Doris Lessing - The Sweetest Dream

But these fumy delights were still ahead.

Wilhelm Stein who so often ascended the stairs on his way to Julia, nodding gravely at whomever he encountered, this evening knocked on the kitchen door, waited till he heard, ' Come in' , and entered, with a little bow. Silvery white hair and beard, his silver-topped cane, his suit, the very set of his spectacles, rebuked the kitchen and the three sitting at the table, having supper.

Invited to sit, by Frances, by Andrew, by Colin, he did so, holding the cane upright beside him, in the grip of a wonderfully-kept right hand, that had a ring with a dark blue stone.

‘I am taking the liberty of coming to talk to you about Julia, ' he said, looking at them one after the other, to impress them with his seriousness. They waited. ‘Your grandmother is not well, ' he said to the young men, and to Frances, ‘I am well aware that it is difficult to persuade Julia to do things she ought, for her own good.'

The three pairs of eyes now gazing at him told him that he had misjudged them. He sighed, almost got up, changed his mind, and coughed. ' It is not that I think you have been neglectful of Julia. '

Colin took it up. He was now a large young man, his round face still boyish, and his heavy black-rimmed spectacles seemed to be trying to keep those features that threatened, far too often, sardonic laughter, in order.

'I know she is not happy,' said Colin. 'We know that.'

'I think she may be ill.'

The trouble was that Julia had lost Sylvia. Yes, the girl was still in the house, this was her home, but events had forced Julia to conclude that this time it was for good. Surely Wilhelm could see this?

Andrew said, ' Julia is breaking her heart over Sylvia. It is as simple as that. '

‘I am not such a stupid old man that I am unaware of Julia's feelings. But simple it is not. '

Now he was getting up, disappointed in them.

‘What do you want us to do?' asked Frances.

' Julia should be less alone. She should be walking more. She goes out very little now and I must insist that it is not her age. I am ten years older than Julia and I have not given up. I am afraid that Julia has done that. '

Frances was thinking that in all those years Julia had never said Yes, when asked to go out to supper, or walking, or to a play, or to a picture gallery. ' Thank you, Frances, You are very kind,’ she always said.

‘I am going to ask your permission to give Julia a dog. No, no, not some great big growler, a little dog. She will have to take it for walks and care for it. '

Once again the three faces told him that he was not going to be informed what they were really thinking.

Did the old man really imagine that a little dog was going to fill the empty place in Julia? A swap: a little dog, for Sylvia!

‘Of course you must give her a dog,’ said Frances, ' if you think she would like that. '

And now Wilhelm, who had just confessed what they would not have guessed, that he was in his eighties, said, ' It is not a question ofwhat I think would be good for her. I must tell you... I am at my wit's end.’And now the gravity, the high seriousness of his manner, his style, broke down, and before them they saw a humbled old man, with tears running into his beard. 'It will be no secret to you that I am very fond of Julia. It is hard to see her so ... so...’And he went out. 'Excuse me, you must excuse me.'

Frances said, 'And who is going to say first, I'm not going to look after that dog?'

Wilhelm arrived with a tiny terrier that he had already named Stuckschel – a scrap, a little thing – and as a joke had put a blue ribbon around its neck. Julia's immediate reaction was to back away from it, as it yapped around her skirts, and then, seeing her old friend's anxiety that she like it, made herself pat the dog and try to calm it. She put on a good enough act to make Wilhelm think that she might learn to like the creature, but when he went, and she had to see to the dog's food, its toilet arrangements, she sat trembling on her chair and thought: He's my best friend and he knows so little about me he thinks I want a dog.

There followed unpleasant days: food for the dog, messes on her floors, smells and the restless little creature who yapped and drove Julia to tears. How could he? she muttered, and when Wilhelm arrived to see how things went, her efforts to be nice told him what a bad mistake he had made.

‘But, my dear, it would be good for you to take him for a walk. What have you called him? Fuss! I see. ‘And he went off, wounded, so now she had to worry about him too.

Fuss, who knew this mistress hated him, found his way to Colin, who liked the creature because it made him laugh. Fuss became Vicious, because of the absurdity of this minute thing growling and defending itself, and snapping with its jaws the size of Julia's sugar tongs. Its paws were like puffs of cotton wool, its eyes like little black pawpaw seeds, its tail a twist of silvery silk. Vicious now went everywhere with Colin, and so the dog that had been meant to be good for Julia became good for Colin, who had no friends, went for solitary walks around the Heath, and was drinking too much. Nothing serious but enough for Frances to tell him she was worried. He flared up with, 'I don't like being spied on.' The real trouble was that he hated being dependent on Julia and his mother. He had written two novels, which he knew were no good, and was at work on a third, with Wilhelm Stein as a mentor. He was pleased that Andrew had returned to the condition of being dependent. Having done well in his exams, Andrew had left home to set himself up with a group of lawyers, but decided he wanted to do international law. He came home, and was going to Oxford, Brasenose, for a two-year course.

Sylvia had become a junior doctor, much younger than most, and was working as hard as they do. When she did come home she walked in a trance of exhaustion up the stairs, not seeing anyone, or anything; she was already in her mind in her bed, able to sleep at last. She might sleep the clock around, then take a bath and was off. Often she did not even say hello to Julia, let alone kiss her goodnight.

But there was something else. Sylvia's father, her real one, Comrade Alan Johnson, had died and left her money, quite a bit. The letter from the lawyer came accompanied by a letter from him, obviously written when drunk, saying he had understood that she, Tilly, was the only real thing in his life. ‘You are my legacy to the world, ' apparently considering the substantial legacy a mere derisory material contribution. She did not remember ever having seen him.

Sylvia dropped in to see Julia, to tell her the news and to say, ‘You've been so good to me, but I won't need any more handouts. ' Julia had sat silent, twisting her hands about in her lap, as if Sylvia had hit her. The gracelessness was because of exhaustion. Sylvia was simply not herself. She was not built for continuous over-strain and stress, was still a wisp of a girl, her big blue eyes always a little red. She had a bit of a cough, too.

Wilhelm met Sylvia as she came up the stairs after a week of work and almost no sleep, and asked her advice about Julia as a doctor, but Sylvia replied, 'Sorry, haven't done geriatrics' — and pushed past him to get to her bed, where she fell and was asleep.

Julia had overheard. She was listening from the upstairs landing. Geriatrics. She brooded, suffered; everything was an affront to her in her paranoid state – for it was that. She felt Sylvia had turned against her.

Sylvia had read the lawyer's letter when she was hungering for sleep like a prisoner under torture, or a young mother with a new baby. She went down to Phyllida with the letter in her hand, and found her looming about her flat in a kimono covered with astral signs. She cut into Phyllida's sarcastic, 'And to what do I owe the honour...' with, 'Mother, has he left you money?'