The Sweetest Dream. Doris Lessing

you could just get a taste of that house, it’s like walking into the Black Hole of Calcutta.’

      ‘You know how much I like Sophie. But I don’t really see Sophie going down into the basement to share with Rose and whoever turns up. I take it you aren’t expecting her to move in with you?’

      ‘Well … no, it’s not … that’s not on. But she could camp in the living-room, we hardly ever use it.’

      ‘If you’ve packed up with Sophie, do I have your permission to take my chance?’ enquired Andrew. ‘I’m madly in love with Sophie, as everyone must know.’

      ‘I didn’t say …’

      And now these two young men reverted to the condition schoolboy, began jostling each other, elbow to elbow, knee to knee.

      ‘Happy Christmas,’ said Frances, and they desisted.

      ‘Talking of Rose, where is she?’ said Andrew. ‘Did she go home.’

      ‘Of course not,’ said Colin. ‘She’s downstairs, alternately sobbing her heart out and making up her face.’

      ‘How do you know?’ asked Andrew.

      ‘You forget the advantages of a progressive school. I know all about women.’

      ‘I wish I did. While my education is in every way better than yours, I fail continually in the human department.’

      ‘You’re doing pretty well with Sylvia,’ said Frances.

      ‘Yes, but she isn’t a woman, is she? More the ghost of a little child someone has murdered.’

      ‘That’s awful,’ said Frances.

      ‘But how true,’ said Colin.

      ‘If Rose is really downstairs, I suppose we had better ask her up,’ said Frances.

      ‘Do we have to?’ said Andrew. ‘It’s so nice en famille for once.’

      ‘I’ll ask her,’ said Colin, ‘or she’ll be taking an overdose and then saying it’s our fault.’

      He leaped up and off down the stairs. The two who remained said nothing, only looked at each other, as they heard the wail from beneath, presumably of welcome, Colin’s loud commonsensical voice, and then Rose came in, propelled by Colin.

      She was heavily made up, her eyes pencilled in black, false black eyelashes, purple eye-shadow. She was angry, accusing, appealing, and was evidently about to cry.

      ‘There’ll be some Christmas pudding,’ said Frances.

      But Rose had seen the fruit on the tray and was picking it over. ‘What’s this?’ she demanded aggressively, ‘What is it?’ She held up a lychee.

      ‘You must have tasted that, you get it after a Chinese meal, for pudding,’ said Andrew.

      ‘What Chinese meal? I never get Chinese meals.’

      ‘Let me.’ Colin peeled the lychee, the crisp fragments of delicately indented shell exposing the pearly, lucent fruit, like a little moon egg, which, having removed the shiny black pip he handed to Rose who swallowed it, and said, ‘That’s nothing much, it’s not worth the fuss.’

      ‘You should let it he on your tongue, you should let its inwardness speak to your inwardness,’ said Colin. He allowed himself his most owlish expression, and looked like an apprentice judge who lacked only the wig, as he cracked open another lychee, and handed it to Rose, delicately, between forefinger and thumb. She sat with it in her mouth, like a child refusing to swallow, then did, and said, ‘It’s a con.’

      At once the brothers swept the plate of fruit towards them, and divided it between them. Rose sat with her mouth open, staring, and now she really was going to cry. ‘Ohhhhh,’ she wailed, ‘you are so horrible. It’s not my fault I’ve never had a Chinese meal.’

      ‘Well, you’ve had Christmas pudding and that’s what you are going to get next,’ said Frances.

      ‘I’m so hungry,’ wept Rose.

      ‘Then eat some bread and cheese.’

      ‘Bread and cheese at Christmas?’

      ‘That’s all I had,’ said Frances. ‘Now shut up, Rose.’

      Rose stopped mid-wail, stared incredulously at Frances, and allowed to develop the full gamut of the adolescent misunderstood: flashing eyes and pouring lips, and heaving bosom.

      Andrew cut a piece of bread, loaded it with butter, then cheese. ‘Here,’ he said.

      ‘I’ll get fat, eating all that butter.’

      Andrew took his offering back and began eating it himself. Rose sat swelling with outrage and tears. No one looked at her. Then she reached for the loaf, cut a thin slice, smeared on a little butter, put on a few crumbs of cheese. She didn’t eat however, but sat staring at it: Look at my Christmas dinner.

      ‘I shall sing a Christmas carol,’ said Andrew, ‘to fill in the time before the pudding.’

      He began on ‘Silent Night’, and Colin said, ‘Shut up, Andrew, it’s more than I can bear, it really is.’

      ‘The pudding is probably eatable already,’ said Frances.

      The great glistening dark mass of pudding was set on a very fine blue plate. She put out plates, spoons, and poured more wine. She stuck the sprig of holly from Julia’s offering on to the pudding. She found a tin of custard.

      They ate.

      Soon the telephone rang. Sophie, in tears, and so Colin went up a floor to talk to her, at length, at very great length, and then came down to say he would return to Sophie’s, to stay the night there, poor Sophie couldn’t cope. Or perhaps he would bring her back here.

      Then Julia’s taxi was heard outside, and in came Sylvia, flushed, smiling, a pretty girl: who would have thought that possible, a few weeks ago? She dropped a curtsy to them in her good-girl’s dress, both liking it and amused at the lace collar, lace cuffs and embroidery. Julia came in behind her. Frances said, ‘Oh, Julia, do please sit down.’

      But Julia had seen Rose, who was like a clown now that her make-up had smeared with crying, and was cramming in Christmas pudding.

      ‘Another time,’ said Julia.

      It could be seen that Sylvia would have stayed with Andrew, but she went up after Julia.

      ‘Stupid dress,’ said Rose.

      ‘You’re right,’ said Andrew. ‘Not your style at all.’

      Then Frances remembered she had not thanked Julia and, shocked at herself, ran up the stain. She caught Julia up on the top landing. Now she should embrace Julia. She should simply put her arms around this stiff, critical old woman and kiss her. She could not, her arms simply would not lift, would not go out to hold Julia.

      ‘Thank you,’ said Frances. ‘That was such a lovely thing to do. You have no idea what it did for me …’

      ‘I am glad you liked it,’ said Julia, turning to go in her door, and Frances said after her, feeling futile, ridiculous, ‘Thank you, thank you so much.’ Sylvia had no difficulty in kissing Julia, allowing herself to be kissed and held, and she even sat on Julia’s knee.

      It was May, and the windows were open on to a jolly spring evening, the birds hard at it, louder than the traffic. A light rain sparkled on leaves and spring flowers.

      The company around the table looked like a chorus for a musical, because they were all wearing tunics striped horizontally in blue and white, over tight black legs. Frances wore black and white stripes, f eeling that this might do something to assert a difference. The boys wore the same stripes over jeans. Their hair was, had to be, well below their ears, a statement of their independence, and the girls all had Evansky haircuts. An Evansky