The Sweetest Dream

From some of the houses she had passed, the music pounded and beat, as loud as an angry heart, but Julia had said she would not tolerate loud music, she could not bear it, so while music was played, it was soft. From Andrew's room usually came the muted tones of Palestrina or Vivaldi, from Colin's traditional jazz, from the sitting-room where the television was, broken music and voices, from the basement, the throb, throb, throb, that 'the kids' needed.

The whole big house was lit up, not a dark window, and it seemed to shed light from walls as well as windows: it exuded light and music.

Frances saw Johnny's shadow on the kitchen curtains, and at once her spirits took a fall. He was in the middle of a harangue, she could see, from gesticulating arms, and when she reached the kitchen, he was in full flood. Cuba, again. Around the table was an assortment of youngsters, but she did not have time to see who was there. Andrew, yes, Rose, yes... the telephone was ringing. She dropped the heavy bags, took up the receiver, and it was Colin from his school. ' Mother, have you heard the news?' 'No, what news, are you all right, Colin, you just went off this morning...' 'Yes, yes, listen, we've just heard, it's on the news. Kennedy's dead.' 'Who?' 'President Kennedy.' 'Are you sure?' ' They shot him. Switch on the telly. '

Over her shoulder she said, ' President Kennedy is dead. He's been shot. ' A silence, while she reached for the radio, switched it on. Nothing on the radio. She turned to see every face blank with shock, Johnny's too. He was being kept silent by the need to find a correct formulation, and in a moment was able to bring out, ‘We must evaluate the situation...’ but could not go on.

' The television,’ said Geoffrey Bone, and as one ' the kids' rose from the table and went out of the room and up the stairs to the sitting-room.

Andrew said, calling after them, ' Careful, Tilly's watching. ' Then he ran after them.

Frances and Johnny were alone, facing each other.

'I take it you came to enquire after your stepdaughter?’ she asked.

Johnny fidgeted: he wanted badly to go up and watch the Six O'clock News, but he planned to say something, and she stood, leaning back against the shelves by the stove, thinking, Well now, let me guess... And as she had expected, he came out with, ' It's Phyllida, I am afraid. '

'Yes?'

' She's not well. '

' So I heard from Andrew. '

'I'm going to Cuba in a couple of days.'

' Best if you take her with you, then. '

‘I am afraid the funds wouldn't run to it and...’

‘Who is paying?'

Here appeared the irritated what-can-you-expect look from which she was always able to judge her degree of stupidity.

‘You should know better than to ask, comrade. '

Once she would have collapsed into a morass of inadequacy and guilt – how easily, then, he had been able to make her feel an idiot.

‘I am asking. You seem to forget, I've got reason to be interested in your finances.'

‘And how much are you being paid in this new job of yours?'

She smiled at him. ‘Not enough to support your sons and now your stepdaughter as well. '

‘And feed Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and anyone who turns up expecting a free meal. '

‘What? You wouldn't have me turn away potential material for the Revolution?'

'They're layabouts and junkies,' he said. 'Riff-raff.’But he decided not to go on, and changed his tune to a comradely appeal to her better nature. ' Phyllida really isn't well. '

‘And what am I expected to do about it?'

‘I want you to keep an eye on her. '

‘No, Johnny. ' 'Then Andrew can. He's got nothing better to do.' 'He's busy looking after Tilly. She is really ill, you know.' 'A lot of it is just playing for sympathy.' ' Then why did you dump her on us?'

‘Oh... fuck it,’ said Comrade Johnny. ' Psychological disorders are not my line, they' re yours. '

' She's ill. She's really ill. And how long are you going for?'

He looked down, frowned. ‘I said I’d go for six weeks. But with this new crisis...' Reminded of the crisis, he said, 'I'm going to catch the news.’And he ran out of the kitchen.

Frances heated soup, a chicken stew, garlic bread, made a salad, piled fruit on a dish, arranged cheeses. She was thinking about the poor child, Tilly. The day after the girl had arrived, Andrew had come to where she was working in her study, and said, ' Mother, can I put Tilly into the spare room? She really can't sleep in my room, even though that's what I think she' d like. '

Frances had been expecting this: her floor really had four rooms, her bedroom, her study, a sitting-room, and a small room which, when Julia ran the house, had been a spare room. Frances felt that this floor was hers, a safe place, where she was free from all the pressures, all the people. Now Tilly and her illness would be across a small landing. And the bathroom...’ Very well, Andrew. But I can't look after her. Not the way she needs. '

‘No. I'll look after her. I'll clear the room for her. ' Then, as he turned to run up the stairs, he said quietly, urgently, ' She really is in a bad way. '

‘Yes, I know she is. '

' She's afraid we are going to put her in a loony bin. ' ‘But of course not, she's not crazy. '

‘No, ' he said, with a twisted smile, more of an appeal than he knew, ‘But perhaps I am?' ‘I don't think so. '

She heard Andrew bring the girl down from his room, and the two went into the spare room. Silence. She knew what was happening. The girl was lying curled on the bed, or on the floor, and Andrew was cradling her, soothing her, even singing to her – she had heard him do that.

And that morning, she had observed this scene. She was preparing food for this evening, while Andrew sat at the table with Tilly, who was wrapped in a baby's shawl, which she had found in a chest, and appropriated. In front of her was a bowl of milk and cornflakes, and another was before Andrew. He was playing the nursery game. 'One for Andrew... now one for Tilly... one for Andrew...’

At ' one for Tilly'she opened her mouth, while the great anguished blue eyes stared at Andrew. It seemed she did not know how to blink. Andrew tilted in the spoon, and she sat with her lips closed, but not swallowing. Andrew made himself swallow his mouthful, and started again. ' One for Tilly... one for Andrew...’ Minute amounts of food arrived in Tilly's mouth, but at least Andrew was getting something down him.

Andrew said to her, ' Tilly doesn't eat. No, no, it's much worse than me. She doesn't eat at all. '

That was before anorexia was a household word, like sex, and AIDS.

‘Why doesn't she? Do you know?' Meaning, please tell me why you find it so hard to eat.

' In her case I would say it's her mother. ' ‘Not in your case, then?'

‘No, I would say that in my case it's my father. ' The humorous deprecation, the winning ways of that personality that Eton had created in him, seemed at this moment to have slipped out of alignment with his real self, and become a series of grotesqueries, like out-of-place masks. His eyes stared, sombre, anxious, all appeal.

‘What are we going to do?’ said Frances, as desperate as he was.

' Just wait, wait a bit, that's all, it'll be all right. ‘When ' the kids'-she really must stop using the phrase -came crowding down to sit around the table, waiting for food,

Johnny was not with them. Everyone sat listening to the quarrel that was going on at the top of the house. Shouts, imprecations – words could not be distinguished.

Andrew said, 'He wants Julia to go and live in his flat and look after Phyllida while he is in Cuba.'

They looked at her, to see her reaction. She was laughing. ‘Oh, my God,’ she said. ' He's really not possible. '