Doris Lessing - Love, Again

Taking the roll from Henry's side plate, Millicent buttered it, spread it with red-currant jelly from Henry's plate, and presented the roll to the child. Joseph held his hands around the pile of food on his plate and laughed and yelled, his face red, his eyes wild, wickedly full of enjoyment.

Elizabeth indicated with her eyes that Henry should help himself to more food, but Henry shook his head and pushed his plate away. There was pheasant on it, which Millicent ate, reaching across with her fork to take up mouthful after mouthful, though there was pheasant on her own plate. Then she calmly ate her way through her own food. Henry was again pale and dejected, but when he looked over at his son, his face went soft with love. He smiled at Sarah, his eyes full of tears.

Joseph stood on his chair and began running a small lorry over the cloth. Millicent said to Henry, 'You take him.'

Henry obediently walked around the end of the table behind his wife, lifted his son, but, instead of returning to his seat, sat down in the chair near Sarah. The child leaned over, patted her hair, and ran the lorry up and down her arm.

Stephen, Elizabeth, and Norah sat watching, and vibrated together gently in disapproval. It is safe to say that the three boys had never, ever, been indulged in this way. And where were they? Off in the fields somewhere, or upstairs, and when the performance began they would eat their supper in the kitchen with Alison and Shirley. There would be gales of giggles, all kinds of fun, and treats from the dishes filled with cakes and pastries for the audience. Perhaps they were in the kitchen already? Alison and Shirley came in to remove the plates, and they were flushed, with a look of suppressing laughter. They set puddings on the sideboard and went out. From the kitchen, as the door closed, 'Oh, you're naughty… ' The guests were invited to help themselves. Millicent got up and served herself, her husband, and her son. She set two plates in front of Henry and Joseph. It was a light creamy pudding from a seventeenth-century recipe, a speciality of Norah's. While Jean-Pierre served himself and Mary, demanding to be given the recipe to take to his wife, the child spooned up his pudding with cries of pleasure. When his own plate was empty he pulled his father's plate towards him, with a wicked look. Millicent, not looking at Henry, took away the child's empty plate and pushed Henry's in its place. Joseph ate up his father's pudding. Millicent ate her pudding. She did this thoughtfully and calmly, not looking at anyone.

Only just audible, as it were offstage, it was as if someone laughed — a wild, anarchic, derisive, sceptical laugh — and against such forces of disorder a young American woman humbly but firmly asserted the rights of civilization with 'Henry, take Joseph up to bed, see that he cleans his teeth, and say goodnight to him before you go to the performance.'

Outside, people were streaming into the theatre. Word had got around, and music lovers and theatre lovers alike were prepared, as in Belles Rivieres, to stand several deep to watch. Afterwards they stood in lines to congratulate Elizabeth and Stephen.

Then it was proposed that they should all drive to where an inn served drinks on lawns sloping to a river. Millicent said she would like to go. Everyone waited to see if she would command Henry to stay with the child, who was too excited to sleep, but Henry walked with Joseph in his arms to the car, handed the child in to his wife, and they joined the procession of cars that were filled with the company, their friends, and — by now — the friends of friends.

On darkening grass slopes overwatched by ancient trees, they sat about drinking, while Jean-Pierre exclaimed about the gentle beauties of England. For he was from the south, had never lived further north than Lyons, and this was the first time he had been introduced to the subtle charms of a northern summer. At last Joseph fell asleep, and was wrapped in his father's jacket, safe in his father's arms. Sarah had put herself a long way from Henry, near to Stephen, who had Susan next to him. Susan had just heard that Stephen was leaving tomorrow, did not know when he would return. 'Probably not till the end of the run,' he remarked. Her eyes were red. Tears were filling them as often as tears filled Sarah's and Henry's and, so it had become evident, Mary's and Jean-Pierre's. But Henry had his face turned away and was staring over the riverside lawns through the thickening dusk. And then the night came down and they were enclosed in its mercies.

Back at the house, Sarah confirmed with Jean-Pierre that an early start would suit her. She said goodbye to everyone she would not be seeing in London. There were many hopeful cries of 'See you next year in Belles Rivieres' — which pleased Jean-Pierre. 'Because the real Julie Vairon has to be in France. I must say it — it is not the same thing here.'

And he was absolutely right: everyone agreed.

Henry went upstairs with the child in his arms, looking neither to the right nor to the left.

Sarah hurried to her room to put an end to the goodbyes. She did not sleep. In the early morning she crept down the stairs, and there was Jean-Pierre waiting on the steps, watching thrushes and blackbirds busy on the lawns. They walked to the car park, while the leaden hand tightened around her heart. As they drove off she looked back and saw Henry on the steps, looking after her. He was alone. The last sight she would have of him was his white face, his bitter, burning black eyes.

They drove fast, but not so fast that, approaching a lay-by, Sarah did not see a group of youngsters standing around a shabby van that had on its side an amateur scrawl in red paint, Tea and Snacks. She asked Jean-Pierre to stop. She said, 'I won't be a minute,' and got out, slamming the car door to attract attention. Joyce, Betty, the unknown youth, who seemed even more pale and ill in this strong sunlight, and half a dozen others all turned to watch her approach. Sarah could not have felt more absurd, arriving in that sleek car from the world of interesting work, success, money. Joyce greeted her with her predictable hilarious smile, as if good news was her portion in life and her Auntie Sarah its reliable purveyor. Betty smelled sour even at several paces away and seemed hung over, with red eyes and a sick brave look. Sarah felt two strong conflicting impulses: one to take her in her arms, like a child; the other to shake her hard. The wretched youth stood blinking, his eyes too weak for this sunlight.

'Well, Joyce,' enquired Sarah briskly, 'are you all right?'

'Oh, lovely, thank you, how lovely to see you,' enthused Joyce.

'Do you want a lift back to town?'

'But there are lots of us.'

A bitter wouldn't-you-know-it smile appeared on Betty's face and on other faces too, as Sarah said, 'We weren't offering a lift to everyone; there wouldn't be room.'

'Oh no, Sarah, we'll stay together.'

'Then give me a ring,' said Sarah, but after she had gone a few paces, she returned to give Joyce money, thinking, What use is twenty pounds to a girl who tried to steal three thousand? Joyce stood there with the notes in her hand, until Betty took them from her, with a housewifely air.

'That one there with the pretty hair is my niece,' said Sarah as they roared off, thinking it was as well he did not know she had been offering lifts on his behalf.

'Sarah, I must say it is surprising to see you with such people.'

'I take it you have no disreputable relations?'

His half-shrug insisted that in France things were better ordered, but after a moment he said with a sigh that his younger brother, aged sixteen, was giving their poor mother problems.

'Drugs?'

'I think so. But so far not the very bad ones.'

'Well, good luck, then.'