And now Wilhelm, who had just confessed what they would not have guessed, that he was in his eighties, said, ' It is not a question ofwhat I think would be good for her. I must tell you... I am at my wit's end.And now the gravity, the high seriousness of his manner, his style, broke down, and before them they saw a humbled old man, with tears running into his beard. 'It will be no secret to you that I am very fond of Julia. It is hard to see her so ... so...And he went out. 'Excuse me, you must excuse me.'
Frances said, 'And who is going to say first, I'm not going to look after that dog?'
Wilhelm arrived with a tiny terrier that he had already named Stuckschel a scrap, a little thing and as a joke had put a blue ribbon around its neck. Julia's immediate reaction was to back away from it, as it yapped around her skirts, and then, seeing her old friend's anxiety that she like it, made herself pat the dog and try to calm it. She put on a good enough act to make Wilhelm think that she might learn to like the creature, but when he went, and she had to see to the dog's food, its toilet arrangements, she sat trembling on her chair and thought: He's my best friend and he knows so little about me he thinks I want a dog.
There followed unpleasant days: food for the dog, messes on her floors, smells and the restless little creature who yapped and drove Julia to tears. How could he? she muttered, and when Wilhelm arrived to see how things went, her efforts to be nice told him what a bad mistake he had made.
But, my dear, it would be good for you to take him for a walk. What have you called him? Fuss! I see. And he went off, wounded, so now she had to worry about him too.
Fuss, who knew this mistress hated him, found his way to Colin, who liked the creature because it made him laugh. Fuss became Vicious, because of the absurdity of this minute thing growling and defending itself, and snapping with its jaws the size of Julia's sugar tongs. Its paws were like puffs of cotton wool, its eyes like little black pawpaw seeds, its tail a twist of silvery silk. Vicious now went everywhere with Colin, and so the dog that had been meant to be good for Julia became good for Colin, who had no friends, went for solitary walks around the Heath, and was drinking too much. Nothing serious but enough for Frances to tell him she was worried. He flared up with, 'I don't like being spied on.' The real trouble was that he hated being dependent on Julia and his mother. He had written two novels, which he knew were no good, and was at work on a third, with Wilhelm Stein as a mentor. He was pleased that Andrew had returned to the condition of being dependent. Having done well in his exams, Andrew had left home to set himself up with a group of lawyers, but decided he wanted to do international law. He came home, and was going to Oxford, Brasenose, for a two-year course.
Sylvia had become a junior doctor, much younger than most, and was working as hard as they do. When she did come home she walked in a trance of exhaustion up the stairs, not seeing anyone, or anything; she was already in her mind in her bed, able to sleep at last. She might sleep the clock around, then take a bath and was off. Often she did not even say hello to Julia, let alone kiss her goodnight.
But there was something else. Sylvia's father, her real one, Comrade Alan Johnson, had died and left her money, quite a bit. The letter from the lawyer came accompanied by a letter from him, obviously written when drunk, saying he had understood that she, Tilly, was the only real thing in his life. You are my legacy to the world, ' apparently considering the substantial legacy a mere derisory material contribution. She did not remember ever having seen him.
Sylvia dropped in to see Julia, to tell her the news and to say, You've been so good to me, but I won't need any more handouts. ' Julia had sat silent, twisting her hands about in her lap, as if Sylvia had hit her. The gracelessness was because of exhaustion. Sylvia was simply not herself. She was not built for continuous over-strain and stress, was still a wisp of a girl, her big blue eyes always a little red. She had a bit of a cough, too.
Wilhelm met Sylvia as she came up the stairs after a week of work and almost no sleep, and asked her advice about Julia as a doctor, but Sylvia replied, 'Sorry, haven't done geriatrics' and pushed past him to get to her bed, where she fell and was asleep.
Julia had overheard. She was listening from the upstairs landing. Geriatrics. She brooded, suffered; everything was an affront to her in her paranoid state for it was that. She felt Sylvia had turned against her.
Sylvia had read the lawyer's letter when she was hungering for sleep like a prisoner under torture, or a young mother with a new baby. She went down to Phyllida with the letter in her hand, and found her looming about her flat in a kimono covered with astral signs. She cut into Phyllida's sarcastic, 'And to what do I owe the honour...' with, 'Mother, has he left you money?'
Who? What are you talking about?'
My father. He's left me money. '
At once Phyllida's face seemed to burst into anger, and Sylvia said, ' Just listen, that's all I ask, just listen. '
But Phyllida was off, her voice in the swell and fall of her lament, And so I count for nothing, of course I don't count, he's left you the money...But Sylvia had flung herself into a chair and was asleep. There she lay, limp, quite gone away from the world.
Phyllida was suspicious that this was a trick or a trap. She peered down at her daughter, even lifted a flaccid hand and let it drop. She sat down, heavily, amazed, shocked and silenced. She did know Sylvia worked hard, everyone knew about the young doctors... but that she could go off to sleep, just like that... Phyllida picked up the letter which had fallen on the floor, read it, and sat with it in her hand. She had not had the opportunity to sit and look at her daughter, really look, for years. Now she did look. Tilly was so thin and pale and washed out it was a crime, what they expected of young doctors, someone should pay for it...
These thoughts ran out into silence. The heavy curtains were drawn, the whole house was quiet. Perhaps Tilly should be woken? She would be late for work. That face it was not at all like hers. Tilly's mouth, it was her father's, pink and delicate. Pink and delicate would do to describe him, Comrade Alan, a hero, well let them think it. She had married two communist heroes, first one, and then the other. What was the matter with her, then? (This until now uncharacteristic self-criticism was soon to take her into the Via Dolorosa of psychotherapy and from there into a new life.)
These thoughts ran out into silence. The heavy curtains were drawn, the whole house was quiet. Perhaps Tilly should be woken? She would be late for work. That face it was not at all like hers. Tilly's mouth, it was her father's, pink and delicate. Pink and delicate would do to describe him, Comrade Alan, a hero, well let them think it. She had married two communist heroes, first one, and then the other. What was the matter with her, then? (This until now uncharacteristic self-criticism was soon to take her into the Via Dolorosa of psychotherapy and from there into a new life.)
When Tilly came down to tell her of the legacy, was that boasting? A taunt? But Phyllida's sense of justice told her it was not so. Sylvia was full of airs and graces and she hated her mother, but Phyllida had never known her spiteful.
Sylvia woke with a start and thought she was in a nightmare. Her mother's face, coarse, red, with wild accusing eyes, was just above her, and in a moment that voice would start, as it always did, talking at her, shouting at her. You have ruined my life. If I hadn't had you my life would have been... You are my curse, my millstone...
Sylvia cried out and pushed her mother away, and sat up. She saw her letter in Phyllida's hand, and snatched it. She stood up and said, 'Now listen, mother, but don't say anything, don't say anything, please, it's unfair he gave me all the money, I'll give you half. I'll tell the lawyer. And she ran out of the room, with her hands over her ears.
Sylvia informed the lawyers, having consulted with Andrew, and the arrangements were made. Giving Phyllida halfmeant that a substantial legacy became a useful sum, enough to buy a good house, insurance security. Andrew told her to get financial advice.
Suddenly there was only one set of fees to pay Andrew's. Frances decided that the next time she was offered a good part she would take it.
Once again Wilhelm knocked on the kitchen door, but this time Doctor Stein was all smiles, and as bashful as a boy. Again it was Sunday evening, and Frances and the two young men were making a family scene at the supper table.
'I have news,' said Wilhelm to Frances. 'Colin and I have news.' He produced a letter and waved it about. 'Colin, you should read it aloud... no? Then I shall. '
And he read out a letter from a good publisher, saying that Colin's novel, The Stepson, would be published soon, and that great things were hoped for it.
Kisses, embraces, congratulations, and Colin was inarticulate with pleasure. In fact, the letter had been expected. Wilhelm had read and condemned Colin's two earlier attempts, but this one had been approved by him, and he had found the publisher a friend. And Colin's long apprenticeship to his own patience and stubbornness was over. While the humans kissed and exclaimed and hugged, the scrap of a dog bounced and barked, its tiny yaps ecstatic with the need to join in, and then it leaped on to Colin's shoulder and stood there, its feather of a tail going like a windscreen-wiper all over Colin's face, and threatening his spectacles.
' Vicious, down, ' chided Colin, and the absurdity choked him with tears and laughter and he jumped up, shouting, ' Vicious, Vicious... and rushed up the stairs with the little dog in his arms.
Wonderful, said Wilhelm Stein, ' wonderful, ' and having kissed the air above Frances's hand, departed, smiling, up to Julia, who, when she had been told the news by her friend, sat silent for some time, then said, And so I was wrong. I was very wrong. And Wilhelm, knowing how Julia hated being in the wrong, turned away, so as not to see the tears of self-criticism in her eyes. He poured two glasses of madeira, taking his time over it, and said, ' He has a considerable talent, Julia. But more important, he knows how to stick at it. '