The Sweetest Dream by Doris Lessing Page B

Frances,’ shouted Phyllida, while
Andrew was saying quietly, ‘Hush, don’t shout, I’ll get her.’
    â€˜I’m here,’ said Frances.
    Phyllida was a tall woman, thin as a bone, with a mass of
badly dyed reddish hair, and long needle nails, painted bright
purple. She pointed a large angry hand at Frances and said, ‘I want
my daughter. You have stolen my daughter.’
    â€˜Don’t be silly,’ said Andrew, hovering about the hysterical
woman like an insect trying to decide where it should dart in.
He laid a calming hand on Phyllida’s shoulder but she shook it
off, and Andrew shouted at her, suddenly out of control and
surprised at himself. ‘Stop it.’ He leaned back against a wall,
composing himself. He was trembling.
    â€˜And what about me?’ demanded Phyllida. ‘Who is going to
look after me?’
    Frances found that she was trembling too; her heart thumped,
her breathing was tight: she and Andrew were being affected by
this dynamo of emotional energy. And in fact Phyllida, whose
eyes stared blankly like a ship’s figurehead’s, who stood there erect
and triumphant, seemed calmer than they were.
    â€˜It’s not fair,’ announced Phyllida, pointing her purple
talons at Frances. ‘Why should she come to live here and not
me?’
    Andrew had recovered. ‘Now, Phyllida,’ he said, and the
humorous smile that protected him was back in place, ‘Phyllida,
you really can’t do this, you know.’
    â€˜Why shouldn’t I? she asked, turning her attention to him.
‘Why should she have a home and not me?’
    â€˜But you have a home,’ said Andrew. ‘I’ve visited you there,
don’t you remember?’
    â€˜But he’s going away and leaving me.’ Then, shrieking, ‘He’s
going away and leaving me alone.’ Then, more calmly, to Frances,
‘Did you know that? Well, did you? He’s going to leave me the
way he left you.’
    This rational remark seemed to prove to Frances how
thoroughly the hysteria had transferred itself to her: she was
shaking and her knees were weak.
    â€˜Well, why don’t you say something?’
    â€˜I don’t know what to say,’ Frances brought out. ‘I don’t
know why you are here.’
    â€˜Why? You actually have the nerve to ask why?’ And she
began shouting, ‘Tilly, Tilly, where are you?’
    â€˜Leave her alone,’ said Andrew. ‘You always complain you
can’t handle her, so let us have a shot at it.’
    â€˜But she’s here. She’s here. And what about me? Who is going
to look after me?’
    This cycle was likely to continue.
    Andrew said quietly, but his voice was shaking, ‘You can’t
expect Frances to look after you. Why should she?’
    â€˜But what about me? What about me?’ Now it was more of
a grumble, and for the first time those angry eyes seemed actually
to see Frances. ‘It’s not as if you’re Brigitte Bardot, are you? So
why does he come here all the time?’
    This threw an unexpected light on things. Frances was unable
to speak.
    Andrew said, ‘He comes here because we are here, Phyllida.
We are his sons, remember? Colin and I–have you forgotten
us?’
    It seemed she had. And suddenly, having stood there for a
few moments, she lowered that outstretched accusing finger, and
stood blinking, apparently coming awake. Then she turned and
slammed out of the door.
    Frances felt her whole self go loose. She was shaking so she
had to lean against the wall. Andrew stood limply there, pitifully
smiling. She thought, But he’s too young to cope with this sort
of thing. She staggered to the kitchen door, held on to it while
she went in, and saw Colin and Sophie at the table, eating toast.
    Colin, she could see, was in his mood of disapproving of her.
Sophie had been crying again.
    â€˜Well,’ said Colin, coldly furious, ‘what