The Sweetest Dream

‘And even the non-liberated ones,’ said Johnny, letting them all in on secrets of policy.

‘What are you going to Cuba for?’ asked Daniel, really wanting to know, confronting Johnny across the table with his inflammatory red hair, his freckles, and eyes always strained by the knowledge that he was not worthy to lick the boots of – for instance, Geoffrey. Or Johnny.

James said to him, ‘One should not ask that kind of question,’ and looked to Johnny for approval.

‘Exactly,’ said Johnny. He got up, and resumed his lecturer’s position, back to the window, at ease, but on the alert.

‘I want to see a country that has known only slavery and subjection build freedom, build a new society. Fidel has done miracles in five years, but the next five years will show a real change. I am looking forward to taking Andrew and Colin, taking my sons, to see for themselves … Where are they, by the way?’ For he had not noticed their absence until now.

‘Andrew is with Sylvia,’ said Frances. ‘We are going to have to call her that now.’

‘Why, has she changed her name?’

‘That is her name,’ said Rose, sullen: she continually said she hated her name and wanted to be called Marilyn.

‘I have only really known her as Tilly,’ said Johnny, with a whimsical air that momentarily recalled Andrew. ‘Well, then, where’s Colin?’

‘Doing homework,’ said Frances. A likely story, though Johnny would not know that.

Johnny was fidgeting. His sons were his favourite audience, and he did not know what a critical one it was.

‘Can you go to Cuba, just like that, as a tourist?’ asked James, evidently disapproving of tourists and their frivolity.

‘He’s not going as a tourist,’ said Comrade Mo. Feeling out of place at the table, while his comrade-in-arms stood in front of them, he got up and lounged there by Johnny. ‘Fidel invited him.’

This was the first Frances had heard of it.

‘And he invited you too,’ said Comrade Mo.

Johnny was clearly displeased: he had not wanted this to be revealed.

Comrade Mo said, ‘A friend of Fidel’s is in Kenya for the Independence celebrations, and he told me that Fidel wants to invite Johnny and Johnny’s wife.’

‘He must mean Phyllida.’

‘No, it was you. He said Comrade Johnny and Comrade Frances.’

Johnny was furious. ‘Comrade Fidel is clearly unaware of Frances’s indifference to world affairs.’

‘No,’ said Comrade Mo, not noticing apparently that Johnny was about to explode, just at his elbow. ‘He said he had heard she is a famous actress, and she is welcome to start a theatre group in Havana. And I’ll add our invitation to that. You could start a revolutionary theatre in Nairobi.’

‘Oh, Frances,’ breathed Sophie, clasping her hands together, her eyes melting with pleasure, ‘how wonderful, how absolutely wonderful.’

‘Frances’s line seems rather more, to be advice on family problems,’ said Johnny, and, firmly putting an end to this nonsense, raised his voice, addressing the young ones, ‘You are a fortunate generation,’ he told them. ‘You will be building a new world, you young comrades. You have the capacity to see through all the old shams, the lies, the delusions – you can overturn the past, destroy it, build anew … this country has two main aspects. On the one hand it is rich, with a solid and established infrastructure, while on the other, it is full of old-fashioned and stultifying attitudes. That will be the problem. Your problem. I can see the Britain of the future, free, rich, poverty gone, injustice a memory …’

He went on like this for some time, repeating the exhortations that sounded like promises. You will transform the world … it is your generation on whose shoulders the responsibility will fall … the future is in your hands … you will live to see the world a better place, a glorious place, and know that it was your efforts … what a wonderful thing to be your age, now, with everything in your hands …

Young faces, young eyes, shone, adored him and what he was saying. Johnny was in his element, absorbing admiration. He was standing like Lenin, one hand pointing forward into the future, while the other was clenched on his heart.

‘He is a great man,’ he concluded in a soft, reverential voice, gazing severely at them. ‘Fidel is a genuinely great man. He is pointing us all the way into the future.’

One face there showed an incorrect alignment to Johnny: James, who admired Johnny as much as Johnny could possibly wish, was in the grip of a need for instruction.

‘But, Comrade Johnny …’ he said, raising his hand as if in class.

‘And now goodnight,’ said Johnny. ‘I have a meeting. And so has Comrade Mo here.’

His unsmiling but comradely nod excluded Frances, to whom he directed a cold glance. Out he went, followed by Comrade Mo, who said to Frances, ‘Thanks, Comrade. You’ve saved my life. I was really hungry. And now it seems I have a meeting.’

They sat silent, listening to Johnny’s Beetle start up, and leave.

‘Perhaps you could all do the washing-up,’ said Frances. ‘I’ve got to work. Goodnight.’

She lingered to see who would take up this invitation. Geoffrey of course, the good little boy; Jill, who was clearly in love with handsome Geoffrey; Daniel because he was in love with Geoffrey but probably didn’t know it; Lucy … well, all of them, really. Rose?

Rose sat on: she was fucked if she was going to be made use of.

The influences of Christmas Day, that contumacious festival, were spreading dismay as early as the evening of the 12th of December when, to Frances’s surprise, she found she was drinking to the independence of Kenya. James lifted his glass, brimming with Rioja, and said, ‘To Kenyatta, to Kenya, to Freedom.’ As always, his warm friendly, if public, face under the tumbling locks of black hair, sent messages all around of unlimited reservoirs of largesse of feeling. Excited eyes, fervent faces: Johnny’s recent harangues were still reverberating in them.

A vast meal had been consumed, a little of it by Sylvia, who was as always by Frances’s left elbow. In her glass was a stain of red: Andrew had said she must drink a little, it was good for her, and Julia had supported him. The cigarette smoke was denser than usual; it seemed that everyone was smoking tonight, because of the liberation of Kenya. Not Colin, he was batting away waves of smoke as they reached his face. ‘Your lungs wall rot,’ he said. ‘Well, it’s just tonight,’ said Andrew.

‘I’m going to Nairobi for Christmas,’ James announced, looking around, proud but uneasy.

Oh, are your parents going?’ Frances unthinkingly asked, and a silence rebuked her.

‘Is it likely?’ sneered Rose, stubbing out her cigarette and furiously lighting another.

James rebuked her with, ‘My father was fighting in Kenya. He was a soldier. He says it’s a good place.’

‘Oh, so your parents are living there? Or planning to? Are you visiting them?’

‘No, they aren’t living there,’ said Rose. ‘His father is an income tax inspector in Leeds.’

‘So, is that a crime?’ enquired Geoffrey.

‘They are such squares,’ said Rose. ‘You wouldn’t believe it.’

‘They aren’t so bad,’ said James, not liking this. ‘But we have to make allowances for people who are not yet politically conscious.’

‘Oh, so you are going to make your parents politically conscious – don’t make me laugh,’ said Rose.

‘I didn’t say so,’ said James, turning away from his cousin, and towards Frances. ‘I’ve seen Dad’s photographs of Nairobi. It’s groovy. That’s why I’m going.’

Frances understood that there was no need to say anything as crass as, Have you got a passport? A visa? How are you going to pay for it? And you are only seventeen.

James was floating in the arms of a teenage dream, which was not underpinned by boring realities. He would find himself as if by magic in Nairobi’s main street … there he would run into Comrade Mo … be one of a group of loving comrades where he would soon be a leader, making fiery speeches. And, since he was seventeen, there would be a girl. How did he imagine this girl? Black? White? She had no idea. James went on talking about his father’s memories of Kenya. The grim truths of war had been erased, and all that remained were high blue skies, and all that space and a good chap (corrected to a good type) who had saved his father’s life. A black man. An Askari, risking his life for the British soldier.

What had been Frances’s equivalent dream at, not sixteen, she had been a busy schoolgirl; but nineteen? Yes, she was pretty sure she had had fantasies, because of Johnny’s immersion in the Spanish Civil War, of nursing soldiers. Where? In a rocky landscape, with wine, and olives. But where? Teenage dreams do not need map points.