The Sweetest Dream by Doris Lessing Page B

‘Welcome, Sylvia,’ he said, and tears
came into her eyes at their chorus of ‘Hello, Sylvia.’
    She sat down next to Frances, and Andrew was next to her.
The meal could begin. In a moment dishes filled all the space
down the table. Colin got up to pour wine, forestalling Geoffrey,
who was about to do it, while Frances put food on to plates. A
moment of crisis: she had reached Andrew, and next would be
Sylvia. Andrew said, ‘Let me,’ and there began a little play. On
to his plate he put a single carrot, and on to Sylvia’s, a carrot. He
was solemn, frowning, judicious, and already Sylvia was beginning
to laugh, though her lips still made nervous painful little
movements. On to his plate, a little spoon of cabbage, and one for her,
ignoring the hand that had gone up instinctively to stop him. For
him, a mere sample of the mince, and the same for her. And then,
with an air of recklessness, a rather big lump of potato for her,
and for him. They were all laughing. Sylvia sat looking at her
plate, but Andrew, with a determined let’s-get-this-over look,
had taken up a spoon of potato and waited for her to do the same.
She did–and swallowed.
    Now, trying not to watch what went on, as Andrew and
Sylvia fought with themselves, Frances raised her glass of Rioja–seven shillings a bottle, for this pleasant wine had yet to be ‘discovered’–and drank a toast to Progressive Education, an old joke
which they all enjoyed.
    â€˜Where’s Julia?’ came Sylvia’s little voice.
    An anxious silence. Then Andrew said, ‘She doesn’t come to
meals with us.’
    â€˜Why doesn’t she? Why not? It’s so lovely with you.’
    This was a moment of real breakthrough, as Andrew described
it later to Julia–‘We’ve won, Julia, yes, we really have.’ Frances
was gratified: she actually had tears in her eyes. Andrew put his
arm around Sylvia and, smiling at his mother, said, ‘Yes, it is. But
Julia prefers to be up there by herself.’
    Having unwittingly created a picture of what must be
loneliness, it struck him, and he jumped up and said, ‘I’ll go and ask
her again.’ This was partly to relieve him of the burden and the
challenge of his still scarcely touched plate. As he went out and
up the stairs, Sylvia put down her spoon.
    In a moment Andrew returned, and sat down with, ‘She says
perhaps she’ll drop in later.’
    This caused a moment not far from panic. In spite of
Andrew’s efforts on his grandmother’s behalf, they all tended to
see Julia as a kind of old witch, to be laughed at. The St Joseph’s
contingent could not know how Julia had wrestled for a week,
two, with Sylvia’s illness, sitting with her, bathing her, making
her take mouthfuls of this and sips of that. Julia had hardly
slept. And here was her reward, Sylvia, picking up her spoon
again, watching Andrew lift his, as if she had forgotten how to
use one.
    The difficult moment passed, the kids appeased their teenage
appetites, and Frances ate more than she usually would, to be an
example to the two on her left. It was a wonderful evening, with
an undertone of tenderness because of Sylvia and their concern
for her. It was as if they were collectively putting their arms
around her, while she got down one mouthful after another.
Andrew too.
    And then they saw she had gone white and was shaking. ‘My
father . . .’ she whispered. ‘I mean, it’s my stepfather . . .’
    â€˜Oh, no,’ said Colin, ‘it’s all right, he’s gone to Cuba.’
    â€˜I’m afraid not,’ said Andrew, and leaped up to intercept
Johnny, who was in the hall outside the kitchen. Andrew shut
the door, but everyone could hear Johnny’s bluff, reasonable,
confident voice, and Andrew: ‘No, father, no, you can’t come
in, I’ll explain later.’
    Voices loud, then low, and Andrew