Colin said, like an orator, ‘Keep them guessing,’ and Frances, hearing the quote, had to laugh. ‘That’s it,’ said Andrew, ‘keep them guessing.’
‘Why are you laughing?’ asked Sylvia, ‘what’s funny?’
Andrew at once stopped his mockery, and picked up his spoon again. But it was over, their meal, his and Sylvia’s. ‘Johnny’s coming,’ he said to her. ‘He’s just getting something from the car. If you want to get out of the way …’
‘Oh, yes, I do, yes, please,’ said Johnny’s stepdaughter, and up she got, supported by Andrew’s arm. The two went out. At least they had both eaten something.
Frances called after them, ‘Tell Julia not to come down, otherwise they’ll quarrel again.’
The meal continued, subdued.
The St Joseph contingent were talking about a book Daniel had stolen from a secondhand bookstall, The Ordeal of Richard Feverel. He had read it, said it was groovy, and the tyrannical father was just like his. He recommended it to Geoffrey who pleased him by saying it was great, and then the novel migrated to Sophie who said it was the best book she had ever read, it made her cry. Now Colin was reading it. Rose said, ‘Why can’t I read it? It isn’t fair.’
‘It’s not the only copy in the world,’ said Colin.
‘I’ve got a copy, I’ll lend it to you,’ said Frances.
‘Oh, Frances, thank you, you’re so sweet to me.’
This meant, as everyone knew, I hope you are going to go on being sweet to me.
Frances said, ‘I’ll get it,’ to have an excuse to go out of that room which so soon would swirl with discordant currents. And everything had been so nice until now … She went up to the room just over the kitchen, the sitting-room, found The Ordeal of Richard Feverel in a wall of books, turned and saw that Julia was sitting there alone in the half dark. Not since Frances had taken over the lower part of the house had she found Julia in this room. Now, ideally, she should sit down and try to make friends with Julia, but as always, she was in a hurry.
‘I was on my way down to you all,’ said Julia, ‘but I hear Johnny has arrived.’
‘I don’t see how I can stop him coming,’ said Frances. She was listening downwards, to the kitchen – were they all right there, no quarrels? Upwards … was Sylvia all right?
Julia said, ‘He has a home. It seems to me that he is not often in it.’
‘Well,’ said Frances, ‘if Phyllida is in it, who can blame him?’
She had hoped that this might make Julia at least smile, but instead she was going on, ‘I must say this …’ And Frances waited for what she was sure would be a dose of disapproval. ‘You are so weak with Johnny. He has treated you abominably.’
Frances was thinking, Then why give him the key to the house? – though she knew the mother could hardly say to the son that he couldn’t have a key to a house he thought of as his own. Besides, what about the boys? She said, trying to joke a little, ‘Perhaps we could have the locks changed?’
But Julia took it seriously with, ‘I would see to it if I did not think you would at once give him a new key.’ She got up, and Frances, who had been planning to sit down, saw another opportunity slide away.
‘Julia,’ said Frances, ‘you always criticise me, but you don’t support me.’ And what did she mean by that, except that Julia made her feel like a schoolgirl deficient in everything.
‘What are you saying?’ said Julia. ‘I do not understand.’ She was furious, and hurt.
‘I don’t mean … you have been so good … you are always so generous … no, all I meant was …’
‘I do not believe that I have been lacking in my responsibilities to the family,’ said Julia, and Frances heard, incredulously, that Julia might easily cry. She had hurt Julia, and it was the fact that this was possible that made her stammer, ‘Julia … but Julia … you are wrong, I didn’t mean …’ And then, ‘Oh, Julia,’ in a different tone, which made Julia stop on her way out of the room to examine her, as if she was prepared to be touched, reached: even to reach out herself.
But downstairs a door slammed, and Frances exclaimed, in despair, ‘There he is, it’s Johnny.’
‘Yes, it’s Comrade Johnny,’ said Julia, departing upstairs.
Frances went down into the kitchen and found Johnny in his usual position, standing back to the window, and with him was a handsome black man wearing clothes more expensive than anyone else’s, smiling as Johnny introduced him, ‘This is Comrade Mo, from East Africa.’
Frances sat, pushing the novel across the table at Rose, but she was staring in admiration at Comrade Mo, and at Johnny, who resumed his lecture to impress Comrade Mo, on the history of East Africa and the Arabs.
And now Frances was in a dilemma. She did not want to ask Johnny to sit down. She had asked him – though Julia would never believe this – not to drop in at mealtimes, and to telephone before he came. But here was this guest and of course she must …
‘Would you like something to eat?’ she asked, and Comrade Mo rubbed his hands together and laughed and said he was starving, and at once sat down in the chair next to her. Johnny, invited to sit, said he would just have a glass of wine – he had brought a bottle. Where Andrew and Sylvia had sat, minutes before, now sat Comrades Mo and Johnny, and the two men put on their plates all that was left of the pie, and the vegetables.
Frances was angry to the point where one is dispirited with it: what was the point, ever, of being angry with Johnny? It was obvious he had not eaten for days, he was cramming in bread, taking great mouthfuls of wine, refilling his glass and Comrade Mo’s, in between forkfuls from his plate. The youngsters were seeing appetites even greater than their own.
‘I’ll serve the pudding,’ said Frances, her voice dull with rage.
On to the table now went plates of sticky delights from the Cypriot shops, concoctions of honey and nuts and filo pastry, and dishes of fruit, and her chocolate pudding, made especially for ‘the kids’.
Colin, having stared at his father, and then at his mother: Why did you let him sit down? Why do you let him … ? now got up, scraping back his chair, and pushing it back against the wall with a bang. He went out.
‘I feel this is a real home from home,’ said Comrade Mo, consuming chocolate pudding. ‘And I do not know these cakes? Are they like some cakes we have from the Arab cuisine?’
‘Cypriot,’ said Johnny, ‘almost certainly influenced from the East …’ and began a lecture on the cuisines of the Mediterranean.
They were all listening, fascinated: no one could say that Johnny was dull when not talking about politics, but it was too good to last. Soon he was on to Kennedy’s murder, and the probable roles of the CIA and the FBI. From there he went on to the American plans to take over Africa, and in proof told them that Comrade Mo had been propositioned by the CIA offering vast sums of money. All his teeth and gums showing, Comrade Mo confirmed this, with pride. An agent of the CIA in Nairobi had approached him with offers to finance his party, in return for information. ‘And how did you know he was CIA?’James wanted to know, and Comrade Mo said that ‘everyone knew’ the CIA roamed around Africa, like a lion seeking its prey. He laughed, delightedly, looking around for approval. ‘You should all come and visit us. Come and see for yourself and have a good time,’ he said, having little idea he was describing a glorious future. ‘Johnny has promised to come.’
‘Oh, I thought he was going now – at once?’ said James, and now Comrade Mo’s eyes rolled in enquiry to Johnny, while he said, ‘Comrade Johnny’s welcome any time.’
‘So, you didn’t