The Sweetest Dream

‘Not so much a mother as a nurse,’ said Frances.

'Yes, did you know, she is playing the Nurse – oh, wonderfully,’ said Sophie. ‘But now we' re going to have a real nurse in this house because I shall go on acting and of course Frances is acting too. '

‘No, I don't think I am prepared to take on a small baby,’ said Frances.

‘Of course not,’ said Sophie, but it was clear that she had in fact been hoping for just that.

'And besides,' said Frances, 'you forget, I and Rupert and the children will be moving out. '

'Oh, no,' mourned Sophie, 'please don't. Please. There's plenty of room for everyone.'

The boy was sitting straight up, eyes panicky, staring at them. ‘Why, where are we going? Why, Frances?'

‘Well, this is Colin's and Sophie's house now and they' re going to have a baby. '

‘But there's so much room,’ said William loudly, as if shouting them all down. ‘I don't see why. '

' Hush,’ said Sophie ineffectually, and looked to Frances, who must soothe the boy's desperation.

‘I like this house, ‘William insisted. ‘I don't want to go away.

Why should we?' He began to cry, the difficult painful gulping tears of a child who cries a good deal, but alone, hoping no one will hear. He got up and rushed out. No one said anything.

Then, Sophie said, 'But, Frances, Colin hasn't said you must go, has he?'

‘No, he hasn't.'

‘I don't want you to go either.'

‘We always forget Andrew. He is going to have ideas about what to do with this house.'

‘Why should he? He's having a lovely time running the world. He wouldn't want us to be unhappy.'

Sylvia said, ‘You shouldn't overdo things, Sophie. Surely you aren't going to go on acting till the end?’Now that Sophie was not aflame with the excitements of welcome, it could be seen that she was strained, drawn, and evidently overtired.

Sophie twisted her hands about over her lump. ‘Well... I had thought... but perhaps...'

‘Have some sense, ' Frances said. ' Bad enough that...’

'That I'm so old, oh, yes, I know.'

‘Well,’ said Sylvia, ‘I wanted a word with Colin. '

' He's working,’ said Sophie. ‘No one dares to interrupt when he's working. '

' That's too bad, because I must. '

As Sophie went past Frances on her way up she quickly hugged her and said, ' Don't go, Frances. Please don't. I am sure no one wants you to go. '

Frances followed her, and found William crouching on his bed, like an animal wary for danger, or like someone in pain. He was saying aloud, ‘I don't want to go. I don't want to. '

She put her arms around him and said, ' Stop. It may never happen. It probably won't. '

' Promise, then. '

‘How can I? You should never promise something if you aren't sure. '

‘But you are nearly sure, you are, aren't you?'

'Yes, I suppose so. Yes.'

She waited, while he readied himself to go swimming, and then said, 'I don't think Margaret is all that keen on staying here, is she?'

‘No. She wants to live with her mother. But I don't. Meriel hates me because I am a man. I want to stay with you and my father. '

Frances went to get ready for rehearsal, thinking that it was a long time since she had even remembered that she had intended to get her own place and live in it, self-sufficient and self-supporting. The money she had saved to pay for it had alarmingly dwindled. A slice had gone to pay for Meriel's therapy. She was also paying Meriel's monthly allowance. Rupert had sold the flat in Marylebone, and two-thirds of that had gone to Meriel. Rupert and Frances were jointly paying a fair rent for living here, in this house – the two of them and two children. He was paying the children's school fees. Frances earned money from various books, pamphlets, reprints, but when she did her little sums, a good part of it had gone to Meriel. She was in that familiar position for our times: she was supporting a first wife.

She went into the marital bedroom, with its two beds, the one where she had slept alone for so long, and the big bed which was now the emotional centre of her life. She sat on her spinster bed and looked over at Rupert's pyjamas, lying folded on his pillow. They were of a greeny-blue poplin, serious pyjamas indeed, but, when you touched them, silky and tender. Rupert, when you met him, must give the impression of solidity, strength, but then you saw the delicacy in his face, the sensitive hands... Frances sat on Rupert's side of the bed and caressed the pyjamas.

Did Frances regret having said yes to Rupert, his children, the situation – nor situation? Never, not for one moment. She felt as if she had stumbled so late in her life, as in a fairy tale, into a glade full of sunshine, and she even dreamed scenes like these, and knew it was Rupert she was dreaming of. Both of them had been married, had thought that these thoroughly unpleasant partners could be said to sum up marriage, but had found a happiness they had not expected or even believed in. Both had busy outward lives, he at his newspaper, she at the theatre, both knew what seemed to be hundreds of people, but all that was the outer life, and what was at the heart of it was this great bed, where everything was understood and nothing needed to be said. Frances would wake from a dream and tell herself, and then Rupert, that she had been dreaming of happiness. Let them mock who would, and they certainly did, but there was such a thing as happiness and here it was, here they were, both of them, contented, like cats in the sun. But these two middle-aged people – courtesy would call them that – cuddled to themselves a secret they knew would shrivel if exposed. And they were not the only ones: ideology has pronounced their condition impossible and so, people keep quiet.

To come back to a house that loved you, took you in, kept you safe, a house that put its arms around you, that you pulled over your head like a blanket, and burrowed into like a lost little animal – but now it is not your home, it is other people's... Sylvia went up those stairs, her feet knowing every step, every turn: here she had crouched, listening to the noise and laughter from the kitchen, thinking that she would never ever be accepted by it; and here Andrew had found her and carried her up to bed, tucked her in, given her chocolate from his pocket. Here had been her room but she must walk past it. Here had been Andrew's room, and Colin's. And now she was going up the last flight to Julia's and did not know on the landing which door to knock at, but guessed right, for Colin's voice said Come in, and she was in Julia's old sitting-room and Colin was at – no, that was not Julia's little desk, but a big one, that filled a wall. If all the things that had been Julia's had been removed, and now it was all new furniture, it would have been easy, but here was Julia's chair and her little footstool, and it was as if the room both welcomed and repelled her. Colin looked thoroughly dissipated. He was bloated, a big man who would soon be all puffy fat if he ... He said, 'Sylvia, why did you just run away like that? When they told me this morning...'

'Never mind. It doesn't matter. I really want to talk to you about something. '

‘And I am sorry. Forget what I said last night. You got me at a bad moment. If I was criticising Sophie – forget it. I love Sophie. I always did. Do you remember – we were always a – team?'

Sylvia sat in Julia's chair, knowing that her heart was going to ache if she didn't watch out, for Julia, and she didn't want that, didn't want to waste time on... Colin was opposite, his back to the big desk, in a swivel chair. He sprawled there, legs extended, and then he grinned, the savage self-criticism of his drunkenness.

‘And there's another thing. What right have we to expect any sort of normality? With the history of our family? All war and disruption and the comrades? What nonsense!' He laughed, and the smell of alcohol filled the room.