When Frances arrived, to take over all the house except for Julia’s top floor, it was a relief to Julia. She still did not like Frances, who seemed determined to shock her, but she loved the boys, and intended to shield them from their parents. In fact, they were afraid of her, at least to start with, but she never found this out. She thought Frances was keeping her from them, did not know that Frances urged them to visit their grandmother. ‘Please, she’s so good to us. And she’d love it if you did.’ Oh, no, it’s too much, do we have to?’
Frances visited the newspaper to establish her job, and she knew how right she had been to prefer the theatre. As a freelance she had had little experience of institutions, and did not look forward to a communal working life. As soon as she set foot in the building that housed The Defender, she recognised there an atmosphere: this was an esprit de corps all right. The Defender’s venerable history, going back into the nineteenth century, as a fighter for any number of good causes, was being continued, so it was generally felt, and most particularly by the people who worked for it; this period, the Sixties, was able to stand up to any of the great times of the past. Frances was being welcomed into the fold by one Julie Hackett. She was a soft, not to say womanly woman, with bundles of strong black hair fastened here and there with a variety of combs and pins, a resolutely unfashionable figure, because she saw fashion as an enslaver of women. She observed everything around her with a view to correcting errors of fact and belief, and she criticised men in every sentence, taking it for granted, as believers tend to do, that Frances agreed with her in everything. She had been keeping an eye on Frances, had seen articles by her here and there, and in The Defender too, but one article had decided her to get her on to the staff. It was a satirical, but good-natured piece about Carnaby Street, which was in the process of becoming a symbol for trendy Britain, and attracting youngsters, not to mention the young in heart, from all over the world. Frances had said that they must all be suffering from some sort of collective hallucination, since the street was grubby, tatty, and if the clothes were attractive – some of them – they were no better than others in streets that did not have the magic syllables Carnaby attached to them. Heresy! A brave heresy, judged Julie Hackett, seeing Frances as a kindred soul.
Frances was shown an office where a secretary was sorting through letters addressed to Aunt Vera, and putting them in heaps, since even the nastiest predicaments of humanity must fall into easily recognised categories. My husband is unfaithful, an alcoholic, beats me, won’t give me enough money, is leaving me for his secretary, prefers his mates in the pub to me. My son is alcoholic, a druggie, has got a girl pregnant, won’t leave home, is living rough in London, earns money but won’t contribute to the household. My daughter … Pensions, benefits, the behaviour of officials, medical problems … but a doctor answered those. These more common letters were dealt with by this secretary, signing Aunt Vera, and it was a flourishing new department of The Defender. Frances’s job was to scan these letters, and find a theme or concern that predominated, and then use it for a serious article, a long one, which would have a prominent place in the paper. Frances could write her articles and do her research at home. She would be of The Defender but not in it, and for this she was grateful.
When she got out of the Underground, coming home from the newspaper, she bought food, and walked down the hill, laden.
Julia was standing at her high window, looking down, when she saw Frances approaching. At least this smart coat was an improvement, not the usual duffel-coat: perhaps one could look forward to her wearing something other than the eternal jeans and jerseys? She was walking heavily, making Julia think of a donkey with panniers. Near the house she stopped, and Julia could see that Frances’s hair had been done, the blondish hair falling straight as straw on either side of a parting, as was the mode.
From some of the houses she had passed, the music pounded and beat, as loud as an angry heart, but Julia had said she would not tolerate loud music, she could not bear it, so while music was played, it was soft. From Andrew’s room usually came the muted tones of Palestrina or Vivaldi, from Colin’s traditional jazz, from the sitting-room where the television was, broken music and voices, from the basement, the throb, throb, throb, that ‘the kids’ needed.
The whole big house was ht up, not a dark window, and it seemed to shed light from walls as well as windows: it exuded light and music.
Frances saw Johnny’s shadow on the kitchen curtains, and at once her spirits took a fall. He was in the middle of a harangue, she could see, from gesticulating arms, and when she reached the kitchen, he was in full flood. Cuba, again. Around the table was an assortment of youngsters, but she did not have time to see who was there. Andrew, yes, Rose, yes … the telephone was ringing. She dropped the heavy bags, took up the receiver, and it was Colin from his school. ‘Mother, have you heard the news?’ ‘No, what news, are you all right, Colin, you just went off this morning …’ ‘Yes, yes, listen, we’ve just heard, it’s on the news. Kennedy’s dead.’ ‘Who?’ ‘President Kennedy.’ ‘Are you sure?’ ‘They shot him. Switch on the telly.’
Over her shoulder she said, ‘President Kennedy is dead. He’s been shot.’ A silence, while she reached for the radio, switched it on. Nothing on the radio. She turned to see every face blank with shock, Johnny’s too. He was being kept silent by the need to find a correct formulation, and in a moment was able to bring out, ‘We must evaluate the situation …’ but could not go on.
‘The television,’ said Geoffrey Bone, and as one ‘the kids’ rose from the table and went out of the room and up the stairs to the sitting-room.
Andrew said, calling after them, ‘Careful, Tilly’s watching.’ Then he ran after them.
Frances and Johnny were alone, facing each other.
‘I take it you came to enquire after your stepdaughter?’ she asked.
Johnny fidgeted: he wanted badly to go up and watch the Six O’clock News, but he planned to say something, and she stood, leaning back against the shelves by the stove, thinking, Well now, let me guess … And as she had expected, he came out with, ‘It’s Phyllida, I am afraid.’
‘Yes?’
‘She’s not well.’
‘So I heard from Andrew.’
‘I’m going to Cuba in a couple of days.’
‘Best if you take her with you, then.’
‘I am afraid the funds wouldn’t run to it and …’
‘Who is paying?’
Here appeared the irritated what-can-you-expect look from which she was always able to judge her degree of stupidity.
‘You should know better than to ask, comrade.’
Once she would have collapsed into a morass of inadequacy and guilt – how easily, then, he had been able to make her feel an idiot.
‘I am asking. You seem to forget, I’ve got reason to be interested in your finances.’
‘And how much are you being paid in this new job of yours?’
She smiled at him. ‘Not enough to support your sons and now your stepdaughter as well.’
‘And feed Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and anyone who turns up expecting a free meal.’
‘What? You wouldn’t have me turn away potential material for the Revolution?’
‘They’re layabouts and junkies,’ he said. ‘Riff-raff’ But he decided not to go on, and changed his tune to a comradely appeal to her better nature. ‘Phyllida