The Sweetest Dream

‘You can’t be careful on the Underground,’ said Daniel, who did not buy tickets, in emulation of his idol, Geoffrey. ‘It’s luck. You either get caught or you don’t.’

‘Then don’t travel on the Underground without a ticket,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Not more than twice. It’s stupid.’

Daniel, publicly criticised by Geoffrey, went red and said he had travelled ‘for years’ without a ticket and had only been caught twice.

‘And the third time?’ said Geoffrey, instructing him.

‘Third time unlucky,’ chorused the company.

That was the week that Jill allowed herself to get pregnant, no, invited it.

All these dramas had played themselves out in the four months since Christmas and, as if nothing had happened, here were the protagonists, here were the boys and girls, sitting around the table on that spring evening making plans for the summer.

Geoffrey said he would go to the States and join the fighters for racial equality ‘on the barricades’. A useful experience for Politics and Economics at the LSE.

Andrew said he would stay here and read.

‘Not The Ordeal of Richard Feverel,’ said Rose. ‘What crap.’

‘That too,’ said Andrew.

Sylvia, invited to go with Jill to her cousins in Exeter (‘It’s a groovy place, they’ve got horses’) said no, she would stay here and read too. ‘Julia says I should read more. I did read some of Johnny’s books. You’d never believe it, but until I got to this house I didn’t know there were books that weren’t about politics.’ This meant, as everyone knew, that Sylvia could not leave Julia: she felt too frail to stand on her own.

Colin said he might go and pick grapes in France, or perhaps try his hand at a novel: at this there was a general groan.

‘Why shouldn’t he write a novel?’ said Sophie, who always stuck up for Colin because he had hurt her so terribly.

‘Perhaps I shall write a novel about St Joseph’s,’ said Colin. ‘I shall put us all in.’

‘That isn’t fair,’ said Rose at once. ‘You can’t put me in because I’m not at St Joseph’s.’

‘How very true that is,’ said Andrew.

‘Or perhaps I could write a novel all about you,’ said Colin. ‘“The Ordeals of a Rose.” How about that?’

Rose stared at him, then, suspiciously around. They all stared solemnly at her. Baiting Rose had become a far too frequent sport, and Frances tried to defuse the moment, which threatened tears, by asking, ‘And what are your plans, Rose?’

‘I’ll go and stay with Jill’s cousin. Or I might hitchhike in Devon. Or I might stay here,’ she added, facing Frances with a challenge. She knew Frances would be pleased to have her gone, but did not believe this was because of any unpleasant qualities in herself. She did not know she was unlikeable. She was usually disliked, and thought that this was because of the general unfairness of the world: not that she would have used the word dislike or even have thought it: people picked on her, they put their shit on her. People who are kind or good-looking or charming or all three; people who trust others, never have any idea of the little hells inhabited by someone like Rose.

James said he was going to a summer camp, recommended by Johnny, to study the senescence of capitalism and the inner contradictions of imperialism.

Daniel said forlornly that he supposed he would have to go home, and Geoffrey said kindly, ‘Never mind, the summer won’t be for ever.’

‘Yes, it will,’ said Daniel, his face flaming with misery.

Roland Shattock said he was going to take Sophie on a walking tour in Cornwall. Noting signs of misgiving on certain faces – Frances’s, Andrew’s – he said, ‘Oh, don’t panic, she’ll be safe with me, I think I’m gay.’

This announcement which now would be met by nothing much more than, ‘Really?’, or perhaps sighs from the women, was too casual then to be tactful, and there was general discomfort.

Sophie at once cried out that she didn’t care about that, she just liked being with Roland. Andrew looked gracefully rueful, and could almost be heard thinking that he wasn’t queer.

‘Oh, well, perhaps I’m not,’ amended Roland. ‘After all, Sophie, I’m crazy about you. But have no fear, Frances, I’m not one to abduct minors.’

‘I’m nearly sixteen,’ said Sophie indignantly.

‘I thought you were much older when I saw you dreaming so beautifully in the park.’

‘I am much older,’ said Sophie, truthfully: she meant her mother’s illness, her father’s death, and then Colin’s ill-treatment of her.

‘Beautiful dreamer,’ said Roland, kissing her hand, but in a parody of the continental hand kiss that salutes the air above a glove, or, as in this case, knuckles ever so slightly odorous from the chicken stew she had been stirring, to help Frances. ‘But if I do go to prison, it will have been worth it.’

As for Frances, she expected peaceful and productive weeks.

The incendiary letter came addressed to ‘J … indecipherable … Lennox’, and was opened by Julia, who, having seen it was for Johnny, Dear Comrade Johnny Lennox, and that the first sentence was, ‘I want you to help me open people’s eyes to the truth’, read it, then again, and, having let her thoughts settle, telephoned her son.

‘I have a letter here from Israel, a man called Reuben Sachs, for you.’

‘A good type,’ said Johnny. ‘He has maintained a consistently progressive position as a non-aligned Marxist, advocating peaceful relations with the Soviet Union.’

‘However that is, he wants you to call a gathering of your friends and comrades to hear him speak about his experiences in a Czech prison.’

‘There must have been a good reason for him to be there.’

‘He was arrested as a Zionist spy for American imperialism.’ Johnny was silent. ‘He was inside for four years, tortured and brutally treated and finally released … I would take it as a favour if you did not say, Unfortunately mistakes have sometimes been made.’

‘What do you want, Mutti?’

‘I think you should do as he asks. He says he would like to open people’s eyes to the truth about the methods used by the Soviet Union. Please do not say that he is some kind of provocateur.’

‘I am afraid I don’t see why it would be useful.’

‘In that case I shall call a meeting myself. After all, Johnny, I am in the happy position of knowing who your associates are.’

‘Why do you think they would come to a meeting called by you, Mutti?’

‘I shall send everyone a copy of his letter. Shall I read it to you?’

‘No, I know the kind of lies that are being spread.’

‘He will be here in two weeks’ time, and he is coming to London just for that – to address the comrades. He is also going to Paris. Shall I suggest a date?’

‘If you like.’

‘But it must be one convenient for you. I don’t think he would be pleased if you didn’t attend.’

‘I’ll telephone you with a date. But I must make it clear that I shall disassociate myself from any anti-Soviet propaganda.’

On the evening in question the big sitting-room received an unusual collection of guests. Johnny had invited colleagues and comrades, and Julia had asked people that she thought Johnny should have invited, but had not. There were people still in the Party, some who had left over various crisis points – the Hider– Stalin Pact, the Berlin Rising, Prague, Hungary, even one or two who went back to the attack on Finland. About fifty people; and the room was crammed tight with chairs, and people standing around the walls. All described themselves as Marxists.