Doris Lessing - The Sweetest Dream

In the late afternoon she asked him to set her down where she could take a taxi, because she could not face being seen with him, outside the house with its jealous hungry eyes. They kissed, full of regrets. He saw her step into a taxi, and they drove off in different directions. Up the steps ran Frances, lightly, full of the energy of love-making, and went straight to her bathroom, afraid she smelled too much of sex. Then she went up to Julia's, and knocked, and waited for the close cool inspection – which she got. Then, because it was not unfriendly, but kind, she sat and said nothing, only smiled at Julia, her lips trembling.

'It's hard,' said Julia, and she sounded as if she knew how hard. She went to a cupboard, full of interesting bottles, poured a cognac, and brought it to Frances.

'I shall stink of alcohol,' said Frances.

'Never mind,' said Julia, and lit the flame of her little coffee-maker. She stood by it, with her back to Frances, who knew it was tact, because of how much Frances needed to cry. Then a cup of strong black coffee arrived beside the cognac.

The door opened – no knock; Sylvia ran in. ‘Oh, Frances,’ she said. ‘I didn't know you were here. I didn't know she was here, Julia. ' She stood hesitating, smiling, then rushed to Frances and put her arms around her, her cheek against Frances's hair. ‘Oh, Frances, we didn't know where you were. You went away. You left us. We thought you' d got fed up with us all and left us. '

‘Of course I couldn't,’ said Frances.

‘Yes,’ said Julia. ' Frances has to be here, I think. '

The summer lengthened and loosened, breathed slow, then slower, and time seemed to lie all around like shallow lakes where one could float and dawdle: all this would end when 'the kids' came back. The two already here took up little space in the big house. Frances caught glimpses of Sylvia, across the landing, lying on her bed with a book, from where she waved, 'Oh, Frances, this is such a lovely book,' or running up the stairs to Julia. Or the two could be seen progressing down the street to go shopping – Julia with her little friend Sylvia. Andrew also lay on his bed, reading. Frances had – guiltily, it goes without saying – knocked on his door, heard ' Come in, ' had gone in, and no, the room was clear of smoke. ' There you are, mother, ' he drawled, for everything about him had slowed too, like her own pulses, ' you should have more confidence in me. I am no longer a hophead on his way to perdition. '

Frances was not cooking. She might meet Andrew in the kitchen, making himself a sandwich, and he would offer to make her one. Or she, him. They sat at opposite ends of the great table and contemplated plenty: tomatoes that came from the Cypriot shops in Camden Town, dense with real sunlight, knobbly and even misshapen, but as the knife cut into them the rank and barbarous magnificence of their smell filled the kitchen. They ate tomatoes with Greek bread and olives, and sometimes spoke. He did remark that he supposed it was all right, his doing Law. ‘Why are you having doubts about it?' 'I think I'll make it International Law. The clash of nations. But I must confess I’d be happy to spend my life lying on my bed and reading. ' 'And sometimes eating tomatoes. ' 'Julia says her uncle sat in his library all his life reading. And I suppose adjusting his investments. '

‘How much money does Julia have, I wonder?'

'I'll ask her one of these days.'

A rude little incident interrupted this peace. One night when Frances had gone up to bed Andrew opened the door to two French lads who said they were friends of Colin's, who had told them they could stay the night. One spoke excellent English, Andrew spoke good French. They sat at the table till late, drinking wine and eating whatever could be found, while that game went on when both sides want to practise the other's language. The semi-silent one smiled and listened. It seemed Colin and they had become friends while picking grapes, then Colin had gone home with them, in the Dordogne, and now he was hitching in Spain. He had asked them to say hello to his family.

They went up to Colin's room where they spread sleeping bags, not using the bed, so as to make as little disruption as possible. Nothing could have been more amiable and civilised than these two brothers, but in the morning a misunderstanding had taken them to Julia's bathroom. They were larking about, complaining that there was no shower, admiring the plenitude of hot water, enjoying bath salts and the violet-scented soap, and making a lot of noise. It was about eight: they planned to be off early on their travels. Julia heard splashing and loud young voices, knocked, knocked again. They did not hear her. She opened the door on two naked boys, one wallowingin herbath and blowing soap bubbles, the other shaving. There followed a volley of appropriate exclamations, merde being the loudest and most frequent. They then found themselves being addressed by an old woman, her hair in curlers, wearing a pink chiffon negligee, in the French she had learned in her schoolroom from a succession of mademoiselles fifty years ago. One boy leaped out of the bath, not even snatching up a towel to cover himself, while the other turned, razor in hand, mouth open. As it was evident the two were too stunned by her to respond, Julia retreated, and they picked up their things and fled downstairs where Andrew heard the tale and laughed. 'But where did she get that French?' they demanded. 'Ancient regime, at least.' 'No, Louis Quartorze. ' So they jested, while they had coffee, and then the brothers departed to hitchhike around Devon, which in the mid-Sixties was the grooviest place after Swinging London.

But Frances could not laugh. She went to Julia's, and found the old woman not in her sitting-room dressed and exquisite, but on her bed, in tears. Julia saw Frances, and stood up, but unsteadily. Now Frances's arms of their own accord embraced Julia, and what had seemed until then an impossibility was the most natural thing in the world. The frail old thing laid her head on the younger woman's shoulder, and said, ‘I don't understand. I have learned that I understand nothing. ' She wailed, in a way that Frances would not have believed possible, from her, and she flung herself out of Frances's arms on to her bed. There Frances lay beside her and held her, while she sobbed and wailed. Evidently this was not any longer an affair of a bathroom being desecrated. When Julia was quieter she managed, 'You just let in anybody,' and Frances said, 'But Colin has been staying with them.’And Julia said, ' Anybody can say that. And the next thing will be raga-muffins'll turn up from America, and say they are friends of Geoffrey's. ' 'Yes, that seems to me more than likely. Julia, don't you think it's rather nice, the way these young things just travel about – like troubadours...' though this was perhaps not the best simile, for Julia laughed angrily and said, ‘I am sure they had better manners. ‘And then she started crying again, and again said, ‘You just let in anybody. '

Frances asked if Wilhelm Stein should be asked to come, and Julia agreed.

Meanwhile Mrs Philby was in the house, and wanted to know, like the bears in the story, 'Who has been sleeping in Colin's room?' She was told. The old woman was the same vintage as Julia, as elegant and upright in her poor neat clean clothes, black hat, black skirt and print blouse, with an expression that refused any truck with this world that had come into being without any assistance from her. ' Then they are pigs,’ she said. Up ran Andrew, and found that an orange had rolled from a backpack, and there were some croissant crumbs. If this amount of piggishness was enough to disorientate Mrs Philby – though surely by now she must have become used to it? – then what was she going to say about the bathroom which Sylvia and Julia left scarcely disturbed. ' Christ!’ said Andrew, and rushed up to survey a stormy scene of spilled water and discarded towels. He did a preliminary tidying and informed Mrs Philby that she could go in now, and it's only water.