Doris Lessing - The Sweetest Dream

' Sorry,’ she said – to him rather than to them. And then, ‘No, I'm not at all sorry. I said that because I mean it. So think about it.'

Without a word the children got up and silently went off to their rooms. But they would join each other in either his or hers to discuss Frances.

‘Well done,’ said Rupert.

‘Well, was it?’ said Frances, sitting limp, trembling, dismayed at herself. She dropped her head on to her arms.

‘Yes, of course it was. There was bound to be a confrontation at some point. And by the way, don't think I'm taking you for granted. I wouldn't blame you if you simply left.'

‘I’m not going to leave, '-and she reached for his hand. It was trembling. ‘Oh, God,’ she said, ' this is all so...’ He reached out for her and she pushed her chair up to his and they sat close, with their arms around each other, sharing dismay.

A week later there was a repetition of the ‘You aren't our mother, so why should we...’ and so on.

Frances had been trying all day to get on with the heavy sociological book which she was writing, interrupted by telephone calls from the children's schools, Meriel's hospital, and Rupert from his newspaper, asking what he should bring home for supper. Her nerves were grumbling, they jangled and they swore. She was feeling a reaction to the whole situation. What was she doing here? What a trap she was in... did she even like these children? That girl, with her virtuous prim little mouth, the boy (that poor boy), so frightened by what was happening he could hardly look at her, or his father, and who moved about like a sleepwalker, with a scared smile that he tried to make sarcastic.

'Right,' said she, 'that's it, and got up from her place at the table, pushing away her plate. She did not look at Rupert, for she was doing the unforgivable – hitting him when he was down.

'What do you mean?' asked the little girl – she was, after all, still that.

‘What do you think? I'm going. I told you I would. '

And she went into the bedroom she shared with Rupert, slowly, because her legs were stiff, not with indecision but because she intended them to walk her away from Rupert. There she brought clothes down from cupboards, stacked them on the bed, found suitcases, and methodically began to pack. She was in a state of mind opposite to anything she had felt for weeks now. Like a bride or bridegroom who has been swept along on the tide of events with only an occasional moment of misgiving, to find themselves on the eve of the wedding wondering how they could have been so mad, so now, a situation that had seemed reasonable enough, if difficult, made her feel as if she were being carried, wrists and ankles tied, into a prison. What on earth had made her say she would take on his kids, even if only temporarily? And how did she know it would be temporary? She must run away now, before it was too late. The only part of her mind that remained anywhere near what it had been was the thought of Rupert. She could not give him up. Well, that was easy. She would finally buy herself her own place, her place, and... the door opened, just a little, then a little more, and the boy stood there. ' Margaret says, what are you doing?'

‘I’m leaving,’ said Frances. ' Shut the door. '

The door shut, in careful jerks, as if each little degree of closure had been stopped by a change of mind: should he go in again?

The cases were packed and standing in a row when Margaret came sidling in eyes lowered, the mouth half open, that prim pink little mouth, but now it was swollen with tears.

'Are you really leaving?'

'Yes, I am.’And Frances, who was convinced she was, said, 'Shut the door – quietly.'

Later she went out and found Rupert still sitting at the supper table. She said, ' That was badly done, I'm sorry. '

He shook his head, not looking at her. He was a solitary and brave figure, and his pain shut him away from her. She could not bear that. She knew she would not leave, at least, not like this. She was thinking, in a wild last moment of rebellion, I'll get my own place and he can deal with the mess of Meriel and the kids and he can come and visit me and...’Of course I'm not going,’ she said. ‘How could I?'

He did not move, but then slowly held out the arm near to her. She pushed a chair close and sat inside the arm, and he inclined his head, so that their two heads rested together.

‘Well, at least they won't give you a bad time again, ' he said. ' That is, if you do decide to stay. '

The occasion demanded that they should cement their frailties with love-making. He went off to their bedroom, and she prepared to follow, switching offlights. She went to the girl's door, meaning to go in and say goodnight, ' Forget it, I didn't mean it. ‘What she heard was sobbing, a dreadful low helpless sobbing which had been going on for some time. Frances stood near the door, then rested her head against it, in a flare of Oh, no, I can't I can't ... but the sound of the child's misery was undoing her. She took a breath and went into the room, and saw the girl start up from her pillow, and then found her in her arms, ‘Oh, Frances, Frances, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it. '

' It's all right. I won't go. I did mean it then, but now I've changed my mind. '

Kisses, hugs, and a new start.

With the boy, it was going to be harder. A hurt child, holding himself inside an armature of pride, he refused tears, rejected consoling arms, including his father's; he did not trust them. He had watched his mother, so ill and silent, go so deep inside herself she did not hear when he spoke to her, and it was this sight that kept him company as he obediently did what he was told, went to school, did homework, helped clear the table, make his bed. If Frances and Rupert had known what went on inside William, understood his wild solitary misery – but what could they have done? They even were reassured by this conforming boy, who was turning out – surely – to be easier than Margaret?

Sylvia stood in Senga airport's Arrivals, which accommodated the luggage carousel, Immigration, Customs, and all the people off the plane, who at one glance could be defined as black, and in thick three-piece suits, and white, in jeans and T-shirts, with sweaters they had left London in tied around their hips. The blacks were exuberant, manoeuvring refrigerators, stoves, televisions and furniture into positions where they could be offered to Customs' approval, which was being given, for the officials were congratulatory, only too happy to be generous with their scrawls of red chalk as each vast crate arrived before them. Sylvia had a hold-all, for her personal possessions, and two large suitcases for the medical supplies and items Father McGuire had asked for: lists had been arriving in London, each accompanied by: Don't feel yourself obliged to bring these, if it is a trouble. On the plane Sylvia had heard whites discuss Customs, its unpredictability, its partiality to the blacks who were allowed to bring in whole households of furniture. Next to Sylvia had been sitting a silent man, dressed like others in jeans and T-shirt, but he had a silver cross on a chain around his neck. Not knowing if this was a fashion statement, she timidly enquired if he were a priest, heard he was Brother Jude from the something mission – the unfamiliar name slid past her ears – and asked if she might expect trouble with her big cases. Hearing her story, where she was headed – he knew Father McGuire – he said he would help her at Customs, where she found him just ahead of her in the queue. He was hanging back, letting others go past, because he was waiting for a young black man who greeted him by name, asked if the cases were for the mission, passed them, and then was introduced to Sylvia and her cases. 'This is a friend of Father McGuire's. She is a doctor. She is taking supplies to the hospital at Kwandere.' 'Oh, a friend of Father McGuire,’ said this youth, all smiling friendship, ' please give him my best, my very best. ‘And he scrawled the mystic red sign on the cases. She did well at Immigration, with all the right papers, and then they were outside on the steps of the airport building, on a clear hot morning, and towards Sylvia came a young woman wearing baggy blue shorts, a flowery T-shirt, and a large silver cross. ‘Ah,’ said Sylvia's saviour, ‘I see you are in good hands. Hello there, Sister Molly, '-and he was off, to a group waiting for him.