The Sweetest Dream by Doris Lessing

of food for ‘the
kids’, seeing all those young faces, listening to their irreverent
confident voices, she felt that she was guaranteeing this future for
them, in a silent promise. Where had this promise originated?
From Johnny, she had absorbed it from Comrade Johnny, and
while her mind was set in criticising him, more and more every
day, she relied emotionally without knowing it on Johnny and
his brave sweet new worlds.
    In a few hours she would sit down and write her article and
say what?
    If she had not taken a stand against stealing, in her own home,
and even when she had come most strongly to disapprove, then
what right had she to tell other people what to do?
    And how confused these poor children were. As she had left
the kitchen last night she had heard them laughing, but uneasily;
had heard James’s voice louder than the others, because he wanted
so much to be accepted by all these free spirits. Poor boy, he had
fled from boringly provincial parents (as she had) to the delights
of Swinging London, and a house described by Rose as Freedom
Hall–she loved the phrase–where he had heard exactly the
same condemnation–he was bound to be stealing, they all did–as he had from his parents.
    It was nine o’clock by now, late for her. She must get up.
She opened the door on to the landing and saw Andrew sitting
on the floor where he could look across at the door of the room
where the girl was. It was open. He mouthed up at her: Look,
just look.
    Pale November sun fell into the room opposite, where a slight
erect figure with an aureole of fair hair, in an old-fashioned pink
garment–a housecoat?–was perched on a high stool. If Philip
were to see this vision now, how easily he could have been
persuaded that this was the girl Julia, his long-ago love. On the
bed, wrapped tight in her baby’s shawl, Tilly was held up by
pillows, and staring with her unblinking gaze at the old woman.
    â€˜No,’ came Julia’s cool precise voice, ‘no, your name is not
Tilly. That is a very foolish name. What is your real name?’
    â€˜Sylvia,’ lisped the girl.
    â€˜So, why do you call yourself Tilly?’
    â€˜I couldn’t say Sylvia when I was little, so I said Tilly.’ These
were more words than any of them had heard from her, at one
time.
    â€˜Very well. I shall call you Sylvia.’
    Julia had in her hand a mug of something with a spoon in it.
Now she carefully, beautifully, caused an appropriate amount of
the mug’s contents–there was a smell of soup–to fill the
spoon, which she held to Tilly’s, or Sylvia’s, lips. Which were
tight shut.
    â€˜Now, listen carefully to me. I am not going to let you kill
yourself because you are foolish. I won’t allow it. And now you
must open your mouth and begin eating.’
    The pale lips trembled a little, but opened, and all the while
the girl was staring at Julia, apparently hypnotised. The spoon
was inserted, and its contents disappeared. The watchers waited,
breathless, to see if there was a swallowing movement. There was.
    Frances glanced down at her son and saw that he was
swallowing in sympathy.
    â€˜You see,’ Julia was going on, while the spoon was again
being recharged, ‘I am your step-grandmother. I do not allow
my children and grandchildren to behave so foolishly. You must
understand me, Sylvia . . .’ In went the spoon–a swallow. And
again Andrew made a swallowing movement. ‘You are a very
pretty clever girl . . .’
    â€˜I’m horrible,’ came from the pillows.
    â€˜I don’t think you are. But if you have decided to be horrible
then you will be, and I won’t allow that.’
    The spoon went in, a swallow.
    â€˜First, I shall make you well again, and then you will go to
school and take your examinations. After that you will go to
university and be a doctor. Now I am sorry I wasn’t a doctor,
but you can be a