The two talked the afternoon away, while the little girl made charming appearances in the arms of Marusha, who grew more exultant every moment with new instalments of the News, of the thorough humiliation of Poland's old enemy, and then Frances arrived, with arms full of food, just like the old days. The three pulled the table out to its former length, as if setting the stage for past festivals.
While Frances cooked, in came William, just as the two black boys came down the stairs. They were introduced. ' Clever and Zebedee are going to stay here for a bit,’ said Colin. Frances said nothing, but began laying the table for nine people. Sophie would join them later.
Frances took her place at the head of the table, with Colin at the foot, and a place beside him for Sophie, then Marusha's place and next to her the baby's high chair. Ten, if you counted Celia. Rupert was next to Frances on one side, William on the other. Sylvia and the two boys were in the middle. Sylvia told about the big dinner at Butler's Hotel, and all the expensive people, some of them who had once been around this table, and then about Andrew's bride, saying flatly that it couldn't last. She was speaking in an empty voice, giving information, none of the relish of gossip, of life's improbable workings. The boys kept looking at her to see what she was feeling since her voice seemed determined not to say: it was their uneasiness that alerted the others that they should be worried about Sylvia. In fact she felt that she was floating off somewhere, and this was not just lack of sleep. She was tired, yes, so tired, and it was hard to keep her attention here, and yet she knew she had to, because the boys were depending on her, and she was the only person who could understand how hard it was for them. Rupert put questions, like a good journalist, but it was because he knew she was needing to be held down, like a too buoyant kite: he was sensitive to her distress, because of his long attention to William, who suffered so much and who depended on him, Rupert, to understand him. And through it all the little child prattled and babbled and made flirtatious eyes at them all, the black boys too, now that she was used to them.
Sophie came rushing in, in a wave of scent. She was fatter than she had been and 'more Madame Bovary than the Lady of the Camellias', as she said herself. She wore elegant voluminous white, and her hair was in a chignon. She gave Colin passionately guilty looks until he kissed her and said, ‘Now, just shut up, Sophie. You can't be the centre of attention tonight.'
‘What's wrong with you, Sylvia, for God's sake?' cried Sophie. ‘You look like death. '
The words struck a chill, but Sophie could not know the boys' father was just dead, and that their Saturday afternoons for months now had been spent at the funerals of people they had known all their lives.
'I think I'll have a little sleep,' said Sylvia, and pushed herself up out of her chair. 'I feel...' She kissed Frances. 'Darling Frances, to be back here with you, if you only knew... dear Sophie...’ She smiled vaguely at everyone, then put her hand shakily on Clever's shoulder and then on Zebedee's. ‘I’ll see you later,’ she said. She went out, holding on to the door's edge and then the door frame.
' Don't worry,’ said Frances to the boys. ‘We'll look after you. Just tell us what you need, because we don't understand the way Sylvia does. ‘But they were staring after Sylvia, and it was easy to see it was all too much for them. They wanted to go back up to bed, and went, Marusha accompanying them, with Celia. Then, Sophie followed: it seemed she intended to stay the night.
Frances, Colin and Rupert faced William, knowing what was coming.
He was now a tall slender fair youth, handsome, but the pale skin was tight over his face, and often there was strain around his eyes. He loved his father, was always as near to him as he could get, though Rupert told Frances he did not dare put his arms around him, hug him: William did not seem to like it. And he was secretive, Rupert said, did not share his thoughts. 'Perhaps it is just as well we don't know them,' said Frances. She experienced William, who would consult her about small difficulties, as a controlled anguish which she did not believe a hug or a kiss could reach. And he worked so hard, had to do well at school, seemed always to be wrestling with invisible angels.
‘Are they coming to live here?'
' It seems that they are,’ said Colin.
‘Why should they?'
' Come on, old chap, don't be like that,’ said his father.
William's smile at Colin, whom they had to deduce he loved, was like a wail.
' They have no parents,’ said Colin. ' Their father has just died. ' He was afraid to say, of AIDS, because of the terror of the word, even though in this house AIDS was as distant as the Black Death. ' They are orphans. And they are very poor... I don't think it's possible for people like us to understand. And they've had no school except for Sylvia's lessons.' In all their minds briefly appeared an image of a room with desks, a blackboard, a teacher holding forth.
‘But why here? Why does it have to be us?' This routine reaction – But why me? — cannot be answered except with appeals to the majestic injustices of the universe.
' Someone has to take them in,’ said Frances.
' Besides, Sylvia will be here. She'll understand what to do. I agree that we' re not up to it,’ said Colin.
'But how can she be here? Where's she going to stay? Where's she going to sleep?'
If Sylvia's mind was a blur of panic because of the impossibility of being in Somalia and London at the same time, then these three adults were in a similar state: William was right.
‘Oh, we'll manage somehow,’ said Frances.
‘And we'll all have to help them,’ said Colin.
This meant, as William knew very well, We expect you to help them. They were younger than him, but that made it even more likely they would depend on him. ' If they don't get on here, will they go away?'
Colin said, 'We could send them back. But I understand everyone in their village has died of AIDS or is going to.'
William went white. 'AIDS! Have they got AIDS?'
‘No. Nor can they have it, Sylvia says. '
‘How does she know? Well, all right, she's a doctor but why does she look so sick, then? She looks ghastly. '
'She'll be all right. And the boys'll have to be tutored first, to catch up, but I am sure they will. '
' They can't be called Clever and Zebedee, not here. They'll be killed, with names like that. I hope they aren't going to my school.'
‘We can't just take their real names away from them. '
'Well, I'm not going to fight their battles for them.'
He said he had to go up: he had homework. He left: before homework, they knew, he would play a little with the baby, if she was awake. He adored her.
Sylvia did not reappear. She had flung herself down into the bosom of the old red sofa, her arms outstretched: she was at once asleep. She sank deep into her past, into arms that were waiting for her.
Rupert and Frances were in their rooms undressing when Colin came in to say he had checked on Sylvia, who was sleeping like the dead. Later, about four in the morning, uneasiness woke Frances, and she crept down and returned to tell Rupert, who had been awakened by her going, that Sylvia was dead asleep. She was about to slide into bed, but now heard what she had said and, retrospectively, what Colin had said. 'I don't like it,' she said. 'There's something wrong.' Rupert and Frances went down and into the sitting-room where on the sofa Sylvia was indeed dead asleep: she was dead.
The boys lay weeping on their beds. Frances's instinct, which was to put her arms around them, was stopped by that oldest of inhibitions: hers were not the arms they wanted. As the day wore on and the weeping did not cease, she and Colin went to the little room, and she with Clever and he with Zebedee, made them sit up and were close, arms around them, rocking them, saying that they should stop crying, they would be ill, they must come down and have a hot drink, and no one would mind if they were sad.