her to visit him, wanted to talk?
On this particular evening she could feel the bonds between herself and her two sons, but it was all terrible – the three of them were close tonight because of disappointment, a blow falling where it had before.
Sophie was talking. ‘Did you know about Frances’s wonderful new part?’ she said to Johnny. ‘She’s going to be a star. It’s so wonderful. Have you read the play?’
‘Sophie,’ said Frances, ‘I’m not doing the play after all.’
Sophie stared at her, her great eyes already full of tears. ‘What do you mean? You can’t … it’s not … it can’t be true.’
‘I’m not doing it, Sophie.’
Both sons were looking at Sophie, probably even kicking her under the table: shut up.
Oh,’ gasped the lovely girl, and buried her face in her hands.
‘Things have changed,’ said Frances. ‘I can’t explain.’
Now both boys were looking, full of accusation, at their father. He shifted a bit, seemed to shrug, suppressed that, smiled and then suddenly came out with: ‘There’s something else I’ve come to say, Frances.’
And so that was why he hadn’t left, but had stood uncomfortably there, not sitting down: he had something more to say.
Frances braced herself and saw that Colin and Andrew did the same.
‘I have a big favour to ask of you,’ said Johnny, direct to his betrayed wife.
‘And what is that?’
‘You know about Tilly, of course … you know, Phyllida’s girl?’
‘Of course I know about her.’
Andrew, visiting Phyllida, had allowed it to be understood that it was not a harmonious household and that the child was giving a lot of trouble.
‘Phyllida doesn’t seem able to cope with Tilly.’
At this, Frances laughed loudly, for she already knew what was bound to come. She said, ‘No, it’s simply not possible, it isn’t on.’
‘Yes, Frances, think about it. They don’t get on. Phyllida’s at her wit’s end. And so am I. I want you to have Tilly here. You are so good with …’
Frances was breathless with anger, saw that the two boys were white with it; the three were sitting silent, looking at each other.
Sophie was exclaiming, ‘Oh, Frances, and you are so kind, it’s so wonderful. ‘
Geoffrey, who had after all been so long visiting this house that he could with justice be described as a member of the household, followed Sophie with, ‘What a groovy idea.’
‘Just a minute, Johnny,’ said Frances. ‘You are asking me to take on your second wife’s daughter because you two can’t cope with her?’
‘That’s about it,’ admitted Johnny, smiling.
There was a long, long pause. It had occurred to enthusiastic Sophie and Geoffrey that Frances was not taking this in the spirit of universal liberal idealism they had at first assumed she would: that spirit of everything is for the best in the best of all possible worlds, which would one day be shorthand for ‘The Sixties’.
Frances managed to bring out: ‘You are perhaps planning to contribute something to her support?’ – and realised that, saying this, she was agreeing.
At this Johnny glanced around the young faces, judging if they were as shocked by her pettiness as he was. ‘Money,’ he said loftily, ‘is really not the point here.’
Frances was again silenced. She got up, went to the working surface near the stove, stood with her back to the room.
‘I want to bring Tilly here,’ said Johnny. ‘And in fact she’s here. She’s in the car.’
Colin and Andrew both got up and went to their mother, standing on either side of her. This enabled her to turn around and face Johnny across the room. She could not speak. And Johnny, seeing his former wife flanked by their sons, three angry people with white accusing faces, was also, but just for the moment, silenced.
Then he rallied, stretched out his arms, palms towards them, and said, ‘From each according to their capacity, to each according to their need.’ And let his arms drop.
‘Oh, that is so beautiful,’ said Rose.
‘Groovy,’ said Geoffrey.
The newcomer, Jill, breathed, ‘Oh, it’s lovely.’
All eyes were now on Johnny, a situation he was well used to. He stood, receiving rays of criticism, beams of love, and smiled at them. He was a tall man, Comrade Johnny, with already greying hair cut like a Roman’s, at your service always, and he wore tight black jeans, a black leather Mao jacket especially made for him by an admiring comrade in the rag trade. Severity was his preferred style, smiling or not, for a smile could never be more than a temporary concession, but he was smiling boldly now.
‘Do you mean to say,’ said Andrew, ‘that Tilly’s been out there in the car waiting, all this time?’
‘Good God,’ said Colin. ‘Typical.’
‘I’ll go and bring her in,’ said Johnny, and marched out, brushing past his ex-wife and Colin and Andrew, not looking at them.
No one moved. Frances thought if her sons had not been so close, enveloping her with their support, she would have fallen. All the faces around the table were turned towards them: that this was a very bad moment, they had at last understood.
They heard the front door open – Johnny of course had a key to his mother’s house – and then in the doorway to this room, the kitchen, stood a little frightened figure, in a big duffel-coat, trembling with cold, trying to smile, but instead out of her burst a great wail, as she looked at Frances, who she had been told was kind and would look after her, ‘until we get things straightened out’. She was a little bird blown by a storm, and Frances was across the room to her, and had her arms round her, saying, ‘It’s all right, shhh, it’s all right.’ Then she remembered this was not a child, but a girl of fourteen or so, and her impulse, to sit down and hold this waif on her lap was out of order. Meanwhile Johnny, just behind the girl, was saying, ‘I think bed is indicated,’ and then, generally around the room, ‘I’ll be off’ But did not go.
The girl was looking in appeal at Andrew, whom after all she did know, among all these strangers.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll deal with it.’ He put his arm round Tilly, and turned to go out of the room.
‘I’ll put her down in the basement,’ he said. ‘It’s nice and warm down there.’
‘Oh, no, no, no, please,’ cried the girl. ‘Don’t, I cannot be alone, I can’t, don’t make me.’
‘Of course not, if you don’t want to,’ said Andrew. Then, to
