trendy Britain, and attracting youngsters, not to mention the young in heart, from all over the world. Frances had said that they must all be suffering from some sort of collective hallucination, since the street was grubby, tatty, and if the clothes were attractive – some of them – they were no better than others in streets that did not have the magic syllables Carnaby attached to them. Heresy! A brave heresy, judged Julie Hackett, seeing Frances as a kindred soul.
Frances was shown an office where a secretary was sorting through letters addressed to Aunt Vera, and putting them in heaps, since even the nastiest predicaments of humanity must fall into easily recognised categories. My husband is unfaithful, an alcoholic, beats me, won’t give me enough money, is leaving me for his secretary, prefers his mates in the pub to me. My son is alcoholic, a druggie, has got a girl pregnant, won’t leave home, is living rough in London, earns money but won’t contribute to the household. My daughter … Pensions, benefits, the behaviour of officials, medical problems … but a doctor answered those. These more common letters were dealt with by this secretary, signing Aunt Vera, and it was a flourishing new department of The Defender. Frances’s job was to scan these letters, and find a theme or concern that predominated, and then use it for a serious article, a long one, which would have a prominent place in the paper. Frances could write her articles and do her research at home. She would be of The Defender but not in it, and for this she was grateful.
When she got out of the Underground, coming home from the newspaper, she bought food, and walked down the hill, laden.
Julia was standing at her high window, looking down, when she saw Frances approaching. At least this smart coat was an improvement, not the usual duffel-coat: perhaps one could look forward to her wearing something other than the eternal jeans and jerseys? She was walking heavily, making Julia think of a donkey with panniers. Near the house she stopped, and Julia could see that Frances’s hair had been done, the blondish hair falling straight as straw on either side of a parting, as was the mode.
From some of the houses she had passed, the music pounded and beat, as loud as an angry heart, but Julia had said she would not tolerate loud music, she could not bear it, so while music was played, it was soft. From Andrew’s room usually came the muted tones of Palestrina or Vivaldi, from Colin’s traditional jazz, from the sitting-room where the television was, broken music and voices, from the basement, the throb, throb, throb, that ‘the kids’ needed.
The whole big house was ht up, not a dark window, and it seemed to shed light from walls as well as windows: it exuded light and music.
Frances saw Johnny’s shadow on the kitchen curtains, and at once her spirits took a fall. He was in the middle of a harangue, she could see, from gesticulating arms, and when she reached the kitchen, he was in full flood. Cuba, again. Around the table was an assortment of youngsters, but she did not have time to see who was there. Andrew, yes, Rose, yes … the telephone was ringing. She dropped the heavy bags, took up the receiver, and it was Colin from his school. ‘Mother, have you heard the news?’ ‘No, what news, are you all right, Colin, you just went off this morning …’ ‘Yes, yes, listen, we’ve just heard, it’s on the news. Kennedy’s dead.’ ‘Who?’ ‘President Kennedy.’ ‘Are you sure?’ ‘They shot him. Switch on the telly.’
Over her shoulder she said, ‘President Kennedy is dead. He’s been shot.’ A silence, while she reached for the radio, switched it on. Nothing on the radio. She turned to see every face blank with shock, Johnny’s too. He was being kept silent by the need to find a correct formulation, and in a moment was able to bring out, ‘We must evaluate the situation …’ but could not go on.
‘The television,’ said Geoffrey Bone, and as one ‘the kids’ rose from the table and went out of the room and up the stairs to the sitting-room.
Andrew said, calling after them, ‘Careful, Tilly’s watching.’ Then he ran after them.
Frances and Johnny were alone, facing each other.
‘I take it you came to enquire after your stepdaughter?’ she asked.
Johnny fidgeted: he wanted badly to go up and watch the Six O’clock News, but he planned to say something, and she stood, leaning back against the shelves by the stove, thinking, Well now, let me guess … And as she had expected, he came out with, ‘It’s Phyllida, I am afraid.’
‘Yes?’
‘She’s not well.’
‘So I heard from Andrew.’
‘I’m going to Cuba in a couple of days.’
‘Best if you take her with you, then.’
‘I am afraid the funds wouldn’t run to it and …’
‘Who is paying?’
Here appeared the irritated what-can-you-expect look from which she was always able to judge her degree of stupidity.
‘You should know better than to ask, comrade.’
Once she would have collapsed into a morass of inadequacy and guilt – how easily, then, he had been able to make her feel an idiot.
‘I am asking. You seem to forget, I’ve got reason to be interested in your finances.’
‘And how much are you being paid in this new job of yours?’
She smiled at him. ‘Not enough to support your sons and now your stepdaughter as well.’
‘And feed Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and anyone who turns up expecting a free meal.’
‘What? You wouldn’t have me turn away potential material for the Revolution?’
‘They’re layabouts and junkies,’ he said. ‘Riff-raff’ But he decided not to go on, and changed his tune to a comradely appeal to her better nature. ‘Phyllida really isn’t well.’
‘And what am I expected to do about it?’
‘I want you to keep an eye on her.’
‘No, Johnny.’
‘Then Andrew can. He’s got nothing better to do.’
‘He’s busy looking after Tilly. She is really ill, you know.’
‘A lot of it is just playing for sympathy.’
‘Then why did you dump her on us?’
‘Oh … fuck it,’ said Comrade Johnny. ‘Psychological disorders are not my line, they’re yours.’
‘She’s ill. She’s really ill. And how long are you going for?’
He looked down, frowned. ‘I said I’d go for six weeks. But with this new crisis …’ Reminded of the crisis, he said, ‘I’m going to catch the news.’ And he ran out of the kitchen.
Frances heated soup, a chicken stew, garlic bread, made a salad, piled fruit on a dish, arranged cheeses. She was thinking about the poor child, Tilly. The day after the girl had arrived, Andrew had come to where she was working in her study, and said, ‘Mother, can I put Tilly into the spare room? She really can’t sleep in my room, even though that’s what I think she’d like.’
Frances had
