Doris Lessing - The Sweetest Dream

And then, the books upstairs. At the mission were a Bible and prayer books and The Pilgrim's Progress, which he read over and over again. He had read newspapers weeks old that he found stacked for lining shelves or drawers in the mission pantry. He treasured an Arthur Mee Children's Encyclopaedia that he had found thrown on to a rubbish heap – discarded by a white family. Now he felt as if dreams that had been with him since childhood had come to life in those walls of books in the sitting-room. He took down this book, turned over the pages, and the precious thing pulsed in his hands. He sneaked books down to his room, hoping Rose would not see, for she had shocked him with, 'They only pretend to read those books, you know. It's all just a sham. '

But he laughed, because she wanted him to: she was his friend. He told her that he thought of her as his sister: he missed his sisters.

Christmas was going to be a real one this year because Colin and Andrew would both be home. Sophie's mother had told her she didn't want to spoil her fun, and she herself would go to her sister's. She was more cheerful, no longer cried all day and night, and was taking a course in Grief Counselling.

Since Johnny was home between trips, Phyllida presumably would be looked after, and Andrew would not have to.

When Frances said there would be Christmas, a spirit offrivol-ity at once appeared in faces, eyes, and in jokes mocking the festival, though these last had to be subdued because of Franklin's joy. He felt he could not wait for the time to pass till the day of feasting, which he read about in every newspaper, saw heralded on television, and was filling the shops with bright colours. He was secretly unhappy because there would be present-giving, and he had so little money. Frances had seen that his jacket was of thin cloth, that he had no warm jersey, and gave him money to fit himself out, as a Christmas present. He kept the money in a drawer, and would sit on his bed, turning it over and over like a sitting hen on its eggs. That this sum of money was in his hands, his hands, was part of the miracle Christmas seemed to him. But Rose opened his door to check on him, saw him leaning over the drawer with the money, pounced, and counted it. 'Where did you steal this?'

This was so much what he had learned to expect from white people that he stammered, ‘But missus, missus...’ Rose did not know the word, and insisted, ‘Where did you get it?'

' Frances gave it to me, to buy clothes. '

The girl's face flamed with anger. Frances had not given her so much, only enough for a Biba dress, and another visit to Mrs Evansky. Then she said, ‘You don't need to buy clothes. ' She was sitting on the bed close to him, the money in her hand, so close that any suspicion by Franklin of prejudice had to be abandoned. No white person in the whole colony, not even the white priests, would sit so close to a black person in casual friendliness.

' There are better things to do with that money,’ said Rose, and reluctantly gave it back to him. She watched him return it to the drawer.

Geoffrey dropped in for an evening, and he joined Rose in a plan for outfitting Franklin. When he had arrived at the LSE he was delighted that to steal clothes, books, anything one fancied, as a means of undermining the capitalist system was taken for granted. To actually pay for something, well, how politically naive can one get? No, one ' liberated' it: the old Second World War word was having a new lease of life.

Geoffrey would come for Christmas – 'One has to be home for Christmas'- and did not even hear what he had said.

James said he was sure his parents would not mind his absence: he would visit them for New Year.

Lucy from Dartington would come: her parents were off to China on a good-will mission of some kind.

Daniel said he had to go home, he hoped they would keep a piece of cake for him.

A sad little letter had come from Jill. She thought of them all. They were her only friends. ' Please write to me. Please send some money. ‘But no address.

Frances wrote to Jill's parents, asking if they had seen her. She had written earlier confessing failure to keep her at school. The letter she got back then had said, ' Please don't blame yourself, Mrs Lennox. We've never been able to do anything with her. ' The letter this time said, 'No, she has not seen fit to contact us. We would be grateful if you would inform us if she turns up at your place. St Joseph's has heard nothing. No one has. '

Frances wrote to Rose's parents saying that Rose had done well in the autumn term. The letter from her parents said, ‘You probably don't know this but we have heard nothing from our girl, and we are grateful for news of her. The school sent us a copy of the report. One went to you, we gather. We were surprised. She used to pride herself – or so I am afraid it seemed to us – on showing us how badly she could do. '

Sylvia had also done well. This had partly been due to Julia's coaching, but it had slackened off recently. Sylvia had again gone up to Julia, and, her voice quavering with love and tears, had said, ' Please, Julia, don't go on being so cross with me. I can't bear it. ' The two had melted into each other's arms, and almost, but not quite, the same degree of intimacy had been restored. There was the tiniest fly in Julia's ointment: Sylvia had said that 'she wanted to be religious' . Hearing Franklin's accounts of how the Jesuit fathers had rescued him, touched her somewhere deep, and she was going to take instruction and become a Roman Catholic. Julia said that she herself had been expected to go to mass on Sundays, 'but that was really as far as it went'. She supposed she could still call herself a Catholic.

Sylvia and Sophie and Lucy spent Christmas Eve decorating a tiny tree to set in the window, and helped Frances with preparatory cooking. They were allowing themselves to be little girls again. Frances could have sworn these giggling happy creatures were about ten or eleven. The usually heavy business of preparing food became an affair of jokes and yes, even fun. Up came Franklin, drawn by the noise. Geoffrey, James – they were going to sleep in the sitting-room – then Colin and Andrew, were happy to shell chestnuts and mix stuffing. Then the great bird was smeared with butter and oil, and displayed on the baking tin, to cheers.

It all went on, then it was late, and Sophie said she needn't go home, her mother was all right now, she had brought her dress for tomorrow with her. When Frances went to bed she could hear all the young ones in the sitting-room just below her, having a preliminary party of their own. She was thinking of Julia two floors up, alone, as she was, and knowing that her Sylvia was with the others, not with her... Julia had said she would not come to Christmas lunch, but she invited everyone to a real Christmas tea in the sitting-room, which was now full of youngsters getting drunk.

On Christmas morning, like millions of other women throughout the land, Frances descended to the kitchen alone. The sitting-room door, left open presumably for the sake ofventilation, showed huddled outlines.

Frances sat at the table, cigarette in hand, a cup of strong tea sending out rumours of hillsides where underpaid women picked leaves for that exotic place, the West. The house was silent – but no, feet sounded, and Franklin appeared from below, beaming. He was wearing the new jacket, a thick jersey, and lifted his feet one after another to show new shoes, socks; he raised his jersey to show a tartan shirt, and lifted that to display a bright blue singlet. They embraced. She felt she was holding the embodiment of Christmas, for he was so happy he began a little jig, and clapped his hands, 'Frances, Frances, Mother Frances, you are our mother, you are a mother to me.'

Meanwhile Frances noted that mingled with his exuberance of happiness was unmistakable guilt: these clothes had been liberated.