The Sweetest Dream

The flat was a large mansion block in Highgate, and the entry-phone said that here were to be found Doctor Phyllida Lennox and Mary Constable, Physiotherapist. A little lift ground up through the lower floors like a biddable birdcage. Sylvia rang,

heard a shout, was admitted, not by her mother, but by a large and cheery lady on her way out. 'I'll leave you two to it,' said Mary Constable, revealing that there had been confidences. The little hall had an ecclesiastical aspect which, examined, turned out to be due to a large stained-glass panel, in boiled-sweet colours, showing Saint Frances with his birds – certainly modern. It was propped on a chair, like a signboard to spirituality. The door opened to show a large room whose main feature was a commodious chair draped with some kind of oriental rug, and a couch, inspired by Freud's in Maresfield Gardens, rigorous and uncomfortable. Phyl-lida was now a stout woman with greying hair in thick plaits on either side of a matronly face. She wore a kaftan of many colours, and multiple beads, earrings, bracelets. Sylvia, who had been carrying in her mind a limp, weepy, flabby female, had to adjust to this hearty woman, who clearly had acquired confidence.

' Sit down,’ said Phyllida, indicating a chair not in the therapeutic part of the room. Sylvia sat carefully on its very edge. A spicy provocative smell... had Phyllida taken to wearing perfume? No, it was incense, emanating from the next room, whose door was open. Sylvia sneezed. Phyllida shut the door, and sat herself in her confessor's chair.

‘And so, Tilly, I hear you are going to convert the heathen?'

‘I am going to a hospital, as a doctor. It is a mission hospital. I shall be the only doctor in the area. '

The big strong woman, and the wisp of a girl – so she still seemed – were being made conscious of their differences. Phyllida said, ‘What a pasty-face! You' re like your father, a proper weed he was. I used to call him Comrade Lily. His middle name was Lillie, after some old Cromwell revolutionary. Well, I had to keep my end up somehow, when he came the commissar at me. He was worse even than Johnny, if you can believe that. Nag, nag, nag. That bloody Revolution of theirs, it was just an excuse to nag at people. Your father used to make me learn revolutionary texts by heart. I am sure I could recite the Communist Manifesto for you even now. But with you it's back to the Bible. '

'Why back to?'

'My father was a clergyman. In Bethnal Green.'

'So what were they like, my grandparents?'

‘I don't know. Hardly saw them after they sent me away. I didn't want to see them. I went to live with my aunt. Obviously they didn't want to see me, sending me away like that for five years, so why should I want to see them?'

‘Do you have any photographs of them?'

‘I tore them up. '

‘I would have liked to see them. '

‘Why should you care? Now you are going away. Just as far away as you can get, I suppose. A little thing like you. They must be mad, sending you. '

' However that may be. But I've come to say something important. And what is this Doctor on your nameplate?'

'I am a Doctor of Philosophy, aren't I? I took Philosophy at university. '

‘But we don't use Doctor like that in his country. Only the Germans do. '

‘No one can say I am not a doctor. '

‘You'll get into trouble. '

‘No one has complained yet. '

' That is what I've come to see you about... mother, this therapy you' re doing. I know you don't need any kind of training for it but...’

‘I’m learning on the job. Believe me, it's an education. '

‘I know. People have said you have helped them. '

Phyllida seemed to turn into someone else: she flushed, she sat forward clasping her hands, was smiling and confused with pleasure. ' They did? You've heard good things?'

‘Yes, I have. But what I want to suggest is, why not actually take a course? There are some good ones. '

‘I’m doing all right as I am. '

' Tea and sympathy are all very well...’

‘I can tell you, there have been times I could have done with tea and sympathy...' and her voice was sliding into the knell of her complaint. Sylvia's muscles were already propelling her upwards, when Phyllida said, 'No, no, sit down, Tilly.'

Sylvia sat, and pulled from a briefcase a stack of paper, which she handed to her mother. ' I've made a list of the good ones. One of these days someone is going to say they have a headache or a stomachache and you'll say it's psychosomatic, but it's cancer or a tumour. Then you'll blame yourself. '

Phyllida sat silent, holding the papers. In came Mary Constable, all confidential smiles.

' Come and meet Tilly,’ said Phyllida.

‘How are you, Tilly?’ said Mary, actually embracing the reluctant Sylvia.

‘Are you a psychotherapist too?'

‘I’m physio,’ said Phyllida's companion... lover? Who knew, these days? 'I train physio students. We say that between us we deal with the whole person,’ said cheerful Mary, radiating a persuasive intimacy and faint aromas of incense.

‘I must go,’ said Sylvia.

‘But you've just come,’ said Phyllida, with satisfaction that Sylvia was behaving as she had expected she would. ' I've got a meeting,’ said Sylvia. ' Said just like Comrade Johnny. ' ‘I hope not,’ said Sylvia.

'Then, goodbye. Send me a postcard from your tropical paradise.' 'They have just finished a rather nasty war,' said Sylvia.

Sylvia rang Andrew in New York, was told he was in Paris, then from there, that he was in Kenya. From Nairobi she heard his voice, crackly and faint.

' Andrew, it's me. '

' It's who? Damn this line. Well, we won't get a better. Third World tech, ' he shouted.

'It's Sylvia.'

Even through the crackles she heard his voice change. 'Oh, darling Sylvia, where are you?'

‘I was thinking of you, Andrew. '

She had been, needing his calming, confident voice, but this distant ghost was discommoding her, like a message of how little he could do for her. But what had she expected?

‘I thought you were in Zimlia, ' he shouted.

' Next week. Oh, Andrew, I feel as if I am jumping over a cliff.'

She had had a letter, from Father Kevin McGuire, of St Luke's Mission, forcing her to look steadily at a future she had not envisaged at all, until that moment. Attached to the letter was a list of things she must bring. Medical supplies she had taken for granted, as basic as syringes, aspirin, antibiotics, antiseptics, needles for suturing, a stethoscope, on and on. ‘And certain things ladies need, because you won't find them easily here.' Nail scissors, knitting needles, crochet hooks, knitting wool. ‘And humour this old man, who loves his Oxford marmalade. ' Batteries for a radio. A small radio. A good jersey, size 10, for Rebecca. 'She is the house girl. She has a cough.' A recent issue of the Irish Times. One of The Observer. Some tins of sardines, 'If you can slip them into a corner somewhere. ‘With greetings, Kevin McGuire. ' P.S. And do not forget the books. As many as you can. There is a need for them. '

' It was a bit rough out there,’ she had been told.

'Andrew, I'm in a panic – I think.'

' It's not so bad. Nairobi's not so bad. A bit gimcrack. '

‘I’ll be a hundred miles from Senga. '

' Look, Sylvia, I'll drop in to London on my way back and see you. '

‘What are you doing there?'

' Distributing largesse. '

‘Oh, yes, they said. Global Money. '

'I'm financing a dam, a silo, irrigation... you name it.'

'You are?'

'I wave my magic wand, and the desert blooms.'

So, he was drunk. Nothing could have been worse for Sylvia then, than that braggart cry from the ether. Andrew, her support, her friend, her brother – well almost, being so silly, so shoddy. She shouted, ' Goodbye, ' and put the phone down and wept. This was her worst moment: she was not to have another as bad. Believing that Andrew would have forgotten the conversation, she did not expect him, but he telephoned from Heathrow two days later. ‘Now here I am, little Sylvia. Where can we go and talk?'