The Sweetest Dream by Doris Lessing Read Free Book Online

Philip’s intervention to get
her name removed. This war afflicted Julia with memories of the
last one, and she could not believe that yet again countries meant
to be friends should be at war. She was not well, slept badly,
wept. Philip was kind–he was always a kind man. He held Julia
in his arms and rocked her, ‘There now, my dear, there now.’
He was able to hold Julia because he had one of the new clever
artificial arms, which could do everything. Well, nearly
everything. At night he took the arm off and hung it on its stand. Now
he could only partially hold Julia, and she tended to hold him.
    The parent Lennoxes were not asked to the wedding of their
son Jolyon with Frances. They were told about it, in a telegram,
just as he was off again to Canada. At first Julia could not believe
he was treating them like this. Philip held her and said, ‘You
don’t understand, Julia.’ ‘No, I don’t, I don’t understand anything.’
With humour that made his voice grate, he said, ‘We’re class
enemies, don’t you see? No, don’t cry Julia, he’ll grow up, I
expect.’ But he was staring over her shoulder with a face set in
the dismay that was what she felt–and felt more often and more
strongly every day. A weeping, generalised, drizzling dismay, and
she could not shake it off.
    They knew that Johnny was ‘doing well’ in Canada. What
did doing well mean in this context? Soon after he had returned
there, a letter arrived with a photograph of him and Frances on
the steps of the register office. They were both in uniform, hers
as tight as a corset, and she was a bright, apparently giggling,
blonde. ‘Silly girl,’ judged Julia, putting the letter and photograph
away. The letter had a censor’s stamp on it, as if it were out of
bounds–which is what she felt. Then Johnny wrote a note to
say, ‘You might drop in to see how Frances is doing. She is
pregnant.’
    Julia did not go. Then came an airletter, saying a baby had
been born, a boy, and he felt the least Julia could do was to visit
her. ‘His name is Andrew,’ said the postscript, an afterthought,
apparently; and Julia remembered the announcements of Jolyon’s
birth, sent out in a large white thick envelopes, on a card like
thin china, and the elegant black script that said, Jolyon Meredith
Wilhelm Lennox . None of the recipients could have doubted that
here was an important new addition to the human race.
    She supposed she should go and see her daughter-in-law, put
it off, and when she reached the address Johnny had provided,
found Frances gone. It was a dreary street that had a house sagging
to its knees in ruins, because of a bomb. Julia was glad she did
not have to enter any house there, but she was directed to another
that seemed even worse. It was in Notting Hill; she was let in by
a slatternly woman who did not smile, and she was told to knock
on that door there, the one with the cracked skylight.
    She knocked, and an irritated voice called, ‘Wait a minute,
okay, come in.’ The room was large, badly lit, and the windows
were dirty. Faded green sateen curtains and frayed rugs. In the
greenish half-dark sat a large young woman, her unstockinged
legs apart, and her baby sprawled across her chest. She held a book
in her hand, above the baby’s head; a rhythmically working little
head, the spread-out hands opening and shutting on naked flesh.
The exposed breast, large and lolling, exuded milk in sympathy.
    Julia’s first thought was that she had come to the wrong house,
because this young woman could not be the one in the
photograph. While she stood there forcing herself to admit that she was
indeed looking at Frances, Jolyon Meredith Wilhelm’s wife, the
young woman said, ‘Do sit down.’ She sounded as if having to
say this, even to contemplate Julia’s being there, was the last straw.
She frowned as she eased her breast out of a