The Sweetest Dream (24 page)

He sat looking down, biting his lip. That joyous expedition
into the riches of Oxford Street, the three of them, in such
companionship, where warm clothes, bright clothes, things he needed
so badly, arrived in Rose's hands, in Geoffrey's, to be stowed away
in a big shopping bag–he was not doing the liberating, only
marvelling at their dexterity. It had been a trip into a magic land
of possibilities, like going to the cinema and then, instead of
watching marvels, becoming part of it. Just as yesterday Sylvia,
Sophie and Lucy had become little girls, ‘a giggle of girls', Colin
had called them, so now Franklin became a little boy remembering
how far he was from home, a stranger mocked by riches he could
never have.

In came Sylvia who, having decided Evansky was not for her,
wore red ribbons in her two golden plaits. She embraced Frances,
embraced Franklin who was so grateful for what he was
experiencing as forgiveness, that he smiled again, but sat shaking his head
at himself, rueful, sending sorrowing glances at Frances; but
because of Sylvia, the girl's grace, her kindness, soon things were
back to normal–well, almost.

The kitchen filled with youngsters already hung-over and
needing more to drink, and by the time everyone sat around the
great table and the vast bird sat before them ready to carve, the
company had already slipped into that state of excess that means
sleep is imminent. And in fact James nodded over his plate and
had to be roused. Franklin, smiling again, looked down at his
heaped plate, thought of his poor village, silently said grace, and
ate. And ate. The girls, and even Sylvia, did well, and the noise
was incredible, for ‘the kids' had returned to being adolescents,
though Andrew, ‘the old man', remained his age, and so did
Colin, though he tried hard to get into the spirit of it all. But
Colin would always be on the outside looking in, or on, no matter
how much he attempted to clown, to be one of them–and he
knew it.

The Christmas pudding arrived in its brandy flames into a
room darkened for it, and by then it was four o'clock and Frances
said that the room upstairs must be aired and clean for Julia's tea.
Tea? Who could eat another mouthful? Groans as hands went out
to gather in just another crumb or two of pudding, a lick of
custard, a mince pie.

The girls went up to the sitting-room, and piled sleeping bags
in a corner. They opened every window, because the room in
fact stank. They carried down empty bottles that had spent the
night under chairs or in corners, and suggested that perhaps Julia
could be persuaded to have her party an hour later, let's say, at
six? But that was out of the question.

And now James was sitting with his head in his hands, half
asleep, and Geoffrey said that if he didn't have a nap he'd die. At
this Rose and Franklin offered beds downstairs, and the company
would have dispersed but there was a bang on the front door,
and then the door into the kitchen opened, and there was Johnny,
permitting himself a Christmas relaxation of his features, his arms
full of bottles, accompanied by his new crony, a recently arrived
in London working-class playwright from Hull, Derek Carey.
Derek was as jovial as Father Christmas, and with good reason,
for he was still intoxicated by the cornucopia that is London.
Bliss had begun on his very first evening, two weeks ago. At an
after-theatre party, he had watched from afar, in wonder, two
gorgeous fair women, with posh accents, that at first he had
thought were put on. He thought they were prostitutes. But no,
they were upper-class escapes into the swampy beds and pungent
groves of Swinging London. ‘Oh, my God,' he stammered to one
of them, ‘if I could be in bed with you, if I could sleep with you
I'd be as near Paradise as I ever hope to get.' He had stood
sheepishly, awaiting chastisement, physical or verbal, but instead
he heard, ‘And so you shall, dear heart, and so you shall.' Then
the other gave him a tongue kiss of the kind he would have had
to work hard for, for weeks, or months, back home. Things had
gone on from there, ending with the three of them in bed, and
with every new place he went he expected and found fresh
delights. Tonight he was drunk: he had hardly been sober for the
two weeks. Now he stood by the carcass of the turkey, where
Johnny was already energetically picking, and joined in. Johnny's
sons sat silent, not looking at their father.

‘I take it you'd like some turkey?' said Frances to the men,
handing them plates. Derek at once replied, ‘Oh, yes, that'd be
grand,' and filled his, while Johnny stacked his, and sat down.
Colin and Andrew went upstairs. They really seemed to be no
point in asking, ‘And Phyllida? Is she having something?'

The presence of the two men had banished enjoyment, and
the young ones crept upstairs to the sitting-room where they
found Julia had spread a white lace cloth, and a display of exquisite
china, plates of German stollen, and English Christmas cake.

Frances was left with the two men. She sat watching them
eat.

‘Frances, I have to talk to you about Phyllida.'

‘Don't mind me,' said the playwright. ‘I won't listen. But
believe you me, I'm only too familiar with marital situations. For
my sins.'

Johnny had cleared his plate, and now put Christmas pudding
into a bowl, doused it with cream, and stood with the bowl in
his hand, in his usual place, back to the window. ‘I'll come to
the point.'

‘Yes, do.'

‘Now, now, children,' said the playwright. ‘You're not
married any longer. You don't have to snap and snarl.' He poured
himself wine.

‘Phyllida and I are washed up,' said Johnny. ‘To come to the
point . . .' he repeated. ‘I want to marry again. Or perhaps we'll
dispense with the formalities–bourgeois nonsense anyway. I've
found a real comrade, she is Stella Linch, you might remember
her from the past–Korean War, that time.'

‘No,' said Frances. ‘And so what are you going to do with
Phyllida? No, don't tell me, you aren't going to suggest she comes
here?'

‘Yes, I am. I want her to come and live in the basement flat.
There's plenty of room in this house. And it is my house, you
seem to forget.'

‘Not Julia's?'

‘Morally, it's mine.'

‘But you already have one discarded family in it.'

‘Now, now,' said the playwright again. And he hiccupped.
‘God bless. Sorry.'

‘The answer is no, Johnny. The house is full up, and there is
one thing you don't seem to get. If her mother comes here Sylvia
will leave at once.'

‘Tilly will do as she's told.'

‘You forget Sylvia is over sixteen.'

‘She is old enough to visit her mother, then. She never comes
near Phyllida.'

‘You know as well as I do that Phyllida'll start shouting at
her. And anyway, surely you ought to be asking Julia.'

‘The old bitch. She's gaga.'

‘No, Johnny, she's not gaga. And you'd better be quick,
because there's going to be a tea-party.'

‘Tea-party?' said the comrade from Leeds. ‘Oh, goody.
Goody, goody gumdrops.' He sat swaying, poured out some wine
into a glass already half full, and said, ‘Excuse me.' He fell asleep,
as he sat, his mouth falling open.

Above her, in the sitting-room, Frances could hear voices–Johnny's, his mother's. ‘Stupid fool,' she heard, from Julia, and
Johnny came down the stairs, several at a time, and into the
kitchen. For once he was off centre, and flustered. ‘I have a right
to a woman who is a real comrade,' he said to Frances. ‘For once
in my life I am going to have a woman who is my equal.'

‘That is what you said about Maureen, do you remember?
Not to mention Phyllida.'

‘Absurd,' said Johnny. ‘I couldn't have done.'

Here the playwright came to himself, said, ‘Seconds out of
the ring,'–and fell asleep again.

Sophie appeared to say the party had begun.

‘I shall leave you two to wrestle with the sins of the world,'
said Frances, and left them.

Before joining the tea-party she went to her room, and put
on a new dress, and combed her hair, which transformation
enabled her to remember, looking into the mirror, that in her
time she had been described as a handsome blonde. And on the
stage, more than once she had been beautiful. And with Harold
Holman during that weekend which now seemed such an age
ago, she had certainly been beautiful.

At the beginning of December Julia had descended to Frances's
rooms, and she was looking embarrassed: that was not her style
at all. ‘Frances, I don't want you to be offended with me . . .' She
was holding out one of her thick white envelopes, that had
Frances
on it, in her beautiful handwriting. In it were banknotes. ‘I could
not think of a nice way to do this . . . but it would make me so
happy . . . do go to a hairdresser, and buy yourself a good dress
for Christmas.'

Frances tended to comb her hair flat on either side of a parting,
but the hairdresser (certainly not Evansky or Vidal Sassoon, who
could only tolerate the current style) was able to make this look
the last word in chic. And she had paid more for a dress than she
had ever done in her life. No point in putting it on for Christmas
lunch, with all that cooking to do, but now she entered the
sitting-room, as self-conscious as a girl. At once there were
compliments, and even, from Colin, a little bow as he rose to offer her
his chair. Clothes makyth manners. And someone else was making
a point of admiring her. Julia's distinguished Wilhelm rose, bent
over her hand–unfortunately it probably still smelled of the
kitchen–and kissed the air just above it.

Julia nodded and smiled congratulations.

‘You spoil me, Julia,' said Frances, and her mother-in-law
replied, ‘My dear, I wish you could know what it really means
to be loved and spoiled.'

And now Julia poured tea from a silver teapot, and Sylvia, her
handmaid, handed around slices of the stollen, and the heavy
Christmas cake. On their chairs Geoffrey and James, Colin and
Andrew fought to keep awake. Franklin was watching Sylvia trip
about as if she had appeared magically from thin air. Conversation
was being made by Wilhelm, Frances, Julia, and the three girls,
Sophie, Lucy, Sylvia.

A problem: the windows were still open, and it was after all
mid-winter. A fresh cold dark lay outside the polluted room where
Julia sat remembering, and they knew she did, how she had
entertained ambassadors and politicians here. ‘And even once the Prime
Minister.' And in a corner lay a tangle of sleeping bags, an
overlooked empty wine bottle.

Julia wore a grey velveteen suit, with lace, and garnets in her
ears and at her throat, which flashed and reproached them. She
was telling them about Christmases long ago, when she was a girl,
in her home in Germany, a sprightly, even formal recital, as if
she was reading it from a book of old tales, while Wilhelm Stein
listened, nodding to confirm what she was saying.

‘Yes,' he said into a silence. ‘Yes, yes. Well, Julia my dear,
we have to agree that times have changed.'

Downstairs could be heard Johnny's voice in energetic debate
with the playwright. Geoffrey, who had nearly toppled forward,
asleep, got up, and with an apology, left the room, followed by
James. Frances was overwhelmed with shame, but was pleased they
had gone, for at least the girls could be trusted not to nod off while
sitting and holding pretty teacups as if they had never done
anything else. Not Rose, of course, she was in a corner, apart.

Julia said, ‘I think the windows . . .' Sylvia at once went to
close them, and drew the heavy curtains, lined and interlined
brocade, which had faded after sixty years to a greenish blue that
made Frances's blue look crude. Rose had threatened to pull down
the curtains and make herself a dress ‘like Scarlet O'Hara's', and
when Sylvia had said, ‘But, Rose, I am sure Julia wouldn't like
that,' said, ‘You can't take a joke, you've got no sense of humour.'
Which was certainly true.

Andrew now said that he knew they were all besotted
barbarians but if she could have seen the meal they had just put away
Julia would forgive them.

Her stollen, her cake, lay in untouched slices on the tiny green
plates, that had pink rosebuds on them.

A burst of laughter from downstairs. Julia smiled ironically.
She did smile but there were tears in her eyes. ‘Oh, Julia,' crooned
Sylvia, going to her, putting her arms around her, so that her
cheek lay on the silvery cap of waves and little curls, ‘We do love
your lovely tea, we do, but if you only knew . . .'

‘Yes, yes, yes,' said Julia. ‘Yes, I know.' She got up. Wilhelm
Stein got up and put his arm around her, patting her hand. The
two distinguished people stood together in the middle of the room
which made such a frame for them, and then Julia said, ‘Well,
my children, and now I think that is enough.'

She exited, on Wilhelm's arm.

No one moved, then Andrew and Colin stretched their arms
out and yawned. Sylvia and Sophie began gathering up the tea
things. Rose, Franklin and Lucy went off to join the lively group
in the kitchen. Frances did not move.

Johnny and Derek were seated at either end of the table,
conducting a kind of seminar. Johnny was reading passages from
A Revolution Handbook
which he had written and had published
by a respectable publisher. It was making some money: as a
reviewer had said, ‘This has the makings of a perennial bestseller.'

Derek Carey's contribution to the welfare of nations was to
exhort young people, at meeting after meeting, to fill in census
forms wrongly, to destroy any official letters that came their
way, to take jobs in the post offices as postmen and destroy
letters, and to shoplift as much as possible. Every little bit helped
to bring down the structure of an oppressive state such as Britain.
In the recent election they had been advised to spoil voting forms
and write insulting remarks on them, such as Fascist! Rose and
Geoffrey, needing to distinguish themselves in this exhilarating
company, now described their recent shopping expedition. Then
Rose ran downstairs and came back with carrier bags full of stolen
presents, and began handing them out: soft toys mostly, plushy
tigers and pandas and bears but there was a bottle of brandy–handed to Johnny–and one of Armagnac, given to Derek. ‘That's
the stuff, comrade,' said Derek, with a comradely wink that
reached Rose's soul, parched for compliments; it was like a medal
for achievement. And Johnny gave her a clenched fist salute. No
one had seen her so happy.