Doris Lessing - The Sweetest Dream

' These South African spies?'

‘Yes, spies. That is the right word. They are everywhere. It is they who are responsible for the lies. Our Security people have proof. It is their aim to destabilise Zimlia so that South Africa may take over our country and add it to their evil empire. Did you know how they are attacking Mozambique? Now they are spreading everywhere. ' He peered at her to see what effect he was having. ‘And so you will write some articles for us, in the English newspapers, explaining the truth?'

He began struggling out of his chair, panting a little. ‘My wife tells me that I should go on a diet, but it is hard when you are seated in front of a good meal – and unfortunately we Ministers have to attend so many functions...’

The moment of parting. Rose was hesitating. A flush of reminiscent warmth for the boy Franklin, for whom she had after all stolen clothes – no, more, taught him how to steal for himself -insisted she should put her arms around him. And ifhe did embrace her that would count for a lot. But he held out his hand and she took it. ‘No, that's not the way, Rose. You must use our African handclasp, like this, like this...’ and indeed it was inspiring, the handshake that said it was hard to let go of a good friend. ' And

I am waiting to hear good news from you. You will send me copies of your articles. I am waiting for them.’And he went off to the door of the Lounge where a couple of bulky men were waiting for him – his bodyguards.

She had told Frank Diddy that she achieved an interview with the Minister Franklin, had seen that he was impressed. Now she described the interview as if it had been an achievement and, more, one up on him, but all he said was, 'Join the club. Perhaps you'd like to try your hand at one of our little editorials?'

She decided she did not want to write about the drought, anyone could do that. She needed something ... in The Post which she was reading with professional contempt at the breakfast table she saw: ' Police report the theft of equipment from the new hospital in Kwadere. Thousands of dollars' worth has disappeared. It is suspected that local people are the thieves.'

Rose's pulses definitely quickened. She showed the item to Frank Diddy, but he shrugged and said, 'That sort of thing goes on all the time. '

'Where could I find out?'

' Don't bother, it's not worth it. '

Kwadere. Barry had said Sylvia was there. Yes, there was something else. When Andrew came to London this was often announced in the papers: Andrew was News, or at least Global Money was. Last time, months ago, she had rung him, ' Hi, Andrew, this is Rose Trimble. '

' Hi, Rose. '

'I am working on World Scandals these days.'

'I don't think my doings would interest World Scandals'

But there had been a previous time, some years ago, when he had agreed to meet her for a cup of coffee. Why had he? Her first thought was, guilt, that was it! While she had forgotten she had ever said he had made her pregnant – liars having bad memories -she did know that he owed her. And that meeting reminded her she had once found him so attractive she had not been able to let him go. He was still attractive: that casual elegance, that charm.

She told herself it had broken her heart. She had been ready to elevate Andrew into the position of 'The man I loved best in my life', but slowly realised that he was warning her. All this smiling waffle was meant to tell her that she must lay off the Lennoxes. Who did he think he was! As a journalist it was her job to tell the truth! Just like that upper-class arrogance! He was trying to subvert the freedom of the Press! The cup of coffee lasted for quite a time, while he ponced about hinting this and that, but she had got out of him news of the family, for one that Sylvia was in Kwadere, she was a doctor. Yes, that was what had been at the back of her mind. Now she had the fact that Sylvia, whom she still hated, was a doctor in Kwadere, where hospital equipment was being stolen. She had found her subject.

Some days after Sylvia and Rebecca had arranged the new books along the walls in Sylvia's rooms, a group ofvillagers stood waiting as she emerged to go down to the hospital. A youth came forward, smiling. ' Doctor Sylvia, please give me a book. Rebecca has told us you have brought us books. '

‘I have to go to the hospital now. Come back this evening. '

How reluctantly they went off, with glances back at Father McGuire's house, where the new books were calling to them.

All day she worked with Clever and Zebedee, who had been holding the fort while she was in London. They were so quick, so nimble, and they made her heart ache, because of their potential and what was likely to happen to them. She was thinking – had to think – where in London, no, where in England, or in Europe, are children as hungry for knowledge as these? They had taught themselves to read English off the print on food packets. Both, when they finished work with her, sat at home reading, by candlelight, progressively more difficult books.

Their father still sat all day drowsing under this tree, one big skeleton hand drooping over a raised knee, which was a bony lump between two lanky bones covered with dry greyish skin. He had had pneumonia several times. He was dying of AIDS.

At sundown there was a crowd of a hundred waiting outside Father McGuire's house. He was standing there as she came up from the hospital. 'And now, my child, it is time, you must do something.'

She turned to the crowd and said she was going to disappoint them tonight, but she would arrange for the books to be stationed in the village.

A voice asked: ‘And who will keep them safe for you? They will be stolen. '

‘No, no one will steal them. Tomorrow I'll do it all. '

She and the priest watched as the again disappointed people wandered off into the darkening bush, through boulders, through grasses, along ways not visible to them, and he said, ‘I sometimes think they see with their feet. And now you will come inside and you will sit down and you will eat and then share your evening with me, and we will listen to the radio. We have the new batteries you brought us. '

Rebecca was not there in the evenings. She prepared some sort of meal, and left it on plates in the refrigerator, and was in her own home by two in the afternoon. But today she came in while they were eating and said, ‘I have come because I must tell you.'

' Sit down,’ said the priest.

There was a protocol, apparently never formally agreed to, that Rebecca would not sit at the table with them when she was in her capacity as a servant, and suggestions from Father McGuire that she should had been vetoed, by her: It would not be right. But when she was paying a visit, as now, she sat, and when invited took a biscuit from a plate and laid it down before her: they knew she would take it to her children. Sylvia pushed the plate towards her and Rebecca counted five more biscuits. At their enquiring looks – she had three surviving children – she said she was feeding Zebedee and Clever.

'We must arrange for the books. I have been talking about it with everyone. There is an empty hut – Daniel's, you know who he was.'

‘We buried him last Sunday,’ said the priest.

' Okay. And his children died too before. But no one wants to take that hut now. They say it is unlucky'-she was using their word.

'Daniel died of AIDS, and not because of any nonsense about bad muti.' Using her word for the n'ganga's potions.

Rebecca and the priest had had in their long association many bouts of argument, which he had to win because he was the priest and she was a Christian, but now she smiled, and said ' Okay' .

‘You mean, it isn't unlucky for books?'

‘No, Sylvia, that is true, it is okay for books. And so we will take the shelves and bricks from your room and we will make the shelves in Daniel's hut, and my Tenderai will look after them.'