apparently ‘dropped out’, and appeared to be living here, her accusations against it did not lessen, and she tended to burst into tears, crying out that they didn’t know how lucky they were. Andrew had actually met Rose’s parents, who were both officials in the local council. ‘And what is wrong with them?’ Frances had enquired, hoping to hear well of them, because she wanted Rose to go, since she did not like the girl. (And why did she not tell Rose to leave? That would not have been in the spirit of the times.) ‘I am afraid they are just ordinary,’ replied Andrew, smiling. ‘They are conventional small-town people, and I do think they are a bit out of their depth with Rose.’
‘Ah,’ said Frances, seeing the possibility of Rose’s returning home recede. And there was something else here too. Had she not said of her parents that they were boring and conventional? Not that they were shitty fascists, but perhaps she would have described them thus had the epithets been as available to her as they were to Rose. How could she criticise the girl for wanting to leave parents who did not understand her?
Second helpings were already being piled on to plates – all except Andrew’s. He had hardly touched his food. Frances pretended not to notice.
Andrew was in trouble, but how bad it was hard to say.
He had done pretty well at Eton, had made friends, which she gathered was what they were meant to do, and was going to Cambridge next year. This year, he said, he was loafing. And he certainly was. He slept sometimes until four or five in the afternoon, looked ill, and concealed – what? – behind his charm, his social competence.
Frances knew he was unhappy – but it was not news that her sons were unhappy. Something should be done. It was Julia who came down to her layer of the house to say, ‘Frances, have you been inside Andrew’s room?’
‘I wouldn’t dare go into his room without asking.’
‘You are his mother, I believe.’
The gulfs between them illumined by this exchange caused Frances, as always, to stare helplessly at her mother-in-law. She did not know what to say. Julia, an immaculate figure, stood there like Judgement, waiting, and Frances felt herself to be a schoolgirl, wanting to shift from foot to foot.
‘You can hardly see across the room for the smoke,’ said Julia.
‘Oh, I see, you mean pot – marijuana? But Julia, a lot of them smoke it.’ She did not dare say she had tried it herself.
‘So, to you it’s nothing? It’s not important?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘He sleeps all day, he fuddles himself with that smoke, he doesn’t eat.’
‘Julia, what do you want me to do?’
‘Talk to him.’
‘I can’t … I couldn’t … he wouldn’t listen to me.’
‘Then I will talk to him.’ And Julia went, turning on a crisp little heel, leaving the scent of roses behind her.
Julia and Andrew did talk. Soon Andrew took to visiting Julia in her rooms, which no one had dared to do, and returned often with information meant to smooth paths and oil wheels.
‘She’s not as bad as you think. In fact, she’s rather a poppet.’
‘Not the word that would immediately come to my mind.’
‘Well, I like her.’
‘I wish she’d come downstairs sometimes. She might eat with us?’
‘She wouldn’t come. She doesn’t approve of us,’ said Colin.
‘She might reform us,’ – Frances attempted humour.
‘Ha! Ha! But why don’t you invite her?’
‘I’m scared of Julia,’ said Frances, admitting it for the first time.
‘She’s frightened of you!’ said Andrew.
Oh, but that’s absurd. I am sure she’s never been frightened of anyone.’
‘Look, mother, you don’t understand. She has had such a sheltered life. She’s not used to our rackety ways. You forget that until grandfather died I don’t think she boiled an egg for herself. And you cope with hungry hordes and speak their language. Don’t you see?’ He had said their not our.
‘All I know is she sits up there eating a finger of smoked herring and two inches of bread and drinking one glass of wine while we sit down here guzzling great meals. We could send up a tray, perhaps.’
‘I’ll ask her,’ Andrew said, and presumably did, but nothing changed.
Frances made herself go up the stairs to his room. Six o’clock, and already getting dark. This had been a couple of weeks ago. She knocked, though her legs had nearly taken her downstairs again.
After quite a wait, she heard, ‘Come in.’
Frances went in. Andrew lay dressed on the bed, smoking. The window beyond him showed a blur of cold rain.
‘It’s six o’clock,’ she said.
‘I know it is six o’clock.’
Frances sat down, without the invitation she needed. The room was a big one, furnished with old solid furniture and some beautiful Chinese lamps. Andrew seemed the wrong inhabitant for it, and Frances could not help bringing to mind Julia’s husband, the diplomat, who would certainly be at home here.
‘Have you come to lecture me? Don’t bother, Julia already has done her bit.’
‘I’m worried,’ said Frances, her voice trembled; years, decades of worry were crowding into her throat.
Andrew lifted his head off the pillow to inspect her. Not with enmity, but rather with weariness. ‘I alarm myself,’ he said. ‘But I think I am about to take myself in hand.’
‘Are you, Andrew? Are you?’
‘After all, it is not as if it were heroin, or coke, or … after all, there are no caches of empty bottles rolling about under the bed.’
There were in fact some little blue pills scattered there.
‘What are those little blue pills then?’
‘Ah, the little blue pills. Amphetamines. Don’t worry about them.’
‘And,’ said Frances, quoting, meaning to sound ironical and fading, ‘it’s non-addictive, and you can give it up at any time.’
‘I don’t know about that. I think I’m addicted – to pot, though. It certainly takes the edge off reality. Why don’t you try it?’
‘I did try it. It doesn’t do anything for me.’
‘Too bad,’ said Andrew. ‘I would say that you have more reality than you can cope with.’
He did not say
