He rang Julia from the airport, and asked if he and Sylvia might come and have a good talk, in her house. His flat was let, and Sylvia shared a tiny flat near her hospital with another doctor.
Julia was silent, then said, ‘I do not understand? You are asking if Sylvia and you may come to this house? What are you saying?' 'You wouldn't like it if we just took you for granted.'
A silence. ‘You still have a key, I think?’And she put down the telephone.
When the two arrived, they went straight up to see her. Julia sat alone, and severe, at her table, with a patience spread on it. She inclined a cheek to Andrew, tried to do the same to Sylvia, could not keep it up, and stood to embrace the young woman. ‘I thought you' d gone to Zimlia,’ said Julia.
‘But I wouldn't go without saying goodbye. '
‘Is this goodbye?'
‘No, next week. '
The old sharp eyes scrutinised the two, at length. Julia wanted to say that Sylvia was too thin, and that Andrew had a look about him she did not like. What was it?
' Go and have your talk,’ she commanded, taking up her hand of cards.
They crept guiltily down into the big sitting-room, full of memories, and on to the old red sofa, into which they sank, arms around each other.
'Oh, Andrew, I'm more comfortable with you than anyone.'
'And I with you.'
‘And what about Sophie?'
An angry laugh. 'Comfortable! — but that's over.'
'Oh, poor Andrew. Did she go back to Roland?' ' He sent her a nice bouquet and she went back. '
‘What, exactly?'
' Marigolds — for grief. Anemone — Forsaken. And of course about a thousand red roses. For love. Yes, he has only to say it with flowers. But it didn't last. He started behaving as comes naturally to him and she sent him a bunch that said War: thistles. '
‘Is she with someone?'
‘Yes, but we don't know who. '
' Poor Sophie. '
'But poor Sylvia first. Why don't we hear about you and some fantastically lucky chap?'
She could have shrunk away from him, but he held her.
‘I’m just — unlucky. '
‘Are you in love with Father Jack?'
And now she did sit up, pushing him away. ‘No, how can you...’ but seeing his face, which was sympathetic, she said, ‘Yes, I was. '
' Nuns are always in love with their priests, ' he murmured.
She did not know if he meant to be cruel.
‘I’m not a nun. '
' Come back here. ‘And he drew her close again.
And now she said in a tiny voice he remembered from little Sylvia, ‘I think there is something wrong with me. I did go to bed with someone, a doctor at the hospital, and... that's the trouble, you see, Andrew. I don't like sex.’And she sobbed, while he held her.
'Well, I think I'm not as proficient in that department as I might be. Sophie made it very clear that compared to Roland I'm a dead loss' .
‘Oh, poor Andrew. '
'And poor Sylvia.'
They cried themselves to sleep, like children.
They were visited, while they slept, first by Colin, because the little dog's uneasiness said there was someone in the house who shouldn't be. The room was in twilight. Colin stood for a while looking at the two, holding the dog's jaws closed, to prevent it from barking.
‘You' re a good little creature, ' he told Vicious, now a shabby old dog, as he went down the stairs.
Later Frances came in. The room was dark. She switched on a tiny light, which had once been Sylvia's night-light, because of her fear of the dark, and stood, as Colin had done, looking down at what she could see, only their heads and faces. Sylvia and Andrew – oh, no, no, Frances was thinking, like a mother, as it were crossing her fingers to avert evil. It would be a disaster. Both needed – surely? – something more robust? But when were her sons going to get themselves settled, and safe – (safe? she was certainly thinking like a mother, apparently one can't avoid it) -they were both well into their thirties. All our fault... she was thinking: meaning all of them, the older generation. Then, to console herself, Perhaps it will take them as long as it has taken me, to be happy. So I mustn't give up hope.
Much later still, Julia came down the stairs. She thought there was no one in the room, though Frances had told her the two were still there, lost to the world. Then, by the glimmer of the tiny light, she saw the faces, Sylvia's below Andrew's, on his shoulder. So pale, so tired – she could see that even in this light. All around them a deep black, for the red sofa was intensifying the dark, as when a painter uses a crimson undercoat and the black intensifies and glows. At either end of the great room windows admitted enough light to grey the dark, no more. It was a cloudy night, without moon or stars. Julia was thinking, surely they are too young to look like that, so washed out. The two faces were like ashes spilled on the dark.
She stood there a long time, looking down at Sylvia, fixing that face on her memory. And in fact Julia did not see her again. There was a muddle over the time of the flight departure and a call from Sylvia, 'Julia, oh, Julia, I'm so sorry. But I'm sure I'll be back in London soon.'
Wilhelm died. There was a funeral with a couple of hundred people. Everyone who had ever drunk a cup of coffee in the Cosmo must have come, people were saying. Colin and Andrew, with Frances, stood together supporting Julia, who was mute and tearless, and seemed as if cut out of paper. ' Good God, everyone in the book trade must be here, ' they heard from all around them. They had had no idea of Wilhelm Stein's popularity, or of how he was seen by his compeers. There was a general feeling that in burying the courteous, kind, and erudite old book dealer they were saying goodbye to a past much better than was possible now. ' The end of an epoch, ' people were whispering, and some were weeping because of it. The two sons, who had flown in that morning from the States, thanked the Lennoxes politely for any trouble they had incurred, over the funeral, and said that they would now take over: Wilhelm was leaving a good bit of money.
Julia took to her bed, and of course people said that Wilhelm's death had done for her, but there was something else, an appalling thing, a blow to her heart that none of the family understood.
When Colin's second novel came out, it was clear that Sick Death would not do as well as his first. And it was not as good, being virtually a tract about a criminally irresponsible government neglecting to protect its people from nuclear fall-out, bombs, and so on. An efficient propaganda campaign, inspired by agents of a foreign enemy power, created a hysterical atmosphere which made this government, concerned about its popularity, ignore its responsibilities. This novel evoked roars of indignation from the various movements concerning themselves with the Bomb. Some reviews were malignant, among them Rose Trimble's. Her profile of President Matthew Mungozi had put her on the map, she had all kinds of opportunities afforded to her, but she was now working on the Daily Post, famous for its virulence, and was at home there. She used Colin's novel as a starting point for an attack on those who wanted to build shelters, and in particular the young doctors, and most particularly Sylvia Lennox. As for Colin, 'It should be known that he has a Nazi background. His grandmother Julia Lennox was a member of the Hitler Youth. ' Rose felt safe. For one thing the Daily Post was a newspaper that expected to pay out – often – compensation for libel, and for another she knew that Julia would not deign to notice such an attack. ' Nasty old bitch, ' Rose muttered.