The Sweetest Dream

‘A lot of it is just playing for sympathy.’

‘Then why did you dump her on us?’

‘Oh … fuck it,’ said Comrade Johnny. ‘Psychological disorders are not my line, they’re yours.’

‘She’s ill. She’s really ill. And how long are you going for?’

He looked down, frowned. ‘I said I’d go for six weeks. But with this new crisis …’ Reminded of the crisis, he said, ‘I’m going to catch the news.’ And he ran out of the kitchen.

Frances heated soup, a chicken stew, garlic bread, made a salad, piled fruit on a dish, arranged cheeses. She was thinking about the poor child, Tilly. The day after the girl had arrived, Andrew had come to where she was working in her study, and said, ‘Mother, can I put Tilly into the spare room? She really can’t sleep in my room, even though that’s what I think she’d like.’

Frances had been expecting this: her floor really had four rooms, her bedroom, her study, a sitting-room, and a small room which, when Julia ran the house, had been a spare room. Frances felt that this floor was hers, a safe place, where she was free from all the pressures, all the people. Now Tilly and her illness would be across a small landing. And the bathroom … ‘Very well, Andrew. But I can’t look after her. Not the way she needs.’

‘No. I’ll look after her. I’ll clear the room for her.’ Then, as he turned to run up the stairs, he said quietly, urgently, ‘She really is in a bad way.’

‘Yes, I know she is.’

‘She’s afraid we are going to put her in a loony bin.’

‘But of course not, she’s not crazy.’

‘No,’ he said, with a twisted smile, more of an appeal than he knew, ‘But perhaps I am?’

‘I don’t think so.’

She heard Andrew bring the girl down from his room, and the two went into the spare room. Silence. She knew what was happening. The girl was lying curled on the bed, or on the floor, and Andrew was cradling her, soothing her, even singing to her – she had heard him do that.

And that morning, she had observed this scene. She was preparing food for this evening, while Andrew sat at the table with Tilly, who was wrapped in a baby’s shawl, which she had found in a chest, and appropriated. In front of her was a bowl of milk and cornflakes, and another was before Andrew. He was playing the nursery game. ‘One for Andrew … now one for Tilly … one for Andrew …’

At ‘one for Tilly’ she opened her mouth, while the great anguished blue eyes stared at Andrew. It seemed she did not know how to blink. Andrew tilted in the spoon, and she sat with her lips closed, but not swallowing. Andrew made himself swallow his mouthful, and started again. ‘One for Tilly … one for Andrew …’ Minute amounts of food arrived in Tilly’s mouth, but at least Andrew was getting something down him.

Andrew said to her, ‘Tilly doesn’t eat. No, no, it’s much worse than me. She doesn’t eat at all.’

That was before anorexia was a household word, like sex, and AIDS.

‘Why doesn’t she? Do you know?’ Meaning, please tell me why you find it so hard to eat.

‘In her case I would say it’s her mother.’

‘Not in your case, then?’

‘No, I would say that in my case it’s my father.’ The humorous deprecation, the winning ways of that personality that Eton had created in him, seemed at this moment to have slipped out of alignment with his real self, and become a series of grotesqueries, like out-of-place masks. His eyes stared, sombre, anxious, all appeal.

‘What are we going to do?’ said Frances, as desperate as he was.

‘Just wait, wait a bit, that’s all, it’ll be all right.’

When ‘the kids’ – she really must stop using the phrase – came crowding down to sit around the table, waiting for food, Johnny was not with them. Everyone sat listening to the quarrel that was going on at the top of the house. Shouts, imprecations – words could not be distinguished.

Andrew said, ‘He wants Julia to go and live in his flat and look after Phyllida while he is in Cuba.’

They looked at her, to see her reaction. She was laughing. ‘Oh, my God,’ she said. ‘He’s really not possible.’

Now they glanced at each other – disapproval. All, that is, except Andrew. They admired him, and thought Frances bitter. Andrew said to them, seriously, ‘It simply isn’t on. It’s not fair to ask Julia.’

The top’ of the house, where Julia had her being, was often a subject for mockery, and Julia had been referred to as ‘the old woman’. But since Andrew had been home, and had become friends with Julia, they were having to take their cue from him.

‘Why should she look after Phyllida?’ said Andrew. ‘She’s got her hands full with us.’

This new view of the situation caused a thoughtful silence.

‘She doesn’t like Phyllida,’ said Frances, supporting Andrew. And she suppressed: and she doesn’t like me. She has never liked Johnny’s women.

‘Who could?’ said Geoffrey, and Frances looked at him enquiringly: there was something new here.

‘Phyllida came here this afternoon,’ said Geoffrey.

‘She was looking for you,’ said Andrew.

‘Here? Phyllida?’

‘She’s nuts,’ said Rose. ‘I was here. She’s bonkers. Round the twist.’ And she giggled.

‘What did she want?’ said Frances.

‘I sent her off,’ said Andrew. ‘I told her she shouldn’t be here.’

Upstairs doors were slamming, Johnny was shouting, and he came leaping down the stairs followed by the single word from Julia, ‘Imbecile!’

He arrived, sparking off anger.

‘Old bitch,’ he said, ‘fascist bitch.’

‘The kids’ looked for guidance to Andrew. He was pale, seemed ill. Loud voices – quarrelling – too much for him.

‘Too much,’ said Rose, in admiration of the general unpleasantness.

Andrew said, ‘Tilly’ll be upset again.’ He half rose and Frances appealed, afraid that he would find this an excuse not to eat, ‘Please sit down, Andrew.’ He did, and she was surprised that he obeyed her.

‘Did you know that your … that Phyllida was here?’ said Rose to Johnny, giggling. Her face was flushed, her little black eyes sparkled.

‘What?’ said Johnny, sharp, with a quick glance at Frances. ‘She was here?’

No one said anything.

‘I’ll speak to her,’ said Johnny.

‘Has she got parents?’ asked Frances. ‘She could go home while you’re in Cuba.’