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.
In a few hours she would sit down and write her article and say what?
If she had not taken a stand against stealing, in her own home, and even when she had come most strongly to disapprove, then what right had she to tell other people what to do?
And how confused these poor children were. As she had left the kitchen last night she had heard them laughing, but uneasily; had heard James's voice louder than the others, because he wanted so much to be accepted by all these free spirits. Poor boy, he had fled from boringly provincial parents (as she had) to the delights of Swinging London, and a house described by Rose as Freedom Hall – she loved the phrase – where he had heard exactly the same condemnation – he was bound to be stealing, they all did – as he had from his parents.
It was nine o ' clock by now, late for her. She must get up. She opened the door on to the landing and saw Andrew sitting on the floor where he could look across at the door of the room where the girl was. It was open. He mouthed up at her: Look, just look.
Pale November sun fell into the room opposite, where a slight erect figure with an aureole of fair hair, in an old-fashioned pink garment – a housecoat? – was perched on a high stool. If Philip were to see this vision now, how easily he could have been persuaded that this was the girl Julia, his long-ago love. On the bed, wrapped tight in her baby's shawl, Tilly was held up by pillows, and staring with her unblinking gaze at the old woman.
'No,' came Julia's cool precise voice, 'no, your name is not Tilly. That is a very foolish name. What is your real name?'
' Sylvia, ' lisped the girl.
' So, why do you call yourself Tilly?'
‘I couldn't say Sylvia when I was little, so I said Tilly. ' These were more words than any of them had heard from her, at one time.
' Very well. I shall call you Sylvia. '
Julia had in her hand a mug of something with a spoon in it. Now she carefully, beautifully, caused an appropriate amount of the mug's contents – there was a smell of soup – to fill the spoon, which she held to Tilly's, or Sylvia's, lips. Which were tight shut.
‘Now, listen carefully to me. I am not going to let you kill yourself because you are foolish. I won't allow it. And now you must open your mouth and begin eating. '
The pale lips trembled a little, but opened, and all the while the girl was staring at Julia, apparently hypnotised. The spoon was inserted, and its contents disappeared. The watchers waited, breathless, to see if there was a swallowing movement. There was.
Frances glanced down at her son and saw that he was swallowing in sympathy.
‘You see, ' Julia was going on, while the spoon was again being recharged, ‘I am your step-grandmother. I do not allow my children and grandchildren to behave so foolishly. You must understand me, Sylvia...’ In went the spoon – a swallow. And again Andrew made a swallowing movement. ‘You are a very pretty clever girl...’
‘I’m horrible, ' came from the pillows.
‘I don't think you are. But if you have decided to be horrible then you will be, and I won't allow that. '
The spoon went in, a swallow.
'First, I shall make you well again, and then you will go to school and take your examinations. After that you will go to university and be a doctor. Now I am sorry I wasn't a doctor, but you can be a doctor in my place.'
‘I can't. I can't. I can't go back to school. '
‘Why can't you? Andrew has told me that you were clever at your lessons, before you became foolish. And now take this cup and drink the rest by yourself. '
The observers hardly breathed, at this moment of – surely? -crisis. Suppose Tilly-Sylvia refused the cup with its life-giving soup, and put that thumb back in her mouth? Suppose she shut her lips tight? Julia was holding the mug against the hand that was not clutching the shawl around her. ' Take it. ' The hand trembled, but opened. Julia put the mug carefully into the hand, and held the hand around the cup. The hand did lift, the cup reached the lips and over it came the whisper, ‘But it'sso hard. '
‘I know it's hard. '
The trembling hand was holding the cup to her lips, while Julia steadied it. The girl took a sip, swallowed. ‘I’m going to be sick,’ she whispered.
‘No, you are not. Stop it, Sylvia. '
Again Frances and her son waited, holding their breaths. Sylvia wasn't sick, though she had to conquer retching, when Julia said, ' Stop it. '
Meanwhile, down the stairs from the 'boys' floor' came Colin, and behind him, Sophie. The two stopped. Colin was blushing bright red, and Sophie was half laughing, half crying, and seemed about to run back upstairs, but instead came to Frances, put her arms around her, and said, ' Dear, dear Frances, ' and ran off down the stairs, laughing.
' It's not what you think,’ said Colin.
‘I’m not thinking anything,’ said Frances.
Andrew merely smiled, keeping his counsel.
Now Colin saw the little scene through the door, took it in, and said, 'Good for Grandma,' and went off down the stairs in big leaps.
Julia who had taken no notice of her audience, got down from the stool, and smoothed down her skirts. She took the mug from the girl. ‘I’m going to come back in an hour and see how you are,’ she said. ‘And then I'll take you up to my bathroom, and you can put on clean clothes. You'll be better in no time, you'll see. '
She picked up the cup of cold chocolate left last night by Frances, and came out of the room and handed it to her. ‘I think this is yours,’ she said. And then, to Andrew, ‘And you can stop being foolish too. ' She left the door into the room open, and went up the stairs, holding up her pink skirt, which rustled, with one hand.
' So that's all right,’ said Andrew to his mother. ‘Well done, Sylvia, ' he called to the girl, who smiled, ifweakly. He ran upstairs. Frances heard one door shut, Julia's and then another, Andrew's. In the room opposite a blotch of sunlight lay on a pillow, and Sylvia, for there is no doubt that this was who she was now, held her hand in it, turning it back and forth, examining it.