The Good Terrorist

by Doris Lessing

  She was not at all pretty, or appealing, then, but pale and angry, and her mouth was tight and her eyes hard, and this—how she looked—took sentimentality away from what she said next. “I want to put an end to it all so that children don’t have a bad time, the way I did.”

  Roberta sat there isolated, repudiated, unable to speak.

  Alice said, “But, Faye, do you think I’m not a revolutionary? I agree with every word you say.”

  “I don’t know anything about you, Comrade Alice. Except that you are a wonder with the housekeeping. And with the police. I like that. But just before you came, we took a decision, a joint decision. We decided we were going to work with the IRA. Have you forgotten?”

  Alice was silent. She was thinking, But Jasper and Bert have been discussing things next door, surely? She said, carefully, “I understood that a comrade next door had indicated that …”

  “What comrade?” demanded Roberta, coming to life again. “We know nothing about that.”

  “Oh,” said Alice. “I thought …”

  “It’s just amateurish rubbish,” said Faye. “Suddenly some unknown authority next door says this and that.”

  “I didn’t realise,” said Alice. She had nothing to say. She was thinking: Was it Bert who led Jasper into …? Was it Jasper who …? I don’t remember Jasper doing anything like this before.…

  After some time, while no one said anything, but they all sat separate, thinking their own thoughts, Alice said, “Well, I agree. It is time we all got together and discussed it. Properly.”

  “Including the two new comrades?” enquired Faye, bitter.

  “No, no, just us. Just you and Roberta and Bert and Jasper and Pat and me.”

  “Not Philip and not Jim,” said Roberta.

  “Then the six of us might go to a café or somewhere for a discussion,” said Alice.

  “Quite so,” said Faye. “We can’t have a meeting here, too many extraneous elements. Exactly.”

  “Well, perhaps we could borrow a room in forty-five,” said Alice.

  “We could go and have a lovely picnic in the park, why not?” said Faye, fiercely.

  “Why not?” said Roberta, laughing. It could be seen that she was coming back into the ascendant, sat strong and confident, and sent glances towards Faye which would soon be returned.

  Another silence, companionable, no hard feelings.

  Alice said, “I have to ask this, it has to be raised. Are you two prepared to contribute anything to expenses?”

  Faye, as expected, laughed. Roberta said quickly, reprovingly of Faye—which told Alice everything about the arguments that had gone on about this very subject—“We are going to pay for food and suchlike. You tell us how it works out.”

  “Very cheaply, with so many of us.”

  “Yes,” said Faye. “That’s fair. But you can leave me out of all the gracious living. I’m not interested. Roberta can do what she likes.” And she got up, smiled nicely at them both, and went out. Roberta made an instinctive movement to go after her but stayed put. She said, “I’ll make a contribution, Alice. I’m not like Faye—I’m not indifferent to my surroundings. You know, she really is,” she said urgently, smiling, pressing Alice with Faye’s difference, her uniqueness, her preciousness.

  “Yes, I know.”

  Roberta gave Alice two ten-pound notes, which she took, with no expression on her face, knowing that that would be it, and thanked Roberta, who fidgeted about, and then, unable to bear it, got up and went after Faye.

  It was not yet ten. Mary had said to ring at one. Persuaded by the odours left on the air of the kitchen by Faye, by Roberta, she went up to the bathroom and forced herself into a cold bath, where she crouched, unable actually to lower her buttocks into it, scrubbing and lathering. In a glow she dressed in clean clothes, bundled what she had taken off with Jasper’s clothes that needed a wash—determined by sniffing at them—and was on her way out to the laundrette when she saw the old woman sitting under the tree in the next garden, all sharp jutting limbs, like a heap of sticks inside a jumble of cardigan and skirt. She urgently gesticulated at Alice, who went out into the street and in again at the neat white gate, smiling. She hoped that neighbours were watching.

  “She’s gone out and left me,” said the old woman, struggling to sit up from her collapsed position. “They don’t care, none of them care.” When she went on in a hoarse voice about the crimes of Joan Robbins, Alice deftly pulled up the old dear, thinking that she weighed no more than her bundle of laundry, and tidied her into a suitable position for taking the air. Alice listened, smiling, until she had had enough, then she bent down, to shout into possibly deaf ears, “But she’s very nice to bring you out here to sit in the garden; she doesn’t have to do that, does she?” Then, as the ancient face seemed to struggle and erupt into expostulation, she said, “Never mind, I’ll bring you a nice cup of coffee.”

  “Tea, tea,” urged the crone.

  “You’ll have to have coffee. We’re short of a teapot. Now, you just sit there and wait.”

  Alice went back, made sweet coffee, and brought it to the old woman. “What’s your name?”

  “Mrs. Jackson, Jackson, that’s what I am called.”

  “My name is Alice and I live at forty-three.”

  “You sent away all those dirty people, good for you,” said Mrs. Jackson, who was already slipping down in her chair again, like a drunken old doll, the mug sliding sideways in her hand.

  “I’ll see you in a few minutes,” said Alice, and ran off.

  The laundrette used up three-quarters of an hour. She collected her cup from Mrs. Jackson, and then stood listening to Joan Robbins, who came out of her kitchen to tell Alice that she should not believe the old lady, who was wandering; there was not one reason in the world why she, Joan Robbins, should do a thing for her, let alone help her down the stairs to the garden and up again and make her cups of coffee and … The complaints went on, while Mrs. Jackson gesticulated to both of them that her tale was the right one. This little scene was being witnessed by several people in gardens and from windows, and Alice let them have the full benefit of it.

  With a wave she went back into her own house.

  It was eleven, and a frail apparition wavered on the stairs: Philip, who said, “Alice, I don’t feel too good, I don’t feel …”

  He arrived precariously beside her, and his face, that of a doleful but embarrassed angel, was presented to her for diagnosis and judgement, in perfect confidence of justice. Which she gave him: “I am not surprised, all that work on the roof. Well, forget it today, I’d take it easy.”

  “I would have gone with the others, but …”

  “Go into the sitting room. Relax. I’ll bring you some coffee.”

  She knew this sickness needed only affection, and when Philip was settled in a big chair, she took him coffee and sat with him, thinking: I have nothing better to do.

  She had known that at some time she would have to listen to a tale of wrongs: this was the time. Philip had been promised jobs and not given them; had been turned off work without warnings; had not been paid for work he had done; and this was told her in the hot aggrieved voice of one who had suffered inexplicable and indeed malevolent bad luck, whereas the reason for it all—that he was as fragile as a puppet—was not mentioned; could never, Alice was sure, be mentioned. “And do you know, Alice, he said to me, Yes, you be here next Monday and I’ll have a job for you—do you know what that job was? He wanted me to load great cases of paint and stuff into vans! I’m a builder and decorator, Alice! Well, I did it, I did it for four days, and my back went out. I was in hospital for two weeks, and then in physio for a month. When I went to him and said he owed me for the four days, he said I was the one in the wrong and …” Alice listened and smiled, and her heart hurt for him. It seemed to her that a great deal had been asked of her heart that morning, one poor victim after another. Well, never mind, one day life would not be like this; it was capitalism that was so hard and h
urtful and did not care about the pain of its victims.

  At half past twelve, when she was just thinking that she could go to the telephone booth, she heard someone coming in, and flew to intercept the police, the Council—who this time?

  It was Reggie, who, smiling, was depositing cases in the hall. He said that Mary had slipped out from the meeting to telephone him the good news. And she would be over with another load in the lunch hour. The relief of it made Alice dizzy; then she wept. Standing against the wall by the door into the sitting room, she had both hands up to her mouth as if in an extreme of grief, and her tight-shut eyes poured tears.

  “Why, Alice,” said Reggie, coming to peer into her tragic face, and she had to repel friendly pats, pushes, and an arm around her shoulders.

  “Reaction,” she muttered, diving off to the lavatory to be sick. When she came out, Philip and Reggie stood side by side, staring at her, ready to smile, and hoping she would allow them to.

  And, at last, she smiled, then laughed, and could not stop.

  Philip looked after her; and Reggie, embarrassed, sat by.

  And she was embarrassed: What’s wrong with me? I must be sick too.

  But Philip was no longer sick. He went off to measure up the broken windows for new glass, and Reggie climbed the stairs to look over the rooms. Alice stayed in the kitchen.

  There Mary came to her with a carton of saucepans, crockery, and an electric kettle. She sat herself down at the other end of the table. She was flushed and elated. Alice had heard her laughing with Reggie in the same way Faye and Roberta laughed; and, sometimes, Bert and Pat. Two against the world. Intimacy.

  Alice asked at once, “What are the conditions?”

  “It’s only for a year.”

  Alice smiled, and, on Mary’s look, explained, “It’s a lifetime.”

  “But of course they could extend. If they don’t decide to knock it down after all.”

  “They won’t knock it down,” said Alice confidently.

  “Oh, don’t be so sure.” Now Mary was being huffy on behalf of her other self, the Council.

  Alice shrugged. She waited, eyes on Mary, who, however, really did not seem to know why. At last Alice said, “But what has been decided about paying?”

  “Oh,” said Mary, airily, “peanuts. They haven’t fixed the exact sum, but it’s nothing, really. A nominal amount.”

  “Yes,” said Alice, patient. “But how. A lump sum for the whole house?”

  “Oh no,” said Mary, as though this were some unimaginably extortionate suggestion—such is the power of an official decision on the official mind—“Oh no. Benefit will be adjusted individually for everyone in the house. No one’s in work here, you said?”

  “That isn’t the point, Mary,” said Alice, hoping that Mary would get the point. But she didn’t. Of course not; what in her experience could have prepared her for it?

  “Well, I suppose it would be easier if it was a lump sum, and people chipped in. Particularly as it is so small. Enough to cover the rates, not more than ten or fifteen pounds a week. But that is not how it is done with us.” Again spoke the official, in the decisive manner of one who knows that what is done must be the best possible way of doing it.

  “Are you sure,” enquired Alice carefully, after a pause, “that there really is no possibility of changing the decision?”

  “Absolutely none,” said Mary. What she was in fact saying was: This is such a petty matter that there is no point in wasting a minute over it.

  And so unimportant was it to Mary that she began to stroll around the kitchen, examining it, with a happy little smile, as if unwrapping a present.

  Meanwhile Alice sat adjusting. Faye and Roberta would not agree, would leave at once. Jim, too. Jasper wouldn’t like it—he would demand that both he and Alice should leave. Well, all right, then they would all go. Why not? She had done it often enough! There was that empty house down in Stockwell.… Jasper and she had been talking for months of squatting there. It would suit Faye and Roberta, because their women’s commune was somewhere down there. God only knew what other places, refuges, hideouts they used. Alice had the impression there were several.

  A pity about this house. And as Alice thought of leaving, sorrow crammed her throat, and she closed her eyes, suffering.

  She said, sounding cold and final, because of the stiffness of her throat, “Well, that’s it. I’m sorry, but that’s it.”

  “What do you mean?” Mary had whirled round, and stood, a tragedienne, hand at her throat. “I don’t know what you mean!” she exclaimed, sounding fussy and hectoring.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter to you, does it? You and Reggie can stay here by yourselves. You can easily get friends in, I am sure.”

  Mary collapsed into a chair. From being the happiest girl in the world, she had become a poor small creature, pale and fragile, a suppliant. “I don’t understand! What difference does it make? And of course Reggie and I wouldn’t stay here by ourselves.”

  “Why not?”

  Mary coloured up, and stammered, “Well, of course … it goes without saying … they can’t know I am living here. Bob Hood and the others can’t know I am in a squat.”

  “Oh well, that’s it, then,” said Alice, vague because she was already thinking of the problems of moving again.

  “I don’t understand,” Mary was demanding. “Tell me, what is the problem.”

  Alice sighed and said perfunctorily that there were reasons why some of them did not want their presence signposted.

  “Why,” demanded Mary, “are they criminals?” She had gone bright pink, and she sounded indignant.

  Alice could see that this moment had been reached before, with Militant. Methods!

  Alice said, sounding sarcastic because of the effort she was making to be patient, “Politics, Mary. Politics, don’t you see?” She thought that with Jim it was probably something criminal, but let it pass. Probably something criminal with Faye and Roberta, for that matter. “Don’t you see? People collect their Social Security in one borough, but live somewhere else. Sometimes in several other places.”

  “Oh. Oh, I see.”

  Mary sat contemplating this perspective: skilled and dangerous revolutionaries on the run, in concealment. But seemed unable to take it in. She said, huffily, “Well, I suppose the decision could be adjusted. I must say, I think it is just as well the Council don’t know about this!”

  “Oh, you mean you can get the decision changed?” Alice, reprieved, the house restored to her, sat smiling, her eyes full of tears. “Oh, good, that’s all right, then.”

  Mary stared at Alice. Alice, bashful, because of the depth of her emotion, smiled at Mary. This was the moment when Mary, from her repugnance for anything that did not measure up against that invisible yardstick of what was right, suitable, and proper that she shared with Reggie, could have got up, stammered a few stiff, resentful apologies, and left. To tell Bob Hood that the Council had made a mistake, those people in number 43 …

  But she smiled, and said, “I’ll have a word with Bob. I expect it will be all right. So everyone will chip in? I’ll get them to send the bills monthly, not quarterly. It will be easier to keep up with the payments.” She chattered on for a bit, to restore herself and the authority of the Council, and then remarked that something would have to be done about number 45. There were complaints all the time.

  “I’ll go next door and see them,” said Alice.

  Again the official reacted with, “It’s not your affair, is it? Why should you?” Seeing that Alice shrugged, apparently indifferent, Mary said quickly, “Yes, perhaps you should.…”

  She went upstairs, with a look as irritated as Alice’s. Both women were thinking that it would not be easy, this combination of people, in the house.

  Soon Mary went off with Reggie. He would drop her back at work, and they both would return later with another load. They were bringing in some furniture, too, if no one minded. A bed, for instance.

  Alice sat
on, alone. Then Philip came to be given the money for the glass, and went off to buy it.

  Alice was looking at herself during the last four days, and thinking: Have I been a bit crazy? After all, it is only a house … and what have I done? These two, Reggie and Mary—revolutionaries? They were with Militant? Crazy!

  Slowly she recovered. Energy came seeping back. She thought of the others, on the battlefront down at Melstead. They were at work for the cause; and she must be, too! Soon she slipped out of the house, careful not to see whether the old lady was waving at her, and went into the main road, walked along the hedge that separated first their house from the road, and then number 45. She turned into the little street that was the twin of theirs, and then stood where yesterday she had seen Bob Hood stand, looking in that refuse-filled garden.

  She walked firmly up the path, prepared to be examined by whoever was there and was interested. She knocked. She waited a goodish time for the door to open. She caught a glimpse of the hall, the twin of theirs, but it was stacked with cartons and cases. There was a single electric bulb. So they did have electricity.

  In front of her was a man who impressed her at once as being foreign. It was not anything specific in his looks; it was just something about him. He was a Russian, she knew. This gave her a little frisson of satisfaction. It was power, the idea of it, that was exciting her. The man himself was in no way out of the ordinary, being broad—not fat, though he could easily be—and not tall; in fact not much taller than herself. He had a broad, blunt sort of face, and little shrewd grey eyes. He wore grey twill trousers that looked expensive and new, and a grey bush shirt that was buttoned and neat.

  He could have been a soldier.

  “I am Alice Mellings. From next door.”

  He nodded, unsmiling, and said, “Of course. Come in.” He led the way through the stacks of cartons into the room that in their house was the sitting room. Here it had the look of an office or a study. A table was set in the bay window; his chair had its back to the window, and that was because, Alice knew, he wanted to know who came in and out of the door; he did not want his back to it.