The Good Terrorist. Doris Lessing
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his wide blue eyes full of light, his long elegant white hands, his sheaves of glistening pale hair. He had his tools with him.
She said, ‘The electricity?’ and walked before him to the ravaged kitchen, knowing that here was something else she must confront and solve. He followed, shut the door after him and said, ‘Alice, if I finish the work here, can I move in?’
She now knew she had expected this. Yes, every time that arrangement, he and his girlfriend, had come up, there had been something not said.
He said, ‘I’ve been wanting to be independent. On my own.’ Knowing she was thinking of the others, their plans, he said, ‘I’m CCU. I don’t see why there should be any problem?’
But not IRA, thought Alice, but knew she would deal with all that later. ‘If it’s up to me, yes,’ she said. Would that be enough? He had taken her as the boss here – as who would not?
He now turned his attention to the ripped wires that were tugged right out of the plaster; the stove, that had been pulled out to lie on its side on the floor.
Bitterness was on his face; the same incredulous rage she felt. They stood together, feeling they could destroy with their bare hands those men who had done this.
Men like the dustmen, thought Alice steadily, making herself think it. Nice men. They did it. But when we have abolished fascist imperialism, there won’t be people like that.
At this thought appeared a mental picture of her mother who, when Alice said things of this kind, sighed, laughed, looked exhausted. Only last week she had said, in her new mode, bitter and brief and flat, ‘Against stupidity the gods themselves.’
‘What’s that?’ Alice had asked.
‘Against – stupidity – the gods – themselves – contend – in vain,’ her mother had said, isolating the words, presenting them to Alice, not as if she had expected anything from Alice, but reminding herself of the uselessness of it all.
The bitterness Alice felt against the Council, the workmen, the Establishment, now encompassed her mother, and she was assaulted by a black rage that made her giddy, and clenched her hands. Coming to herself she saw Philip looking at her, curious. Because of this state of hers which he was judging as more violent than the vandalizing workmen deserved?
She said, ‘I could kill them.’ She heard her voice, deadly. She was surprised at it. She felt her hands hurting, and unclenched them.
‘I could too,’ said Philip, but differently. He had set down grimy bags of tools, and was standing quietly there, waiting. He was looking at her with his by now familiar and hearttouching obstinacy.
The murderess in Alice took herself off, and Alice said, giving him the promise he had to have before he did any more work, ‘It’s only fair, if you do the work.’
He nodded, believing her, and then transferred that obstinacy of his to the attention he gave the mangled wall. ‘It’s not so bad,’ he said at last. ‘Looks as if they smashed the place up in a bit of a fit of temper, they didn’t do much of a job of it.’
‘What?’ she said, incredulous; for it seemed to her the kitchen or at least two walls of it, were sprouting and dangling cables and wires; and the creamy plaster lay like dough in mounds along the bottom of these walls, which were discoloured and scurfy.
‘Seen worse.’ Then, ‘I’ve got to have the floorboards up, can’t work with that down there.’
The fallen plaster had gone hard, and Alice had to smash it free. The kitchen was full of fine white dust. She worked at floor level, while Philip stood above her on the big table he had dragged to the wall. Then, the plaster and rubbish were in sacks, and she swept up with the handbrush and pan, which were all she had. She was irritable and weepy, for she knew that every inch of the ceiling, the walls, should be washed down, should be painted. And then the house, the whole house was like that, and the roof – what would they find when at last they got that horrible upper floor free of its smelly pails? Who was going to replace slates, how to pay for it all? She was brushing and brushing, and each sweep scuffed up more filth into the air, and she was thinking, I’ve got to get to the Electricity Board, how can I, looking like this.
She stood up, a wraith in the white-dust-filled air, and said, ‘Your friend, is she at home, would she give me a bath?’
Philip did not reply, he was examining a cable with a strong torch.
She said, furious, ‘There were public baths till last year, nice ones, not far, they were in Auction Street. Friends of mine used them – they are in a squat in Belsize Road. Then the Council closed them. They closed them.’ She felt tears hot on her chalky cheeks, and stood, spent, looking imploringly at Philip’s slight, almost girlish back.
He said, ‘We had a rare old row, when I left.’
She thought, She threw him out.
‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘I’ll manage. I’ll get cleaned up and I’m going to the Electricity Board. So be careful, in case they switch it on.’
‘You think you can get them to do that?’
‘I’ve managed it before, haven’t I?’ At the thought of this and other victories, her depression lifted and she was popping with energy again.
In the hall, the two desperadoes were just about to go out into the world of the streets, gardens, neighbours, cats, cars and sparrows.
They looked just like everybody, thought Alice, seeing them turn round, the pretty fair Faye, delicate inside the almost tangible protective ambience of swarthy Roberta, as strong as a tank – as strong as I am, thought Alice, standing there, looking, she knew, like a clown who has just been showered with flour.
‘Well,’ said Faye, humorous, and Roberta commented, ‘Well,’ and the two women laughed, and went out of the door as though all this hard work had nothing to do with them.
‘No good expecting anything,’ said Alice to herself, stoically, after so much experience of those who did and those who wouldn’t. Again she went up to the bathroom and stood naked in desolation, while the bath filled with cold water to the level of the grime mark that showed where she had done all this earlier that day. And again she stood in cold water endeavouring to rid herself of the dirt, her mother’s daughter, thinking viciously of the four years she had lived inside her mother’s house, where hot water came obediently at a touch. They don’t know what it costs, she was muttering, furiously. It all comes from the workers, from us…
She did her best; she put on a nice neat skirt, which she had purloined from her mother, with a joke that it suited her better: she needed a skirt sometimes for respectability, some types of people were reassured by it. She put on another of the little neat-collared shirts, in blue cotton this time, that made her feel herself. She did her best with her hair, which felt greasy and gritty, although she had stood with it held down in a bucket of the unyielding cold water. Then she went into the sitting-room. Pat, relaxed in a big armchair, was asleep. Alice went quietly up and stared down at this unknown woman, who was her ally. She was thinking: She won’t leave yet. She doesn’t want to. She doesn’t think much of Bert, she’s going to stay because of all that love.
Pat lay sprawling all over the chair as if she had dropped down off the ceiling. Her head was back, her face lifted and exposed. Eyes, lips trembled on the verge of opening. Alice expected her to wake, and smile. But Pat stayed asleep, vulnerable under Alice’s meticulous inspection of her. Alice continued to stand there, looking. She felt that she possessed Pat, in this look – her life, what she was and would be. Alice could never have allowed herself to sleep like that, open to anyone to come in and look at. It was careless, foolish, like walking about the streets with money held loose in a hand. Alice came closer and bent right down over Pat, to stare at that innocent face with its lightly-shuttered eyes behind which an inhabitant had gone off into that unknown country. Alice felt curious. What was she dreaming about, looking like a baby that has just napped off after a bottle? Alice began to feel protective, wanting Pat to wake up in