Read Online The Sweetest Dream by Doris Lessing - Free Book Online

to go on, and changed his tune to a comradely appeal
to her better nature. ‘Phyllida really isn’t well.’
    â€˜And what am I expected to do about it?’
    â€˜I want you to keep an eye on her.’
    â€˜No, Johnny.’
    â€˜Then Andrew can. He’s got nothing better to do.’
    â€˜He’s busy looking after Tilly. She is really ill, you know.’
    â€˜A lot of it is just playing for sympathy.’
    â€˜Then why did you dump her on us?’
    â€˜Oh . . . fuck it,’ said Comrade Johnny. ‘Psychological
disorders are not my line, they’re yours.’
    â€˜She’s ill. She’s really ill. And how long are you going for?’
    He looked down, frowned. ‘I said I’d go for six weeks. But
with this new crisis . . .’ Reminded of the crisis, he said, ‘I’m going
to catch the news.’ And he ran out of the kitchen.
    Frances heated soup, a chicken stew, garlic bread, made a
salad, piled fruit on a dish, arranged cheeses. She was thinking
about the poor child, Tilly. The day after the girl had arrived,
Andrew had come to where she was working in her study, and
said, ‘Mother, can I put Tilly into the spare room? She really can’t
sleep in my room, even though that’s what I think she’d like.’
    Frances had been expecting this: her floor really had four
rooms, her bedroom, her study, a sitting-room, and a small room
which, when Julia ran the house, had been a spare room. Frances
felt that this floor was hers, a safe place, where she was free from
all the pressures, all the people. Now Tilly and her illness would
be across a small landing. And the bathroom . . . ‘Very well,
Andrew. But I can’t look after her. Not the way she needs.’
    â€˜No. I’ll look after her. I’ll clear the room for her.’ Then, as
he turned to run up the stairs, he said quietly, urgently, ‘She really
is in a bad way.’
    â€˜Yes, I know she is.’
    â€˜She’s afraid we are going to put her in a loony bin.’
    â€˜But of course not, she’s not crazy.’
    â€˜No,’ he said, with a twisted smile, more of an appeal than
he knew, ‘But perhaps I am?’
    â€˜I don’t think so.’
    She heard Andrew bring the girl down from his room, and
the two went into the spare room. Silence. She knew what was
happening. The girl was lying curled on the bed, or on the floor,
and Andrew was cradling her, soothing her, even singing to her–she had heard him do that.
    And that morning, she had observed this scene. She was
preparing food for this evening, while Andrew sat at the table with
Tilly, who was wrapped in a baby’s shawl, which she had found
in a chest, and appropriated. In front of her was a bowl of milk
and cornflakes, and another was before Andrew. He was playing
the nursery game. ‘One for Andrew . . . now one for Tilly . . .
one for Andrew . . .’
    At ‘one for Tilly’ she opened her mouth, while the great
anguished blue eyes stared at Andrew. It seemed she did not know
how to blink. Andrew tilted in the spoon, and she sat with her
lips closed, but not swallowing. Andrew made himself swallow
his mouthful, and started again. ‘One for Tilly . . . one for
Andrew . . .’ Minute amounts of food arrived in Tilly’s mouth,
but at least Andrew was getting something down him.
    Andrew said to her, ‘Tilly doesn’t eat. No, no, it’s much worse
than me. She doesn’t eat at all.’
    That was before anorexia was a household word, like sex, and
AIDS.
    â€˜Why doesn’t she? Do you know?’ Meaning, please tell me
why you find it so hard to eat.
    â€˜In her case I would say it’s her mother.’
    â€˜Not in your case, then?’
    â€˜No, I would say that in my case it’s my father.’ The humorous
deprecation, the winning ways of that