The Good Terrorist. Doris Lessing
Читать онлайн книгу.
Manly. Voices and laughs, we make them up…Roberta’s made-up voice, comfortable. And that was Pat’s quick light voice and her laugh. Her own laugh? Perhaps. So they were both back and that meant that Jasper was too. Alice was out of her sleeping-bag, and tugging on a sweater, a smile on her face that went with her feelings for Jasper: admiration and wistful love.
But Jasper was not in the kitchen with the other two, who were glowing, happy, fulfilled, and eating fish and chips.
‘It’s all right, Alice,’ said Pat, pulling out a chair for her. ‘They arrested him, but it’s not serious. He’ll be in court tomorrow morning at Enfield. Back here by lunchtime.’
‘Unless he’s bound over?’ asked Bert.
‘He was bound over for two years in Leeds, but that ended last month.’
‘Last month?’ said Pat. Her eyes met Bert’s, found no reflection there of what she was thinking – probably against her will, Alice believed; and, so as not to meet Alice’s, lowered themselves to the business of eating one golden crisp fatty chip after another. This was not the first time Alice had caught suggestions that Jasper liked being bound over – needed the edge it put on life. She said apologetically, ‘Well, he has had to be careful so long, watching every tiny little thing he does, I suppose…’ She was examining Bert who, she knew, could tell her what she needed to know about the arrest. Jasper was arrested, but Bert not; that in itself…
Pat pushed over some chips, and Alice primly ate one or two, thinking about cholesterol.
‘How many did they arrest?’
‘Seven. Three we didn’t know. But the others were John, Clarissa and Charlie. And Jasper.’
‘None of the trade union comrades?’
‘No.’
A silence.
Then Bert, ‘They have been fining people twenty-four pounds.’
Alice said automatically, ‘Then probably Jasper will get fifty pounds.’
‘He thought twenty-five. I gave him twenty so he’d have enough.’
Alice, who had been about to get up, ready to leave, said quickly, ‘He doesn’t want me down there? Why not? What did he say?’
Pat said, carefully, ‘He asked me to tell you not to come down.’
‘But I’ve always been there when he’s been arrested. Always. I’ve been in court every time.’
‘That’s what he said,’ said Bert. ‘Tell Alice not to bother.’
Alice sat thinking so intently that the kitchen, Bert and Pat, even the house around her vanished. She was down at the scene of the picket. The van loaded with newspapers appeared in the gates, its sinister gleaming look telling everyone to hate it; the pickets surged forward, shouting; and there was Jasper, as she had seen him so often, his pale face distorted with a look of abstracted and dedicated hate, his reddish crop of gleaming hair. He was always the first to be arrested, she thought proudly, he was so dedicated, so obviously – even to the police – self-sacrificing. Pure.
But there was something that didn’t fit.
She said, ‘Did you decide not to get arrested for any reason, Bert?’
Because, if that had been so, one could have expected Jasper too to have returned home.
Bert said, ‘Jasper found someone down there, someone who might be very useful to us.’
At once the scene fell into shape in Alice’s mind. ‘Was he one of the three you didn’t know?’
‘That’s it,’ said Bert. ‘That’s it exactly.’ He yawned. He said, ‘I hate to have to ask, but could you let me have the twenty pounds? Jasper said I should ask you.’
Alice counted out the money. She did not let her gaze rise from this task.
Pat said nicely, ‘That little bundle won’t last long at this rate.’
‘No.’
Alice was praying: Let Bert go. Let him go upstairs. I want to talk to Pat. She was thinking this so hard that she was not surprised when he stood up and said, ‘I’m going to drop around to Felicity’s and get myself a real bath.’
‘I’ll come in a minute,’ said Pat.
Bert went, and the two women sat on.
Alice asked, ‘What is the name of that man next door?’
‘Lenin?’ said Pat. Alice gratefully laughed with her, feeling privileged and special in this intimacy with Pat that admitted her into important conspiracy. Pat went on, ‘He says his name is Andrew.’
‘Where would you say he was from?’
‘Good question.’
‘Ever such an American accent,’ said Alice.
‘The new world language.’
‘Yes.’
They exchanged looks.
Having said all they needed to on this subject, they left it, and Alice said after a pause, ‘I went round this afternoon. To ask them to do something about that mess.’
‘Good idea.’
‘What’s in all those packages?’
‘Leaflets. Books. So it is said.’
‘But with the police around all the time?’
‘The packages weren’t there the day before yesterday. And I bet they’ll be gone by tomorrow. Or gone already.’
‘Did you actually see the leaflets?’
‘No, but I asked. That’s what he said – Andrew. Propaganda material.’
Again a subject was left behind, by unspoken consent.
Pat said, ‘I gather Bert thinks his comrade – the one Jasper was talking to at Melstead – may have some useful leads.’
‘You mean, for the IRA?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Did you hear anything of what they said?’
‘No. But Bert was there part of the time.’
At this Alice could have asked, What does Bert think of him? But she did not care what Bert thought. Pat’s assessment, yes.
‘What did he look like? Perhaps I know him,’ she asked. ‘He wasn’t one of the usual crowd?’
‘I’ve never seen him before, I’m sure. Nothing special to report.’
‘Did – Comrade Andrew tell you to go down to the picket? Did he say anything about Melstead to you? How many times have you been next door?’
Pat smiled and replied, though she indicated by her manner that there was no reason why she should, ‘I have been next door twice. Bert and Jasper have been over much more often. As for Melstead, I get the impression that Comrade Andrew…’ and she slightly emphasized the ‘comrade’, as if Alice would do well to think about it, ‘that Comrade Andrew is not all that keen on cadres from outside joining the pickets.’
Alice said hotly, ‘Yes, but it is our struggle too. It is a struggle for all the progressive forces in the country. Melstead is a focal point for imperialist fascism, and it is not just the business of the Melstead trade unionists.’
‘You asked,’ said Pat. And then, ‘In my view, Comrade Andrew has bigger fish to fry.’ A thrill went through Alice, as when someone who has been talking for a lifetime about unicorns suddenly glimpses one. She looked with tentative excitement at Pat who, it seemed, did not know what she had said. If she had not been implying that they, the comrades at No. 43 Old Mill Road, had unwittingly come closer to great events, then what