The Sweetest Dream. Doris Lessing

don’t like crying,’ he remarked. ‘It scares me, because I am afraid I might never stop.’

      Now he went red, and said, ‘Oh my God …’

      ‘Oh, Andrew,’ said Frances, ‘I’m so sorry.’

      ‘What for? Damn it, how could you think …’

      ‘Everything could have been done differently, I suppose.’

      ‘What? What could? Oh, God.’

      He poured out wine, he sat hunched into himself, not unlike Jill, a few days ago.

      ‘It’s Christmas,’ said Frances. ‘That’s all. The great provoker of miserable memories.’

      He as it were warded this thought off, with a hand that said, Enough, don’t go on. And leaned forward to inspect Julia’s present. As Frances had done, he dipped a finger into the soup: an appreciative grimace. He sampled a slice of scallop.

      ‘I’m feeling a terrible hypocrite, Andrew. I’ve sent everyone off, like good children, but I hardly went home after I left it. I’d go home for Christmas Day and leave the next morning or even that afternoon.’

      ‘I wonder if they went home for Christmas – your parents?’

      ‘Your grandparents.’

      ‘Oh, yes, I suppose they must be. Have been.’

      ‘I don’t know. I know so little about them. There was the war, like a sort of chasm across my life, and on the other side, that life. And now they are dead. When I left home I thought about them as little as I could. I simply couldn’t cope with them. And so I didn’t see them and now I’m hard on Rose when she doesn’t want to go home.’

      ‘I take it you weren’t fifteen when you left home?’

      ‘No, eighteen.’

      ‘There you are, you’re in the clear.’

      This absurdity made them laugh. A wonderful understanding: how well she was getting on with her elder son. Well, this had been true since he grew up – not all that long ago, in fact. What a pleasure it was, what a consolation for …

      ‘And Julia, she didn’t do much going home for Christmas, did she?’

      ‘But how could she, when she was here?’

      ‘How old was she when she came to London?’

      ‘Twenty, I think.’

      ‘What?’ He actually brought his hands up to cover his mouth and lower face, and let them drop to say, ‘Twenty. That’s what I am. And sometimes I think I haven’t learned to tie my shoelaces yet.’

      In silence they contemplated a very young Julia.

      She said, ‘There’s a photograph. I’ve seen it. A wedding photo. She’s wearing a hat so loaded with flowers you can hardly see her face.’

      ‘No veil?’

      ‘No veil.’

      ‘My God, coming over here, all by herself to us cold English. What was grandfather like?’

      ‘I didn’t meet him. They weren’t approving of Johnny much. And certainly not of me.’ Trying to find reasons for the enormity of it all, she went on, ‘You see, it was the Cold War.’

      He now had his arms folded on the table, supporting him, and he was frowning, staring at her, trying to understand. ‘The Cold War,’ he said.

      ‘Good Lord,’ she said, struck, ‘of course, I’d forgotten, my parents didn’t approve of Johnny. They actually wrote me a letter saying that I was an enemy of my country. A traitor – yes, I think they said that. Then they had second thoughts and came to see me – you and Colin were tiny then. Johnny was there and he called them rejects of history.’ She seemed on the verge of tears, but it was from remembered exasperation.

      Up went his brows, his face struggled with laughter, lost and he sat waving his arms about, as if to cancel the laughter. ‘It’s so funny,’ he tried to apologise.

      ‘I suppose it’s funny, yes.’

      He dropped his head on his arms, sighed, stayed there a long minute. Through his arms came the words, ‘I just don’t think I’ve got the energy for …’

      ‘What? Energy for what?’

      ‘Where did you lot get it from, all that confidence? Believe me, I’m a very frail thing in comparison. Perhaps I am a reject of history?’

      ‘What? What do you mean?’

      He lifted up his face. It was red, and there were tears. ‘Well, never mind.’ He waved his hands again, dispersing bad thoughts. ‘Do you know, I might easily have a little taste of your feast.’

      ‘Didn’t you get any Christmas dinner?’

      ‘Phyllida was in a state. She was crying and screaming and fainting in coils. You know she really is rather mad. I mean, really.’

      ‘Well, yes.’

      ‘Julia says it was because they sent her off – Phyllida – to Canada, at the beginning of the war. Apparently she was unlucky, it wasn’t a very nice family. She hated it all. And when she got home she was a changeling, her parents said. They hardly recognised each other. She was ten when she left. Nearly fifteen when she got back.’

      ‘Then I suppose, poor Phyllida.’

      ‘I think so. And look what a bargain she’s got with Comrade Johnny.’ He pulled the tray towards him, got up to fetch a spoon, knife and fork, sat down, and had just dipped the spoon into the soup when the outer door banged, and the door behind them noisily opened and Colin came in, bringing cold air with him, a sense of the dark outside, and, like an accusation against them both, his unhappy face.

      ‘Do I see food? Actually, food?’

      He sat down, and using the spoon Andrew had just brought, began on the soup.

      ‘Didn’t you get any Christmas lunch?’

      ‘No. Sophie’s ma has gone all Jewish on her and says what has Christmas got to do with her? But they’ve always had Christmas.’ He had finished the soup. ‘Why don’t you cook food like this?’ he accused Frances. ‘Now that’s a soup.’

      ‘How many quails do you think I’d have to cook for each of you, with your appetites?’

      ‘Hang on a minute,’ said Andrew. ‘Fair’s fair.’ He brought a plate to the table, then another, for Colin, and another knife and fork. He put a quail on to his plate.

      ‘You are supposed to heat those up for ten minutes,’ said Frances.

      ‘Who cares? Delicious.’

      They were eating in competition with each other. And having reached the end of the quails, their spoons hovered together over the pudding. And that vanished, in a couple of mouthfuls.

      ‘No Christmas pudding?’ said Colin. ‘No Christmas pudding at Christmas?’

      Frances got up, fetched a can of Christmas pudding from the high shelf where it had been quietly maturing, and in a moment had it steaming on the stove.

      ‘How long will that take?’ asked Colin.

      ‘An hour.’

      She put loaves of bread on the table, then butter, cheese, plates. They polished off the Stilton, and began serious eating, the vandalised tray pushed aside.

      ‘Mother,’ said Colin, ‘we’ve got to ask Sophie to come and live here.’

      ‘But she is practically living here.’

      ‘No – properly. It’s got nothing to do with me … I mean, I’m not saying Sophie and me are a fixture, that isn’t it. She