The Sweetest Dream

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. '

‘What did Father McGuire say?'

‘Oh, don't you worry. Everything's going on as usual. '

In fact, Rebecca had died, and so had her sick boy Tenderai. The two children who stayed alive had been taken away by the sister-in-law whom Rebecca suspected of poisoning her. It was too early to tell Sylvia the bad news.

Sylvia ate, she drank what seemed to be gallons of water, and she went to the bath, where the sweats of the fever were finally swilled away. She was weak but clear-headed. She lay flat on her little iron bed and told herself that the fever had shaken foolishness out of her that she could well do without. One thing was Father McGuire: through difficult times she had been telling herself that Father McGuire was a saint, as if that justified everything, but now she was thinking, Who the hell am I, Sylvia Lennox, to go on and on about who is a saint and who isn't?

She said to Sister Molly, ‘I have understood that I am not a Catholic, not a real one, and I probably never was.'

‘Is that so? So you either are or you aren't. So it is a Protestant you are, after all? Well, I have to confess to you that in my view the good God has better things to do than worry about our little squabbles, but never tell them I said that, in Belfast – I don't want to find myself knee-capped when I go on leave next.'

‘I have been suffering from the sin of pride, I know that. '

‘I daresay. Aren't we all? But I'm surprised Kevin never mentioned it if you are. He's a great one for the sin of pride.'

‘I expect he did. '

‘Well, then, and now take it easy. When you are strong enough, give some thought to what you are going to do next. We have suggestions for you. '

And so Sylvia lay and took it in that she was not expected back at the Mission. And what was happening to Clever and Zebedee?

She telephoned. Their voices, so young, desperate: Help me, help us.

'When are you coming? Please come.'

'Soon, as soon as I can.'

'Now Rebecca's not here, things are so hard...'

'What?'

And so she heard the news. And lay on her bed and did not weep, it was too bad for that.

Sylvia lay propped up on her bed, absorbing nourishing potions while Sister Molly, hands on her hips, stood smiling, watching forcibly while Sylvia ate, and all day and as far into the night as was possible for Zimlia's early-rising citizens, came people of the kind Andrew Lennox, or the tourists or visiting relatives or people who under the white government had not been welcome, never met. And Sylvia had not met them either until now.