The Sweetest Dream

‘What? What do you mean?'

He lifted up his face. It was red, and there were tears. ‘Well, never mind. ' He waved his hands again, dispersing bad thoughts. 'Do you know, I might easily have a little taste of your feast.'

' Didn't you get any Christmas dinner?'

' Phyllida was in a state. She was crying and screaming and fainting in coils. You know she really is rather mad. I mean, really. '

‘Well, yes. '

'Julia says it was because they sent her off – Phyllida – to Canada, at the beginning of the war. Apparently she was unlucky, it wasn't a very nice family. She hated it all. And when she got home she was a changeling, her parents said. They hardly recognised each other. She was ten when she left. Nearly fifteen when she got back. '

' Then I suppose, poor Phyllida. '

‘I think so. And look what a bargain she's got with Comrade Johnny.' He pulled the tray towards him, got up to fetch a spoon, knife and fork, sat down, and had just dipped the spoon into the soup when the outer door banged, and the door behind them noisily opened and Colin came in, bringing cold air with him, a sense of the dark outside, and, like an accusation against them both, his unhappy face.

‘Do I see food? Actually, food?'

He sat down, and using the spoon Andrew had just brought, began on the soup.

' Didn't you get any Christmas lunch?'

'No. Sophie's ma has gone all Jewish on her and says what has Christmas got to do with her? But they've always had Christmas.' He had finished the soup. 'Why don't you cook food like this?' he accused Frances. ‘Now that's a soup. '

‘How many quails do you think I’d have to cook for each of you, with your appetites?'

' Hang on a minute,' said Andrew. ' Fair's fair. ' He brought a plate to the table, then another, for Colin, and another knife and fork. He put a quail on to his plate.

‘You are supposed to heat those up for ten minutes,' said Frances.

‘Who cares? Delicious. '

They were eating in competition with each other. And having reached the end of the quails, their spoons hovered together over the pudding. And that vanished, in a couple of mouthfuls.

‘No Christmas pudding?’ said Colin. ‘No Christmas pudding at Christmas?'

Frances got up, fetched a can of Christmas pudding from the high shelf where it had been quietly maturing, and in a moment had it steaming on the stove.

‘How long will that take?' asked Colin.

' An hour. '

She put loaves of bread on the table, then butter, cheese, plates. They polished off the Stilton, and began serious eating, the vandalised tray pushed aside.

' Mother,’ said Colin, ' we've got to ask Sophie to come and live here. '

‘But she is practically living here. '

'No – properly. It's got nothing to do with me ... I mean, I'm not saying Sophie and me are a fixture, that isn't it. She can't go on at home. You wouldn't believe what she's like, Sophie's mother. She cries and grabs Sophie and says they must jump off a bridge together, or take poison. Imagine living with that?' It sounded as if he were accusing her, Frances, and, hearing that he did, said differently, even apologetically, ' If you could just get a taste of that house, it's like walking into the Black Hole of Calcutta.'

'You know how much I like Sophie. But I don't really see Sophie going down into the basement to share with Rose and whoever turns up. I take it you aren't expecting her to move in with you?'

'Well... no, it's not... that's not on. But she could camp in the living-room, we hardly ever use it. '

' If you've packed up with Sophie, do I have your permission to take my chance?' enquired Andrew. ‘I’m madly in love with Sophie, as everyone must know. '

‘I didn't say...’

And now these two young men reverted to the condition schoolboy, began jostling each other, elbow to elbow, knee to knee.

' Happy Christmas,’ said Frances, and they desisted.

' Talking of Rose, where is she?’ said Andrew. ‘Did she go home.'

‘Of course not,’ said Colin. ' She's downstairs, alternately sobbing her heart out and making up her face. '

‘How do you know?' asked Andrew.

‘You forget the advantages of a progressive school. I know all about women. '

‘I wish I did. While my education is in every way better than yours, I fail continually in the human department. '

‘You' re doing pretty well with Sylvia,’ said Frances.

'Yes, but she isn't a woman, is she? More the ghost of a little child someone has murdered. '

'That's awful,' said Frances.

‘But how true,’ said Colin.

'If Rose is really downstairs, I suppose we had better ask her up,’ said Frances.

'Do we have to?’ said Andrew. 'It's so nice en famille for once.'

‘I’ll ask her,’ said Colin, ' or she'll be taking an overdose and then saying it's our fault. '

He leaped up and off down the stairs. The two who remained said nothing, only looked at each other, as they heard the wail from beneath, presumably of welcome, Colin's loud common-sensical voice, and then Rose came in, propelled by Colin.

She was heavily made up, her eyes pencilled in black, false black eyelashes, purple eye-shadow. She was angry, accusing, appealing, and was evidently about to cry.

'There'll be some Christmas pudding,' said Frances.

But Rose had seen the fruit on the tray and was picking it over. ‘What's this?’ she demanded aggressively, ‘What is it?' She held up a lychee.

‘You must have tasted that, you get it after a Chinese meal, for pudding,’ said Andrew.

‘What Chinese meal? I never get Chinese meals. '

‘Let me. ' Colin peeled the lychee, the crisp fragments of delicately indented shell exposing the pearly lucent fruit, like a little moon egg, which, having removed the shiny black pip he handed to Rose who swallowed it, and said, ' That's nothing much, it's not worth the fuss. '

‘You should let it lie on your tongue, you should let its inwardness speak to your inwardness,’ said Colin. He allowed himself his most owlish expression, and looked like an apprentice judge who lacked only the wig, as he cracked open another lychee, and handed it to Rose, delicately, between forefinger and thumb. She sat with it in her mouth, like a child refusing to swallow, then did, and said, ' It's a con. '

At once the brothers swept the plate of fruit towards them, and divided it between them. Rose sat with her mouth open, staring, and now she really was going to cry. 'Ohhhhh,' she wailed, ' you are so horrible. It's not my fault I've never had a Chinese meal.'

‘Well, you've had Christmas pudding and that's what you are going to get next,’ said Frances.

‘I’m so hungry, ' wept Rose.

' Then eat some bread and cheese. '

'Bread and cheese at Christmas?'

'That's all I had,' said Frances. 'Now shut up, Rose.'

Rose stopped mid-wail, stared incredulously at Frances, and allowed to develop the full gamut of the adolescent misunderstood: flashing eyes and pouting lips, and heaving bosom.

Andrew cut a piece of bread, loaded it with butter, then cheese. ' Here, ' he said.

‘I’ll get fat, eating all that butter. '

Andrew took his offering back and began eating it himself. Rose sat swelling with outrage and tears. No one looked at her. Then she reached for the loaf, cut a thin slice, smeared on a little butter, put on a few crumbs of cheese. She didn't eat however, but sat staring at it: Look at my Christmas dinner.

'I shall sing a Christmas carol,' said Andrew, 'to fill in the time before the pudding. '

He began on Silent Night' , and Colin said, Shut up, Andrew, it's more than I can bear, it really is. '

The pudding is probably eatable already,’ said Frances.

The great glistening dark mass of pudding was set on a very fine blue plate. She put out plates, spoons, and poured more wine. She stuck the sprig ofholly from Julia's offering on to the pudding. She found a tin of custard.