LITMIR.BIZ

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Rose appeared again at the supper table, defiant, angry, and placatory.

      It could be argued that to complain about these minor disruptions at home, and then choose to sit in a corner at the Cosmo, which always reverberated with debate and discussion was – surely – a little perverse. Particularly as the overheard talk was bound to be revolutionary. AJI these people were types of revolutionary, even if the results of revolution were what they had fled from. They were mostly representatives of some phase of the Dream, and might argue for hours about what happened in such and such a meeting in 1905 in Russia, or in 1917, or in Berchtesgaden, or when German troops invaded the Soviet Union, or the state of affairs in the Rumanian oilfields in 1940. They argued about Freud, and Jung, about Trotsky, Bukarin, about Arthur Koestler and the Spanish Civil War. And Frances, whose ears shut tight when Johnny began on one of his harangues, found it all rather restful, though she did not actively listen. It is true that a noisy café full of cigarette smoke (then an indispensable accompaniment to intellectual activity) is more private than a home where individuals drop in for a chat. Andrew liked it there. So did Colin: they said it had good energy, not to mention positive vibes.

      Johnny used it a lot, but then he was in Cuba, so she was safe.

      Frances was not the only one from The Defender. A man was there who wrote political articles, to whom she had been introduced by Julie Hackett thus, ‘This is our chief politico, Rupert Boland. He’s an egghead but he’s not a bad sort of person, even if he is a man.’

      He was not a person you would notice at once, normally, but here he did stand out, because he wore a rather dull brown suit and a tie. He had a pleasant face. He was writing, or making notes, with a biro, just as she was. They smiled and nodded, and at that moment she saw a tall man in a Mao jacket stand up to leave. Good Lord, it was Johnny. He shrugged on a long Afghan coat, dyed blue, the last word in Carnaby Street, and went out. And there a few tables away, in a corner, obviously trying not to be seen (probably by Johnny) was Julia. She was in conversation with … he was certainly an intimate friend. Her boyfriend? Frances had recently been acknowledging that Julia was not much over sixty. But no, Julia could not have an affair (the word she would use was probably liaison) in a house crammed with ever-watching youngsters. It was as ludicrous as that Frances could.

      Giving up the theatre, which probably she had done for ever, Frances had felt she was slamming a door on romance, or serious love.

      And Julia … Frances was thinking that Julia must be pretty lonely, by herself at the top of that crammed noisy house, where the young ones called her the old woman or, even, the old fascist. She listened to classical music on the radio, and read. But she did go out sometimes, and it seemed she came here.

      Julia was wearing a misty-blue costume and a mauveish hat with – of course – a tiny net veil. Her gloves lay on the table. Her gentleman friend, grey haired, well-kept, was as elegant and old-fashioned as she was. He got up, bent over Julia’s hand, where his lips met in the air over it. She smiled, and nodded, and he went out. Her face, when he left, composed itself into a look Frances understood was stoicism. Julia had enjoyed an hour off her leash, and would now go home, or perhaps do some frugal shopping. Who was keeping an eye on Sylvia? That meant Andrew must be at home. Frances had not again been in his room, but she believed that he was spending long hours alone there, smoking and reading.

      It was Friday. That evening she could expect the supper table to have chairs fitted close all around it. It would be an occasion and everyone knew it, the St Joseph crowd too, because Frances had telephoned Colin to say Sylvia was coming down to supper, and could he make sure everyone called her Sylvia. ‘And ask them to be tactful, Colin.’ ‘Thanks for having so little confidence in us,’ he had replied.

      Meanwhile his protective care of Sophie had become love, and the two were acknowledged as a couple at St Joseph’s. ‘A couple of lovebirds,’ Geoffrey had said, being magnanimous, since he was bound to be jealous. Of Geoffrey one could expect gentlemanly behaviour, even if he did shoplift … even if he was a thief. Which was more than one could say of Rose, whose jealousy of Sophie shone from her eyes and spiteful face.

       Dear Aunt Vera. Our two children say they won’t go back to school. Our son is fifteen. The girl is sixteen. They were playing truant for months before we knew it. Then the police told us they were spending the time with some bad types. Now they hardly come home at all. What shall we do?

      Sophie had said she wasn’t going back to school after Christmas, but perhaps she would change her mind to be with Colin. But he said he was doing badly, and didn’t want to take his final exams, due this coming summer. He was eighteen. He said exams were stupid, and he was too old for school. Rose – not her responsibility – had ‘dropped out’. So had James. Sylvia hadn’t been to school in months. Geoffrey did well, always had, and it looked as if he would be the only one who would actually sit the exams. Daniel would because Geoffrey did, but he wasn’t clever, like his idol. Jill was more often here than at school. Lucy, from Dartington, would sit exams and do brilliantly, that was evident.

      Frances herself, obedient girl, had gone to school, was punctual, sat exams, and would have gone to university if the war and Johnny had not intervened. She could not understand what the problem was. She had not much enjoyed school, but had seen the process as something that had to be undergone. She would have to earn her living, that was the point. These youngsters never seemed to think about that.

      Now she wrote down the letter she would like to send, but of course would not.

       Dear Mrs Jackson, I haven’t the faintest idea what to advise. We seem to have bred a generation that expects food simply to fall into their mouths without their working for it. With sincere regrets, Aunt Vera.

      Julia was getting up. She gathered up her bag, her gloves, a newspaper, and as she came past Frances, nodded. Frances, too late, got up to push a chair towards her, but Julia was already gone. If she had handled it properly, Julia would have sat down – there had been a little moment of hesitation. And then at last she might have become friends with her mother-in-law.

      Frances sat on, ordered more coffee, then soup. Andrew had said that if one was lucky with one’s riming and ordered goulash soup, you got the thick part at the bottom of the pot, like stew, very good. Her goulash when it came was evidently from the middle of the pot.

      She did not know what to write for her third piece. The second had been on marijuana, and it was easy. The article had been cool and informative, that was all, and many letters came in response.

      What an attractive crowd this was, the Cosmo crowd, these people from all over Europe, and of course, by now, the kind of British attracted by them. Many of them Jews. Not all.

      Julia had remarked, in front of ‘the kids’ when one of them asked if she had been a refugee, ‘I am in the unfortunate situation of being a German who is not a Jew.’

      Shock and outrage. Julia’s fascist status had been confirmed: though they all used the word fascist as easily as they said fuck, or shit, not necessarily meaning much more than this was somebody they disapproved of.

      Sophie had wailed that Julia gave her the creeps, all Germans did.

      Of Sophie, Julia had remarked, ‘She has the Jewish young girl’s beauty, but she’ll end up an old hag, just like the rest of us.’

      If Sylvia-Tilly was coming down to supper then the food had to be right for her. She could not be given a dish different from the others, and yet she did not eat anything but potato. Very well, Frances would cook a big shepherd’s pie, and the girls who were slimming could leave the mash and eat the rest. There would be vegetables. Rose would not eat vegetables, but would salad. Geoffrey never ate fish or vegetables: she had been worrying about Geoffrey’s diet for years, and he was not even her child. What did his parents think, when he hardly ever went home, was always coming to them – rather, to Colin? She asked him and he said that they were quite pleased he had somewhere to go. It seemed they both worked hard. Quakers. Religious. A dull household, it seemed. She had become fond of Geoffrey but was damned if she was going to spend time worrying about Rose. Careful, Frances: if there was one thing she had learned, it was not to say what

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