Doris Lessing - The Sweetest Dream

No lady,’ said Frances. But a waif, certainly. '

When she got back to the sitting-room, Andrew had arrived, with a glass of water, which he held to the unknown's lips.

'I'm not much of one for the water,' she said, and lay back and sang that another little drink wouldn't do her any harm. And then, again, it was German. Julia stood listening. She gestured to Wilhelm, and the two sat in chairs, side by side, prepared to give judgement.

Wilhelm said, ' May I call you Marlene?'

'Call me what you like, dear, call me what you fancy. Sticks and stones may break my bones. They did once but it was a long time ago. ‘And now she wept a little, with gulping sobs, like a child's. ' It hurt,’ she informed them. ' It hurt when they did that. But the Germans were gentlemen. They were nice boys. '

' Marlene, have you come from hospital?' asked Julia.

‘Yes, darling. I'm an escapee from hospital, you could say that, but they'll take poor Molly back, they are good to poor Molly. ‘And she sang, ' There's none like pretty Sally. She is the darling of my heart...’And then high and sweet, 'Sally, Sally...'

Julia got up, signed to Wilhelm to stay where he was, and gestured Frances out to the landing. Colin came too. He said, ‘I think we should take her in here. She's ill, isn't she?'

'Ill and mad,’ said Julia. Then, with delicacy softening her sternness, she addressed Colin, 'Do you know what she is – what she was?'

‘Not a clue,’ said Colin.

' She was entertaining the Germans in Paris during the last war. She's a whore. '

Colin groaned, ‘But it's not her fault. '

The Spirit of the Sixties, with passionate eyes, a trembling voice, and outstretched pleading hands, was confronting the whole past of the human race, responsible for all injustice, embodied in Julia, who said, ‘Oh, you foolish boy, her fault, our fault, their fault, what does it matter? Who is going to look after her?'

Frances said, ‘What's an English girl doing working as a whore in Paris under the Germans?'

And suddenly, in a tone neither of them had heard from her before, Julia said, 'Whores don't have any problems with passports, they're always welcome.'

Frances looked at Colin, Colin at Frances: what was that all about? But often with the old these moments arrive, in a change of voice, a painful grimace, a harshness – as now – which is all that is left of some hurt or disappointment... and then, that's that, it's over, it's gone. No one will ever know.

'I shall telephone Friern Barnet,’ said Julia.

'Oh, no, no, no,’ said Colin.

Julia went back into the room, interrupted Sally, and bent over to ask, ' Molly? You are Molly? Tell me are you from Friern Barnet?'

'Yes, I ran away for Christmas. I ran away to see my friends but where are they, I don't know. But Friern is kind and Barnet is kinder, they'll take poor Molly Marlene back. '

'Go and telephone,’ said Julia to Andrew. He went out.

'I'm not going to forgive anyone,' said Colin, fierce, forlorn and rejected.

'Poor boy,’ said Wilhelm.

'Sending her back to... to...’

'To a loony bin, that's what you wanted to say, darling, but it's all right, don't be sad. Don't be mad either, ' and she laughed.

Andrew came back from telephoning. They all sat and waited, Colin with wet eyes, and they listened to the mad woman lying on the divan singing her Sally, over and over, and that high sweet clear note broke their hearts, not only Colin's.

Downstairs, the supper table was quietened by the crisis, which had been discussed, and had divided the company to the point where it had had to disperse.

The doorbell rang. Andrew went down. He returned with a tired middle-aged woman in a grey garment like an overall, and over her arm was – yes, it was a straitjacket.

‘Now, Molly,’ said this woman reproachfully, to the wanderer.

'What a time to do this to us. You know we are always short-staffed at Christmas.'

'Bad Molly,' said the sick woman, getting up, supported by Frances. And she actually smacked herself on the hand. ' Naughty Molly Marlene. '

The official examined her charge, and decided there was no need for force. She put her arm around Molly, or Marlene, and walked her to the door, and down the stairs, all but Julia following.

'Goodbyeeee... don't cryeeee...’ She turned in the hall to face them. ' Those were good times,’ she said. ' That was my happiest time. They always asked for me. They called me Marlene... that's my war name really. They always wanted me to sing my Sally,' and, singing her Sally she went out first, on the arm of her minder, who turned to say to them, ' It's Christmas, you see. They all of them get upset at Christmas time.'

Colin, tears streaming, said to his mother, ‘How could we do that? We wouldn't throw a dog out on a night like this, ' and went upstairs, Sophie, who was still in the kitchen, following him, to comfort and console. It was quite a mild night: as if that were the point.

The next afternoon Colin took the bus to the mental hospital. All he knew about it was that it served north London. Vast, a mansion, its associations making it seem like the setting for a Gothic novel, it admitted Colin into a corridor that seemed a quarter of a mile long, painted a shiny vomit green. At its end he found stairs, and on them the woman who had come to take away poor mad Molly-Marlene last night. She told him that Molly Smith was in Room 23, and that he mustn't be upset if she didn't know him. She wore a plastic overall, had towels over her arm and a strong-smelling soap in her hand. Room 23 was large, with big windows, light and airy, but it needed painting. Bits of Christmas holly were stuck on the walls, by Sellotape. Men and women of various ages were sitting about on shabby chairs, some not looking at anything, some making the restless movements that were the visible expressions of dreams of being elsewhere, and a group of ten or so people sat as if at a tea-party, holding mugs of tea, passing biscuits, and conversing. One was Molly, or Marlene. Awkward and embarrassed, as helpless as a child in a room full of grown-ups, Colin said, 'Hello, do you remember me? You were in our house last night.'

'Oh, was I, dear? Oh, dear, I don't remember. Was I wandering, then? Sometimes I do go wandering and then... but sit down, dear. What's your name?'

Colin sat in an empty chair, near her, with the eyes of every person in the room on him: they all longed for something interesting to happen. He was trying to make conversation when the attendant, or nurse, or wardress, from last night, came in and said, 'The bathroom's free.' A middle-aged man got up and went out.

' Me next,’ said Molly, smiling with a vague but eager intent at Colin, who blurted, 'How long – I mean, have you been here a long time?'

‘Oh, yes, dear, a long, long time. '

The attendant, still wielding towels and soap, but standing at the door as if on guard, said to Colin, ' This is her home. It is Molly's home. '

‘Well, I don't have another,’ said Molly, laughing merrily. ' Sometimes I go wandering and then I come back again. '

‘Yes, you do wander and you don't always come back and we have to find you,' said the attendant, smiling away.

Colin stuck it out, an hour of it, and then as he was thinking he must leave, he couldn't bear it, in came a girl as confused as he was. It seemed that her home was one of those on whose doors Molly had knocked, not last night, but on Christmas Eve.

The girl, a pretty, fresh little thing, her face showing all the dismay Colin felt, sat by Colin and told them all about her school, one of the good girls'schools, chat to which Molly and her friends listened as if to news from far Tartary. Then the attendant said it was time for Molly's bath.

Relief all round. Up got Molly, and went off to her bath, the attendant or wardress with her. 'Now, Molly, you be a good girl.'