The Sweetest Dream Read Free Page B

divorced because he had
married properly, and formally, with a wedding that the comrades
attended, and Julia too. Her name was Phyllida, and she was not
a comrade, but he said she was good material and he would make
a communist of her.
    Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    This little history was the reason why Frances was keeping her
back to the others, stirring a stew that didn’t really need a stir.
Delayed reaction: her knees trembled, her mouth seemed full of
acid, for now her body was taking in the bad news, rather later
than her mind. She was angry, she knew, and had the right to
be, but she was angrier with herself than with Johnny. If she had
allowed herself to spend three days inside a lunatic dream, fair
enough–but how could she have involved the boys? Yet it was
Andrew who had brought the telegram, waited until she showed
it to him, and said, ‘Frances, your errant husband is at last going
to do the right thing.’ He had sat lightly on the edge of a chair,
a fair, attractive youth, looking more than ever like a bird just
about to take off. He was tall and that made him seem even
thinner, his jeans loose on long legs, and with long elegant bony
hands lying palms up on his knees. He was smiling at her, and
she knew it was meant kindly. They were trying hard to get on,
but she was still nervous of him, because of those years of him
rejecting her. He had said ‘your husband’, he had not said ‘my
father’. He was friendly with Johnny’s new wife, Phyllida, while
reporting back that she was on the whole a bit of a drag.
    He had congratulated her on her part in the new play and
had made graceful fun of agony aunts.
    And Colin, too, had been affectionate, a rare thing for him,
and had telephoned friends about the new play.
    It was all so bad for them both, it was all terrible , but after all
only another little blow in years and years of them–as she was
telling herself, waiting for her knees to get back their strength,
while she gripped the edge of a drawer with one hand and stirred
with the other, eyes closed.
    Behind her Johnny was holding forth about the capitalist press
and its lies about the Soviet Union, about Fidel Castro, and how
he was being misrepresented.
    That Frances had been scarcely touched by years of Johnny’s
strictures, or his lexicon, was shown by the way, after a recent
lecture, she had murmured, ‘He seems quite an interesting person.’
Johnny had snapped at her, ‘I don’t think I’ve managed to teach
you anything, Frances, you are unteachable.’
    â€˜Yes, I know, I’m stupid.’ That had been a repetition of the
great, primal, but at the same time final, moment, when Johnny
had returned to her for the second time, expecting her to take
him in: he had shouted that she was a political cretin, a lumpen
petite bourgeois, a class enemy, and she had said, ‘That’s right,
I’m stupid, now get out.’
    She could not go on standing here, knowing that the boys
were watching her, nervously, hurt because of her, even if the
others were gazing at Johnny with eyes shining with love and
admiration.
    She said, ‘Sophie, give me a hand.’
    At once willing hands appeared, Sophie’s and, it seemed,
everyone’s, and dishes were being set down the centre of the
table. There were wonderful smells as the covers came off.
    They sat down at the head of the table, glad to sit, not looking
at Johnny. All the chairs were full, but others stood by the wall,
and, if he wanted, he could bring one up and sit down himself.
Was he going to do this? He often did, infuriating her, though
he believed, it was obvious, that it was a compliment. No, tonight,
having made an impression, and got his fill of admiration (if he
ever did) he was going to leave–surely? He was not leaving.
The wine glasses were full, all around the table. Johnny had
brought two bottles of wine: open-handed Johnny, who never
entered a room without