The Sweetest Dream

'You'll have to stop drinking, if you're going to have a baby. You might drop it or...’

‘What? I might what, little Sylvia?'

She sighed and said gently, humbly presenting this to him like showing him a picture in a book: ' Joshua, that's the man I told you about – a black man of course ... he dropped his two-year-old into the fire. He was so badly burned that ... of course, if it happened in this country there would have been proper treatment for him. '

‘Well, Sylvia, I don't think I'm going to drop our child into a fire. I am perfectly aware that I am... that I could be more satisfactory. ' This was so comical that she laughed and Colin did laugh but not at once. ‘I’m a mess. But what do you expect of Comrade Johnny's progeny? But do you know something? As long as I was just a bear in a cave, sallying forth to a pub, or an affair here and a relationship — now that's a word that evades any real issue — well, I did not strike myself as a mess. But as soon as my Sophie moved in and it was happy families I knew I am just a bear that was never house-trained. I don't know why she puts up with me. '

'Colin, I would really like to talk to you about something.'

'I tell her that if she perseveres she may make a husband out of me yet. '

' Please, Colin. '

‘What do you want me to do?'

‘I want you to go out to Zimlia and see things for yourself and write the truth. '

A silence. His smile was gently satirical. ‘How that does take me back! Sylvia, do you remember when the comrades were always going out to the Soviet Union or associated communist paradises to see for themselves and coming back to tell the truth? In fact, we are entitled to conclude, with all the hindsights we lucky inheritors have been endowed with, that if there is one way of not finding the truth it is going to somewhere to see for yourself. '

' So, you don't want to do it?' ‘No, I don't. I don't know anything about Africa. '

‘I could tell you. Don't you see? What's going on, it's got nothing to do with what the newspapers are saying. '

‘Wait a minute. ' He swivelled himself about, pulled out a drawer, found a newspaper cutting and said, ‘Did you see this?' He held it out.

Byline: Johnny Lennox.

‘Yes, I did. Frances sent it. It's such nonsense, the Comrade Leader is not as the newspapers describe him.'

' Surprise, surprise. '

‘When I saw Johnny's name I couldn't believe it. He's turned into an expert on Africa, then?'

‘Why not? All their idols have turned out to have feet of clay, but cheer up! There's an unlimited supply of great leaders in

Africa, thugs and bullies and thieves, so all the poor souls that have to love a leader can love the black ones.'

'And when there's a massacre or a tribal war or a few missing millions, all they have to do is to murmur, It's a different culture,’ said Sylvia succumbing to the pleasures of spite.

‘And poor Johnny has to eat after all. This way he is always the guest of some dictator or other. '

' Or at a conference discussing the nature of Freedom. '

' Or at a symposium on Poverty. '

' Or a seminar called by the World Bank. '

'Actually, that's part of the trouble – the old Reds can't spout about Freedom and Democracy, and that's what's on our agendas. Johnny is not as much in demand as he was. Oh, Sylvia, I do miss you. Why do you live so far away? Why can't we all live together for ever in this house and forget what goes on outside?' He was animated, had lost his hung-over pallor, he was laughing.

' If I give you all the facts, the material, you could write some articles.'

‘Why don't you ask Rupert? He's a serious journalist. ' He added, ' He's one of the best. He's good. '

‘But when they are so well-known then they don't like taking risks. They' re all saying Zimlia's wonderful. He' d be out on a limb by himself. '

'They are supposed to like being the first.'

' Then why isn't he one of them? I could ask Father McGuire to draft an article and you could use it as a basis. '

‘Ah, yes, Father McGuire. Andrew said he had never understood the real meaning of a fatted capon before. ' Sylvia was annoyed. ‘I am sorry. '

' He's a good man. '

‘And you are a good woman. We are not worthy of you -sorry, sorry, but little Sylvia, can't you see I'm envious of you? It's that clear-eyed single-hearted candour of yours – where did you get it? – oh, yes, of course, you are a Catholic. ' He got up, lifted Sylvia on to his knee, and put his face into her neck. 'I swear you smell of sunlight. I was thinking last night when you were being so nice to me, She smells of sunlight.'

She was uncomfortable. So was he. It was incongruous, this position, for them both. She slid back to her chair.

‘And you will try not to drink so much?'

'Yes.'

‘You promise?'

‘Yes, Sylvia, yes, Sonia, I promise. '

‘I’ll send you material. '

‘I’ll do my best. '

Sylvia knocked on the door to the basement flat, heard a sharp ‘Who's that?' , put her head around the door, and from the foot of the stairs a lean woman in smart tan trousers, tan shirt, with a copper-coloured Eton crop, stared up at her. A woman like a knife.

‘I used to live in this house,’ said Sylvia. ‘And I hear you are going to live with my mother?'

Meriel did not abate her hostile inspection. Then she turned her back to Sylvia, lit a cigarette, and said into a cloud of smoke, ' That's the plan at the moment, yes. '

‘I’m Sylvia. '

‘I supposed you might be. '

The rooms Sylvia was looking into were as she remembered, more like a student's pad, but now very tidy. It seemed that Meriel was packing. She turned to say, ' They want this space. Your mother has kindly offered me a place to lay my head while I'm looking for something. '

‘And you will be working with her?'

'When I have finished my training I shall work on my own account.' ‘I see. '

'And when I get my own place I shall have the children with me.'

'Oh, well, I expect it will all work out. I'm sorry I disturbed you. I wanted just to – look, for old times'sake.'

' Don't slam the door. This is a very noisy house. The children do as they like. '

Sylvia took a cab to her mother's. Nothing much had changed there. Incense, mystical signs on cushions and curtains, and her mother, large and angry but all smiles of welcome.

‘How nice of you to take the trouble to see me. '

‘I’m off back to Zimlia tonight. '

Phyllida slowly and thoroughly examined her daughter. ‘Well, Tilly, you look thoroughly dried out. Why don't you use skin

creams?'

‘I will. You' re right. Mother, I met Meriel just now. '

'Did you?'

‘And what happened to Mary Constable?'

‘We had words. '

This phrase brought back to Sylvia a rush of memories, she and her mother, in this boarding-house or that furnished room, always on the move, usually because of unpaid rent; landladies who were best friends but became enemies, and the phrase, ' There were words.' So many words, so often. And then Phyllida married Johnny.

‘I’m sorry. '

'Don't be. Plenty of fish. At least Meriel has had children. She knows what it is to have her children stolen from her.'

'Well, I'll be off, I just popped in.'

'I didn't expect you to sit down and have a cup of tea.'

‘I’ll have a cup of tea. '

' Those brats of Meriel's. Now, they' re a handful.'

' Then perhaps she's well rid of them?'

'They're not coming here, so she needn't think it.'

'If we're going to have tea, let's have it. It's nearly time to leave for the airport.'

' Then you' d better go, hadn't you?'