The Sweetest Dream (8 page)

Rose said sourly, ‘We're all sorry about Kennedy, aren't
we?'

Shouldn't Jill be at school? But from St Joseph's pupils came
and went, with little regard for time, tables or exams. When
teachers suggested a more disciplined approach, they might be
reminded of the principles that had established the school,
self-development being the main one. Colin had gone off to school
this morning, and was on his way back. Geoffrey had said he
might go tomorrow: yes, he was remembering he was head boy.
Had Sophie ‘dropped out' altogether? She certainly seemed to be
more often here than there. Jill had been down in the basement
with her sleeping bag, coming up for meals. She had told Colin
who had told Frances that she needed a break. Daniel had gone
back to school, but could be expected to return, if Colin did: any
excuse would do. She knew they believed that the moment they
turned their backs all kinds of delightfully dramatic events
occurred.

There was a new face, at the end of the table, smiling
placatingly at her, waiting for her to say, ‘Who are you? What are you
doing here?' But she only put a plate of soup in front of him, and
smiled. ‘I'm James,' he said, flushing. ‘Well, hello James,' she said.
‘Help yourself to bread–or anything else.' A large embarrassed
hand reached out to take a thick hunk of (healthy) wholemeal.
He sat with it in his hand, staring about him with evident delight.

‘James is my friend, well he's my cousin actually,' said Rose,
managing to be both nervous and aggressive. ‘I said it would be
all right if he came . . . I mean, for supper, I mean . . .'

Frances saw that here was another refugee from a shitty family,
and was mentally checking food she would need to buy tomorrow.

Tonight there were only seven at the table, with herself.
Johnny was standing, as stiff as a soldier, at the window. He wanted
to be asked to sit down. There was an empty place. She was
damned if she was going to ask him, did not care that her
reputation with ‘the kids' would suffer.

‘Before you go,' she said, ‘tell us, who killed Kennedy.'

Johnny shrugged, for once at a loss.

‘Perhaps it was the Soviets?' suggested the newcomer, daring
to claim his place with them.

‘That is nonsense,' said Johnny. ‘The Soviet comrades do not
go in for terrorism.'

Poor James was abashed.

‘Perhaps it was Castro?' said Jill. Johnny was already staring
coldly at her. ‘I mean, the Bay of Pigs, I mean . . .'

‘He doesn't go in for terrorism either,' said Johnny.

‘Do give me a ring before you leave,' said Frances. ‘A couple
of days, you said?'

But he still wasn't leaving.

‘It was a loony,' said Rose. ‘Some loony shot him.'

‘Who paid the loony?' said James, having recovered again,
though he was flushed with the effort of asserting himself.

‘We should not rule out the CIA,' said Johnny.

‘We should never rule them out,' said James, and earned
approval from Johnny in a smile and a nod. He was a large young
man, bulky, and surely older than Rose, older than any of them,
except perhaps Andrew? Rose saw Frances's inspection of James,
and reacted at once: she was always on the alert for criticism. She
said, ‘James is into politics. He is my elder brother's friend. He is
a drop-out.'

‘Well blow me down,' said Frances, ‘what a surprise.'

‘What do you
mean
?' said Rose, frantic, angry. ‘Why did you
say that?'

‘Oh, Rose, it's just a joke.'

‘She makes jokes,' said Andrew, interpreting his mother, as it
were vouching for her.

‘And talking about jokes,' said Frances. When they had all
run upstairs to watch the television news, she had seen on the
floor two large carrier bags filled with books. She now indicated
these to Geoffrey, who could not suppress a proud smile. ‘A good
haul today I see?' she said.

Everyone laughed. Most of them shoplifted in an impulsive
way, but Geoffrey made a business of it. He went regularly around
bookshops, pilfering. School textbooks when he could, but
anything he could get away with. He called it ‘liberating' them. It
was a Second World War joke, and a wistful link with his father,
who had been a bomber pilot. Geoffrey had told Colin that he
thought his father had not really noticed anything since the end
of that war. ‘Certainly not my mother or me.' His father might
just as well have died in that war for all the good his family got
of him. ‘Join the club,' was what Colin had said. ‘The War, the
Revolution, what's the difference?'

‘God bless Foyle's,' said Geoffrey. ‘I've liberated more there
than anywhere else in London. A benefactor to humankind, is
Foyle's.' But he was glancing nervously at Frances. He said,
‘Frances doesn't approve.'

They knew Frances didn't approve. She often said, ‘It's my
unfortunate upbringing. I was brought up to think stealing is
wrong.' Now, whenever she or anyone else criticised or did not
go along with the others, they would chant, ‘It's your unfortunate
upbringing.' Then Andrew had said, ‘That joke's getting a bit
tired.'

There had been a wild half-hour of variations on tired jokes
with unfortunate upbringings.

Now Johnny began on his familiar lecture, ‘That's right, you
take anything you can get from the capitalists. They've stolen it
all from you in the first place.'

‘Surely not from us?'–Andrew challenged his father.

‘Stolen from the working people. The ordinary people. Take
them for what you can get, the bastards.'

Andrew had never shoplifted, thought it inferior behaviour
fit only for oiks, and said in a direct challenge, ‘Shouldn't you be
getting back to Phyllida?'

Frances could be ignored, but his son's rebuke took Johnny
to the door. ‘Never forget,' he admonished them generally, ‘you
should be checking everything you do, every word, every thought,
against the needs of the Revolution.'

‘So what did you get today?' Rose asked Geoffrey. She admired
him almost as much as she did Johnny.

Geoffrey took books out of the carrier bags and made a tower
of them on the table.

They clapped. Not Frances, not Andrew.

Frances took from her briefcase one of the letters to the
newspaper which she had brought home. She read out, “‘Dear Aunt
Vera” . . . that's me . . .“Dear Aunt Vera, I have three children,
all at school. Every evening they come home with stolen stuff,
mostly sweets and biscuits. . .'” Here the company groaned.
“‘But it can be anything, school books too . . .'” They clapped.
“‘But today my oldest, the boy, came back with a very expensive
pair of jeans.'” They clapped again. “‘I don't know what to do.
When the door bell rings I think, That's the police.'” Frances
gave them time for a groan. “‘And I am afraid for them. I would
very much value your advice, Aunt Vera. I am at my wits' end.” '

She inserted the letter back in its place.

‘And what are you going to advise?' enquired Andrew.

‘Perhaps you should tell me what to say, Geoffrey. After all,
a head boy should be well up in these things.'

‘Oh, don't be like that, Frances,' said Rose.

‘Oh,' groaned Geoffrey, his head in his hands, making his
shoulders heave as if with sobs, ‘she takes it seriously.'

‘I do take it seriously,' said Frances. ‘It's stealing. You are
thieves,' she said to Geoffrey, with the freedom licensed by his
practically living with them, for years. ‘You are a thief. That's all.
I'm not Johnny,' she said.

Now a real dismayed silence. Rose giggled. The newcomer's,
James's, scarlet face was as good as a confession.

Sophie cried out, ‘But, Frances, I didn't know you disapproved
of us so much.'

‘Well, I do,' said Frances, her face and voice softening, because
it was Sophie. ‘So now you know.'

‘It's her unfortunate upbringing . . .' began Rose, but desisted,
on a look from Andrew.

‘And now I'm going to catch the news, and I have to work.'
She went out, saying, ‘Sleep well, everyone.' Giving permission,
in this way, to anyone, James for instance, who might be hoping
to stay the night.

She did catch the news, briefly. It seemed that some madman
had shot Kennedy. As far as she was concerned, another public
man was dead. He probably deserved it. She would never have
allowed herself to voice this thought, so very far from the spirit
of the times. It sometimes seemed to her that the one useful thing
she had learned in her long association with Johnny, was how to
keep quiet about what she thought.

Before settling down to work which, this evening, would be
going through a hundred or so letters she had brought home, she
opened the door to the spare room. Silence and dark. She tiptoed
to the bed and bent over a shape under the bedclothes that could
have been a child's. And, yes, Tilly had her thumb in her mouth.

‘I'm not asleep,' said a little voice.

‘I'm worried about you,' said Frances, and heard her voice
shake: she had promised herself not to get emotionally involved,
because what good would that do? ‘If I made you a cup of hot
chocolate, would you like that?'

‘I'll try.'

Frances made chocolate in her study, where she had a kettle
and basic supplies, and took it to the girl, who said, ‘I don't want
you to think I'm not grateful.'

‘Shall I put the light on? Do you want to try drinking it now?'

‘Put it on the floor.'

Frances did so, knowing that most likely the cup would be
there, untouched, in the morning.

She worked until late. She heard Colin come in, and then he
and Sophie went to the big sofa, where they sat talking–she
could hear them, or at least their voices, just below hers: the old
red sofa was immediately under her desk. Immediately over it was
Colin's bed. She heard their lowered voices, and then careful
footsteps just above her. Well, she was sure Colin knew how to
be careful: he had said so, loudly, to his brother, who lectured
him on these matters.

Sophie was sixteen. Frances wanted to put her arms around
the girl and protect her. Well, she never felt anything like that
about Rose, Jill, Lucy, or the other young females who drifted in
and out of this house. So why Sophie? She was so beautiful, that
was it: that was what she wanted to guard and keep safe. And
what nonsense
that
was–she, Frances, should be ashamed. She
was ashamed about a good deal, this evening. She opened the
door, and listened. Down in the kitchen, there seemed to be more
than Andrew, Rose, James . . . she would find out tomorrow.

She slept restlessly, twice went across the landing to see how
Tilly was doing; on one occasion found a very dark room, stillness,
and the faint stuffy smell of chocolate. Once she saw Andrew
retreating upstairs from a similar mission, and went back to bed.
She lay awake. The trouble was, the shoplifting. When Colin first
went to St Joseph's after his not very good comprehensive, articles
she knew were not his began appearing, nothing much, a T-shirt,
packets of biros, a record. She remembered being impressed that
he had stolen an anthology of verse. She remonstrated. He
complained that everyone did it and she was a square. Do not imagine
the issue rested there. This was a progressive school! One of the
first wave of schoolfriends, who came and went, but much less
freely, since after all they were younger, a girl called Petula,
informed Frances that Colin was stealing love: the housemaster
had said so. This was discussed noisily at the supper table. No,
not the love of her parents, but that of the headmaster, who had
ticked off Colin for something or other. Geoffrey, already more
or less a fixture then, five years ago, more, was proud of what he
garnered from the shops. She had been shocked, but had not said
more than, Well, then, don't get caught. If she had not said, Don't
do it, that was because she would not have been obeyed, but also
because she had no idea then of how prevalent it would become,
shoplifting. And, too, and that was what now kept her awake,
she had liked being one of them, the trendy youngsters who were
the new arbiters of modes and morals. There was–had been–undoubtedly a feeling of
we against them
. Petula, that sparky girl
(now in a school for diplomats' children in Hong Kong) had said
that stealing without being caught was an initiation rite, and adults
should understand that.

Today Frances was going to have to write a solid, long, and
balanced article on this very subject. She was actually regretting
she had ever said yes to this new job. She was going to have to
take a stand on any number of issues, and it was her nature to see
opposing points of view, and refuse to say more than, ‘Yes, it's
all very difficult.'

Recently she had come to see stealing as very definitely wrong,
and not because of her unfortunate upbringing, but because of
listening for years to Johnny urging all kinds of anti-social
behaviour, rather like a guerilla leader: hit and run. One day a
simple truth had arrived in her mind. He wanted to pull everything
down about his ears, like Samson. That was what it was all about.
‘The Revolution' which he and his mates never stopped talking
about would be like directing a flame-thrower over everything,
leaving scorched earth, and then–well, simple–he and the mates
would rebuild the world in their image. Once seen it was obvious,
but the thought then had to be faced: how could people unable
to organise their own lives, who lived in permanent disarray, build
anything worthwhile? This seditious thought–and it was years
in advance of its time, at least in any circles she had been
introduced to–lived side by side with an emotion she hardly knew
was there. She thought Johnny was . . . no need to spell that out
. . . she had become very clear about what she thought, but at
the same time she relied on an aura of hopeful optimism that
surrounded him, the comrades, everything they did. She did
believe–but hardly knew she did–that the world was going to
get better and better, that they were all on an escalator of Progress,
and that present ills would slowly dissolve away, and everyone in
the world would find themselves in a happy healthy time. And
when she stood in the kitchen, producing dishes of food for ‘the
kids', seeing all those young faces, listening to their irreverent
confident voices, she felt that she was guaranteeing this future for
them, in a silent promise. Where had this promise originated?
From Johnny, she had absorbed it from Comrade Johnny, and
while her mind was set in criticising him, more and more every
day, she relied emotionally without knowing it on Johnny and
his brave sweet new worlds.