The Sweetest Dream. Doris Lessing

when young, until it is forced on them that this is their character) use a certain passivity towards life, watching to see what will arrive on their plate, or drop in their lap, or stare them in the face – ‘What’s wrong with you? Are you blind?’ – and then, try not so much to grasp it as wait, allowing the thing to develop, show itself. Then the task is to do your best with it, do what you can.

      Would she have believed, aged nineteen, marrying Johnny when there was no reason to expect anything ever but war and bad times, that she would find herself a kind of house-mother – but ‘earth-mother’ was the current term. Where along the road should she have said (if she had been determined to avert this fate) ‘No, I won’t.’ She had fought against Julia’s house, but probably it would have been better if she had succumbed much earlier, saying yes, yes, to what was happening, and consciously saying it, accepting what had arrived in front of her, as was now her philosophy. Saying no is often like those people who divorce one partner only to marry another exactly the same in looks and character: we carry invisible templates as ineluctably ourselves as fingerprints, but we don’t know about them until we look around us and see them mirrored.

      ‘We know what we are …’ (Oh, no, we don’t!) ‘… but not what we may be.’

      Once she would have found it hard to believe that she could live chaste, without a man in prospect … but she still cherished fantasies about a man in her life who would not be a mad egotist, like Johnny. But what man would want to take on a tribe of youngsters all ‘disturbed’ for one reason or another. Here they were, congratulated on living in Swinging London, promised everything the advertisers of at least two continents could think up, yet if ‘the kids’ did swing – and they did, they were off to the big jazz concert on Saturday, tomorrow – then they were screwed up, and two of them, her sons, because of her and Johnny. And the war, of course.

      Frances took up her burden, heavily loaded carrier bags, paid her bill, went home up the hill.

      A pearly post-Clean Air Act fog floated outside the windows and bedewed the hair and eyelashes of ‘the kids’ who came into the house laughing and embracing each other like survivors. Damp duffel-coats loaded the banisters, and all the chairs around the table except two on Frances’s left, were occupied. Colin had sat down by Sophie, saw that he would be next to his brother in the third empty chair, and quickly moved to the end where he stood by Geoffrey, who sat opposite Frances, and now Colin claimed the important chair by pushing Geoffrey out with a thrust of his buttocks. A schoolboy moment, rough and raw, too young for their almost adult status. Geoffrey then came to sit on Frances’s right, without looking at Colin. Sophie suffered from any discord, and she got up to go to Colin, bent to slide an arm around him, and kissed his cheek. He did not permit himself to smile, but then could not prevent a weak and loving smile at her which then included everyone. They all laughed. Rose … James … Jill – these three seemed to be ensconced in the basement; Daniel was next to Geoffrey, head boy and his deputy. Lucy was next to Daniel, having come up from Dartington to spend the weekend with him, here. Twelve places. They were all waiting, ravenously eating bread, sniffing the smells that came from the stove. At last Andrew came in, his arm around Sylvia. She was still inside the baby shawl, but wore clean jeans, that were loose on her, and a jersey of Andrew’s. Her pale wispy hair had been brushed up, making her look even more infantile. But she was smiling, though her lips trembled.

      Colin, who resented her being here at all, got up, smiling, and made her a little bow. ‘Welcome, Sylvia,’ he said, and tears came into her eyes at their chorus of ‘Hello, Sylvia.’

      She sat down next to Frances, and Andrew was next to her. The meal could begin. In a moment dishes filled all the space down the table. Colin got up to pour wine, forestalling Geoffrey, who was about to do it, while Frances put food on to plates. A moment of crisis: she had reached Andrew, and next would be Sylvia. Andrew said, ‘Let me,’ and there began a little play. On to his plate he put a single carrot, and on to Sylvia’s, a carrot. He was solemn, frowning, judicious, and already Sylvia was beginning to laugh, though her lips still made nervous painful little movements. On to his plate, a little spoon of cabbage, and one for her, ignoring the hand that had gone up instinctively to stop him. For him, a mere sample of the mince, and the same for her. And then, with an air of recklessness, a rather big lump of potato for her, and for him. They were all laughing. Sylvia sat looking at her plate, but Andrew, with a determined let’s-get-this-over look, had taken up a spoon of potato and waited for her to do the same. She did – and swallowed.

      Now, trying not to watch what went on, as Andrew and Sylvia fought with themselves, Frances raised her glass of Rioja – seven shillings a bottle, for this pleasant wine had yet to be ‘discovered’ – and drank a toast to Progressive Education, an old joke which they all enjoyed.

      ‘Where’s Julia?’ came Sylvia’s little voice.

      An anxious silence. Then Andrew said, ‘She doesn’t come to meals with us.’

      ‘Why doesn’t she? Why not? It’s so lovely with you.’

      This was a moment of real breakthrough, as Andrew described it later to Julia – ‘We’ve won, Julia, yes, we really have.’ Frances was gratified: she actually had tears in her eyes. Andrew put his arm around Sylvia and, smiling at his mother, said, ‘Yes, it is. But Julia prefers to be up there by herself.’

      Having unwittingly created a picture of what must be loneliness, it struck him, and he jumped up and said, ‘I’ll go and ask her again.’ This was partly to relieve him of the burden and the challenge of his still scarcely touched plate. As he went out and up the stairs, Sylvia put down her spoon.

      In a moment Andrew returned, and sat down with, ‘She says perhaps she’ll drop in later.’

      This caused a moment not far from panic. In spite of Andrew’s efforts on his grandmother’s behalf, they all tended to see Julia as a kind of old witch, to be laughed at. The St Joseph’s contingent could not know how Julia had wrestled for a week, two, with Sylvia’s illness, sitting with her, bathing her, making her take mouthfuls of this and sips of that. Julia had hardly slept. And here was her reward, Sylvia, picking up her spoon again, watching Andrew lift his, as if she had forgotten how to use one.

      The difficult moment passed, the kids appeased their teenage appetites, and Frances ate more than she usually would, to be an example to the two on her left. It was a wonderful evening, with an undertone of tenderness because of Sylvia and their concern for her. It was as if they were collectively putting their arms around her, while she got down one mouthful after another. Andrew too.

      And then they saw she had gone white and was shaking. ‘My father …’ she whispered. ‘I mean, it’s my stepfather …’

      ‘Oh, no,’ said Colin, ‘it’s all right, he’s gone to Cuba.’

      ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Andrew, and leaped up to intercept Johnny, who was in the hall outside the kitchen. Andrew shut the door, but everyone could hear Johnny’s bluff, reasonable, confident voice, and Andrew: ‘No, father, no, you can’t come in, I’ll explain later.’

      Voices loud, then low, and Andrew returned, leaving the door open, and slid down again beside Sylvia. He was red and angry, and he clutched his fork like a weapon.

      ‘But why isn’t he in Cuba?’ asked Colin, petulantly, like a child.

      The brothers looked at each other, suddenly as one, exchanging understandings.

      Andrew said, ‘He hasn’t left, but I expect he will.’ He added, still angry, ‘Actually, I think he’s going to Zanzibar – or Kenya.’ A pause, while the brothers communed, with their eyes and angry smiles. ‘He’s not alone, he’s got a black man … a man from there … an African comrade.’ These adjustments to the spirit of the times were followed carefully by the company. They had taken Africa into their hearts and consciences, the progressive schools had seen to that, and even Rose at a far from progressive school chose her words with, ‘We’ve got to be nice to dark-skinned people, that’s what I think.’

      Sylvia had not recovered. Her spoon hung listless in her thin hand.

      And