salary, he shouted at her that she was a typical member of an exploiting class, thinking only of money, while he was working for the future of the whole world. They quarrelled, frequently and noisily. Listening, Colin would go white, silent, and leave the house for hours or for days. Andrew preserved his airy, amused smile, his poise. He was often at home these days, and even brought friends.
Meanwhile Johnny and Frances had divorced because he had married properly, and formally, with a wedding that the comrades attended, and Julia too. Her name was Phyllida, and she was not a comrade, but he said she was good material and he would make a communist of her.
This little history was the reason why Frances was keeping her back to the others, stirring a stew that didn’t really need a stir. Delayed reaction: her knees trembled, her mouth seemed full of acid, for now her body was taking in the bad news, rather later than her mind. She was angry, she knew, and had the right to be, but she was angrier with herself than with Johnny. If she had allowed herself to spend three days inside a lunatic dream, fair enough – but how could she have involved the boys? Yet it was Andrew who had brought the telegram, waited until she showed it to him, and said, ‘Frances, your errant husband is at last going to do the right thing.’ He had sat lightly on the edge of a chair, a fair, attractive youth, looking more than ever like a bird just about to take off. He was tall and that made him seem even thinner, his jeans loose on long legs, and with long elegant bony hands lying palms up on his knees. He was smiling at her, and she knew it was meant kindly. They were trying hard to get on, but she was still nervous of him, because of those years of him rejecting her. He had said ‘your husband’, he had not said ‘my father’. He was friendly with Johnny’s new wife, Phyllida, while reporting back that she was on the whole a bit of a drag.
He had congratulated her on her part in the new play and had made graceful fun of agony aunts.
And Colin, too, had been affectionate, a rare thing for him, and had telephoned friends about the new play.
It was all so bad for them both, it was all terrible, but after all only another little blow in years and years of them – as she was telling herself, waiting for her knees to get back their strength, while she gripped the edge of a drawer with one hand and stirred with the other, eyes closed.
Behind her Johnny was holding forth about the capitalist press and its lies about the Soviet Union, about Fidel Castro, and how he was being misrepresented.
That Frances had been scarcely touched by years of Johnny’s strictures, or his lexicon, was shown by the way, after a recent lecture, she had murmured, ‘He seems quite an interesting person.’ Johnny had snapped at her, ‘I don’t think I’ve managed to teach you anything, Frances, you are unteachable.’
‘Yes, I know, I’m stupid.’ That had been a repetition of the great, primal, but at the same time final, moment, when Johnny had returned to her for the second time, expecting her to take him in: he had shouted that she was a political cretin, a lumpen petite bourgeois, a class enemy, and she had said, ‘That’s right, I’m stupid, now get out.’
She could not go on standing here, knowing that the boys were watching her, nervously, hurt because of her, even if the others were gazing at Johnny with eyes shining with love and admiration.
She said, ‘Sophie, give me a hand.’
At once willing hands appeared, Sophie’s and, it seemed, everyone’s, and dishes were being set down the centre of the table. There were wonderful smells as the covers came off.
They sat down at the head of the table, glad to sit, not looking at Johnny. All the chairs were full, but others stood by the wall, and, if he wanted, he could bring one up and sit down himself. Was he going to do this? He often did, infuriating her, though he believed, it was obvious, that it was a compliment. No, tonight, having made an impression, and got his fill of admiration (if he ever did) he was going to leave – surely? He was not leaving. The wine glasses were full, all around the table. Johnny had brought two bottles of wine: open-handed Johnny, who never entered a room without offerings of wine … she was unable to prevent this bile, these bitter words, arriving unwanted on her tongue. Just go away, she was mentally urging him. Just leave.
She had cooked a large, filling, winter stew of beef and chestnuts, from a recipe of Elizabeth David, whose French Country Cooking was lying open somewhere in the kitchen. (Years later she would say, Good Lord, I was part of a culinary revolution and didn’t know it.) She was convinced that these youngsters did not eat ‘properly’ unless it was at this table. Andrew was dispensing mashed potatoes flavoured with celeriac. Sophie ladled out stew. Creamed spinach and buttered carrots were being allotted by Colin. Johnny stood watching, silenced for the moment because no one was looking at him.
Why didn’t he leave?
Around the table this evening were what she thought of as the regulars: or at least some of them. On her left was Andrew, who had served himself generously, but now sat looking down at the food as if he didn’t recognise it. Next to him was Geoffrey Bone, Colin’s schoolfriend, who had spent all his holidays with them since she could remember. He did not get on with his parents, Colin said. (But who did, after all?) Beside him Colin had already turned his round flushed face towards his father, all accusing anguish, while his knife and fork rested in his hands. Next to Colin, was Rose Trimble, who had been Andrew’s girlfriend, if briefly: an obligatory flutter with Marxism had taken him to a weekend seminar entitled, ‘Africa Bursts Its Chains!’, and there Rose had been. Their affair (had it been that? – she was sixteen) had ended, but Rose still came here, seemed in fact to have moved in. Opposite Rose was Sophie, a Jewish girl in the full bloom of her beauty, slender, black gleaming eyes, black gleaming hair, and people seeing her had to be afflicted with thoughts of the intrinsic unfairness of Fate, and then of the imperatives of Beauty and its claims. Colin was in love with her. So was Andrew. So was Geoffrey. Next to Sophie, and the very opposite, in every way, of Geoffrey, who was so correctly good-looking, English, polite, well-behaved, was stormy and suffering Daniel, who had just been threatened with expulsion from St Joseph’s for shoplifting. He was deputy head boy, and Geoffrey was head boy, and had had to convey to Daniel that he must reform or else – an empty threat, certainly, made for the sake of impressing the others with the seriousness of what they all did. This little event, ironically discussed by these worldly-wise children, was confirmation, if any was needed, of the inherent unfairness of the world, since Geoffrey shoplifted all the time, but it was hard to associate that open eagerly-polite face with wrongdoing. And there was another ingredient here: Daniel worshipped Geoffrey, always had, and to be admonished by his hero was more than he could bear.
Next to Daniel was a girl Frances had not seen before, but she expected to be enlightened in good time. She was a fair well-washed well-presented girl whose name appeared to be Jill. On Frances’s right was Lucy, not from St Joseph’s: she was Daniel’s girlfriend from Dartington, often here. Lucy, who at an ordinary school would certainly have been prefect, being decisive, clever, responsible and born to rule, said that progressive schools, or at least Dartington, suited some people well, but others needed discipline, and she wished she was at an ordinary school with rules and regulations and exams one had to work for. Daniel said that St Joseph’s was hypocritical shit, preaching freedom but when it came to the point clamping down with morality. ‘I wouldn’t say clamping down,’ explained Geoffrey pleasantly to everyone, protecting his acolyte, ‘it was more indicating the limits.’ ‘For some,’ said Daniel. ‘Unfair, I’ll grant you,’ said Geoffrey.
Sophie said she adored St Joseph’s and adored Sam (the headmaster). The boys tried to look indifferent at this news.
Colin continued to do so badly at exams that his unthreatened life was a tribute to the school’s famous tolerance.
Of Rose’s many grievances against life, she complained most that she had not been sent
