The Good Terrorist (36 page)

“Oh, all right, I know. To be free of Jasper.”

“Poor Alice,” said Pat gently.

“Then poor Pat!”

“That, too!”

Alice put her head down on the arm of her chair, all energy gone out of her, as happened at those times when she was seeing Jasper clearly.

The two women stayed where they were for a few minutes, silent. Alice did not move; Pat smoked restlessly.

Alice said, “There’s another thing, so many people knowing. What’s to stop people from informing?”

“You mean, the police?”

“Yes.”

“Well, who of us would?”

Alice allowed the faces of those in the know to pass before her. Sat straight up, eyes shut, looking at these mental portraits. Faye. Roberta. Bert. Jasper. Pat. Herself. Muriel. Caroline? Jocelin?

“I suppose not,” she said. But she remained where she was, upright, looking. Now it was at the scene of her with Andrew after she had seen the … whatever it was at the bottom of the pit in the garden at 45. Pat did not know about that. Only she, Alice, knew.… Only she, Alice, knew because she had not told, would never tell, anyone else. She was reliable, she was. Because this was true, and because she had confidence in her absolute discretion, she felt confidence in Comrade Andrew.

“Yes, I think I agree with you,” she said. She spoke modestly, with a little air of discretion, of judgement. Pat smiled, and with affection, because this was very much Alice; and she said, deliberately changing the subject and their mood, “And now we are going to have a good time. That’s what I’ve come for!”

Then Pat suggested all kinds of little treats that Alice would never have thought of for herself.

They went to tea at the Savoy, for a start. Pat treated Alice. Pat wore a very smart black wool dress embroidered with bright wools she had bought at a jumble sale, and looked more striking, more fashionable than any other woman in the great pillared, gilded, romantic Savoy. Alice wore a skirt, but otherwise was as usual. They ate a lot, and Pat was fussy about her tea. They came out like successful buccaneers.

Then they spent a morning in Harrods, buying with their eyes. Rather, Pat did: Alice did not care about luxury, but she enjoyed Pat’s enjoyment. Again Pat wore this best dress of hers, the dramatic black wool, which made her, with her vivid glossy colouring, seem exotic, un-English. Then, next day, with the rain easing off, they went to Regent’s Park and walked about among puddles and lilacs and flowering cherries.

Then Pat said she must go back home. She said “home,” Alice noted.

She said to Pat, “Will you come down again? Soon?”

Pat looked self-conscious, laughed, and said, “Alice, I don’t think we will be seeing each other again. Well, perhaps. And yet again, perhaps not …” She was making a joke of it, in her way, but her eyes sent messages of regret.

“Why?” demanded Alice. “But why, why, why?”

Pat sobered, and said, “Alice, I keep telling you, I am serious, unlike those two bloody lunatics of ours.”

And with this she kissed Alice, tears in her eyes, and went off, running, to the tube. Out—Alice could see—of her life.

Alice slept on this, too, but did not feel enlightened when she woke in the morning. Perhaps she did not want to be.

She seemed to have lost impetus, did not feel like doing anything. Joan Robbins was in her garden. Alice stood talking with her for a time. Among other things, she learned that the two houses had been empty for six years. “Well, not exactly empty,” said Joan Robbins, embarrassed; and went on to talk of the people who had been there before the Council had commandeered the homes, families with children, grandparents, many visitors. They had been keen gardeners; the two gardens had been wonderful.

Soon some kind of social worker arrived and brought the old lady down to sit in the garden. Alice talked to her, too. As always when she stepped out of her own life, into the world of ordinary people, she felt divided, confused. Thus had she felt all the time she lived with Jasper in her mother’s house; it was why she had not wanted to stay there, was always pressing Jasper to leave. Now, after weeks with her own kind, comrades of one sort or another, her belief that her kind of life was the only one (for her now, for everybody later) was strengthened. Joan Robbins seemed to her pathetic, fussing over her clematis with fungicides and sprays; the old woman was half demented, and driving Joan Robbins crazy with continual demands. Alice, thinking firmly, “Life simply oughtn’t to be like this!,” went back to number 43, and there on the doorstep was Caroline from next door. She had a packet for Alice. She handed it over, said no, she wouldn’t come in, and went off to the bus stop. Alice looked into the packet. It was money. Inside the hall she quickly counted it. Five hundred. With a note from Muriel, saying, “Comrade Andrew said this was for you.”

Alice slid the packet into her sleeping bag, and went to number 45. As she arrived, Muriel was coming out, with a suitcase. But at first Alice did not recognise her.

She saw then that Muriel was not happy to see her, that she had probably counted on going off before Alice got there.

Alice said, “I must talk to you.”

Muriel said, “I don’t think I have got anything to say.”

They went quickly into the room used by Comrade Andrew, which had become a bedroom, for there were four sleeping bags arranged along the wall.

Muriel stood in the centre of the room, waiting for Alice to get on with it. Her suitcase stood beside her.

Muriel was not wearing battle dress today, or anything like it, but a very well cut linen suit in blue. From Harrods. Alice had seen it there the day before yesterday.

Muriel had her hair in the Princess Diana sheepdog cut.

Alice knew that Muriel was an upper-class girl and this was why she disliked her so much. She, like all her kind, had this decisive putting-down manner, implicit in every word and glance. Alice, at her democratic progressive school, which was full of such girls, had decided in the first week that she loathed them and always would.

Another thought well to the forefront of her mind was that Comrade Andrew had had an affair with Muriel because of the attraction of such girls for working-class people who professed to despise them.

“Why did Comrade Andrew leave this money for me?”

“It is nothing to do with me. Nothing at all,” said Muriel, as cuttingly and definitively as Alice expected.

“He must have said something.”

The two young women were standing facing each other in the large room, full of light, and also of traffic noise from the main road.

“Damn this bloody traffic,” said Muriel, and went to the windows, one, two, three, shutting each with a slam.

She returned to stand opposite Alice, having in the interval (which was why she had gone to the windows) made up her mind what to say.

Alice forestalled her with, “What am I supposed to do in return?”

At this Comrade Muriel showed a nicely controlled irritation.

“That you would have to discuss with Comrade Andrew, wouldn’t you?”

“But he’s not here. When is he coming back?”

“I don’t know. If he doesn’t come, there will be someone else.” And, since Alice remained obstinately confronting her, she defined the situation as she saw it: “Alice, you are either with us or against us.”

“I’d be with you—with Comrade Andrew—without the money, wouldn’t I?”

“Or do you simply want to go on being one of the useful idiots?”

Alice did not react to this, remained in her stance of infinitely patient, dogged enquiry.

“Lenin,” said Muriel. “A useful idiot: vague and untutored enthusiasm for communism. For the Soviet Union. Fellow travellers. You know.”

Alice had in fact hardly read Lenin. She felt for him a kind of bowing down of her whole person, like a genuflexion, as to the Perfect Man. That such a giant can have lived! was her feeling, and it was enough. If it came to that, she had read not much more of Marx than the
Communist Manifesto
. She had always said of herself, “Well, I am not an intellectual!”—with a feeling of superiority.

Now she felt that the goose-girl was being irrelevant, as well as offensive.

“I do not believe that Comrade Lenin despised people who sincerely admired the achievements of the working class in the communist countries,” said Alice, every bit as decisively, as authoritatively, as Comrade Muriel. Who was silent, gazing at Alice with slightly protuberant, light-blue eyes.

She then remarked, “Comrade Andrew thinks highly of your potential.”

The flash of delight that went through Alice made her impervious to anything Muriel might be thinking. She said humbly, “I’m glad.”

“Well, that’s it, I think,” said Muriel, and picked up her case.

“You’re off to start your career of crime, then?” said Alice, and laughed heartily at what she’d said. Muriel politely smiled, but she was furious.

“I expect it is the BBC,” said Alice thoughtfully. “Or something like that,” she added hastily.

At this, Muriel stood for a moment, with her case in her hand, then she set it down, came a step nearer to Alice, and said deliberately, “Alice, you do not ask such questions. You—do—not—ask—such—questions. Do you understand?”

Alice felt herself in the grip of the dreamy knowing state that she had trusted in all her life. “But first I suppose you are off to one of those spy schools in Czechoslovakia or Lithuania,” she remarked.

Muriel gasped, and went red. “Who told you?”

“No one told me. If you are off somewhere, looking like that, then I suppose … I suppose that’s it,” she ended lamely, wondering at herself.

Muriel was looking at her very carefully, her eyes like guns.

“If you have such brilliant inspirations, you should keep them to yourself.”

“I don’t see what you are making such a fuss about; everyone knows that’s where the Soviet spy schools are.”

“Yes, but …” The goose-girl seemed quite wild with exasperation. She was looking at Alice as Alice often found herself being looked at. As though she were, quite simply, not to be credited, not possible! As with Jasper, in such moments, she said stubbornly, “I don’t see it. There’s something perfectly obvious going on, I say something, and then people get upset. I think it is childish,” insisted Alice.

“Then I suppose Andrew told you,” concluded Muriel. “He shouldn’t have.” She stood reflecting for a moment, and then said, “I am quite relieved to be moving out of his sphere. I’ll be happier with someone on a higher level.”

“Isn’t he on a high level?”

“If he were, he wouldn’t be dealing with people like us,” said Muriel, with a sudden, unexpected, intense sentimentality.

Alice laughed in astonishment that Muriel could admit, even in a maudlin moment, she was on a lower level than anyone at all.

“No,” said Muriel, “he’s off for more training, too. And in my view he could do with it. There’s something a good deal wrong with his judgement, sometimes.”

With this, she again grasped her case, lifted it, and went to the door, saying, “Well, good-bye. I don’t suppose we shall see each other again. Unless you decide to go for training, too. Comrade Andrew is going to suggest it.” Her tone made it quite clear what she thought of Comrade Andrew’s plan.

But Alice had suddenly understood something else. She said wildly, “Good God, I’ve just seen—Pat is going, too, she is, isn’t she?”

“If she told you, she shouldn’t have,” said Muriel.

“She didn’t, no, she didn’t. I’ve just …”

“I’m late,” said Muriel, and walked firmly away from Alice, showing a degree of relief that made Alice think, Well, she’s going to need a lot of training, not to show every little thing that’s going through her mind.

She went slowly back to number 43 and sat by herself in the kitchen, at the table, thinking.

The strongest thought, which was more a feeling, or an ache, was that Jasper had not told her he had believed he would be away for months. Yes, he had been “nice” to make up for it. But he had not told her! He had never before betrayed her. Yes, of course, there had always been a part of his life she was not told about; she accepted that. But politics—there everything had been discussed.

He had become capable of going off for six months, a year, and not saying a word. Bert? It was Bert’s influence?

Yes, of course, there was the question of security, she could see that. But that did not change how she felt.

Something had been cut between him and her; he had severed himself from her.

She was going to do something about it—leave, go to another commune, give him up (but at this she went cold and sad all
over), tell him that … tell him something or other, but she wouldn’t go on like this. People were right, he made use of her.

With this, she took the packet of Comrade Andrew’s money from its place in the sleeping bag and went to the post office.

Then she returned to the kitchen table, and sat on in the late afternoon, watching the light go out of the sky, feeling the house go dark about her. She did not want to have to talk to anyone, so when she heard Reggie and Mary, she went walking around and about the streets by herself. For some time she stood outside the flats where her mother lived. The lights she could see up the front of the building were none of them her mother’s, for the flat was at the back. She went to peer at the little glow that showed
Mellings
, scribbled on a card. Then she walked home, hoping the kitchen would be empty. It was eleven.

No one was about. She would have a good sleep, and decide what to do in the morning. Probably visit one or other of the communes or squats where she had friends. Or perhaps she would go to the Marxist Summer Festival in Holland. She would be bound to meet people she knew there; and if not, she would soon make new friends.

One thing she was already determined on: she would not be here when Jasper and Bert returned in ten days’ time—no, less than a week now.

She would have liked to sink at once into a deep sleep and get away from thinking, but no one slept much in number 43 that night, for Faye was shouting and screaming and hammering on the walls.

Alice thought, for the first time, that the reason Faye was here, and not in the women’s commune where the two spent so many of their days, was that she was not welcome there—had been thrown out, in fact. They would not put up with this madwoman. They had had enough. Obvious, when you thought of it: she could spend the day there, but not the night, disturbing people’s sleep. But poor Roberta! Her low, urgent, kind voice was at work nearly all night, soothing and admonishing.