What are you going to Cuba for?’ asked Daniel, really wanting to know, confronting Johnny across the table with his inflammatory red hair, his freckles, and eyes always strained by the knowledge that he was not worthy to lick the boots of–for instance, Geoffrey. Or Johnny.
James said to him, ‘One should not ask that kind of question,’ and looked to Johnny for approval.
‘Exactly,’ said Johnny. He got up, and resumed his lecturer’s position, back to the window, at ease, but on the alert.
‘I want to see a country that has known only slavery and subjection build freedom, build a new society. Fidel has done miracles in five years, but the next five years will show a real change. I am looking forward to taking Andrew and Colin, taking my sons, to see for themselves . . . Where are they, by the way?’ For he had not noticed their absence until now.
‘Andrew is with Sylvia,’ said Frances. ‘We are going to have to call her that now.’
‘Why, has she changed her name?’
‘That is her name,’ said Rose, sullen: she continually said she hated her name and wanted to be called Marilyn.
‘I have only really known her as Tilly,’ said Johnny, with a whimsical air that momentarily recalled Andrew. ‘Well, then, where’s Colin?’
‘Doing homework,’ said Frances. A likely story, though Johnny would not know that.
Johnny was fidgeting. His sons were his favourite audience, and he did not know what a critical one it was.
‘Can you go to Cuba, just like that, as a tourist?’ asked James, evidently disapproving of tourists and their frivolity.
‘He’s not going as a tourist,’ said Comrade Mo. Feeling out of place at the table, while his comrade-in-arms stood in front of them, he got up and lounged there by Johnny. ‘Fidel invited him.’
This was the first Frances had heard of it.
‘And he invited you too,’ said Comrade Mo.
Johnny was clearly displeased: he had not wanted this to be revealed.
Comrade Mo said, ‘A friend of Fidel’s is in Kenya for the Independence celebrations, and he told me that Fidel wants to invite Johnny and Johnny’s wife.’
‘He must mean Phyllida.’
‘No, it was you. He said Comrade Johnny and Comrade Frances.’
Johnny was furious. ‘Comrade Fidel is clearly unaware of Frances’s indifference to world affairs.’
‘No,’ said Comrade Mo, not noticing apparently that Johnny was about to explode, just at his elbow. ‘He said he had heard she is a famous actress, and she is welcome to start a theatre group in Havana. And I’ll add our invitation to that. You could start a revolutionary theatre in Nairobi.’
‘Oh, Frances,’ breathed Sophie, clasping her hands together, her eyes melting with pleasure, ‘how wonderful, how absolutely wonderful.’
‘Frances’s line seems rather more to be advice on family problems,’ said Johnny, and, firmly putting an end to this nonsense, raised his voice, addressing the young ones, ‘You are a fortunate generation,’ he told them. ‘You will be building a new world, you young comrades. You have the capacity to see through all the old shams, the lies, the delusions–you can overturn the past, destroy it, build anew . . . this country has two main aspects. On the one hand it is rich, with a solid and established infrastructure, while on the other, it is full of old-fashioned and stultifying attitudes. That will be the problem. Your problem. I can see the Britain of the future, free, rich, poverty gone, injustice a memory . . .’
He went on like this for some time, repeating the exhortations that sounded like promises. You will transform the world . . . it is your generation on whose shoulders the responsibility will fall . . . the future is in your hands . . . you will live to see the world a better place, a glorious place, and know that it was your efforts . . . what a wonderful thing to be your age, now, with everything in your hands . . .
Young faces, young eyes, shone, adored him and what he was saying. Johnny was in his element, absorbing admiration. He was standing like Lenin, one hand pointing forward into the future, while the other was clenched on his heart.
‘He is a great man,’ he concluded in a soft, reverential voice, gazing severely at them. ‘Fidel is a genuinely great man. He is pointing us all the way into the future.’
One face there showed an incorrect alignment to Johnny: James, who admired Johnny as much as Johnny could possibly wish, was in the grip of a need for instruction.
‘But, Comrade Johnny . . .’ he said, raising his hand as if in class.
‘And now goodnight,’ said Johnny. ‘I have a meeting. And so has Comrade Mo here.’
His unsmiling but comradely nod excluded Frances, to whom he directed a cold glance. Out he went, followed by Comrade Mo, who said to Frances, ‘Thanks, Comrade. You’ve saved my life. I was really hungry. And now it seems I have a meeting.’
They sat silent, listening to Johnny’s Beetle start up, and leave.
‘Perhaps you could all do the washing-up,’ said Frances. ‘I’ve got to work. Goodnight.’
She lingered to see who would take up this invitation
. Geoffrey of course, the good little boy; Jill, who was clearly in love with handsome Geoffrey; Daniel because he was in love with Geoffrey but probably didn’t know it; Lucy . . . well, all of them, really. Rose?
Rose sat on: she was fucked if she was going to be made use of.
• • •
The influences of Christmas Day, that contumacious festival, were spreading dismay as early as the evening of the 12th of December when, to Frances’s surprise, she found she was drinking to the independence of Kenya. James lifted his glass, brimming with Rioja, and said, ‘To Kenyatta, to Kenya, to Freedom.’ As always, his warm friendly, if public, face under the tumbling locks of black hair, sent messages all around of unlimited reservoirs of largesse of feeling. Excited eyes, fervent faces: Johnny’s recent harangues were still reverberating in them.
A vast meal had been consumed, a little of it by Sylvia, who was as always by Frances’s left elbow. In her glass was a stain of red: Andrew had said she must drink a little, it was good for her, and Julia had supported him. The cigarette smoke was denser than usual; it seemed that everyone was smoking tonight, because of the liberation of Kenya. Not Colin, he was batting away waves of smoke as they reached his face. ‘Your lungs will rot,’ he said. ‘Well, it’s just tonight,’ said Andrew.
‘I’m going to Nairobi for Christmas,’ James announced, looking around, proud but uneasy.
‘Oh, are your parents going?’ Frances unthinkingly asked, and a silence rebuked her.
‘Is it likely?’ sneered Rose, stubbing out her cigarette and furiously lighting another.
James rebuked her with, ‘My father was fighting in Kenya. He was a soldier. He says it’s a good place.’
‘Oh, so your parents are living there? Or planning to? Are you visiting them?’
‘No, they aren’t living there,’ said Rose. ‘His father is an income tax inspector in Leeds.’
‘So, is that a crime?’ enquired Geoffrey.
‘They are such squares,’ said Rose. ‘You wouldn’t believe it.’
‘They aren’t so bad,’ said James, not liking this. ‘But we have to make allowances for people who are not yet politically conscious.’
‘Oh, so you are going to make your parents politically conscious–don’t make me laugh,’ said Rose.
‘I didn’t say so,’ said James, turning away from his cousin, and towards Frances. ‘I’ve seen Dad’s photographs of Nairobi. It’s groovy. That’s why I’m going.’
Frances understood that there was no need to say anything as crass as, Have you got a passport? A visa? How are you going to pay for it? And you are only seventeen.
James was floating in the arms of a teenage dream, which was not underpinned by boring realities. He would find himself as if by magic in Nairobi’s main street . . . there he would run into Comrade Mo . . . be one of a group of loving comrades where he would soon be a leader, making fiery speeches. And, since he was seventeen, there would be a girl. How did he imagine this girl? Black? White? She had no idea. James went on talking about his father’s memories of Kenya. The grim truths of war had been erased, and all that remained were high blue skies, and all that space and a good chap (corrected to a good type) who had saved his father’s life. A black man. An Askari, risking his life for the British soldier.
What had been Frances’s equivalent dream at, not sixteen, she had been a busy schoolgirl; but nineteen? Yes, she was pretty sure she had had fantasies, because of Johnny’s immersion in the Spanish Civil War, of nursing soldiers. Where? In a rocky landscape, with wine, and olives. But where? Teenage dreams do not need map points.
‘You can’t go to Kenya,’ said Rose. ‘Your parents will stop you.’
Brought down, James reached for his glass and emptied it.
‘Since the subject has come up,’ said Frances, ‘I want to talk about Christmas?’ Faced with already apprehensive faces, Frances found herself unable to go on. They knew what they were going to hear, because Andrew had already warned them.
Now he said, ‘You see, there isn’t going to be a Christmas here this year. I am going to Phyllida for Christmas lunch. She rang me and said she hasn’t heard from my . . . from Johnny, and she says she dreads Christmas.’
‘Who doesn’t?’ said Colin.
‘Oh, Colin,’ said Sophie, ‘don’t be like that.’
Colin said, not looking at anyone, ‘I am going to Sophie’s because of her mother. She can’t be alone on Christmas Day.’
‘But I thought you were Jewish,’ said Rose to Sophie.
‘We have always done Christmas,’ said Sophie. ‘When Daddy was alive . . .’ She went silent, biting her lips, her eyes filling.
‘And Sylvia here is going with Julia to Julia’s friend,’ said Andrew.
‘And I,’ said Frances, ‘propose to ignore Christmas altogether.’
‘But, Frances,’ said Sophie, ‘that’s awful, you can’t.’
‘Not awful. Wonderful,’ said Frances. ‘And now, Geoffrey, don’t you think you should go home for Christmas? You really should, you know.’
Geoffrey’s polite face, ever attentive to what might be expected of him, smiled agreement. ‘Yes, Frances. I know. You are right. I will go home. And my grandmother is dying,’ he added, in the same tone.
‘Then, I’ll go home too,’ said Daniel. His red hair flamed, and his face went even redder, as he said, ‘I’ll come and visit you, then.’
‘As you like,’ said Geoffrey revealing by this ungraciousness that perhaps he had been looking forward to a Daniel-free hols.
‘James,’ said Frances, ‘please go home.’
‘Are you throwing me out?’ he said, good-humouredly. ‘I don’t blame you. Have I outstayed my welcome?’
‘For now, yes,’ said Frances, who was by nature unable to throw anyone out permanently. ‘But what about school, James? Aren’t you going to finish school?’
‘Of course he is,’ said Andrew, revealing that admonitions must have occurred. His four years seniority gave him the right. ‘It’s ridiculous, James,’ he went on, talking direct to James. ‘You’ve only got a year to go to A-levels. It won’t kill you.’
‘You don’t know my school,’ said James, but desperation had entered the equation. ‘If you did . . .’
‘Anyone can suffer for a year,’ said Andrew. ‘Or even three. Or four,’ he said, glancing guiltily at his mother: he was making revelations.
‘Okay,’ said James. ‘I will. But . . .’ and here he looked at Frances, ‘without the liberating airs of Frances’s house I don’t think I could survive.’
‘You can visit,’ said Frances. ‘There’s always weekends.’
There were left now Rose and the dark horse Jill, the always well-brushed, well-washed, polite, blonde girl, who hardly ever spoke, but listened, how she did listen.
‘I’m not going home,’ said Rose. ‘I won’t go.’
Frances said, ‘You do realise that your parents could sue me for alienating your affections–well, that kind of thing.’
‘They don’t care about me,’ declared Rose. ‘They don’t give a fuck.’
‘That’s not true,’ said Andrew. ‘You may not like them but they certainly care about you. They wrote to me. They seem to think I am a good influence.’
‘That’s a joke,’ said Rose.
The hinterlands behind this tiny exchange were acknowledged as glances were exchanged among the others.
‘I said I am not going,’ said Rose. She was darting trapped glances around at them all: they might have been her enemies.
‘Listen, Rose,’ said Frances, with the intention of keeping her dislike of the girl out of her voice, ‘Liberty Hall is closing down over Christmas.’ She had not specified for how long.
‘I can stay in the basement flat, can’t I? I won’t be in the way.’
‘And how are you going to . . .’ but Frances stopped.
Andrew had an allowance and he had been giving money to Rose. ‘She could claim that I treated her badly,’ said Andrew. �
��Well, she does complain, she tells everyone how I wronged her. Like the wicked squire and the milkmaid. The trouble was, she was all for me, but I wasn’t for her.’ Frances had thought, Or all for the glamorous Eton boy and his connections? Andrew had said, ‘I think that coming here was what did it. It was such a revelation to her. It’s a pretty limited set-up–her parents are very nice . . .’
‘And are you–and Julia–going to keep her indefinitely?’
‘No,’ said Andrew. ‘I’ve said, enough. After all, she’s done very well out of a kiss or two in the moonlight.’
But now they were faced with a guest who would not leave.
Rose looked as if she were being threatened with imprisonment, with torture. An animal in a too small cage could look like that, glaring out, glaring around.
It was all out of proportion, ridiculous . . . Frances persisted, though the girl’s violence was making her own heart beat, ‘Rose, just go home for Christmas, that’s all. Just do that. They must be worried sick about you. And you have to talk to them about school . . .’ At this Rose exploded up out of the chair, and said, ‘Oh, shit, it just needed that . . .’ and she ran out of the room, howling, tears scattering. They listened to her thud down the stairs to the basement flat.
‘Well,’ said Geoffrey gracefully, ‘what a carry-on.’
Sylvia said, ‘But her school must be horrible if she hates it so much.’ She had agreed to go back to school, while she lived here, ‘with Julia,’ as she put it. And she had said yes, she would stick it out and study to be a doctor.
What was burning Rose up, consuming her with the acid of envy, was that Sylvia–‘And she isn’t even related, she’s just Johnny’s stepchild’–was in this house, as a right, and that Julia was paying for her. It seemed Rose believed that justice would make Julia pay for her, Rose, to go to a progressive school, and keep her here for as long as she liked.
Colin had said to her, ‘Do you think my grandmother’s made of money? It’s a lot for her to take on Sylvia. She’s already paying for me and for Andrew.’
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