The Good Terrorist (34 page)

A silence again. She had now at last almost relaxed in his hold, and he reached over with his right hand to lay it on her waist under her breasts. But she wouldn’t, couldn’t have this, and irritably shook him off.

“They are playing, Alice, like little children with explosives. They are very dangerous people. Dangerous to themselves and to others.”

“And you aren’t dangerous.”

“No.”

She gave a little laugh, derisive but admiring.

“No, Alice. If you do things properly and carefully, then only the people get hurt who should get hurt.”

She thought about this for a long time, and he did not interrupt her. She said, “Who do you take orders from?”

“I take orders. And I give them.”

She thought.

“You were trained in the Soviet Union?”

“Yes.”

“You are Russian,” she stated.

“Half Russian: I had an Irish father. And, no, I am not going to bore you with my interesting history.”

Now a long time went by, about ten minutes. She could easily have been asleep, for she breathed slowly and deeply, but her eyes were open.

He turned slightly towards her, and she instantly clenched up and moved away from him, though still inside his arm.

“You are a very pure, good woman,” said Comrade Andrew softly. “I like that in you.”

This, it seemed, she could have contemplated for even longer than his previous remarks. What he could see on her face was an abstracted, bemused look due to exhaustion, but there was a demureness, too, which almost incited him to further efforts. Almost: something stopped him, perhaps the fact that the demureness was masking a surprisingly violent reaction to the word “pure.” Was she, Alice, pure? Was that what she had been all this time without knowing it? Well, perhaps she would have to think about it; if pure was what she was, then she would have to live with it!
It was the word!
You couldn’t use the word “pure” like that in Britain now, it simply wasn’t on, it was just silly. If he didn’t know that, then … How were they trained, people like Andrew? Perhaps it didn’t matter that he was so alien, so different; after all, Britain was full of foreigners. Had it mattered here, in 43 and 45? Well, that depended on what he wanted to achieve. Carrying on like Lenin hadn’t upset anyone (except Faye and Roberta), but then, she, Alice, knew only part of the picture. What else was he up to?

At last he broke the silence with, “Alice, I think you should take a holiday.”

This so amazed her that she tried to sit up, and he pulled her down.

Now she lay close beside him, and his hot strong body began to send waves of sensation right through her. She was fascinated and disgusted. She kept her eyes straight up at the ceiling, for she knew what she would see if she looked down along his body. She wasn’t going to get involved with
that
, “pure” or not!

She said, “I don’t understand why you are always wanting me to do such middle-class things.”

“What’s middle-class about a holiday? Everyone has to have holidays. Modern life is very bad for everyone.” She thought he was teasing her, but a glance showed him to be serious.

“Anyway, where could I go? You despise all the people I know.”

“I didn’t say all of them. Of course not.”

“You don’t mind Pat, I seem to remember. Did you know she’s left Bert because she doesn’t think he is serious, either?”

“Yes, I did know.
She
is a serious person. Like you, Alice.”

“Well, you yourself were wanting Bert to do something or other.”

“I have changed my mind about him,” he said severely. “That was an error of judgement on my part.”

“Well, I don’t know,” she said drearily at last. She began a small childish snuffling.

“I do. You are tired, Comrade Alice. You work and you work, and most of these people aren’t worth it.”

At this she let out a real wail, like a child, turned to him, and was held, like a child, against him, while he made consoling, soothing noises. She cried herself out.

“Poor Alice,” he said at last. “But it is no good crying. You are going to have to make a decision. Look, these two Errol Flynns are going to Moscow. Why don’t you leave before they come back?”

“Errol Flynn!”

“Don’t you like Errol Flynn? I have always enjoyed his films.”

“There is a great difference in our two cultures,” she said,
dreamily, speaking into his chest. They were lying in such a way that his hard protrusion was kept away from her, so she didn’t mind it.

“That is very true. But surely people like Errol Flynn? Why, otherwise, is he a famous star?”

“Well,” she said, “I’m going to think about all this.”

“Yes, you must.”

“And when are you coming back?”

“How did you know I was going away?”

“Oh, I just thought you might be.”

He hesitated. “You are right, as it happens. I shall be away, probably, for some weeks—” He felt her seem to shrink, and he said, “Or perhaps only for a week or two.” Another pause. “And, Alice,” he said, “you must, you
must
separate yourself. Believe me, Alice, I’m not without experience of … this type of person. Where they are, there is always trouble.”

After some minutes, she sat up, putting aside his hands in a tidy, housewifely way.

She said, “Thank you, Comrade Andrew. I shall think carefully about everything you have said.”

“And thank you, Comrade Alice. I am sure you will.”

From the door, she turned to give him an awkward smile, and went out, hurrying so as not to have to talk to Muriel, who, though a serious person, was not one Alice was prepared to like, even at the behest of Comrade Andrew.

The few days that followed were the happiest she had known.

Usually, when Jasper was in tow—a phrase other people had used, not she—to a brother figure, like Bert, she saw little of him. But they were asking her to accompany them in everything they did. The cinema, more than once. The National Theatre—Bert said that Shakespeare had many lessons for the struggle, and they must learn to use every weapon life offered them if they were not to be primitive Marxists. They spent an evening in a pub that Alice knew was chosen carefully by Jasper so as not to show her even a whisker of that other life of his. And not to show Bert, either …

But best of all, though they did not go slogan-painting, which
was Alice’s favourite, Jasper suggested a day’s demonstrating. This he did, she knew, to please her, and to make up for his being away.

The discussions about where, and against whom, they would demonstrate were as agreeable as the expedition itself. Of course, in this fascistic stage of Britain’s history, there could not be any lack of something to protest about; but it happened that the coming weekend would be rich in choice. The Defence Secretary was to speak in Liverpool, the Prime Minister in Milchester, and a certain fascistic American professor in London. His “line”—that the differences between human beings were genetically, not culturally determined—incensed, as was to be expected, the Women’s Movement, and Faye became hysterical at the mention of his name. On the Friday evening, they sat around, after a good supper of Alice’s soup and pizza, and talked about the next day.

The kitchen was mellow, alive. The jug on the little stool held tulips and lilacs. Reggie and Mary had contributed two bottles of red wine, about which Reggie—
naturally
—talked knowledgeably.

Although tomorrow it would be May, they seemed enclosed by a steady cold rain, and that made this scene, this company, even pleasanter. So Alice thought, smiling and grateful, although her heart ached. Her poor heart seemed to live a life of its own these days, refusing to be brought to heel by what she thought. But to linger there all evening, with good friends, was agreeable. For, since the party which had made them one, many of the stresses seemed to have gone.

Even Philip, who would be working all weekend and could not demonstrate with them, contributed useful thoughts. For instance, that the Greenpeace demo would have been his choice: it was only because of the efforts of Greenpeace that the government had had to admit the extent of the radioactive pollution; otherwise it would certainly have gone on lying about it. Reggie and Mary, bound tomorrow for Cumberland, liked this: what they felt had been said. For they—they could not prevent it from showing that they felt this—believed that demonstrating on specific issues, such as the spoiling of a coastline, was more effective than a general protest, like “shouting and screaming at Maggie Thatcher.”

Thus showing what he felt about much of their politics, or at least their methods, Reggie did slightly chill the good humour, which was strong enough to let them tease the Greenpeace couple in a robust chorus of “ohhh”s and groans.

“That’s right,” said Mary, putting her hand into Reggie’s for support; “you aren’t going to change
her
ideas with a few boos. But facts will unlodge them.”

“I agree,” said Philip. It was an effort for him to do this—challenge the real power holders of the commune (as they were now calling it, not a squat). But he did it. He looked even frailer and smaller than he had before he started this new job. There was a peaky, sharp-edged look to him. His eyes were red. But there was a tough, angry little look, too; he was being given a bad time at his work, which, said the Greek, his employer, went too slowly.

Oh yes, all this love and harmony was precarious enough, Alice was thinking as she sat and smiled; just one little thing—puff!—and it would be gone. Meanwhile, she put both hands around her mug of coffee, feeling how its warmth stole through her, and thought: It is like a family, it
is
.

Faye was saying, her teeth showing as she bared them, in her characteristic cold excitement, “Boos! Screams! I’m going to
kill
him! What right has he got to come here with all the filthy poison of his about women. We have enough reactionaries of our own!”

Roberta said, “All creeping out of their little holes and showing their true colours. Are you coming with us, Jasper? Bert? Show solidarity with the women?”

A pause. It was to Milchester that Alice longed to go. To Mrs. Thatcher. But here was a lift to Liverpool, and that would cost nothing. Jasper knew she wanted Milchester. So did Bert. She had said she had no money. Which was true; only her Social Security. She was ready to go to Liverpool. She hated the Defence Secretary, and not only because of his policies—there was something about that sly, malevolent Tory face of his.…

As for the fascist American professor, she could not see what Roberta and Faye and all the others were on about. She had never been able to see why the word “genetic” should provoke such rage.
She thought they were silly, and even frivolous. If that’s how things were, then—they were. One had to build around that.

Once, long ago, during her student days, she had said—earnestly, enquiringly (in a genuine attempt at harmony based on shared views)—that women had breasts “and all that kind of thing,” whereas men “were differently equipped,” and surely that must be genetic? And if so, then the glands and hormones must be different? Genetically? This had caused such a storm of resentment that the commune had taken days to recover. All this sex business, she thought, was like that! Anything to do with sex! It simply made people unbalanced. Not themselves. One simply had to learn to keep quiet and let them all get on with it! Provided they left her out of it.…

Twenty years ago, more, her mother, in her slapdash, friendly, loud, earth-motherish way, had informed Alice that she would shortly menstruate, but she was sure she knew all about that anyway. Of course Alice had known about it from school, but her mother’s saying it put it on her agenda, so to speak, made it all real. She was angry, not with Nature, but with her mother. Thereafter, her attitude towards “the curse”—her mother insisted on using this jolly word for it, saying it was accurate—was one of detached efficiency. She was not going to let anything so tedious get in the way of living.

When people probed her about her attitudes towards feminism, sexual politics, it was always this beginning (as she saw it) that she went back to in her mind. “Of course people
ought
to be equal,” she would say, starting already to sound slightly irritated. “That goes without saying.” In short, she was always finding herself in a false position.

Now she sat silent, cuddling her rapidly cooling coffee, smiling away, and waiting for the subject of the fascist professor to pass.

It did, and Bert remarked, “I’ve always liked Milchester.”

This seemed to various people thoroughly off the point. Was he drunk, perhaps? He certainly was drinking more than his share. Everyone was humouring him these days, because of Pat. Unconsciously, probably. His appearance, his condition claimed this from
them. He was gaunt, morose, even absent-minded; it was as though other thoughts ran parallel to the ones he expressed.

He went on, “It’s always been a garrison town.”

Incredulous exclamations. Faye said, “God, you’re mad, you like that? War, soldiers?”

Bert said, “But it’s interesting. Why should towns go on being the same, century after century. Milchester was a garrison town under the Romans.”

A silence. Thrown off balance by this note so different from their usual one, they remembered that he had done History at university.

“Countries, for that matter,” said Bert. “Britain goes on being the same. Russia goes on being the same. Germany—”

“Any minute now we are going to have national characters, like genetic doom,” said Faye, furious.

Bert, recalled to himself by her tone, shrugged, and sat silent.

“We’ll go to Milchester,” said Jasper, and, catching Alice’s glance, smiled, then winked. Proudly: he was proud of being nice to her. This meant he would pay for her, the train fare. Weekend return.
Eleven pounds
. For the three of them, thirty-three pounds. With that they could buy … But that was silly; people had to have a break. Holidays. Comrade Andrew had said so.

She smiled intimately at Jasper, tears of gratitude imminent, but his eyes shifted away from the pressure of her emotion.