The Sweetest Dream by Doris Lessing Read Free Book Online Page B

enough, but remote too, because as always
he was absorbed in his duties with the war, ‘I see that you are
expecting consistency. Usually a mistake, in my view.’
    As for Frances, she had never heard Johnny refer to his parents
as anything other than fascists, exploiters, at the best reactionaries.
Then how could he be . . .
    â€˜Frances, I would like very much to help you with some
money.’ An envelope appeared from her handbag.
    â€˜Oh, no, I am sure Johnny wouldn’t like that. He’d never
take money from . . .’
    â€˜I think you’ll find that he can and he will.’
    â€˜Oh, no, no, Julia, please not.’
    â€˜Very well then, goodbye.’
    Julia did not set eyes on Frances again until after Johnny had
returned from the war, and Philip, who was by then ill and would
shortly die, said he was worried about Frances and the children.
Her memories of that visit caused Julia to protest that she was
sure Frances did not want to see her, but Philip said, ‘Please, Julia.
To set my mind at rest.’
    Julia went to the flat in Notting Hill, which she was convinced
had been chosen because of the area’s seediness and ugliness. There
were two children now. The one she had seen before, Andrew,
was a noisy and energetic toddler, and there was a baby, Colin.
Again, Frances was breastfeeding. She was large, shapeless,
slatternly, and the flat, Julia was convinced, was a health hazard. On
the wall was a food safe, and in it could be glimpsed a bottle of
milk and some cheese. The wire net of the safe had been painted,
the paint had clogged: air therefore could not circulate properly.
Babies’ clothes were strung on fragile wooden contraptions that
seemed about to collapse. No, Frances said, in a voice cold with
hostility and criticism. No, she didn’t want any money, no, thank
you.
    Julia stood there unconsciously all appeal, hands a-flutter, eyes
full of tears.
    â€˜But, Frances, think of the children.’
    It was as if Julia had deliberately touched an already sore place
with acid. Oh, yes, Frances thought often enough of how her
own parents, let alone Johnny’s, must see her and how she lived,
with the children. She said in a voice stiff with anger, ‘It seems
to me that I never think of anything else but the children.’ Her
tone said, How dare you!
    â€˜Please let me help you, please–Johnny’s always so
wrong-headed, he always has been, and it’s not fair on the children.’
    The trouble was, by now Frances agreed unreservedly about
Johnny’s wrong-headedness. Any shreds of illusion had dissolved
away, leaving a residue of unresolvable exasperation about him,
the comrades, the Revolution, Stalin, Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and
all. But what was in question here was not Johnny, it was herself,
a small, threatened sense of identity and of independence. That
was why Julia’s Think of the children went home like a poisoned
bullet. What right did she, Frances, have to fight for her
independence, her own self at the cost of . . . but they were not suffering,
they were not. She knew they were not.
    Julia went away, reported back to Philip, and tried not to
think of those rooms in Notting Hill.
    Later, when Julia heard that Frances had gone to work in a
theatre, Julia thought, A theatre! Of course, it would be! Then
Frances was acting and Julia thought, Is she acting servants’ parts
then?
    She went to the theatre, sat well back where she could not
be seen, she hoped, and watched Frances in a small part in a quite
nice little comedy. Frances was thinner, though still solid, and her
fair hair was in frilly waves. She was a hotel owner, in Brighton.
Julia could not see anything of that pre-war giggler in her tight
uniform, but still, she was doing the part well enough, and Julia
felt encouraged. Frances knew that Julia had been to watch her,
because it was a small theatre, and Julia was wearing one of
her inimitable