Книга - The Good Terrorist

The Good Terrorist
Doris Lessing


A hugely significant political novel for the late twentieth century from one of the outstanding writers of the modern era and winner of the Nobel Prize for Fiction.In a London squat a band of bourgeois revolutionaries are united by a loathing of the waste and cruelty they see around them. These maladjusted malcontents try desperately to become involved in terrorist activities far beyond their level of competence. Only Alice seems capable of organising anything. Motherly, practical and determined, she is also easily exploited by the group and ideal fodder for a more dangerous and potent cause. Eventually their naïve radical fantasies turn into a chaos of real destruction, but the aftermath is not as exciting as they had hoped. Nonetheless, while they may not have changed the world, their lives will never be the same again …

























Doris Lessing

The Good Terrorist












Copyright (#ulink_30ce1204-21b8-528a-9996-6feaad65bf68)


This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Fourth Estate

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

Previously published in paperback by Grafton Books 1986, Paladin 1990, Flamingo 1993, as a Flamingo Modern Classic 2003, and as a Harper Perennial Modern Classics Edition 2007

First published in Great Britain by Jonathan Cape Ltd 1985

Copyright © Doris Lessing 1985

PS Section Copyright © Sarah O’Reilly 2007, except ‘The Languages We Use’ copyright © Doris Lessing 2007

PS™ is a trademark of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

Doris Lessing asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780007247219

Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2012 ISBN: 9780007381685

Version: 2016-08-25




Contents


Cover Page (#u0bb3b528-c7e0-53ff-a8e3-999448441bfa)

Title Page (#u71e96af7-4632-5308-9215-d57ae25b609a)

Copyright (#u5bbb507b-f4fa-5fea-ba1f-68f8f7faa673)

Chapter 1 (#u14ca2a99-baaa-59aa-a993-9dc529a32cea)

Chapter 2 (#u5b5df288-5ad8-54f8-8a93-d2bc0749b09b)

Chapter 3 (#uf6f049f3-566b-5d76-8685-4bdb3801d72b)

Chapter 4 (#uc4b9cc29-88fe-5afb-bcea-d795174f2d1e)

Chapter 5 (#uf96b0c80-49aa-5896-977f-09bb897c5fd7)

Chapter 6 (#ufa89d391-43a4-53d2-b55d-9daf067e4e63)

Chapter 7 (#u4615ba29-15a1-50e5-88b3-098c52651b96)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)

The Grass is Singing (#litres_trial_promo)

The Golden Notebook (#litres_trial_promo)

Love, Again (#litres_trial_promo)

The Fifth Child (#litres_trial_promo)

P.S. (#litres_trial_promo)

Q & A: Doris Lessing talks to Sarah O’Reilly about The Good Terrorist (#litres_trial_promo)

Biographical Sketch (#litres_trial_promo)

The Languages We Use (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Doris Lessing (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter 1 (#ulink_a60e47b6-3278-52d1-8057-afdb4eddd411)


The house was set back from the noisy main road in what seemed to be a rubbish tip. A large house. Solid. Black tiles stood at angles along the gutter, and into a gap near the base of a fat chimney a bird flew, trailing a piece of grass several times its length.

‘I should think, 1910,’ said Alice, ‘look how thick the walls are.’ This could be seen through the broken window just above them on the first floor. She got no response, but nevertheless shrugged off her backpack, letting it tumble on to a living rug of young nettles that was trying to digest rusting tins and plastic cups. She took a step back to get a better view of the roof. This brought Jasper into vision. His face, as she had expected it would be, was critical and meant to be noticed. For her part she did not have to be told that she was wearing her look, described by him as silly. ‘Stop it,’ he ordered. His hand shot out, and her wrist was encircled by hard bone. It hurt. She faced him, undefiant but confident, and said, ‘I wonder if they will accept us?’ And, as she had known he would, he said, ‘It is a question of whether we will accept them.’

She had withstood the test on her, that bony pain, and he let her wrist go and went on to the door. It was a front door, solid and sure of itself, in a little side street full of suburban gardens and similar comfortable houses. They did not have slates missing and broken windows.

“Why, why, why?’ asked Alice angrily, addressing the question, probably, to the universe itself, her heart full of pain because of the capacious, beautiful and unloved house. She dragged her backpack by its strap after her and joined him.

‘Profit, of course,’ he said, and pressed the bell, which did not ring. He gave the door a sharp push and they went into a large shadowy hall where stairs went strongly up, turned at a wide landing, and rose out of sight. The scene was illuminated by a hurricane lamp that stood on the floor in a corner. From a side room came the sound of soft drumming. Jasper pushed open this door too. The windows were covered by blankets, leaving not a chink of light. A black youth looked up from his family of drums, his cheeks and teeth shining in candlelight. ‘Hi,’ he said, all his fingers and both feet at work, so that it seemed he was dancing as he sat, or was perhaps on some kind of exercise machine.

This smiling jolly black boy who looked like an advertisement for an attractive holiday in the Caribbean struck Alice’s organ of credibility falsely, and she tucked away a little memo to herself not to forget a first impression of anxiety or even sorrow, which was the real message her nerves were getting from him. She found herself actually on the verge of saying, ‘It’s all right, it’s OK, don’t worry!’ But meanwhile Jasper was demanding, ‘Where’s Bert?’

The black youth shrugged, nonchalantly, still smiling, and did not for one moment stop his energetic attack on his instruments. Jasper’s tight grip on her upper arm took her out of the room into the hall, where Alice said, ‘This place smells.’

‘Well,’ said Jasper, in the clumsily placating way she knew was meant as love, ‘I suppose you’ll put a stop to that.’

At once, feeling her advantage, she said, ‘Don’t forget you’ve been living soft for four years. You’re not going to find it easy after that.’

‘Don’t call me soft,’ he said, and kicked her on the ankle. Not hard, but enough.

This time she went ahead of him and opened a door she felt must be to the kitchen. Light fell on desolation. Worse, danger: she was looking at electric cables ripped out of the wall and dangling, raw-ended. The cooker was pulled out and lying on the floor. The broken windows had admitted rain water which lay in puddles everywhere. There was a dead bird on the floor. It stank. Alice began to cry. It was from pure rage. ‘The bastards,’ she cursed. ‘The filthy stinking fascist bastards.’

They already knew that the Council, to prevent squatters, had sent in the workmen to make the place uninhabitable. ‘They didn’t even make those wires safe. They didn’t even…’ Suddenly alive with energy, she whirled about opening doors. Two lavatories on this floor, the bowls filled with cement.

She cursed steadily, the tears streaming. ‘The filthy shitty swine, the shitty fucking fascist swine…’ She was full of the energy of hate. Incredulous with it, for she had never been able to believe, in some corner of her, that anybody, particularly not a member of the working class, could obey an order to destroy a house. In that corner of her brain that was perpetually incredulous began the monologue that Jasper never heard for he would not have authorized it: But they are people, people did this. To stop other people from living. I don’t believe it. Who can they be? What can they be like? I’ve never met anyone who could. Why, it must be people like Len and Bob and Bill, friends. They did it. They came in and filled the lavatory bowls with cement and ripped out all the cables and blocked up the gas.

Jasper stood and watched her. He was pleased. This fury of energy had banished her look, which he hated, when she seemed, all of her, to be swollen and glistening, as if not merely her face but her whole body filled with tears which oozed from every pore.

Without referring to him she ran up the stairs and he followed slowly, listening to how she banged on doors, and then, hearing nothing, flung them open. On the first-floor landing they stood looking into order, not chaos. Here every room had sleeping-bags, one or two, or three. Candles or hurricane lamps. Even chairs with little tables beside them. Books. Newspapers. But no one was in.

The smell on this floor was strong. It came from upstairs. More slowly they went up generously wide stairs, and confronted a stench which made Jasper briefly retch. Alice’s face was stern and proud. She flung open a door on to a scene of plastic buckets, topped with shit. But this room had been deemed sufficiently filled, and the one next to it had been started. Ten or so red, yellow and orange buckets stood in a group, waiting.

There were other rooms on this floor, but none was used. None could be used, the smell was so strong.

They went down the stairs, silent, watching their feet, for there was rubbish everywhere, and the light came dimly through dirty windows.

‘We are not here,’ said he, anticipating her, ‘to make ourselves comfortable. We aren’t here for that.’

She said, ‘I don’t understand anyone choosing to live like this. Not when it’s so easy.’

Now she sounded listless, flat, all the incandescence of fury gone.

He was about to start a speech about her bourgeois inclinations, as she could see; but the front door opened, and against the sunlight was outlined a military-looking figure.

‘Bert!’ he shouted, and jumped down the stairs three at a time. ‘Bert. It’s Jasper…’

Alice thought maternally, hearing that glad voice ring out, it’s because of his shitty father; but it was part of her private stream, since of course Jasper did not allow her the right to such ideas.

‘Jasper,’ acknowledged Bert, and then peered through the gloom up at her.

‘Alice – I told you,’ said Jasper.

‘Comrade Alice,’ said Bert. His voice was curt, stern and pure, insisting on standards, and Jasper’s voice fell into step. ‘We have just come,’ he said. ‘There was no one to report to.’

‘We spoke to him, in there,’ remarked Alice, arriving beside them, indicating the room from where came the soft drumming.

‘Oh, Jim,’ dismissed Bert. He strode to a door they had not opened, kicked it open, since it had lost it knob, and went in without looking to see if they followed.

This room was as near to normal as any they had seen. With the door shut, you could believe this was a sitting-room in an ordinary house, although everything – chairs, a sofa, the carpet – was dingy. The smell was almost shut out, but to Alice it seemed that an invisible film of stench clung to everything, and she would feel it slippery on her fingers if she touched.

Bert stood upright, slightly bent forward, arms at ease, looking at her. But he did not see her, she knew that. He was a dark thin young man, probably twenty-eight or thirty. His face was full of black shining hairs, and his dark eyes and a red mouth and white teeth gleamed from among them. He wore new stiff dark-blue jeans and a close-fitting dark-blue jacket, buttoned up and tidy. Jasper wore light-blue linen trousers and a striped T-shirt like a sailor’s; but Alice knew he would soon be in clothes like Bert’s, which were in fact his normal gear. He had had a brief escapade into frivolity due to some influence or other.

Alice knew that the two men would now talk, without concerning themselves with her, and set herself to guard her interests, while she looked out of the bow-window into the garden, where rubbish of all kinds reached to the sills. Sparrows were at work on the piles, scratching and digging. A blackbird sat on a milk carton and looked straight at her. Beyond the birds, she saw a thin cat crouched under a hydrangea in young green leaf and slim coronets of pink and blue that would be flowers. The cat was watching her too, with bright starved eyes.

Bert reached into a cupboard and took out a thermos flask the size of a bucket; and three mugs.

‘Oh, you do have electricity then?’ she asked.

‘No. A comrade in the next street fills it for me every morning,’ he said.

Alice, watching the scene with half her attention, saw how Jasper eyed the flask, and the pouring of the coffee. She knew he was hungry. Because of the row with her mother, and then slamming out of the house, he had not breakfasted. And he had not had time to drink the coffee she had taken up to him. She thought, ‘But that’s Bert’s supply for the day,’ and indicated she wanted only half a cup. Which she was given, exactly as specified.

Jasper drank down his cup at once, and sat looking at the thermos, wanting more. Bert did not notice.

‘The situation has changed,’ Bert began, as if this were a continuation of some meeting. ‘My analysis was incorrect, as it happened. I underestimated the political maturity of the cadres. When I put the question to the vote, half decided against, and they left here at once.’

Jasper said, ‘Then they would have proved unreliable. Good riddance.’

‘Precisely.’

‘What was the question?’ inquired Alice. She used her ‘meeting voice’, for she had learned that this was necessary to hold her own. To her, it sounded false and cold, and she was always embarrassed by it; because of the effort it needed, she sounded indifferent, even absentminded. Yet her eyes were steadily and even severely observing the scene in front of her: Bert, looking at her, or rather, at what she had said; Jasper, looking at the thermos. Suddenly he was unable to stop himself, and he reached for the jug. Bert said, ‘Sorry,’ and pushed it towards him.

‘You know what the question was,’ said Jasper, sour. ‘I told you. We are going to join the IRA.’

‘You mean,’ said Alice, ‘you voted on whether to join the IRA?’ She sounded breathless: Bert took it as fear, and he said, with loud, cold contempt, ‘Shit-scared. They ran like little rabbits.’

Alice persisted, ‘How was it put to the vote?’

Bert said, after a pause, ‘That this group should make approaches to the IRA leadership, offering our services as an England-based entity.’

Alice digested this, looking strained because of the effort it cost her to believe it, and said, ‘But Jasper told me that this house was Communist Centre Union?’

‘Correct. This is a CCU squat.’

‘But has the leadership of the CCU decided to offer the services of the whole CCU to the IRA? I don’t understand,’ she said fiercely, not at all in her ‘political’ voice, and Bert said, curt and offhand because, as she could see, he was uncomfortable, ‘No.’

‘Then how can a branch of the CCU offer it services?’

Here she observed that Jasper was seeking to engage Bert’s eyes in ‘Take no notice of her’ looks, and she forestalled him. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

Bert admitted, ‘You are correct, in a way. The point was discussed. It was agreed that while approaches could not be made as a group of the CCU, it would be permissible for a group of CCU members to make the approach, as associated individuals.’

‘But…’ Alice lost interest. They are at it again, she was thinking. Fudging it. She returned her attention to the rubbish pile a yard beyond the dirty glass. The blackbird had gone. The poor cat was sniffing around the edges of the heap, where flies were crawling.

She said, ‘What do you do for food here?’

‘Take-away.’

‘This rubbish is a health hazard. There must be rats.’

‘That’s what the police said.’

‘Have they been?’

‘They were here last night.’

‘Oh, I see, that’s why the others left.’

‘No,’ said Bert. ‘They left because they got the shits. About the IRA.’

‘What did the police say?’

‘They gave us four days to leave.’

‘Why don’t we go to the Council?’ said Alice, in an irritated wail; and as Jasper said, ‘Oh, there she goes again,’ the door opened and a young woman came in. She had short shiny black hair that had been expertly cut, black quick eyes, red lips, a clear white skin. She was glossy and hard, like a fresh cherry. She looked carefully at Bert, at Jasper, and at Alice, and Alice knew she was being seen.

‘I’m Pat,’ she said. ‘Bert told me about you two.’ And then, ‘You are brother and sister?’

At once Jasper snapped, ‘No, we are not!’

But Alice liked it when people made the mistake, and she said, ‘People often take us as brother and sister.’

Pat again examined them. Jasper fidgeted under the look, and turned away, hands in his jacket pockets, as if trying to seem indifferent to an attack.

They were both fair, with reddish gleams in hair that wanted to go into little curls and wisps. Jasper’s was cut very short; Alice’s was short and chunky and serviceable. She cut it herself. They both had pinkish freckled skin. Jasper’s little blue eyes were in round white shallows, and this gave him an angelic, candid air. He was very thin, and wore skin-tight clothes. Alice was stocky, and she had a pudgy, formless look to her. Sometimes a girl of twelve, even thirteen, before she is lit by pubescence, is as she will be in middle age. A group of women are standing on a platform in the Underground. Middle-aged women, with carrier bags, gossiping. Very short women, surely? No, they are girls, of twelve or so. Forty years of being women will boil through them, and leave them as they are now, heavy and cautious, and anxious to please. Alice could seem like a fattish clumsy girl or, sometimes, about fifty, but never looked her age, which was thirty-six. Now it was a girl who returned Pat’s look with friendly curiosity from small blue-grey eyes set under sandy lashes.

‘Well,’ said Pat, strolling to the window to stand by Alice, ‘have you heard that this happy little community is for the chop?’

She looked much older than Alice, was ten years younger. She offered Alice a cigarette, which was refused, and smoked hers needfully, greedily.

‘Yes, and I said, why not negotiate with the Council?’

‘I heard you. But they prefer their romantic squalor.’

‘Romantic,’ said Alice, disgusted.

‘It does go against the grain, negotiating with the Establishment,’ said Bert.

‘Do you mean that this commune is breaking up?’ said Jasper suddenly, sounding so like a small boy that Alice glanced quickly to see whether it had been noticed. It had: by Pat, who stood, holding her cigarette to her lips between two fingers and distancing them, then bringing them back, so that she could puff and exhale, puff and exhale. Looking at Jasper. Diagnosis.

Alice said quickly, her heart full of a familiar soft ache, on Jasper’s account, ‘It doesn’t go against my grain. I’ve done it often.’

‘Oh you have, have you?’ said Pat. ‘So have I. Where?’

‘In Birmingham. A group of seven of us went to the Council over a scheduled house. We paid gas and electricity and water, and we stayed there thirteen months.’

‘Good for you.’

‘And in Halifax, I was in a negotiated squat for six months. And when I was in digs in Manchester, that was when I was at the university, there was a house full of students, nearly twenty of us. It started off as a squat, the Council came to terms, and it ended up as a student house.’

During this the two men listened, proceedings suspended. Jaspar had again filled his mug. Bert indicated to Pat that the thermos was empty, and she shook her head, listening to Alice.

‘Why don’t we go to the Council?’ said Alice direct to Pat.

‘I would. But I’m leaving anyway.’ Alice saw Bert’s body stiffen, and he sat angry and silent.

Pat said to Bert, ‘I told you last night, I was leaving.’

Alice had understood that this was more than political. She saw that a personal relationship was breaking up because of some political thing! Every instinct repudiated this. She thought, involuntarily, What nonsense, letting politics upset a personal relationship! This was not really her belief: she would not have stood by it if challenged. But similar thoughts often did pass through her mind.

Pat said, to Bert’s half-averted face, ‘What the fuck did you expect? At an ordinary meeting like that – two of them from outside, we didn’t know anything about them. We don’t know anything about the couple who came last week. Jim was in the room and he isn’t even CCU. Suddenly putting forward that resolution.’

‘It wasn’t sudden.’

‘When we discussed it before we decided to make individual approaches. To discuss it with individuals, carefully.’

Her voice was full of contempt. She was looking at – presumably – her lover as though he was fit for the dustbin.

‘You’ve changed your mind, at any rate,’ said Bert, his red lips shining angrily from his thickets of beard. ‘You agreed that to support the IRA was the logical position for this stage.’

‘It is the only correct attitude, Ireland is the fulcrum of the imperialist attack,’ said Jasper.

‘I haven’t changed my mind,’ said Pat. ‘But if I am going to work with the IRA or anyone else, then I’m going to know who I am working with.’

‘You don’t know us,’ said Alice, with a pang of painful realization; she and Jasper were part of the reason for this couple’s break-up.

‘No hard feelings,’ said Pat. ‘Nothing personal. But yes. The first I heard of you was when Bert said he had met Jasper at the CND rally Saturday. And I gather Bert hadn’t even met you.’

‘No,’ said Alice.

‘Well, I’m sorry, but that’s not the way to do things.’

‘I see your point,’ said Alice.

A silence. The two young women stood at the window, in an aromatic cloud from Pat’s cigarette. The two men were in chairs, in the centre of the room. The rain-like pattering of the drum came from Jim beyond the hall.

Alice said, ‘How many people are left here now?’

Pat did not answer and at last Bert said, ‘With you two, seven.’ He added, ‘I don’t know about you, Pat.’

‘Yes, you do,’ said Pat, sharp and cold. But they were looking at each other now, and Alice thought: No, it won’t be easy for them to split up. She said, ‘Well, if it’s seven, then four of us are here now. Five if Pat…Where are the other two? I want to get an agreement that I go to the Council.’

‘The lavatories full of cement. The electricity cables torn out. Pipes probably rotten,’ said Bert on a fine rising derisive note.

‘It’s not difficult to put it right,’ said Alice. ‘We did it in Birmingham. The Council smashed the place to a ruin. They pulled the lavatories completely out there. All the pipes. Filled the bath with cement. Piled rubbish in all the rooms. We got it clean.’

‘Who is going to pay for it?’ That was Bert.

‘We are.’

‘Out of what?’

‘Oh, belt up,’ said Pat, ‘it costs us more in take-away and running around cadging baths and showers than it would to pay electricity and gas.’

‘It’s a point,’ said Bert.

‘And it would keep Old Bill off our backs,’ said Alice.

Silence. She knew that some people – and she suspected Bert, though not Pat, of this – would be sorry to hear it. They enjoyed encounters with the police.

Bert said unexpectedly, ‘Well, if we are going to build up our organization we aren’t going to need attention from Old Bill.’

‘Exactly,’ said Pat. ‘As I’ve been saying.’

Silence again. Alice saw it was up to her. She said, ‘One problem. In this borough they need someone to guarantee the electricity and gas. Who is in work?’

‘Three of the comrades who left last night were.’

‘Comrades!’ said Bert. ‘Opportunistic shits.’

‘They are very good honest communists,’ said Pat. ‘They happen not to want to work with the IRA.’

Bert began to heave with silent theatrical laughter, and Jasper joined him.

‘So we are all on Social Security,’ said Alice.

‘So no point in going to the Council,’ said Bert.

Alice hesitated and said painfully, ‘I could ask my mother…’

At this Jasper exploded in raucous laughter and jeers, his face scarlet. ‘Her mother, bourgeois pigs…’

‘Shut up,’ said Alice. ‘We were living with my mother for four years,’ she explained in a fine breathless, balanced voice, which seemed to her unkindly cold and hostile. ‘Four years. Bourgeois or not.’

‘Take the rich middle class for what you can get,’ said Jasper. ‘Get everything out of them you can. That’s my line.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Alice. ‘I agree. But she did keep us for four years.’ Then, capitulating, ‘Well, why shouldn’t she? She is my mother.’ This last was said in a trembling painful little voice.

‘Right,’ said Pat, examining her curiously. ‘Well, no point in asking mine. Haven’t seen her for years.’

‘Well then,’ said Bert, suddenly getting up from the chair and standing in front of Pat, a challenge, his black eyes full on her. ‘So you’re not leaving after all?’

‘We’ve got to discuss it, Bert,’ she said, hurriedly, and walked over to him, and looked up into his face. He put his arm around her and they went out.

Alice surveyed the room. Skilfully. A family sitting-room, it had been. Comfortable. The paint was not too bad, the chairs and a sofa probably stood where they had then. There was a fireplace, not even plastered over.

‘Are you going to ask your mother? I mean, to be a guarantor?’ Jasper sounded forlorn. ‘And who’s going to pay for getting it all straight?’

‘I’ll ask the others if they’ll contribute.’

‘And if they won’t?’ he said, knowingly, sharing expertise with her, a friendly moment.

‘Some won’t, we know that,’ she said, ‘but we’ll manage. We always do, don’t we?’

But this was too direct an appeal to intimacy. At once he backed away into criticism. ‘And who’s going to do all the work?’

As he had been saying now for fourteen, fifteen years.

In the house in Manchester she shared with four other students she had been housemother, doing the cooking and shopping, housekeeping. She loved it. She got an adequate degree, but did not even try for a job. She was still in the house when the next batch of students arrived, and she stayed to look after them. That was how Jasper found her, coming in one evening for supper. He was not a student, had graduated poorly, had failed to find a job after half-hearted efforts. He stayed on in the house, not formally living there, but as Alice’s ‘guest’. After all, it was only because of Alice’s efforts that the place had become a student house: it had been a squat. And Jasper did not leave. She knew he had become dependent on her. But then and since he had complained she was nothing but a servant, wasting her life on other people. As they moved from squat to squat, commune to commune, this pattern remained: she looked after him and he complained that other people exploited her.

At her mother’s he had said the same. ‘She’s just exploiting you,’ he said. ‘Cooking and shopping. Why do you do it?’

‘We’ve got four days,’ said Alice. ‘I’m going to get moving.’ She did not look at him, but walked steadily past him, and into the hall. She carried her backpack into the room where Jim was drumming and said, ‘Keep an eye on this for me, comrade.’ He nodded. She said, ‘If I get permission from the Council for us to live here, will you share expenses?’

His hands fell from the drums. His friendly round face fell into lines of woe and he said, ‘They say I can’t stay here.’

‘Why not?’

‘Oh shit, man, I’m not into politics. I just want to live.’ Now he said, incredulously, ‘I was here first. Before any of you. This was my place. I found it. I said to everyone, Yes, come in, come in, man, this is Liberty Hall.’

‘That’s not fair,’ said Alice, at once.

‘I’ve been here eight months, eight months, Old Bill never knew, no one knew. I’ve been keeping my nose clean and minding my own business, and suddenly…’ He was weeping. Bright tears bounced off his black cheeks and splashed on the big drum. He wiped them off with the side of his palm.

‘Well,’ said Alice, ‘you just stay put and I’ll get it on the agenda.’

She was thinking as she left the house: All those buckets of shit up there, I suppose Jim filled them, nearly all. She thought: If I don’t pee I’ll…She could not have brought herself to go up and use one of those buckets. She walked to the Underground, took a train to a station with proper lavatories, used them, washed her face and brushed her hair, then went on to her mother’s stop, where she stood in line for a telephone booth.

Three hours after she left home screaming abuse at her mother, she dialled her number.

Her mother’s voice. Flat. At the sound of it affection filled Alice, and she thought, I’ll ask if she wants me to do some shopping for her on the way.

‘Hello, Mum, this is Alice.’

Silence.

‘It’s Alice.’

A pause. ‘What do you want?’ The flat voice, toneless.

Alice, all warm need to overcome obstacles on behalf of everyone, said, ‘Mum, I want to talk to you. You see, there’s this house. I could get the Council to let us stay on a controlled squat basis, you know, like Manchester? But we need someone to guarantee the electricity and gas.’

She heard a mutter, inaudible, then, ‘I don’t believe it!’

‘Mum. Look, it’s only your signature we want. We would pay it.’

A silence, a sigh, or a gasp, then the line went dead.

Alice, now radiant with a clear hot anger, dialled again. She stood listening to the steady buzz-buzz, imagining the kitchen where it was ringing, the great warm kitchen, the tall windows, sparkling (she had cleaned them last week, with such pleasure), and the long table where, she was sure, her mother was sitting now, listening to the telephone ring. After about three minutes, her mother did lift the receiver and said, ‘Alice, I know it is no use my saying this. But I shall say it. Again. I have to leave here. Do you understand? Your father won’t pay the bills any longer. I can’t afford to live here. I’ll have trouble paying my own bills. Do you understand, Alice?’

‘But you have all those rich friends.’ Another silence. Alice then, in a full, maternal, kindly, lecturing voice, began, ‘Mum, why aren’t you like us? We share what we have. We help each other out when we’re in trouble. Don’t you see that your world is finished? The day of the rich selfish bourgeoisie is over. You are doomed…’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Alice’s mother, and Alice warmed into the purest affection again, for the familiar comforting note of irony was back in her mother’s voice, the awful deadness and emptiness gone. ‘But you have at some point to understand that your father is not prepared any longer to share his ill-gotten gains with Jasper and all his friends.’

‘Well, at least he is prepared to see they are ill-gotten,’ said Alice earnestly.

A sigh. ‘Go away, Alice,’ said Alice’s mother. ‘Just go away. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to hear from you. Try to understand that you can’t say the things to people you said to me this morning and then just turn up, as if nothing had happened, with a bright smile, for another hand-out.’

The line went dead.

Alice stood, in a dazzle of shock. Her head was full of dizzying shadow and light. Someone behind her in the queue said, ‘If you’ve finished…’, pushed in front of her, and began to dial.

Alice drifted off on to the pavement and wandered aimlessly around the perimeter of that area, now fenced off with high, corrugated iron, where so recently there had been a market, full of people buying and selling. She had had a pitch there herself last summer, and first she sold cakes and biscuits and sweets, and then hot soup, and sandwiches. Proper food, all wholemeal flour and brown sugar, and vegetables grown without insecticides. She cooked all this in her mother’s kitchen. Then the Council closed the place down. To build another of their shitty great enormous buildings, their dead bloody white elephants that wouldn’t be wanted by anyone but the people who made a profit out of building them. Corruption. Corruption everywhere. Alice, weeping out loud, blubbering, went stumbling about outside the enormous iron fence, like a fence around a concentration camp, thinking that last summer…

A whistle shrieked. Some factory or other…one o’clock. She hadn’t done anything yet…Standing on the long shallow steps that led to the Public Library, she wiped her face, and made her eyes look out instead of in. It was a nice day. The sun was shining. The sky was full of racing white clouds, and the blue seemed to dazzle and promise.

She went back to the telephones in the Underground and rang her father’s office on the private number.

He answered at once.

‘This is Alice.’

‘The answer is no.’

‘You don’t know what I was going to say.’

‘Say it.’

‘I want you to guarantee our expenses, electricity and gas, for a squat.’

‘No.’

She hung up, the burning anger back. Its energy took her to the pavement, and walked her up the avenue to a large building which was set back a bit, with steps. She raced up them and pressed a bell, holding it down until a woman’s voice, not the one she expected, said, ‘¿Sí?’

‘Oh, fucking Christ, the maid,’ said Alice, aloud. And, ‘Where’s Theresa?’

‘She at work.’

‘Let me in. Let me come in.’

Alice pushed open the door on the buzzer, almost fell into the hall, and thumped up four flights of heavily carpeted stairs to a door, where a short dumpy dark woman stood, looking out for her.

‘Just let me in,’ said Alice, fiercely pushing her aside, and the Spanish woman said nothing, but stood looking at her, trying to find the right words to say.

Alice went into the sitting-room where she had so often been with her friend Theresa, her friend ever since she, Alice, had been born, kind and lovely Theresa. A large calm ordered room, with great windows, and beyond them gardens…She stood panting. I’ll tear down those pictures, she was thinking, I’ll sell them, I’ll take those little netsukes, what are they worth? I’ll smash the place up…

She tore to the telephone, and rang the office. But Theresa was in conference.

‘Get her,’ she commanded. ‘Get her at once. It is an emergency. Tell her it’s Alice.’

She had no doubt that Theresa would come, and she did.

‘What is it, Alice, what’s wrong, what is the matter?’

‘I want you to guarantee expenses. For a squat. No, no, you won’t have to pay anything, ever, just your signature.’

‘Alice, I’m in the middle of a conference.’

‘I don’t care about your shitty conference. I want you to guarantee our electricity and gas.’

‘You and Jasper?’

‘Yes. And others.’

‘I’m sorry, my dear. No.’

‘What’s the matter with Jasper? Why are you like this? Why? He’s just as good as you are.’

Theresa said, calm and humorous, as always, ‘No, Alice, he is not as good as I am. Far from it. Anyway, that’s it. No, but I’ll give you fifty pounds if you come round.’

‘I am around. I am in your flat. But I don’t want your shitty fifty pounds.’

‘Well, then, I’m sorry, my dear.’

‘You spend fifty pounds on a dress. On a meal.’

‘You shared the meal, didn’t you? This is silly. I’m sorry, I’m busy. All the buyers are here from everywhere.’

‘It’s not silly. When have you seen me spend fifty pounds on a meal? If my mother wants to spend fifty pounds on food for all her shitty rich friends, and I cook it, that doesn’t mean…’

‘Listen, Alice, if you want to come round and have a talk tonight, you are welcome. But it will have to be late, because I will be working until eleven, at least.’

‘You…you…are a lot of rich shits,’ said Alice, suddenly listless.

She put down the receiver, and was about to leave when she remembered, and went to the bathroom, where she emptied herself, again carefully washed her face, and brushed her hair. She was hungry. She went to the kitchen and cut herself a lavish sandwich. Lisa followed her and stood at the door to watch, her hands folded around the handle of a feather duster, as if in prayer. A dark patient tired face. She supported her family in Valencia, so said Theresa. She stood watching Alice eating her salami and her pâté on thick bread. Then watched while Alice peered into every corner of the refrigerator, and brought out some leftover spiced rice, which she ate with a spoon, standing up.

Then she said, ‘Ciao,’ and heard as she left, ‘Buenos días, señorita.’ There was something in that voice, a criticism, that again lit the anger, and she ran down all the stairs again and out on to the pavement.

It was after two.

Her thoughts whirled about. Jasper, why did they hate him so? It was because they were afraid of him. Afraid of his truth…She realized that she had walked herself to a bus-stop, and the bus would take her to the Council. She got on, suddenly cold, concentrated, and careful.

She was rehearsing in her mind her previous successful negotiations. A great deal would depend, she knew, on whom she saw…luck…Well, she had been lucky before. And besides, what she was suggesting was reasonable, in the best interests of everybody, the ratepayers, the public.

In the great room filled with desks and people and telephones, she sat opposite a girl, younger than she, and knew at once that she was lucky. On Mary Williams’s left breast was a ‘Save the Whales!’ button, and the sprightly shape of the animal made Alice feel soft and protective. Mary Williams was a good person, like herself, like Jasper, like all their friends. She cared.

Alice gave the address of her house confidently, stated her case and waited until the official turned to press a button or two, and the information arrived, to be set on the desk between them.

‘Scheduled for demolition,’ said Mary Williams, and sat smiling, nothing more to be said.

This Alice had not expected. She could not speak. It was grief that filled her, transmuting, but slowly, to rage. The face that Mary Williams saw swelled and shone, and caused her to say uncomfortably, even stammering, ‘Why, why, what is the matter?’

‘It can’t be demolished, it can’t,’ stated Alice, in a toneless empty voice. Then, rage exploding, ‘It’s a marvellous house, perfect! How can you demolish it? It’s a bloody scandal.’

‘Yes, I know that sometimes…’ said Mary Williams swiftly. She sighed. Her glance at Alice was a plea not to make a scene. Alice saw it, saw that scenes not infrequently occurred at this desk.

She said, ‘There must be a mistake. Surely they aren’t entitled to destroy a house like this…Have you seen it? It’s a good house. A good place…’

‘I think they mean to put up flats.’

‘Naturally! What else?’

The two young women laughed, their eyes meeting.

‘Wait,’ said Mary Williams, and went off to confer, in her hand the sheet containing the vital statistics of the house. She stood by the desk of a man at the end of the room, and came back to say, ‘There have been a lot of complaints about the state of the houses. The police, for one.’

‘Yes, it’s a disgusting mess,’ agreed Alice. ‘But it’ll be cleared up in no time.’

Here Mary nodded, Proceed! and sat doodling, while Alice talked.

And talked. About the house. Its size, its solidity, its situation. Said that, apart from a few slates, it was structurally sound. Said it needed very little to make it liveable. She talked about the Birmingham squat and the agreed tenancy there; about Manchester, where a slum scheduled for demolition had been reprieved, and became an officially recognized student residence.

‘I’m not saying it couldn’t happen,’ said Mary.

She sat thinking, her biro at work on a structure of cells, like a honeycomb. Yes, Alice knew, Mary was all right, she was on their side. Although Mary was not her style, with her dark little skirt and crisp little blouse, with her bra outlining the modest breast where the whale cavorted, tail in the sky, black on blue sea. All the same, Mary’s soft masses of dark hair that went into curls on her forehead, and her plump white hands, made Alice feel warm and secure. She knew that if Mary had anything to with it, things would go well.

‘Wait a minute,’ Mary said; and again went to confer with her colleague. This man now gave Alice a long inspection, and Alice sat confidently, to be looked at. She knew how she seemed: the pretty daughter of her mother, short curly fair hair nicely brushed, pink and white face lightly freckled, open blue-grey gaze. A middle-class girl with her assurance, her knowledge of the ropes, sat properly in the chair, and if she wore a heavy blue military jacket, under it was a flowered pink and white blouse.

Mary Williams came back and said, ‘The houses are coming up for a decision on Wednesday.’

‘The police gave us four days to clear out.’

‘Well, I don’t see what we can do.’

‘All we need is a statement, in writing, that the case is being considered, to show the police, that’s all.’

Mary Williams did not say anything. From her posture, and her eyes – that did not look at Alice – it was suddenly clear that she was after all, very young, and probably afraid for her job.

There was some sort of conflict there, Alice could see: this was more than just an official who sometimes did not like the work she had to do. Something personal was boiling away in Mary Williams, giving her a stubborn, angry little look. And this again brought her to her feet and took her for the third time to the official whose job it was to say yes and no.

‘You do realize,’ said Mary Williams, talking for her colleague, ‘that this letter would say only that the house is on the agenda for Wednesday?’

Alice said, inspired, ‘Why don’t you come and see it? You and –?’

‘Bob Hood. He’s all right. But he’s the one who…’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Alice. ‘But why don’t you both come and see the house?’

‘The houses, yes – I think Bob did see them, but it was some time ago – yes, perhaps we should.’

Mary was writing the words which would – Alice was sure – save the house. For as long as it was needed by Alice and the others. Save it permanently, why not? The piece of paper was slid into an envelope bearing the name of the Council, and Alice took it.

‘Have you got a telephone in the house?’

‘It was ripped out.’ It was on the tip of Alice’s tongue to describe the state of the house: cement in the lavatories, loose electric cables, the lot; but instinct said no. Although she knew that this girl, Mary, would be as furious, as sick, as anyone could be, that such deliberate damage could be done to a place, the damage had been done by officialdom, and Mary was an official. Nothing should be done to arouse that implacable beast, the bureaucrat.

‘When should I ring you?’ she asked.

‘Thursday.’

That was the day the police said they would be thrown out.

‘Will you be here on Thursday?’

‘If not, Bob over there will take the call.’

But Alice knew that with Bob things would not go so well.

‘It’s routine,’ said Mary Williams. ‘Either they will pull the houses down at once, or they will postpone it. They have already postponed several times.’ Here she offered Alice the smile of their complicity, and added, ‘Good luck.’

‘Thanks. See you.’

Alice left. It was only five o’clock. In one day she had done it. In eight hours.




Chapter 2 (#ulink_3ea7440d-3cd6-50f0-9f1d-56a829975261)


In the soft spring afternoon everything was in movement, the pastel clouds, new young leaves, the shimmering surfaces of lawns; and when she reached her street it was full of children, cats and gardeners. This scene of suburban affluence and calm provoked in her a rush of violent derision, like a secret threat to everything she saw. At the same time, parallel to this emotion and in no way affecting it, ran another current, of want, of longing.

She stopped on the pavement. From the top of her house a single yellow jet splashed on to the rubbish that filled the garden. Across the hedge from her, in the neighbouring house, a woman stood with a trowel loaded with seedlings, their roots in loose black earth, and she was staring at the shameful house. She said, ‘Disgusting, I’ve rung the Council!’

‘Oh no,’ cried Alice, ‘no, please…’ But, seeing the woman’s hardened face and eyes, she said, ‘Look, I’ve just been to the Council. It will be all right, we are negotiating.’

‘And how about all that rubbish, then,’ stated, not asked, the woman. She turned her back on Alice, and bent to the fragrant earth of her flower-bed.

Alice arrived at her door in a tumult of passionate identification with the criticized house, anger at whoever was responsible for the errant stream – probably Jasper; and a need to get the work of reconstruction started.

The door would not budge when she pushed it. The red heat of rage enveloped her, and she banged on the door, screaming, ‘How dare you, how dare you lock me out?’ while she saw with her side vision how the woman gardener had straightened and was gazing at this scene over her neat little hedge.

Her anger went as she told herself, You must do something about her, soon, she must be on our side.

She offered the woman a quick little placatory smile and wave of the hand rather like the wagging tail of an apologetic dog, but her neighbour only stared, and turned away.

Suddenly the door opened and Jasper’s fingers were tight around her wrist. His face had a cold grin on it which she knew was fear. Of whom?

As he dragged her in, she said, in a voice like a hushed shout, ‘Let me go. Don’t be stupid.’

‘Where have you been?’

‘Where do you think?’

‘What have you been doing all day?’

‘Oh belt up,’ she said, shaking her wrist to restore it, as he released her on seeing that doors had opened and in the hall were Jim, Pat, Bert, and two young women dressed identically in loose blue dungarees and fluffy white cardigans, standing side by side and looking critical.

‘We always try to keep this door locked and barred because of the police,’ said Bert, in a hurried, placating way, and Alice thought, Well, there’s no need to bother much with him, as she said, ‘It wasn’t locked this morning when we came. And the police don’t come at this time, do they?’ She said this because she had to say something; she knew her fit of rage outside the door was unfortunate.

The five were all staring at her, their faces shadowed by the dull light from the hurricane lamp, and she said, in her ordinary mild voice, ‘I’ve seen the Council, and it’s all right.’

‘What do you mean, it’s all right?’ demanded Bert, asserting himself.

Alice said, ‘Everyone’s here, I want to discuss it. Why not now?’

‘Anyone against?’ said Jasper jocularly, but he was shielding Alice, as she saw with gratitude. The seven filed into the sitting-room, which was still in full daylight.

Alice’s eyes were anxiously at work on the two unknown girls. As if unable or unwilling to give much time to this affair, they perched on the two arms of a shabby old chair. They were sharing a cigarette. One was a soft-faced fair girl, with her hair in a ponytail, and little curls and tendrils all around her face. The other was a bulky girl, no, a woman, with short black curls that had a gleam of silver in them. Her face was strong, her eyes direct, and she looked steadily at Alice, reserving judgment. She said, ‘This is Faye, I am Roberta.’

She was saying, too, that they were a couple, but Alice had seen this already.

‘Alice. Alice Mellings.’

‘Well, Comrade Alice, you don’t let the grass grow. I, for one, would have liked to discuss it all first.’

‘That’s right,’ said Faye, ‘that goes for me, too. I like to know what’s being said in my name.’ She spoke in a cockney voice, all pert and pretty, and Alice knew at once that she affected it, had adopted it, as so many others did. A pretty little cockney girl sat presenting herself, smiling, to everyone, and Alice was staring at her, trying to see what was really there.

This acute, judging inspection made Faye shift about and pout a little, and Roberta came in quickly with, ‘What are we being committed to, Comrade Alice?’

‘Oh I see,’ said Alice. ‘You’re lying low.’

Roberta let out an amused snort that acknowledged Alice’s acuity, and said, ‘You’re right. I want to keep a low profile for a bit.’

‘Me too,’ said Faye. ‘We are drawing Security over in Clapham, but better not ask how. Least said soonest mended,’ she ended, prettily, tossing her head.

‘And what you don’t know won’t hurt you,’ said Roberta.

‘Ask no questions and get told no lies,’ quipped Faye.

‘But truth is stranger than fiction,’ said Roberta.

‘You can say that again,’ said Faye.

This nice little act of theirs made everyone laugh appreciatively. As good as a music-hall turn: Faye the cockney lass and her feed. Roberta was not speaking cockney, but had a comfortable, accommodating homely voice with the sound of the North in it. Her own voice? No, it was a made-up one. Modelled on Coronation Street, probably.

‘That’s another reason we don’t want the police crashing in all the time,’ said Bert. ‘I am pleased Comrade Alice is trying to get this regularized. Go on with your report, Comrade Alice.’

Bert had also modified his voice. Alice could hear in it at moments the posh tones of some public school, but it was roughened with the intention of sounding working-class. Bad luck, he gave himself away.

Alice talked. (Her own voice dated from the days of her girls’ school in North London, basic BBC correct, flavourless. She had been tempted to reclaim her father’s Northern tones, but had judged this dishonest.) She did not say that she had rung her mother and her father, but said she could get fifty pounds at short notice. Then she summed up her visit to the Council, scrutinizing what she saw in her mind’s eye: the expressions on the face of Mary Williams, which told Alice the house would be theirs; and because of some personal problem or attitude of Mary’s. But all Alice said about this, the nub of the interview with Mary, was ‘She’s all right. She’s on our side. She’s a good person.’

‘You mean, you’ve got something to show the police?’ said Jim, and when Alice handed over the yellow envelope he took out what was in it and pored over it. He was one whose fate, Alice could see, had always been determined by means of papers, reports, official letters. Jim’s voice was genuine cockney, the real thing.

She asked suddenly, ‘Are you bound over?’

Jim’s look at her was startled, then defensive, then bitter. His soft, open boyish face closed up and he said, ‘What about it?’

‘Nothing,’ said Alice. Meanwhile a glance at Faye and Roberta had told her that both of them were bound over. Or worse. Yes, probably worse. Yes, certainly worse. On the run?

‘Didn’t know you were,’ said Bert. ‘I was until recently.’

‘So was I,’ claimed Jasper at once, not wanting to be left out. Jasper’s tones were almost those of his origins. He was the son of a solicitor in a Midlands town, who had gone bankrupt when Jasper was half-way through his schooling at a grammar school. He had finished his education on a scholarship. Jasper was very clever; but he had seen the scholarship as charity. He was full of hatred for his father, who had been stupid enough to go in for dubious investments. His middle-class voice, like Bert’s, had been roughened. With working-class comrades he could sound like them, and did, at emotional moments.

Pat remarked, ‘It’s getting dark,’ and she stood up, struck a match, and lit two candles that stood on the mantelpiece in rather fine brass candlesticks. But they were dull with grease. The daylight shrank back beyond the windows, and the seven were in a pool of soft yellow light that lay in the depths of a tall shadowed room.

Now Pat leaned her elbow on the mantelpiece, taking command of the scene. In the romantic light, with her dark military clothes, her black strong boots, she looked – as she must certainly know – like a guerrilla, or a female soldier in somebody’s army. Yet the light accentuated the delicate modelling of her face, her hands, and in fact she was more like the idealized picture of a soldier on a recruiting poster. An Israeli girl soldier, perhaps, a book in one hand, a rifle in the other.

‘Money,’ said Pat. ‘We have to talk about money.’ Her voice was standard middle-class, but Alice knew this was not how Pat had started off. She was working too hard at it.

‘That’s right,’ said Jim. ‘I agree.’

The only other person in this room, apart from Alice, with his own voice, unmodified, was Jim, the genuine cockney.

‘It’s going to cost more,’ said Bert, ‘but we will buy peace and quiet.’

‘It needn’t cost all that much more,’ said Alice. ‘For one thing, food will be half as much, or less. I know, I’ve done it.’

‘Right,’ said Pat. ‘So have I. Take-away and eating out costs the earth.’

‘Alice is good at feeding people cheap,’ said Jasper.

It was noticeable that while these five outlined their positions, they all, perhaps without knowing it, eyed Roberta and Faye. Or, more exactly, Faye, who sat there not looking at them, but anywhere: the ceiling, her feet, Roberta’s feet, the floor, while she puffed smoke from the cigarette held between her lips. Her hand, on her knee, trembled. She gave the impression of trembling slightly all over. Yet she smiled. It was not the best of smiles.

‘Just a minute, comrades,’ said she. ‘Suppose I like take-away? I like take-away, see? Suppose I like eating out, when the fancy takes me? How about that, then?’

She laughed and tossed her head, presenting – as if her life depended on it – this cheeky cockney as seen in a thousand films.

‘They have a point, Faye,’ said Roberta, sounding neutral, so as not to provoke her friend. She was keeping an eye on Faye, unable to prevent herself giving her quick nervous glances.

‘Oh fuck it,’ said Faye, really laying on the cockney bit, because, as they could see, she was afraid of her own anger. ‘Yesterday, as far as hi wuz concerned, everythink was going along just perfeck, and today, that’s it. I don’t like being organized, see what I mean?’

‘And she did it her way,’ said Bert, in cold upper-class, smiling, as if in joke. He did not like Faye, and apparently did not care if he showed it.

Pat quickly covered up with humour. ‘Well, if you don’t want to join in, then don’t, have it on us!’ This was said without rancour. Pat even laughed, hoping Faye would; but Faye tossed her head, her face seemed to crumple up out of its prettiness, and her lips went white as she pressed them together. The cigarette in her hand trembled violently, ash scattered about.

‘Wait a minute,’ said Roberta. ‘Just hold your horses.’ This was addressed, apparently, to the five who were all looking at Faye. Faye knew it was meant for her. She made herself smile.

‘Was anything said about how we were to pay?’ asked Roberta.

‘No, but I know of various ways they can do it,’ said Alice. ‘For instance, in Birmingham there was a flat sum assessed for the whole house, to cover rates. And we paid electricity and gas separately.’

‘Electricity,’ said Faye. ‘Who wants to pay electricity?’

‘You don’t pay at all, or you just pay the first instalment,’ said Jasper. ‘Alice is good at that.’

‘We can all see what Alice is good at,’ said Faye.

‘Look,’ said Pat, ‘why don’t we postpone this discussion till we know? If they make an assessment for rent and rates and put it on all our Social on an individual basis, then that would suit some and not others. It would suit me, for instance.’

‘It wouldn’t suit me, see?’ said Faye, sweet but violent.

‘And it wouldn’t suit me,’ said Roberta. ‘I don’t want to become an official resident of this house. Nor does Faye.’

‘No, Faye certainly does not,’ said Faye. ‘Yesterday I was free as a bird, coming and going. I didn’t live here, I came and went, and now suddenly…’

‘All right,’ said Bert, exasperated. ‘You don’t want to be counted in, all right.’

‘Are you telling me to leave?’ said Faye, with a shrill laugh, and her face again seemed to crumple up out of its self, suggesting some other Faye, a pale, awful, violent Faye, the unwilling prisoner of the pretty cockney.

Jim laughed sullenly and said, ‘I’ve been told to leave. Why not Faye and Roberta if it comes to that.’

Faye turned the force of her pale awfulness on Jim, and Roberta came in quickly with, ‘No one is leaving. No one.’ She looked full at Jim. ‘But we have all to be clear about what we will or will not do. We have to be clear now. If a lump sum is assessed for this house, then we can discuss who is going to contribute what. If we are assessed individually, and our Social Security is adjusted individually, then no. No. No.’ This was kept amiable, but only just.

‘I’m not going to contribute,’ said Faye. ‘Why should I? I like things the way they were.’

‘How could you like them the way they were?’ said Bert. ‘Putting up with them, is one thing.’

And suddenly they all knew why it was Faye they had been eyeing so nervously, Faye who had dominated everything.

She sat straight up, straddling the chair-arm, and glared, and trembled, and in a voice that in no way related to the pretty cockney, said, ‘You filthy bloody cuntish ‘Itlers, you fascist scum, who are you telling what to do? Who are you ordering about?’ This voice came out of Faye’s lower depths, some dreadful deprivation. It was raw, raucous, labouring, as though words themselves had been a hard accomplishment, and now could only be shovelled out, with difficulty, past God knew what obstacles of mind and tongue. What accent was that? Where from? They stared, they were all silenced by her. And Roberta, putting her arm swiftly around her friend’s shaking shoulders, said softly, ‘Faye, Faye darling, Faye, Faye,’ until the girl suddenly shuddered and seemed to go limp, and collapsed into her arms.

A silence.

‘What’s the problem?’ asked Bert, who was refusing to see that he was the cause of this outburst from Faye’s other self. Or selves? ‘If Faye doesn’t want to contribute, that’s fine. They always set the assessment very low, for squats anyway. And there’ll be other people coming in, of course, to replace the comrades who left yesterday. We’ll have to be sure they understand the arrangement we make with the Council.’

Faye, half-hidden in Roberta’s arms, seemed to heave and struggle, but went quiet.

Alice said, ‘If we don’t get this place cleared up, we’d have to leave anyway. We can clear it up, easy enough, but to keep it clean, we need the Council. There’s been all the complaints. The woman next door said she complained…’

‘Joan Robbins,’ said Faye. ‘That filthy fascist cow. I’ll kill her.’ But it was in her cockney, not her other, true, voice, that she spoke. She sat up, freed herself from solicitous Roberta, and lit another cigarette. She did not look at the others.

‘No, you won’t,’ said Roberta, softly. She reasserted her rights to Faye by putting her arm around her. Faye submitted, with her pert little toss of the head and a smile.

‘Well, it is disgusting,’ said Alice.

‘It was all right till you came,’ said Jim. This was not a complaint or an accusation, more of a question. He was really saying: How is it so easy for you, and so impossible for me?

‘Don’t worry,’ said Alice, smiling at him. ‘When we’ve got the place cleaned up, we will be just like everyone else in the street and after a bit no one will notice us. You’ll see.’

‘If you want to waste your money,’ said Faye.

‘We do have to pay at least the first instalment of electricity and gas. If we can persuade them to supply us,’ said Bert.

‘Of course we can,’ said Alice, and Pat said, ‘The meters are still here.’

‘Yes, they forgot to take them away,’ said Jim.

‘And what are we going to pay with?’ asked Faye. ‘We are all on Unemployment, aren’t we?’

There was a silence. Alice knew that, paying a very low rent, there would be plenty of money. If people had any sense of how to use it, that is. She and Jasper, living with her mother and paying nothing, had about eighty pounds a week between them, on Social Security. But none of it was saved, because Jasper spent all his, and most of hers too, always coming to demand it. ‘For the Party,’ he said – or whatever Cause they were currently aligned with. But she knew that a lot of it went on what she described to herself, primly, as ‘his emotional life’.

She knew, too, that in communities like this, there were payers and the other kind, and there was nothing to be done about it. She knew that Pat would pay; that Pat would make Bert pay – as long as she was here. The two girls would not part with a penny. As for Jim – well, let’s wait and see.

She said, ‘There’s something we can do now, and that is, get the lavatories unblocked.’

Roberta laughed. Her laugh was orchestrated; meant to be noticed.

Faye said, ‘They are filled with concrete.’

‘So they were in one of the other houses I knew. It isn’t difficult. But we need tools.’

‘You mean tonight?’ asked Pat. She sounded interested, reluctantly admiring.

‘Why not? We’ve got to start,’ said Alice, fierce. In her voice sounded all the intensity of her need. They heard it, recognized it, gave way. ‘It’s not going to be nearly as difficult as you think now. I’ve looked at the lavatories. If the cisterns had been filled with concrete, it would be different, they’d have cracked, probably, but it isn’t difficult to get it out of the bowls.’

‘The workmen concreted over the tap from the main,’ said Bert.

‘Illegal,’ said Alice bitterly. ‘If the Water Board knew. Are there any tools?’

‘No,’ said Bert.

‘You said you have a friend near here? Has he got tools?’

‘She. Felicity. Her boyfriend has. Power tools. Everything. It’s his job.’

‘Then we could pay him. He could get the electricity right, too.’

‘With what do you pay ‘im,’ said Faye, singing it. ‘With what do we pay ‘im, dear Alice, with what?’

‘I’ll go and get the fifty pounds,’ said Alice. ‘You go and see your friend.’ She was at the door. ‘Tell him, plumbing and electricity. Plumbing first. If he’s got a big chisel and a heavy hammer we can start on this lavatory here in the hall. We really need a kango hammer. I’ll be back,’ she cried, and heard Jasper’s ‘Bring in something to eat, I’m starving.’

On the wings of accomplishment Alice flew to the Underground, and on the train she thought of the house, imagining it clean and ordered. She ran up the avenue to Theresa. Only when she heard Anthony’s voice did she remember Theresa would be late.

‘Alice,’ she said into the machine. ‘It’s Alice.’

‘Come in, Alice.’

Anthony’s full, measured, sexy voice reminded her of the enemies that she confronted, and she arrived outside their door wearing, as she knew, her look.

‘Well, Alice, come in,’ said Anthony, heartily but falsely, for it was Theresa who was her friend.

She went in, knowing she was unwelcome. Anthony had on a dressing-gown, and there was a book in his hand. An evening off was what he was looking forward to, she thought. Well, he can spare me ten minutes of it.

‘Sit down, do. A drink?’

‘No, Anthony, I never drink,’ she said, and went straight on, ‘Theresa said this morning I could have fifty pounds.’

‘She’s not here. She’s got one of her conferences.’

‘I thought, you could give it to me. I need it.’ This was fierce and deadly, an accusation, and the man looked carefully at the young woman, who stood there in the middle of his sitting-room, dressed in the clothes he thought of as military, swollen with tears and with hostility.

‘I haven’t got fifty pounds,’ he said.

A lie, Alice recognized, and she was staring at him with such hate that he murmured, ‘My dear Alice, do sit down, do. I’m going to have a drink if you won’t.’ He was trying to make it humorous, but she saw through it. She watched, standing, while the big dark bulky man turned from her, and poured himself whisky from a decanter. All her life, it seemed to her, she had had moments when she thought that he, and her friend, Theresa, were naked at nights in bed together, and she felt sick.

She knew from her mother that the sex life of these two was vivid, varied and tempestuous, in spite of Anthony’s heavy humorous urbanities, Theresa’s murmuring, smiling endearments. Dear Alice, darling Alice, but at night…She felt sick.

And she thought, as she had done when she was little, And they are so old! Watching the man’s broad back, grey thick silk, his smooth head, dark as oil, small for that body, she thought, they have been sexing all night and every night for all those years.

He turned to her in a swift movement, glass in his hand, having thought what he should do, and said, ‘I’ll ring Theresa. If she’s not actually in conference…’ And he went swift and deadly to the telephone.

Alice looked around the big expensive room. She thought: I’ll take one of those little netsukes, and run out, they’ll think it was the Spanish woman. But just then he came back and said, ‘They say they’ve called it a day. She’s on her way home. Well, I’ll get some supper on then. Theresa’s too tired to cook at conference times. Excuse me.’ Glad to be able to turn his back, she thought, and as he disappeared into the kitchen, the door opened. It was Theresa. For a moment Alice did not recognize her, thought it was some tired middle-aged woman, and then thought, But she looks so worn out.

Theresa stood heavily, her face in dragging lines, and she wore dark glasses, which left her eyes blinking and anxious when she took them off.

‘Oh Alice,’ she said, and walked fast to the chair near the drinks and collapsed. She fumbled as she poured herself a drink, and sat nursing the glass on her bosom, breathing slowly. Eyes shut. ‘Just a minute, Alice, just a minute, Alice dear,’ and as Anthony came in, moving his large bulk quickly to kiss her, she lifted her cheek to his lips, eyes shut, and said, ‘Thank God we closed early. Thank God, one more evening till eleven, and I’d be done for.’

He laid his hand on her shoulder, and pressed down. She smiled, with small pouting kissing movements, eyes tightclosed, and he went back to the kitchen, saying: ‘I’ve done some soup and a salad.’

‘Oh darling Anthony,’ said Theresa, ‘thank you – soup – it’s just what I need.’

What Alice felt then was a slicing cold pain – jealousy; but she did not know it was that, and she said, to be rid of the scene, rid of them, ‘You said I could have fifty pounds. Can I have it, Theresa?’

‘I expect so, darling,’ said Theresa vaguely. And in a moment she had sat up, had opened her smart bag, and was peering inside it. ‘Fifty,’ she said, ‘fifty, well, have I got it? Yes, just…’ And she fished out five ten-pound notes and handed them to Alice.

‘Thanks.’ Alice wanted to fly off with them, but felt graceless; she was full of affection for Theresa, who looked so tired and done, who had always been so good to her. ‘You are my favourite and my best, and my very best auntie,’ she said, with an awkward smile, as she had, when she was little, and they played this game.

Theresa’s eyes were open and she looked straight into Alice’s. ‘Alice,’ she said, ‘Alice, my dear…’ She sighed. Sat up. Stroked her deep-red skirt. Put up a white little hand to smooth her soft dark hair. Dyed, of course. ‘Your poor mother,’ said Theresa. ‘She rang me this morning. She was so upset, Alice.’

‘She was upset,’ said Alice at once. ‘She was.’

Theresa sighed. ‘Alice, why do you stick with him, with Jasper, why – no, wait, don’t run off. You’re so pretty and nice, my love – ‘ here she seemed to offer that kind face of hers to Alice, as if in a kiss. ‘You are such a good girl, Alice, why can’t you choose yourself someone – you should have a real relationship with someone,’ she ended awkwardly, because of Alice’s coldly contemptuous face.

‘I love Jasper,’ she said. ‘I love him. Why don’t you understand? I don’t care – about what you care about. Love isn’t just sex. That’s what you think, I know…’

But the years of affection, of love, dragged at her tongue, and she felt tears rushing down her face. ‘Oh Theresa,’ she cried, ‘thank you. Thank you. I’ll come in to see you soon. I’ll come. I must go, they are waiting…’ And she ran to the door, sobbing violently, and out of the door, letting it crash. Down the stairs she pounded, tears flying off her face, into the street, and there she remembered the notes in her hand, in danger of being blown away or snatched. She put them carefully into the pocket of her jacket, and walked fast and safely to the Underground.

Meanwhile, back in the beautiful flat, they were discussing Alice. Anthony kept up a humorous quizzical look, until Theresa responded with, ‘What is it, my love?’

‘Some girl,’ he said, the dislike he felt for Alice sounding in his voice.

‘Yes, yes, I know…’ she said irritably – her exhaustion was beginning to tell.

‘A girl – how old is she now?’

She shrugged, not wanting to be bothered with it, but interested, all the same. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘One keeps forgetting.’

‘Nearly forty?’ insisted Anthony.

‘Oh no, she can’t be!’

A pause, while the steam from the plate of soup he had brought her, and had set on the little table beside her, ascended between them. Through the steam, they looked at each other.

‘Thirty-five, no thirty-six,’ she said flatly at last.

‘Arrested development,’ said Anthony firmly, insisting on his right to dislike Alice.

‘Oh yes, I expect so, but darling Alice, well, she’s a sweet girl – a sweet thing, really.’




Chapter 3 (#ulink_108d99cf-ad2d-560a-9352-1624e23f6e22)


In Alice’s little street the houses were full of lights and people, the kerbs crammed with cars of the returned from work; and her house loomed at the end, dark, powerful, silent, mysterious, defined by the lights and the din of the main road beyond. As she arrived at the gate, she saw three figures about to go into the dark entrance. Jasper, Bert. And the third? – Alice ran up, and Jasper and Bert turned sharply to face possible danger, saw her, and said to the boy they had with them, ‘Philip, it is all right, this is Alice. Comrade Alice, you know.’ They were in the hall, and Alice saw this was not a boy, but a slight, pale young man, with great blue eyes between sheaves of glistening pale hair that seemed to reflect all the dim light from the hurricane lamp. Her first reaction was, But he’s ill, he’s not strong enough! For she had understood this was her saviour, the restorer of the house.

Philip said, facing her, with a stubbornness she recognized as the result of effort, a push against odds, ‘But I’ve got to charge for it. I can’t do it for nothing.’

‘Fifty pounds,’ said Alice, and saw a slight involuntary movement towards her from Jasper, which told her that he would have it off her, if she wasn’t careful.

Philip said, in the same soft, stubborn voice, ‘I want to see the job first. I have to cost it.’

She knew that this one had often been cheated out of what was due to him. Looking as he did, a brave little orphan, he invited it! She said, maternally and proudly, ‘We’re not asking for favours. This is a job.’

‘For fifty pounds,’ said Bert, with jocular brutality, ‘you can just about expect to get a mousehole blocked up. These days.’ And she saw his red lips gleam in the black thickets of his face. Jasper sniggered.

This line-up of the two men against her – for it was momentarily that – pleased her. She had even been thinking as she raced home that if Bert turned out to be one of the men that Jasper attached himself to, as had happened before, like a younger brother, showing a hungry need that made her heart ache for him, then he wouldn’t be off on his adventures. These always dismayed her, not out of jealousy – she insisted fiercely to herself, and sometimes to others – but because she was afraid that one day there might be a bad end to them. Once or twice men encountered by Jasper during these excursions into a world that he might tell her about, his grip tightening around her wrist as he bent to stare into her face looking for signs of weakness, had arrived at this squat or that, to be met by her friendly, sisterly helpfulness.

‘Jasper? He’ll be back this evening. Do you want to wait for him?’ But they went off again. But when there was a man around, like Bert, to whom he could attach himself, then he did not go off cruising. A word she herself used casually. ‘Were you cruising last night, Jasper? Do be careful, you know it’s bad enough with Old Bill on our backs for political reasons.’ This was the hold she had over him; the check she could use. He would reply in a proud, comradely voice, ‘You are quite right, Alice. But I know my way around.’ And he might give her one of his sudden, real smiles, rare enough, that acknowledged they were allies in a desperate war.

Now she smiled briefly at Jasper and Bert, and turned her attention to Philip. ‘The most important thing,’ she said, ‘is the lavatories. I’ll show you.’

She took him to the downstairs lavatory, holding the lamp high as they stood in the doorway. Since the day the Council workmen had poured concrete into the lavatory bowl, the little room had been deserted. It was dusty, but normal.

‘Bastards,’ she burst out, tears in her voice.

He stood there, undecided; and she saw it was up to her.

‘We need a kango hammer,’ she said. ‘Have you got one?’ She realized he hardly knew what it was. ‘You know, like the workmen use to break up concrete on the roads, but smaller.’

He said, ‘I think I know someone who’d have one.’

‘Tonight,’ she said. ‘Can you get it tonight?’

This was the moment, she knew, when he might simply go off, desert her, feeling – as she was doing – the weight of that vandalized house; but she knew, too, that as soon as he got started…She said quickly, ‘I’ve done this before. I know. It’s not as bad as it looks.’ And, as he stood there, his resentful, reluctant pose telling her that he again felt put upon, she pressed, ‘I’ll see you won’t lose by it. I know you are afraid of that. I promise.’ They were close together in the doorway of the tiny room. He stared at her from the few inches’ distance of their sudden intimacy, saw this peremptory but reassuring face as that of a bossy but kindly elder sister, and suddenly smiled, a sweet candid smile, and said, ‘I’ve got to go home, ring up my friend, see if he’s at home, see if he’s got a – a kango, borrow Felicity’s car…’ He was teasing her with the enormity of it all.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes. Please.’

He nodded, and in a moment had slipped out of the front door, and was gone. When she went into the sitting-room where Jasper and Bert were, waiting – as they showed by how they sat, passive and trusting – for her to accomplish miracles, she said with confidence, ‘He’s gone to get some tools. He’ll be back.’

She knew he would; and within the hour he was, with a bag of tools, the kango, battery, lights, everything.

The concrete in the bowl, years old, was shrinking from the sides and was soon broken up. Soon, scratched and discoloured, the lavatory stood usable. Usable if the water still ran. But a lump of concrete entombed the main water tap. Gently, tenderly, Philip cracked off this shell with his jumping, jittering, noisy drill, and the tap appeared, glistening with newness. Philip and Alice, laughing and triumphant, stood close together over the newly-born tap.

‘I’ll see that all the taps are off, but leave one on,’ she said softly; for she wanted to make sure of it all before announcing victory to those two who waited, talking politics, in the sitting-room. She ran over the house, checking taps, came running down. ‘After four years, if there’s not an airlock…’ She appealed to Philip. He turned the main tap. Immediately a juddering and thudding began in the pipes, and she said, ‘Good. They’re alive.’ And he went off to check the tanks, while she stood in the hall, thankful tears running off her cheeks.

In a couple of hours, the water was restored, the three lavatories cleared, and in the hall was a group of disbelieving and jubilant communards who, returning from various parts of London, had been told what was going on, and on the whole, disbelieved. Out of – Alice hoped – shame.

Jim said, ‘But we could have done it before, we could have done it.’ Rueful, incredulous, delighted, he said, ‘I’ll bring down the pails, we can get rid of…’

‘Wait,’ screamed Alice. ‘No, one at a time, not all at once, we’ll block the whole system, after years, who knows how long? We did that once in Birmingham, put too much all at once in – there was a cracked pipe underneath somewhere, and we had to leave that squat next day. We had only just come.’ In command of them, and of herself, Alice stood on the bottom step of the stairs, exhausted, dirty, covered with grime and grey from the disintegrating concrete, even to her hair which was grey. They cheered her, meaning it, but there was mockery too. And there was a warning, which she did not hear, or care about.

‘Philip,’ she was saying, ‘Philip, we’ve got the water, now the electricity.’ And in silence, Philip looked gently, stubbornly at her, this frail boy – no, man, for he was twenty-five, so she had learned among all the other things about him she needed to know – and suddenly they were all silent, because they had been discussing, while she and Philip worked, how much this was going to cost and how much they would contribute.

Philip said, ‘If you had called in a plumber, do you know what you would have had to pay?’

‘A couple of hundred,’ supplied Pat, tentatively, who, without interfering in this delicate operation – Alice, and Philip and the house – had been more involved than the others, following the stages of the work as they were accomplished, and commenting, telling how thus she, too, had done in this place and that.

Alice took the fifty pounds from her pocket and gave them to Philip.

‘I’ll get my Social day after tomorrow,’ she said. He stood, turning over the notes, five of them, thinking, she knew, that this was a familiar position for him to be in. Then he looked up, smiled at her, and said briefly, ‘I’ll come in tomorrow morning. I need to do the electrics in daylight.’

And he left, accompanied not by his mate, Bert, who had brought him here, but by Alice, and she went with him to the gate, the rubbish malodorous around them.

He said, with his sweet, painful smile, that already tore her heart, ‘Well, at least it’s for comrades.’ And walked off along the street where the houses stood darker now, since people had gone to bed. It was after one.

She went into the deserted hall, and heard the lavatory flushing. Held her breath, standing there, thinking, The pipes…but they seemed to be all right. Jasper came out, and said to her, ‘I’m going to sleep.’

‘Where?’

This was a delicate moment. In her mother’s house, Jasper had had his own place, appropriating her brother’s room, in which he curled himself up, a hedgehog, guarding his right to be alone at nights. She, daughter of the house, had slept in the room she had had all her life. She did not mind, she said; she knew what she felt; but what she did mind, badly, was the thoughts of others, not about her, but about Jasper. But they were alone in the hall, could face this decision together. He was gazing at her with the quelling look she knew meant he felt threatened.

Pat came out to them, saying, ‘The room next to ours is empty. It probably needs a bit of a clean, the two who were in it weren’t…’

In the great dark hall, where the hurricane lamp made its uncertain pool, the three stood, and the women looked at Jasper, Alice knowing why, but Pat, not yet. Alice knew that Pat, quick and acute, would understand it all in a flash…and suddenly Pat remarked, ‘Well, at any rate, it’s the best empty room there is…’ She had taken it all in, in a moment, Alice knew, but it seemed Jasper did not, for he said heartily, ‘Right, Alice, let’s go.’

Pat said to them, as they silently went up, ‘Alice, don’t think we don’t think you aren’t a bloody marvel!’ And laughed. Alice, not giving a damn, went into the big empty room behind Jasper. His backpack had been undone, his sleeping-bag lay neatly against the right wall at the end, as far away as it could get. Alice said, ‘I’ll fetch my things,’ waited for him to repudiate her, but he stood, back turned, saying nothing. She ran down to the hall, hoping Pat would not be there, but she was, standing quietly by herself, as though she had expected Alice to come down, wanting to do what she then did, which was to advance, take Alice in her arms, and lay her smooth cherry cheek against Alice’s. Comfort. Comradely reassurance. And a compassion, too, Alice felt, wishing she could say out loud, ‘But I don’t mind, you don’t understand.’

‘Thanks,’ she said to Pat, brief and awkward; and Pat gave a grunt of laughter, and waved as she went back into the sitting-room where – of course – the comrades were discussing Alice, Jasper and this explosion of order into their lives.

Up in their room, it was dark. But some light came in from the sky and from the traffic. Alice spread her sleeping-bag on its thin foam rubber base, and was soon lying flat on her back, on her pallet, on the wall opposite to Jasper who lay curled as he always did, in fierce aloneness. He was not asleep, but soon he slept, as she could see from a loosening of his body, as if he had been washed up on a shore, and lay abandoned.

Too tired to sleep, she lay listening to how people were going to bed. Good-night, good-night, on the landing, and the corridor along from it. Roberta and Faye in one room, of course. Jim in another. And, in the room next to this one, Pat and Bert. Oh no, she did not want that, she did not want what she knew would happen. And it did, the grunting and whispering and shifting and moaning – right on the other side of the wall, close against her ear. It was too much. Love, that was; which everyone said she was a fool to do without; they were sorry for her. Theresa and Anthony, at it all night and every night, so said her mother, after years of marriage, grunting and panting, moaning and wanting. Alice lay as stiff as a rod, staring at the shadowed ceiling where lights from the cars in the road fled and chased, her ears assaulted, her mind appalled. She made herself think: Tomorrow, tomorrow we’ll get the electricity done…Money. She needed money. Where? She’d get it. She wasn’t going to cheat Philip…

Philip, given the sack six months ago from the building firm – the first to be sacked, and Alice knew why, because of his build: of course any employer would think, this weakling – had set himself up. He was now a decorator, hopefully, a builder. He had: two long ladders, a short ladder, a trestle (but needed, badly, another), paintbrushes, some tools; and could borrow from his friend, in Chalk Farm. He had got the job of decorating a house, in spite of his frail appearance; perhaps because of it; had been paid only half, was told he was not up to it. He knew he would not be paid the rest; it would mean going to law and he could not do that. He was on the dole. He thought he would get a job doing up a pub in Neasden. He said he thought he would get this job, but Alice knew he didn’t much believe it. He lived with Felicity (his girlfriend?) in her flat a couple of streets away. He had to be paid.

The noises through the wall, having died down, were starting off again. Alice dragged her pallet and bag over to the other wall as quietly as she could, afraid of alerting Jasper, who would feel her being there so close to him as an encroachment. And sure enough, just as she was settling down, he started up and she could see him glaring at her, teeth gritting. ‘You are in my space,’ he said. ‘You know we don’t get into each other’s space.’

She said, ‘I don’t like that wall.’ This situation having occurred before, repeatedly, she did not have to explain. Leaning up on his elbow, his face clenched with fury and disgust, he listened to what could be plainly heard even from his wall; then lay tense, breathing fast.

She said, ‘I’m getting up early, to see if I can get hold of some money.’

He did not say anything. Soon, the house became still. He slept.




Chapter 4 (#ulink_00beef7d-4d8d-51da-bdc7-4db74ff5881f)


Alice dozed a little. In her mind she was already living the next day. She waited for the light, which came in gloomily through dirty windows and showed the filth of this room. Now she ached for tea, something to eat. She crept down into the hall which still belonged to night and the hurricane lamp; then into the sitting-room, hoping that the thermos might be there. But she drank cold water from a jug, then used, with pride but caution, the lavatory, thinking of the pipes left uncared for over an unknown number of winters. Then she went to the Underground, stopping for breakfast at Fred’s Caff. There was room for eight or ten tables, set close. A cosy scene, not to say intimate. Mostly men. Two women were sitting together. At first they seemed middle-aged, because of their stolidity and calm; then it could be seen they were youngish, but tired. Probably cleaners after an early-morning job in local offices. At the counter Alice asked for tea and – apologetically – brown toast, was told by – very likely – Fred’s wife, for she had a proprietorial air, that they didn’t do brown toast. Alice went to look for a place carrying tea, a plate of white toast that dripped butter, a rock cake. As a concession to health, she went back to get orange juice. It was clear to her that in this establishment it would be best to sit with the two women, and did so.

They were both eating toast, and drinking muddy coffee. They sat in the loose, emptied poses of women consciously relaxing, and on their faces were vague good-natured smiles which turned on Alice, like shields. They did not want to talk, only to sit.

The salt of the earth! Alice was dutifully saying to herself, watching this scene of workers fuelling themselves for a hard day’s work with plates of eggs, chips, sausages, fried bread, baked beans – the lot. Cholesterol, agonized Alice, and they all look so unhealthy! They had a pallid greasy look like bacon fat, or undercooked chips. In the pocket of each, or on the tables, being read, was the Sun or the Mirror. Only lumpens, thought Alice, relieved there was no obligation to admire them. Building or road workers, perhaps even self-employed; it wasn’t these men who would save Britain from itself! Alice settled down to enjoy her delicious buttersodden toast, and soon felt better. Not really wanting the cold sour orange juice, she made herself drink it between cups of the bitter tea. The two women watched her, with the detached attention they would give to the interesting mores of a foreigner, taking in everything about her without seeming to do so. She had quite nice curly hair, they could be heard thinking; why didn’t she do something with it? It was dusty! What a pity about that heavy army jacket, more like a man’s, really! That was dusty too! Look at her hands, she didn’t put herself out to keep her nails clean! Having condemned, and lost interest, they heaved themselves up and departed, with parting shouts at the woman behind the counter. ‘Ta, Liz.’ ‘See you tomorrow, Betty.’

They came here every morning after three or four hours’ stint in the offices. These men came in on their way to work. They all knew each other, Alice could see; it was like a club. She finished up quickly and left. Outside the newsagent’s on the corner, the two women she had been sitting with had been joined by a third. They wore all shapeless trousers, blouses, cardigans and carried heavy shopping bags. Their work gear. They stood together gossiping, taking up as little room as they could, because the full tide of the morning rush to work filled the pavements.

It was still too early. It was only just after eight. Her mother would be taking her bath. If Alice went there now she could quietly let herself in, and make the coffee, to give her mother a surprise when she came down in her dressing-gown. Then they could sit at the big table in the kitchen and eat their muesli and drink their coffee. Dorothy would read her Times, and she, the Guardian. To that house every day were delivered The Times, the Guardian, the Morning Star and on Saturday the Socialist Worker, the last two for herself and Jasper. Jasper said he read the Worker because one should know what the opposition was doing; but Alice knew that he secretly had Trotskyist tendencies. Not that she minded about that; she believed that socialists of all persuasions should pull together for the common good. In her mother’s house, she read the Guardian. For years, that newspaper had been the only one to be seen. Then, one day, her mother had dropped in to visit her great friend Zoë Devlin, and found her wearing a Guardian apron; the word ‘Guardian’ printed in various sizes of black print, on white. This had given Dorothy Mellings a shock; she had had a revelation because of this sight, she had said. That Zoë Devlin, of all people in the world, should be willing to put herself into uniform, to proclaim conformity!

It was the beginning of her mother’s period of pretty farfetched utterances – a period by no means over. The beginning, too, of a series of meetings, arranged between the two women for the purpose of re-examining what they thought. ‘We go along for decades,’ Alice had heard her mother say on the telephone, initiating the first discussion, ‘taking it for granted we agree about things, and we don’t. Like hell we do! We’re going to have to decide if you and I have anything in common, Zoë, how about it?’

Typical intellectual shit, Jasper had opined, meaning Dorothy to hear it.

Remembering Jasper, Alice understood she could not just turn up now, make coffee, and greet her mother with a smile.

She got on the train, and found another café, where no one would think her remarkable. It was nearly empty; its busy time would not start for another two hours, when shoppers, men and women, came in. Now Alice ate wholemeal buns and honey and was restored to grace, and with an eye on the clock on the wall, bided her time. Her mother would probably go out to the shops about nine-thirty, ten. She liked to get shopping over, for she hated it.

Alice had done the shopping, for four years. She loved it. When she returned to the great kitchen with cartons full of food brought back in the car, she would carefully put everything away. Her mother would probably be there (if Jasper wasn’t) and they would talk, getting on like anything! They always did! At home Alice was a good girl, a good daughter, as she had always enjoyed being. It was she who managed the kitchen…of course, her mother was pleased to have her do it. (There was an uneasy little thought tucked away somewhere here, but Alice chose to ignore it.) For the four years Alice and Jasper had been there, she had shopped and cooked. She had also cooked – sometimes commandeering the kitchen for two or three days at a time – the food she sold at the market. Jasper used to come in quickly, taking his opportunity when Dorothy was not around, and fill himself with whatever she was making that day – ‘her’ soup, for instance; cakes, good healthy bread. Or, if she were not cooking, might be at the market, he sneaked to the refrigerator and took anything there he fancied. Alice kept it well supplied with ham and salami and pickles for him. He cut himself great sandwiches and took them to his room and stayed there, not coming down for hours. Dorothy, at the beginning, had asked, uneasy, ‘What does Jasper do up there all day?’ ‘He studies,’ Alice always said, proud and forbidding. She knew that he did nothing at all, sometimes, all day. He might read the Socialist Worker and the Morning Star. Otherwise he listened to pop, through headphones, and sometimes danced to it quietly by himself, all over the room. He was very graceful, Alice knew; he hated to be seen, and this was a pity. He should have danced: done ballet, perhaps?

Then he would come down again, silently, to get more food. He would never willingly come into the kitchen if Dorothy were there. He never sat down to eat with them. When Alice remonstrated, said her mother did not like it, he had said she did not like him (which was true, as it turned out, though Dorothy certainly had not said so at the start). For his part he thought her a vulgar tart. This epithet, so far off any sort of mark, only stunned Alice’s responses, so she said feebly, ‘But Jasper, how can you say that?’ At which he made loud rude noises, with his lips.

Of course when Dorothy had guests, Jasper was not there. He really might just as well not have been in the house, except for that steady pilfering of food from the kitchen. Anyone would think that Dorothy grudged him the food! Alice had cried out often enough to him, and then when he was merely abusive, to herself.

Now sitting in this friendly, companionable café, where people coming in were likely to greet her; eating more buns, more honey (to fill in time now, not from hunger), Alice was thinking: Well, but she does hate Jasper, always did, people do. And she did grudge him his food, probably; if she hated him. Alice thought, at last, in something like a little panic: What must it have been like for her, never having her own kitchen, not even being able to come into it, for fear of running into Jasper? And then: I was simply doing everything, all the cooking. And she loves cooking…

At half-past nine Alice left the café, calling goodbye to Sarah, who had served there for years. Once a refugee from Austria, she was now an elderly woman with photographs of her grown-up grandchildren stuck on the wall behind the counter. Alice walked up, not too fast, to her mother’s house. She stood outside for some time, then thought that any watching neighbour would find this peculiar. She let herself in with the key she had not handed her mother when she had left yesterday for ever. Not a sound in the house. Alice stood in the hall, breathing in the house, home; the big, easy-fitting, accommodating house that smelled of friendship. She went into the kitchen and her heart turned over. On the floor were tea-chests full of dishes and plates, and, stacked all over the table, teacups and saucers and glasses, already tucked into newspaper. Oh, of course, now that she and Jasper had left, her mother would be giving the unnecessary china and stuff to jumble. Yes, that must be it. A small child, threatened, eyes wide and frantic, Alice stood looking at the tea-chests, then ran upstairs to her own room. It was as she had left it yesterday. She felt better. She went up a floor to the room Jasper had used. On the floor was a rug, Bokhara. Once it had been in the sitting-room, but it got frail, and found a safe place under a table in the room which, until Jasper commandeered it, was little used. It was beautiful. Alice tenderly rolled it up, and ran down with it to the kitchen. Now she hoped that she would not run into her mother. She looked around for paper and a biro, wrote, ‘I have taken the rug, Alice’ and stood this note among the wrapped glasses. Again she was endangered by the sight of the tea-chests. But she made herself forget them, and went out of the house. At the end of the street her mother was coming towards her under a canopy of bright green. She walked slowly, head down. She looked tired and old. Alice ran fast the other way, clutching the heavy rug, until out of sight of her mother, and then walked, increasingly slowly, to Chalk Farm. The carpet shop was only just open. A middle-aged woman sat at a desk, cup of coffee before her, and pushed down dark glasses to look over them at Alice.

‘You want to sell?’ she inquired. ‘Pretty!’ as Alice unrolled the rug on the floor, breathing hard. Together they stood looking, captivated and quietened by the pool of soft patterned colour on the floor. The woman bent, picked it up, and held it against the light. Alice moved round to stand by her and saw the light pricking through, and in one place glaring. Alice’s throat was tight at the back. She thought wildly: I’ll take it to the squat, it’s so beautiful…but waited as the rug was thrown down on the floor again, just anyhow, in folds, and the woman said, ‘It’s badly worn. It would have to be mended. I couldn’t give you more than thirty.’

‘Thirty?’ moaned Alice. She didn’t know what she had expected. She knew it was, or had been, valuable. ‘Thirty,’ she stammered, thinking it had not been worth taking it.

‘My advice is, keep it and enjoy it,’ said the woman, going back to her desk, letting the dark glasses fall back into place, and drinking coffee.

‘No, I need the money,’ said Alice.

She took the three notes and, lingering to look at the rug lying there abandoned by her, went out of the shop.

She bought food for Jasper and went back to the squat. The street had a morning look, no one out, people had gone to work and to school; inside the women would be cleaning or with the kids. But she did not expect anyone to be up yet in her house; in squats no one got up early.

But Pat was in the sitting-room by herself, drinking coffee from the vacuum flask. She indicated with a gesture that Alice should help herself, but Alice was still full of her good breakfasts, and shook her head. She said, ‘I’ve got a bit of money, but not enough.’

Pat said nothing. In this strong morning light she looked older, all loosened and used, not cherry-bright. Her hair had not been brushed yet, and she smelled of sex and sweat. Alice thought, Today we’ll tackle the bathrooms. There were two.

Pat had still not said anything, but now she lit a cigarette, and smoked it as though she planned to drown in smoke.

Alice had seen that Pat was one of those who needed time to come to in the mornings, and was not going to say anything. She sat quietly and surveyed the state of the room: the curtains were rags, and could not be expected to stand up to dry-cleaning. Well, perhaps her mother…The carpet – it would do. A vacuum cleaner?

She knew Pat was looking at her but did not meet the look. She felt Pat was an ally, did not want to challenge this feeling.

Pat said, coughing a little from the smoke, ‘Twenty-four hours. You’ve been here twenty-four hours!’ And laughed. Not unfriendly. But reserving judgment. Fair enough, thought Alice. In politics one had to…

There was a sudden arrival of sound in the street, and the rubbish van stood outside. With an exclamation Alice ran out, and straight up to two men who were shouldering up rubbish bins from the next garden. ‘Please, please, please…’ They stood there, side by side, looking down at her, big men, strong for this job, confronted by this girl who was both stubbornly not to be moved, and frantic. She stammered, ‘What will you take to clear this garden…? Yes, I know…’ Their faces put on identical expressions of disgusted derision, as they looked from the sordid mess to her, back to the mess, at her, and then steadily at the mess, assessing it.

‘You should call in the Council,’ said one, at last.

‘You are the Council,’ said Alice. ‘No, please, please…look, we’ve come to an arrangement. An agreed arrangement. We will pay the expenses. You know, an agreed squat.’

‘Here, Alan,’ shouted one of them towards a great shaking throbbing lorry that stood there ready to chew up any amount of plastic cartons, tins, papers – the rubbish that crammed the garden of her house to the level of the windows.

Out of the lorry came another large man in blue dungarees and wearing thick leather gloves. Alan, arbiter of her fate, yet another one, like Philip, like Mary Williams.

She said, ‘What will you take to clear it?’ This was both calmly confident, as befitted her mother’s daughter, and desperate; and they stared, taking their time, at that plump childlike formless face, the round anxious blue eyes, the well-washed but tidy jeans, the thick jacket, and the nice little collared blouse, with flowers on it. And all, everything, impregnated with a greyish dust, which had been brushed and shaken and beaten off, but remained, obstinately, as a dimming of the colour.

They shrugged, as one. Three pairs of eyes conferred.

‘Twenty quid,’ said Alan, the driver.

‘Twenty pounds?’ wailed Alice. ‘Twenty!’

A pause. They looked, as one, uncomfortable. A pause. ‘You get that lot into plastic bags, love, and we’ll pick it up tomorrow. Fifteen.’

She smiled. Then laughed. Then sobbed. ‘Oh thanks, thanks,’ she snuffled.

‘Be around tomorrow, love,’ said Alan, all fatherly, and the three moved off as one to the opposite house and its rubbish bins.

Alice checked for the safety of her thirty pounds, in her pocket, and went back into the house. Pat was where she had been, in a smoke trance. Jim had come down and was eating the food she had brought for Jasper. She said, ‘If we get the stuff into bags, they’ll take it tomorrow.’

‘Money,’ said Pat.

‘Money money money money,’ said Jim, stuffing in bananas.

‘I’ve got the money. If I get the plastic bags…’ She stood before them, all appeal.

‘I’m on,’ said Jim.

‘Right,’ said Pat, ‘but what about the house next door? We can clear this place up as much as you like, but that place is worse than this.’ As Alice stared and stared, her pink mouth slack and doleful, ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t notice? The house next door?’

Alice flew out, and looked first into the garden where the woman neighbour had spoken to her. Suburban order. But there was a tall hedge at the other side of this house, and beyond it…She ran into the main road, and along it a short way, and saw, which she had not done before, because she had made her little excursions by another route, a house identical to the one she was reclaiming, with broken windows, slipped slates, a look of desertion, and a rubbish-filled garden. It stank.

She came thoughtfully and bitterly back to the sitting-room, and asked, ‘Is it empty?’

Pat said, ‘The police cleared it three months ago, but it is full again now.’

‘That’s not our problem,’ said Alice, suspecting it might turn out to be. ‘I’m going to get the plastic bags.’

Enough cost her ten pounds.

Pat looked at the great heap of shining black on the steps, and said, ‘A pretty penny,’ but did not offer. She said, ‘Are we going to do it with our hands?’

Alice, without a moment’s hesitation, ran into the next garden, rang the bell, conferred with Joan Robbins, and came back with a spade, a shovel, a fork.

‘How do you do it!’ said Pat with tired irony, but picked up the fork and a sack and began work.

They laboured. Much worse than it looked, for the lower layers were pressed down and rotting and loathsome. Black glistening sack after sack received its horrible load and was stood next to another, until the garden was crammed with black sacks, their mouths showing decomposing refuse. The thin cat watched from the hedge, its eyes on Alice. Unable to bear it, she soon went in, filled a saucer with milk, another with scraps of cheese, bread and cold chips, and brought them out to the cat, which crept on raggedy paws to the food and ate.

Pat stood resting, looking at Alice. Who was looking at the cat. Jim leaned on a shovel, and said, ‘I had a little cat. It got run over.’

Pat waited for more, but there was no more to come. She shrugged and said, ‘It’s a cat’s life.’ And went on working.

But Jim’s eyes had tears in them, and Alice said, ‘I’m sorry, Jim.’

‘I wouldn’t have another little cat,’ he said. ‘Not after that one,’ and went furiously back to work.

Soon both gardens, back and front, were cleared. Pallid grass was ready to take a new lease on life. A rose, long submerged, had thin whitish shoots.

‘It was a nice garden,’ said Jim, pleased.

‘I smell,’ said Alice bitterly. ‘What are we going to do? And I haven’t even thought about hot water yet. If Philip comes, tell him I won’t be a minute.’

She flew inside; and poured buckets of cold water into the bath; she did what she could, inadequately. Hot water, she was thinking, hot water, that’s next. Money.

Philip did not come.

Bert and Jasper descended together in responsible conversation about some political perspective. They told Alice and Pat they were going to get some breakfast; noticed the cleared garden and the ranks of sacks, said, ‘Nice work,’ and departed to Fred’s Caff.

Pat would have shared a laugh with Alice, but Alice was not going to meet her eyes. She would never betray Jasper, not to anyone!

But Pat persisted, ‘I left one squat because I did all the work. Not just men, either – six of us, three women, and I did it all.’

At this Alice faced Pat seriously, pausing in her labour of cleaning a window, and said, ‘It’s always like that. There’s always one or two who do the work.’ She waited for Pat to comment, disagree, take it up on principle.

‘You don’t mind,’ stated Pat.

She was looking neat and tight and right again, having washed and brushed up. Alice was thinking: Yes, all pretty and nice, her eyes done up, her lips red, and then he can just…She felt bitter.

She said, ‘That’s how it always is.’

‘What a revolutionary,’ said Pat, in her way that was friendly, but with a sting in it that referred, so it seemed, to some permanent and deeply internal judgment of hers, a way of looking at life that was ingrained.

‘But I am a revolutionary,’ said Alice, seriously.

Pat said nothing, but drew in smoke to the very pit of her poor lungs, and held her mouth in a red pout to let out a stream of grey that floated in tendrils to the grimy ceiling. Her eyes followed the spiralling smoke. She said at last, ‘Yes, I think you are. But the others aren’t so sure.’

‘You mean Roberta and Faye? Oh well, they are just – desperadoes!’ said Alice.

‘What?‘ and Pat laughed.

‘You know.’ Four-square in front of Pat, Alice challenged her to take a stand on what she, Alice, knew Pat to be, not a desperado, but a serious person, like herself, Alice. Pat did not flinch away from this confrontation. It was a moment, they knew, of importance.

A silence, and more smoke bathed lungs and was expelled, slowly, sybaritically, both women watching the luxuriant curls.

‘All the same,’ said Pat, ‘they are prepared for anything. They take it on – you know. The worst, if they have to.’

‘Well?’ said Alice, calm, and confident. ‘So would I. I’m ready too.’

‘Yes, I believe you are,’ said Pat.

Jim came in, ‘Philip’s here.’ Out flew Alice, and saw him in the light of day for the first time. A slight, rather stooping boy – only he was a man – with his hollowed, pale cheeks, 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 case the others should come in and see her, defenceless. Then Alice thought, Well, it will probably be Bert, won’t it? Sleeping Beauty! Now it was scorn that she felt, because of Pat’s need. If she’s got to have it, she’s got to have it, said Alice judiciously to herself, making necessary allowances. And stepped lightly out of the sitting-room, through the hall, and into the outside world. It was about three o’clock on a fresh and lively spring afternoon. She took the bus to Electricity, with confidence.

Electricity was a large modern building, set well back from the main road where seethed, in cars and on foot, the lively polyglot needy people whose lives it supported with light, boiling kettles, energetic vacuum cleaners…power. The building looked conscious of its role: nearly a million people depended on it. It stood solid and dependable. Its windows flashed. The cars of its functionaries stood in biddable lines, gleaming.

Alice ran lightly up the steps and, knowing her way from having been in so many similar buildings, went straight to the first floor where she knew she was in the right place, because there was a room where ten or so people waited. Unpaid bills, new accounts, threats of disconnection: a patient little crowd of petitioners. From this room opened two doors, and Alice sat herself so as to be able to see into both rooms. As the doors opened to emit one customer, and admit another, Alice examined the faces of these new arbiters, sitting behind their respective desks. Women. One she knew, after a single glance, she must avoid. The letter-of-the-law, that woman, judged Alice, seeing a certain self-satisfaction in competence. A thin face and lips, neatly waved fair hair, a smile Alice had no intention of earning. But the other woman, yes, she would do, although at first glance…She was large, and her thick tight dress held her solid and secure, performing the function of a corset, but from this fortress of a dress emerged a large soft rather girlish face and large soft hands. Alice adjusted her seat, and in due course found herself sitting in front of this motherly lady who, Alice knew, several times a day stretched things a little because she was sorry for people.

Alice told her story, and described – knowing exactly what she was doing – the large solid house which inexplicably was going to be pulled down so that yet another nasty block of flats could be built. Then she produced her official-looking Council envelope, with the letter inside.

This official, Mrs Whitfield, only glanced at the letter, and said, ‘Yes, but the house is on the agenda, that’s all, it hasn’t been decided.’ She turned up a card in the cabinet beside her, and said, ‘No. 43? I know it. 43 and 45. I walk past them every day to the Underground. They make me feel sick.’ She looked, embarrassed, at Alice and even blushed.

‘We have already begun to clean 43 up. And the dustmen are coming tomorrow to take it all away.’

‘You want me to get the power switched on now before knowing what the Council decides?’

‘I’m sure it’s going to be all right,’ said Alice, smiling. She was sure. Mrs Whitfield saw this, felt it, and nodded.

‘Who is going to guarantee payment? Are you? Are you in work?’

‘No,’ said Alice, ‘not at the moment.’ She began to talk in a calm, serious way about the houses in Manchester, in Halifax, in Birmingham, which had been rescued, where electricity had flowed obediently through wires, after long abstinence. Mrs Whitfield listened, sitting solid in her chair, while her white large hand held a biro poised above a form: Yes. No.

She said, ‘If I order the power to be switched on, first I must have a guarantor.’

‘But do you know that it is only in this borough – well, one or two others. In Lampton, for instance, you’d have to supply electricity to us. If people demand it, then it must be supplied.’

‘Well,’ said Mrs Whitfield mildly, ‘you seem to know the situation as well as I do! I do not make policy. I implement it. The policy in this borough is that there has to be a guarantor.’

But her eyes, large, soft and blue, were direct on Alice’s face and not combative or hostile, far from it; she seemed to be appealing for Alice to come up with something.

‘My father will guarantee payment,’ said Alice. ‘I am sure of that.’

Mrs Whitfield had already started to fill in the form. ‘Then that’s all right,’ she said. ‘His name? His address? His telephone number? And we have to have a deposit.’

Alice took out ten pounds and laid it on the desk. She knew it was not enough. Mrs Whitfield looked at it cautiously, and sighed. She did not look at Alice. A bad sign. She did not take the note. Then, she did raise her eyes to Alice’s face, and seemed startled at what she saw there.

‘How many of you are there?’ she asked in a hurried playing-for-time way, glancing at the note, and then making herself confront Alice’s face, that face which could not be denied. It was not fair! Mrs Whitfield seemed to be feeling. They were inappropriate and wrong, these emotions that Alice had brought into this orderly and sensible office. Probably, what Mrs Whitfield should be doing was simply to tell Alice to go away and come back better supplied with evidence of her status as a citizen. Mrs Whitfield could not do this. She could not. Alice saw from how that large smooth confined bosom heaved, from the soft flushed shocked face, that she – Alice – was on the point of getting her way.

‘Very well,’ said Mrs Whitfield at last, and sat for a moment, not so much in doubt now that she had made a decision, but worried. For Alice. ‘Those are big houses,’ she remarked, meaning: they use a lot of electricity.

‘It’ll be all right,’ said Alice, sure that it would be. ‘Can you switch it on this afternoon? We have got an electrician at work. It would be a help…’

Mrs Whitfield nodded. Alice went out, knowing that the official was watching her go, disturbed, probably already wondering why she had given in.

Instead of going straight home, Alice went to the telephone box at the corner and dialled her mother. A voice she did not at first recognize; but it was her mother. That awful flat voice…Alice nearly said, ‘Hello, this is Alice,’ but could not. She gently replaced the receiver and dialled her father. But it was his partner who answered.

She bought a large thermos, which would always be useful, for example on demos or at pickets; asked Fred’s wife to fill it with strong tea, and went home.

The white dusty cloud in the kitchen had subsided. She said to Philip, now crouched on the floor with half the floorboards up, ‘Be careful they might switch it on at any moment.’

‘It is on, I’ve just tested,’ said Philip, and gave her a smile that made it all worth while.

They sat on the great table, drank strong tea and were companionable and happy. It was a large room. Once a family had had its centre here, warm and safe and unfailing. They had sat together around this table. But Alice knew that before all that could begin again, there must be money.

She left Philip, and went to the sitting-room where Pat was awake and no longer lying abandoned and open to Alice’s anxious curiosities. She was reading. It was a novel. By some Russian. Alice knew the author’s name as she did know the names of authors, that is, as if they were objects on a shelf, round, hard and glittering, with a life and a light of their own. Like marbles, that you could turn between your fingers for as long as you liked, but they would not yield, give up their secrets, submit.

Alice never read anything but newspapers.

As a child they had teased her: Alice has a block against books. She was a late reader, not something to be overlooked in that bookish house. Her parents, particularly her mother, all the visitors, everyone she ever met, had read everything. They never stopped reading. Books flowed in and out of the house in tides. ‘They breed on the shelves,’ her parents, and then her brother, happily joked. But Alice was cherishing her block. It was a world she could choose not to enter. One might politely refuse. She persisted, polite but firm, secretly tasting the power she possessed to disquiet her parents. ‘I do not see the point of all that reading,’ she had said; and continued to say, even at university, doing Politics and Economics, mainly because the books she would be expected to read did not have the inaccessible mocking quality of those others. ‘I am only interested in facts,’ she would say during this period when there was no escaping it: a minimum number of books had to be read.

But later she had learned she could not say this. There had always been books of all kinds in the squats and communes. She used to wonder how it was that a comrade with a good, clear and correct view of life could be prepared to endanger it by reading all that risky equivocal stuff that she might dip into, hastily, retreating as if scalded. She had even secretly read almost to the end of one novel recommended as a useful tool in the struggle, but felt as she had as a child: if she persevered, allowing one book to lead her on to another, she might find herself lost without maps.

But she knew the right things to say. Now she remarked about the book Pat was reading: ‘He’s a very fine humanist writer.’

Pat let Laughter in the Dark close and sat thoughtfully regarding Alice.

‘Nabokov, a humanist?’ she asked, and Alice saw that there was serious danger of what she dreaded more than anything, literary conversation.

‘Well, I think so,’ Alice insisted, with a modest smile and the air of one who was prepared to defend an unpopular position reached after long thought. ‘He really cares about people.’

Somebody – some comrade, at some time, in some squat or other, had said as a joke, ‘When in doubt classify them as humanists.’

Pat’s steady, interested, thoughtful look was reminding Alice of something. Of someone. Yes, Zoë Devlin. Thus she would regard Alice when the subject of literature came up and Alice had had no alternative but to make a contribution.

Suddenly, Alice remembered something. Zoë Devlin. Yes.

A quarrel, or at least an argument between Dorothy Mellings and Zoë Devlin. Recently. Not long before Alice left.

Alice was concentrating so hard on what she remembered that she slowly sat down, hardly noticing what she did, and forgetting about Pat.

Her mother had wanted Zoë to read some book or other and Zoë had said no, she thought its view of politics was reactionary.

‘How do you know when you haven’t read it?’ Dorothy had asked, laughing.

‘There are lots of books like that, aren’t there,’ Zoë had said. ‘Probably written by the CIA.’

‘Zoë,’ Dorothy had said, no longer laughing, ‘is that you? Is that Zoë Devlin speaking? My good friend, the fearless, the open-minded, the incorruptible Zoë Devlin?’

‘I hope it is,’ said Zoë, laughing.

‘I hope it is, too,’ said Dorothy, not laughing. ‘Do we still have anything in common, do you think?’

‘Oh go on, Dorothy, let up, do. I don’t want to quarrel even if you do.’

‘You are not prepared to quarrel about anything so unimportant as a book? As a view of life?’

Zoë had made a joke of it all. Had soon left. Had she been back to the house again? Of course, she must have, she had been in and out of that house for – since before Alice was born.

Zoë was one of Alice’s ‘aunties’, like Theresa.

Why had Alice not thought of going to her for money? Wait, there was something there, at the back of her mind – what? Yes, there had been this flaming row, terrible, between Dorothy and Zoë. Yes, recently, good Christ, not more than a week or so ago. Only one row? No, more. A lot.

Dorothy had said Zoë was soft-centred, like a cream chocolate.

They had screamed at each other. Zoë had gone running out. She – Alice – had screamed at her mother, ‘You aren’t going to have any friends, if you go on like this.’

Alice was feeling sick. Very. She was going to vomit if she wasn’t careful. She sat, very still, eyes squeezed tight, concentrating on not being sick.

She heard Pat’s voice. ‘Alice. Alice. What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ she said, in a hurried, low voice, still concentrating, ‘it’s all right.’ In a minute or two she opened her eyes and said, normally, and as though nothing at all had happened, ‘I am afraid of the police crashing in suddenly.’ This was what she had come to say.

‘The police? Why, what do you mean?’

‘We’ve got to decide. We have to make a decision. Suppose they come crashing in.’

‘We’ve survived it before.’

‘No, I mean, those pails, all those pails. We daren’t empty them into the system. Not all at once. We daren’t. God knows what the pipes are like down there where we can’t see them. If we empty them one at a time, one a day let’s say, it’ll take for ever. But if we dug a pit…’

‘The neighbours,’ said Pat at once.

‘I’ll talk to the woman next door.’

‘I can’t see Joan Robbins being mad with joy.’

‘But it will be the end of it, won’t it? And they would all be pleased about that.’

‘It would mean you, me and Jim.’

‘Yes, I know. I’ll go across to the Robbins woman. You ask Jim.’

A pause, Pat yawned, wriggled around in her chair, lifted her book, let it drop again, and then said, ‘I suppose so.’

In the next garden, which was wide, divided by a crunching gravel path, Joan Robbins worked on a border with a fork. Under a tree on the other side sat a very old woman, staring at the sky.

Joan Robbins stood up when Alice appeared, looking defensive and got at. But Alice did not give her time for grievance. She said, ‘Mrs Robbins, can we keep the tools for a bit? We want to dig a pit. A big one. For rubbish.’

Joan Robbins, who had withstood the annoyances of this dreadful No. 43 for so long, looked as if she would say no, say she had had enough of it all. Her pleasant face was irritable, and flushed.

But now the old woman under the tree sat up in the chair, leaned forward, staring. Her face was gaunt and purplish, with white woolly hair sticking out around it. She said in a thick, old, unsteady voice, ‘You dirty people.’

‘No,’ said Alice steadily. ‘No, we’re not. We’re cleaning it all up.’

‘Nasty dirty people,’ said the old woman, less certain of herself, having taken in Alice, such a nice girl, standing on the green lawn with daffodils behind her.

Alice said, ‘Your mother?’

‘Sitting tenant. Upstairs flat,’ said Mrs Robbins, not moderating her voice, and Alice understood the situation in a flash. She went over to the old woman, and said, ‘How do you do? I’m Alice Mellings. I’ve just moved in to 43 and we’re fixing the place up, and getting the rubbish out.’

The old woman sank back, her eyes seeming to glaze with the effort of it all.

‘Goodbye,’ said Alice. ‘See you again soon,’ and went back to Mrs Robbins, who asked sullenly, ‘What are you going to bury?’ indicating the ranks and ranks of filled shiny black sacks.

She knew!

Alice said, ‘It’ll get rid of all the smell all at once. We thought, get the pit dug this afternoon, and get rid of everything tonight…Once and for all.’

‘It’s terrible,’ said Mrs Robbins, tearful. ‘This is such a nice street.’

‘By this time tomorrow the rubbish will be all gone. The smell will be gone.’

‘And what about the other house. What about 45? In summer, the flies! It shouldn’t be allowed. The police got them out once but…they are back again.’

She could have said you; and Alice persisted, ‘If we start digging now…’

Joan Robbins said, ‘Well, I suppose if you dig deep enough…’

Alice flew back home. In the room where she had first seen him, Jim was tapping his drums. He at first did not smile, then did, because it was his nature, but said, ‘Yes, and the next thing, they’ll say, Jim, you must leave,’ he accused.

‘No, they won’t,’ said Alice, making another promise.

He got up, followed her; they found Pat in the hall. In the part of the garden away from the main road, concealed from it by the house, was a place under a tree that had once been a compost heap. There they began digging, while over the hedge Mrs Robbins was steadily working at her border, not looking at them. But she was their barrier against the rest of the busybody street, which of course was looking through its windows at them, gossiping, even thinking it was time to ring the police again.

The earth was soft. They came on the skeleton of a large dog; two old pennies; a broken knife, a rusting garden fork, which would be quite useful when cleaned up; and then a bottle…another bottle. Soon they were hauling out bottles, bottles, bottles. Whisky and brandy and gin, bottles of all sizes, hundreds, and they were standing to waist level in an earthy sweet-smelling pit with bottles rolling and standing around the rim for yards, years of hangovers, oblivion, for someone.

People were coming home from work, were standing and looking, were making comments. One man said unpleasantly: ‘Burying a corpse?’

‘Old Bill’ll be around,’ said Jim, bitter, experienced.

‘Oh God, these bottles,’ swore Pat, and Alice said, ‘The bottle bank. If we had a car…who has a car?’

‘They have one next door.’

‘45? Would they lend it? We have to get rid of these bottles.’

‘Oh, God, Alice,’ said Pat, but she stood her spade against the house wall – beyond which was the sitting-room where they knew Jasper and Bert were, talking; and went out into the side street and then the main street. She was back in a minute, in an old Toyota. They spread empty black plastic sacks on the seats, filled the car with bottles; to the roof at the back, the boot, the pit in front near the driver, leaving only that seat, on which Alice squatted, while Pat drove the car down to the big cement containers where they worked for three-quarters of an hour, smashing in the bottles.

‘That’s it for today,’ said Pat, meaning it, as she parked the car outside 45, and they got out. Alice looked into its garden, appalled.

‘You aren’t going to take that one on too!’ said Pat in another statement.

She went into their house, not looking, and up to the first-floor bathroom.

She did not comment on the new electric bulb, shedding a little light in the hall.

Alice thought: How many rooms in the house? Let’s see, an electric lightbulb for each one? But that will be pounds and pounds, at least ten. I have to have money…

It was dark outside. A damp, blowy night.

She went into the sitting-room. Bert and Jasper were not there. She thought: Then Jim and I…

Jim was again with his drums. She went to him and said, ‘I will carry down the pails. You stand by the pit and fill in the earth. Quickly. Before the whole street comes to complain.’

Jim hesitated, seemed about to protest, but came.

She had never had to do anything as loathsome, not in all her history of squats, communes, derelict houses. The room that had only the few pails in it was bad enough, but the big room, crammed with bubbling pails, made her want to be sick before she even opened the door. She worked steadily, carrying down two pails at a time, controlling her heaving stomach, in a miasma that did not seem to lessen, but rather spread from the house and the garden to the street. She emptied in the buckets, while Jim quickly spaded earth in. His face was set in misery. From the garden opposite came shouts of ‘Pigs!’ Alice went on into the little street and stood against the hedge, which was a tall one, and said through it to someone who stood there watching, a man, ‘We’re clearing it all up. There won’t be any smell after tonight.’

‘You ought to be reported to the Council.’

‘The Council knows,’ said Alice. ‘They know all about it.’ Her voice was serene, confident; she spoke as one householder to another. She walked back under the streetlights into her own dark garden in a calm, almost careless way. And went back to the work of carrying down buckets.

By eleven the pit was filled and covered, and the smell was already going.

Alice and Jim stood together in the dark, surrounded by consoling shrubs. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, and though she never smoked, she took one from him, and they stood smoking together, drawing in the sweet clouds and puffing them out deliberately, trying to fill the garden air with it.

Jim said, with a scared laugh, ‘That was all my shit. Well, most. Some was Faye’s and Roberta’s.’

‘Yes, I know. Well, never mind.’

‘Have you thought, Alice – have you ever thought? – how much shit we all make in our lives? I mean, if the shit we made in our lives was put in a drum, or let’s say a big tank, you’d need a tank like the Battersea power station for everyone.’ He was laughing, but he sounded frightened. ‘It all goes into the sewers, underneath here, but suppose the sewers just packed up?’

‘They won’t,’ said Alice, peering through the darkness at his dark face to find out what was really frightening him.

‘Why shouldn’t they? I mean, they say our sewers are all old and rotten. Suppose they just explode? With sewer-gas?’ He laughed again.

She did not know what to say.

‘I mean, we just go on living in this city,’ he said, full of despair. ‘We just go on living…’

Very far from his usual self was Jim now. Gone was that friendly sweet-cheeked face. It was bitter, and angry, and fearful.

She said, ‘Come in, Jim, let’s have a cup of tea and forget it, it’s done.’

‘That’s just what I mean,’ he said, sullen. ‘You say, come and have a cup of tea. And that’s the end of it. But it isn’t the end of it, not on your life it isn’t.’

And he flung down the spade and went in to shut himself in his room.

Alice followed. For the third time that day she stood in the grimy bath labouring with cold water to get herself clean.

Then she went upstairs. On the top floor all the windows were open, admitting a fresh smell. It was raining steadily. The sacks of refuse would have a lot of water in them, and the dustmen might be bad-tempered about it.

Midnight. Alice slumped down the stairs, yawning, holding the sense of the house in her mind, the pattern of the rooms, everything that needed to be done. Where was Jasper? She wanted Jasper. The need for Jasper overtook her sometimes, like this. Just to know he was there somewhere, or if not, soon would be. Her heart was pounding in distress, missing Jasper. But as she reached the bottom step, there was a pounding on the door as if there was a battering-ram at work. The police. Her mind raced: Jasper? If he was in the house, would he keep out of sight? Old Bill had only to take one look at Jasper and they were at him. He and she had joked often enough that if the police saw Jasper a hundred yards off and in the dark, they would close in on the kill; they felt something about him they could not bear. And Roberta and Faye? Please God they were still at the picket. The police would have only to take one look at them, too, to be set off. Philip? The wrong sort of policeman would find that childish appeal irresistible. But Pat would be all right, and Bert…Jim where was he?

As Alice thought this, Pat appeared at the sitting-room door, closing it behind her in a way that told Alice that the two men were in there; and Philip stood at the kitchen door, holding a large torch, switched on, and a pair of pliers.

Alice ran to the front door, and opened it quickly, so that the men who had been battering at it crashed in, almost on top of her.

‘Come in,’ she said equably, having sized up their condition in a glance. They had their hunting look, which she knew so well, but it wasn’t too bad, their blood wasn’t really up, except perhaps for that one, whose face she knew. Not as an individual but as a type. It was a neat, cold, tidy face, with a little moustache: a baby face with hard cold grey eyes. He enjoys it, she thought; and seeing his quick look around, straining to go, as if on the end of a leash, she felt sharp little thrills down her thighs. She was careful that he did not catch her glance, but went forward to stand in front of a big broad man, who must weigh fifteen stone. A sergeant. She knew his type too. Not too bad. She had to look right up to him, and he looked down at her, in judgment.

‘We told you lot to clear out,’ said this man, with the edge on his voice that the dustmen had, a hard contempt, but he was making a gesture to a couple of the men who were about to pull Pat aside and go into the sitting-room. They desisted.

Alice held out the yellow paper, and said, ‘We are an agreed squat.’

‘Not yet you aren’t,’ said the sergeant, taking in the main point at once.

‘No, but it’s only two days. I’ve done this before, you see,’ she said reasonably. ‘It’s all right if you pay the bills and keep the place clean.’

‘Clean,’ said the sergeant, bending down over her, hands on hips like a stage sergeant, Mr Plod the Policeman. ‘It’s disgusting.’

‘You saw that rubbish outside,’ said Alice. ‘The Council are taking that tomorrow. I organized it with them.’

‘You did, did you? Then why were we having phone calls about you digging some pit in the garden and filling it with muck?’

‘Muck is the word,’ said Alice. ‘The Council workmen filled the lavatories with cement, so there were buckets upstairs. We had to get rid of them. We dug a pit.’

A pause. The big man still stood there, leaning a little forward, allowing his broad face to express measured incredulity.

‘You dug a pit,’ he said.

‘Yes, we did.’

‘In the middle of London. You dig a pit.’

‘That’s right,’ said Alice, polite.

‘And having dug a pit, you fill it with – ‘ He hesitated.

‘Shit,’ said Alice, calm.

The five other policemen laughed, sniggered, drew in their breaths, according to their natures, but the young brute on whom Alice had been keeping half an eye suddenly kicked out at the door of the cupboard under the stairs, smashing it.

Philip let out an exclamation, and he was by him in a flash. ‘You said something?’ he said, looming over Philip, standing there in his little white overalls. A kick would smash him to pieces.

‘Never mind,’ said the sergeant authoritatively. He wanted to pursue the main crime. The vicious one fell back a step and stood with clenched hands, his eyes at work now on Pat, who stood relaxed, watching Alice. Alice, seeing his look, knew that if Pat were to meet that one in a demo, she could expect the worst. Again the little cold thrill of sensation.

‘You – stand – there – and tell – me – that you dig a pit in a garden, and just make a cesspit, without a by-your-leave, without any authority!’

‘But what else could we do,’ said Alice in clear reasonable tones. ‘We couldn’t put dozens of buckets of shit into the sewage system all at once. Not in a house that’s been empty. You’d really have cause to complain then, wouldn’t you?’

A pause. ‘You can’t do that kind of thing,’ said the sergeant, after a pause. In retreat. Please God, thought Alice, Pat or Philip won’t say: But we’ve done it!

‘It was a very large pit,’ she said. ‘We came by chance on some lush’s bottle-bin. It was a good five feet deep. We’d show you, but it’s raining. If you come round tomorrow we could show you then?’

A silence. It hung in the balance. Please, please, God, thought Alice, nothing will happen, the two girls won’t walk in; that really would finish it, or Jasper doesn’t suddenly take it into his head…For Jasper, in a certain mood, might easily come out and enjoy provoking a confrontation.

But the thing held. The five policemen who had been scattered around the space of the hall came in closer to their leader, like a posse, and Alice said, ‘Excuse me, but could I have that?’ For the sergeant still held the yellow paper. He read it through again, solemnly, and then gave it back.

‘I’ll have to report that pit to the Water Board,’ he said.

‘There were no pipes where we dug,’ said Alice, ‘not one.’

‘Only a skeleton,’ said Pat, negligently. As one the six men turned, glaring. ‘A dog,’ said Pat. ‘It was a dog’s grave.’

The men relaxed. But they kept their eyes on Pat. She had got a rise out of them, but so smoothly. In the dim light from the single bulb, she lounged there, a dark handsome girl, politely smiling.

‘We’ll be back,’ said the sergeant, and hitched his head at the door. They all went out, the killer last, with a cold frustrated look at little Philip, at Pat, but not much at the ordinary, unchallenging Alice.

The door shut. No one moved. They all stood staring at that door; they could come crashing back again. A trap? But the seconds went past. They heard a car start up. Alice shook her head at Philip, who seemed about to break into some effusion of feeling. And the door did open. It was the sergeant.

‘I’ve been taking a look at those sacks,’ he said. ‘You said they were being taken tomorrow?’ But his eyes were at work all around the hall, lingering with a slight frown on the smashed-in cupboard door under the stairs.

‘Tomorrow,’ said Alice. Then, in a disappointed voice, ‘Not very nice, was it, smashing in that little door, for nothing.’

‘Put in a complaint,’ he said, briefly, almost good-naturedly, and disappeared.

‘Fascist shits,’ said Pat, like an explosion, and did not move. They remained where they were. They might have been playing ‘statues’.

They let a couple of minutes go past, then, as one, came to life as Jim emerged from the shadows of his room, grinning, and the four went into the sitting-room where Jasper and Bert lounged, drinking beer. Alice knew from how they looked at her that Jasper had been telling Bert, again, how good she was at this – reflecting credit on himself; and that Pat had been impressed, and Jim was incredulous at the apparent ease of it all. She knew that this was a moment when she could get her own way about anything, and in her mind, at the head of her long agenda of difficulties to be overcome, stood the item: Philip and Jim.

She accepted a bottle of beer from Bert, who gave her, with it, the thumbs-up sign, and soon they were all sitting in a close group, in the centre of the tall room. Candlelit, there had not been time to put a bulb in. But Philip had sat down a little apart, and tentatively.

‘First,’ said Pat, ‘to Alice!’

They drank to her, and she sat silent, smiling, afraid she would cry.

Now she thought, I’ll bring up Philip. I’ll bring up Jim. We’ll get it settled.

But in the hall, suddenly, were voices, laughter, and in a moment the two girls came in, lit with the exaltation that comes from a day’s satisfactory picketing and demonstrating and marching.

Roberta, laughing, came over to the carrier of bottles, put one to her mouth, and drank standing, swallowing the beer down, then handed the bottle to Faye, who did the same.

‘What a day,’ said Roberta, and she let herself slide on to the arm of a chair, while Faye sat on the other. A couple apart, they surveyed the rest, as adventurers do stay-at-homes, and began their tale, Roberta leading, Faye filling in.

It was a question of the two or three hundred pickets – numbers had varied, as people came and went – preventing vans with newspapers from getting through the gates to distribute them. The police had been there to see the vans safely through.

‘Two hundred police,’ said Roberta, scornfully. ‘Two hundred fucking police!’

‘More police than pickets,’ said Faye, laughing, and Roberta watched her, fondly. Faye, animated and alive, was really very pretty. Her look of listlessness, even depression, had gone. She seemed to sparkle in the dim room.

‘I had to stop Faye from getting carried away,’ said Roberta. ‘Otherwise she’d have been out there. Of course, with both of us having to keep a low profile…’

‘Were there arrests?’

‘Five,’ said Roberta. ‘They got Gerry. He didn’t go quietly though.’

‘I should say not,’ said Faye proudly.

‘Who else?’

‘Didn’t know the others. They were the Militant lot, I think.’

A pause. Alice knew she had lost her advantage, and felt discouraged. And, seeing Jasper’s face as he watched the two campaigning girls, she was thinking: He’ll be off down there tomorrow, if I know anything.

He said, ‘I’ll go down tomorrow.’ And he looked at Bert who said, ‘Right.’

Bert looked at Pat, and she said, ‘I’m on.’

A silence. Faye said excitedly, ‘I’d like to have a go at one of those vans. You know, when I saw that thing standing there, armoured, all lit up, it had wire over the windscreen, I just hated it so much – it looked bloody evil.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Bert. ‘Epitomizes everything we hate.’

‘I’d like to – I’d like to –’ Here Faye, seeing how her lover looked at her, began playing up to it prettily, said with a mock shiver, ‘I’d like to sink my teeth into it!’ and Roberta gave her a soft friendly clout across the shoulders, and then hugged her briefly.

‘All the same,’ she said, ‘we two ought not to be there again. We mustn’t be caught.’

‘Oh,’ pouted Faye, ‘why not, we just have to be careful.’

‘They’ll have it all photographed, of course, they’ll have your pictures,’ said Jim excitedly.

‘Yes, but we weren’t doing anything,’ said Faye, ‘worse luck, keeping our noses clean…’

‘I’ll come down,’ said Jim. ‘I’d like to. Fucking pigs.’ And he spoke sorrowfully, genuinely, so that Faye and Roberta looked at him, curious, and Bert said, ‘The police were here tonight.’

‘Just as well we weren’t then,’ said Roberta.

‘Alice handled them. A marvel she is,’ said Pat, but not as friendlily as she would if the two girls had not come in and split allegiances.

Ruined everything, Alice thought bitterly, surprising herself. A moment before she had been thinking: Here am I, fussing about a house, when they are doing something serious.

‘Oh well,’ said Faye, dismissing the police’s visit to the house as unimportant compared to the real issues, ‘I’m off to sleep, if we’re going to get up early tomorrow.’

The two women stood up. Roberta was looking at Philip, who still sat there, apart, as if waiting. ‘You staying here tonight?’ she asked, and Philip looked at Alice. She said, ‘I’ve told Philip he can live here.’ She heard the appeal in her voice, knew she had her look, knew she might simply break down and weep.

Roberta’s body had subtly changed, hardened, looked affronted, though she had made sure her face was impartial. Philip seemed as if he were sustaining invisible blows.

Roberta looked at Bert, eyebrows raised. Bert’s gaze back was non-committal. He was not going to take sides. Again Alice thought, He’s not up to much! He’s no good.

Alice looked at Pat, and saw something there that might save the position. Pat was waiting for Bert; yes, something had been said, discussed, when she was not there. A decision?

Pat said, since Bert did not, ‘Philip, Alice can’t make decisions as an individual. Alice, you know that! We’ve got to have a real discussion.’ Here she glanced at Jim, who at once said, ‘I was here before any of you, this was my house.’ He sounded wild, was wild, dangerous, all his smiling amiability gone. ‘I said to you, come in, this is Liberty Hall, I said.’ Here was a point of principle. Alice recognized it. She thought: It’s Jim who will save Philip! – Jim was going on, ‘And then I hear, “You’ve got to leave here, this is not your place!” How come? I don’t get it.’

Roberta and Faye stood up. Roberta said, ‘We should call a real meeting and discuss it, properly.’

Philip stood up. He said, ‘I’ve been working here for two days. The fifty pounds wouldn’t pay for the cable I’ve used.’

Alice looked wildly at Jasper. Who was waiting on Bert. Who smiled calmly, white teeth and red lips glistening in the black beard.

Pat stood up. She said curtly, disappointed in Bert, ‘I see no reason at all why Philip shouldn’t stay. Why shouldn’t he? And Jim was here before any of us. Well, I’m going to bed. If we go to the picket tomorrow, then we should be up by eight at the latest.’

‘I’m coming to the picket,’ said Philip.

Alice drew in her breath, and stopped a wail. She said, ‘I’ll have the money. I’ll have it by tomorrow night.’

Philip gave a little disappointed laugh. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘And that isn’t the point. If I was going to take my stand on money, then I wouldn’t be here at all.’

‘Of course not,’ said Pat. ‘Well, let’s all go down tomorrow.’ She yawned and stretched energetically and sensually, with a look at Bert, who responded by getting up, and putting his arm round her.

Oh no, thought Alice, not again.

Roberta and Faye went out, holding hands. Good-night. Good-night.

Bert and Pat went out, close.

Jasper went out after them; and Alice heard him run noisily up the stairs.

Alice said to Philip, and to Jim, ‘It’ll be all right.’

Philip said, ‘But you can’t say it is, not as an individual.’

‘No,’ said Jim. He had lost his wild anger. Was his sane, smiling self. But Alice thought: If we throw him out, he’s going to come back one night and wreck the place. Or something like that. She was surprised that the others hadn’t seen this, felt it.

Philip said to Alice, taking a stand where, she knew, he had often made himself do it before, ‘I won’t be working here tomorrow, I’m going with the others. After all, the fight against the capitalists is more important than our comfort.’ No pay, no work! He walked out and could be heard pounding up the stairs.

Jim went without saying good-night and took refuge in his room. There began the sound of his drums, soft, emotional, like a threat.

Alice was alone. She went around the room putting out the candles, and then stood letting the dark settle so that she could see in the uneven darkness, where the shoulder of a chair, the hard edge of a table, took shape. She was thinking: The very next thing I do will be…

As she left the room, she was worrying: Has Jasper taken his things to another room – and her heart seemed to give way. For, if he was going to shut her out, then, with Bert here, she knew she would find it hard to keep the connection with him that was the meaning and purpose of her life. He would not leave her, she knew that; but he could seem to go very far away.

She went into the hall, now so empty and so large with no one in it, and put out the light. She went up the stairs in the dark, feeling the worn carpet slippery under her feet, and to the landing where the doors were behind which were disposed the others; Philip too, in the little room beyond the large one Roberta and Faye had taken. Jim always slept downstairs, where his music was – and for another thing it was easy to jump out of a window there, and run for it, if necessary.

She opened the door into the room where, she saw with relief that made her knees go soft, Jasper lay curled against the wall, a grub-like shape in the half-dark. Her sleeping-bag lay on the same wall as his; he had been known, in the past, to move it. She slid straight in, fully dressed.

‘Jasper?’ she said.

‘What is it?’

‘Good-night, then.’

He said nothing. They both lay quiet, listening to hear whether Pat and Bert would start up again. They did. But Alice was worn out. She fell asleep, and when she woke it was light. Jasper had gone, and she knew that they had all gone, and she was alone in the house except perhaps for Philip. She went to see. No Philip; and his tools lay near the gap in the floorboards where he had been replacing cable.

She must get money. She must.

It was nine in the morning.

She was thinking: if I talk to Mum, if I explain…But the thought sank away into a pit of dismay. She did not remember what her mother had actually said, but her empty voice, as though all life had been sucked out of her, that Alice did remember. But what is the matter with her, Alice thought indignantly, what’s she going on about?

Her father. But he must give it to me. He’s got to! This thought too died in her; could not maintain itself…she found she was thinking of her father’s new house. Well, not so new; he had been there over five years, for she and Jasper had not moved in with her mother until her father had been gone for a good year or more. A new wife. Two new children. Alice stood, imagining the house, which she had been in several times. The garden: Jane. Jane Mellings with her two pretty infants in the big green garden, full now of spring flowers and forsythia.

Alice came to life, ran downstairs, snatched up her jacket and was out of the house and into the street where people were starting up cars to go to work. As she ran she thought: The dustmen said they would come! But she would only be gone an hour, they won’t come so early – but how do I know? If they come and find no one here…all the same she kept on running, thinking: But they won’t come yet, I just know they won’t.

She panted into the Underground, snatched a ticket from the machine, belted down the stairs, and there was a fortuitous train. Alice was not surprised, knowing that things were going her way this morning. She fidgeted as she stood on the crowded train, ran up the stairs at the other end, ran, ran along the leafy avenues, and then she came to a stop outside her father’s house, which was no more than half a mile from her mother’s.

In the garden she saw, not at all to her surprise, Jane, her father’s new wife, sitting on the lawn, on a large red and green striped blanket, with two little scraps of children, on whose fair heads the sun glistened.

Alice removed her eyes from the scene, as if her gaze might have the power to force Jane to look at her. Alice went straight up the path to the front door, found it locked, went round the house to the back. She would be in full view of Jane if she only turned her head. She walked into the kitchen, which made Alice’s heart ache, being large, and with that great wooden table set with bowls of fruit and flowers which for Alice were the symbol of happiness.

Alice ran into the hall and up the stairs, thinking that if her father was late today going to work – only he never was – she would say: Oh hello, Dad, there you are! She opened the door into their bedroom calmly, and saw, as she expected, the large marriage bed, which had on it thrown-back duvets, and Jane’s nightdress (scarlet silk, Alice noted, severely), her father’s pyjamas, a child’s striped woolly ball, and a teddy bear.

She went straight to the sliding doors behind which her father’s clothes were hanging. Neatly. Her father was a methodical man. She went through his pockets, knowing she would find something, for it had been a joke, in their house, that Dorothy Mellings found money in his pockets, and made a point of using it on luxuries. He would say – Alice’s father, ‘Right, come clean, what have you spent it on?’ And Alice’s mother would say, ‘Brandied peaches.’ Or marrons glacés, or Glenfiddich whisky.

Alice’s hands darted in and out of the pockets and she was praying, Dear God, let there be some money, let there be, let there be a lot. Her fingers felt a soft thick wad and she brought it out, not believing in her luck. A thick soft pack of notes. Ten-pound notes. She slid them into her breast pocket, and was out of the room, down the stairs, and then through the kitchen into the back garden. She hardly paused to see whether Jane was safely looking the other way. Alice knew she would be.

Alice was out of the house and in the road and then out of sight of the house in a minute. There she stood, back to the road, facing into a tall hedge, and counted the notes. She could not believe it. It was true. Three hundred pounds.

Well, he would miss that sum, it wasn’t just a jar of fucking bloody ginger, or peaches. Three hundred pounds: he would think she had stolen it – Jane had. Let him. A cold sour pleasure filled Alice and she slid the notes back and began running. The dustmen!

Three-quarters of an hour after she had left, she was back at the house, and she saw the rubbish-van turn in from the main road.

She knew, she knew that all would go well, and stood smiling, her pounding heart sending the blood hissing through her ears.

From the rubbish-van jumped the same three men who, having acknowledged her there, began to hump the black shining sacks. Not a word about the rain that squelched in the sacks with the rubbish.

It took them twenty minutes or so, by which time Joan Robbins had come out to stand at her door, arms folded, watching. And who else was watching? Alice did not look, but made a point of going to the hedge to speak to Joan Robbins and smile: neighbours and a little gossip, that’s what observers would see; and then she stood at the gate from where the last black bag had been taken, and put into the hand of Alan the driver the sum of fifteen pounds, with the smile of a householder. And went indoors. It was just after ten in the morning. And the day lay ahead, and it would be filled every minute, with useful activity. It would, once she had started. For she had run out of steam. Now she was thinking of them, her friends, her family, who would by now be down at the Melstead works, would have blended with the others, would be standing taking the measure of the police, would be walking confidently about, exchanging remarks the police would have to hear and ignore – ignore until they got their own back later.

Bert and Jasper and Pat, Jim and Philip, Roberta and Faye – she hoped those two would be careful. Well, they were all politically mature, they would know how far they could go. Jasper? Jasper had not been in a confrontation for a long time; for one thing he had only just finished being bound over. It was not that she wanted him safe, but that she wanted things done right. Jasper was wild, had been bound over once for two years, and not for anything useful – as she judged it – but because of carelessness.

Alice sat by herself, the large shabby sitting-room comfortably about her, and thought that she was hungry. She did not have the energy to go out again. Against the wall was a crumpled carrier-bag, and in it, a loaf of bread and some salami. God knew how long that had been there, but she didn’t care. She sat eating, slowly, careful of crumbs. For this room, she would need help, it was so large and the ceilings so tall. But the kitchen…It took an hour or so to get herself going; she was really tired. Besides, she was enjoying mentally spending the money that she could feel in a large soft lump just under her heart. Then she did pull herself up, and went into the kitchen. Filling buckets with – unfortunately – cold water, she began work. Swabbing down ceilings, walls, while she manoeuvred the step-ladder around the cooker which still lay on its side on the floor. At one point she knew that tears were running down her cheeks – she had been thinking of the others, all together, shouting in unison, ‘Thatcher out, out, out!’, shouting, ‘Scabs out, out, out!’

She could hear them chant, ‘The workers united, Shall never be defeated.’

She thought how one of them, Philip, yes, she thought, Philip, would go off to a pub and buy sandwiches and beer for all of them. There might even be a mobile canteen by now; there ought to be, the picket had been going on for some time.

She thought of how the atmosphere would get thick and electric and how when the armoured vans – the symbol of everything they loathed – started to move, the crowd would struggle together and become like a wall against which the police…

Alice wept a little, aloud, snuffling and gulping, as she stood swabbing the floor. If they decided that Philip could not stay here, then…those tiles on the roof, those tiles…




Chapter 5 (#ulink_40f73aaa-1d39-51f8-9e7c-6379fb2f8f76)


Round about four in the afternoon the kitchen was scrubbed, not a smear of dust or grit anywhere. The big table stood where it ought, with its heavy wooden chairs around it, and on it a glass jamjar with some jonquils out of the garden. Only the poor cooker lay on its side, a reminder of disorder. Alice thought that she would get on a train and go down to the others: she had a right to it, she was the veteran of a hundred battles; but sat down for a rest in the sitting-room and fell asleep, and woke to find the others noisily crowding in, laughing and talking, elated and full of accomplishment.

Alice, a sleepy creature in the big chair, was humble, even apologetic, as she struggled up to greet them. She felt she had no right to it when food and drink were spread about the floor and she was invited to join.

Then she remembered. She pulled out her thick roll of notes and, laughing, gave a hundred and fifty pounds to Philip. ‘On account,’ she said.

A silence. They stared. Then they laughed, and began hugging her and each other. Even Jasper put his arm round her briefly as he laughed, and seemed to show her off to the others.

‘Better not ask where,’ said Roberta, ‘but congratulations.’

‘Honestly gained, I hope,’ said Faye primly, and they started again, embracing and laughing, but this was as much, Alice knew, out of the exuberant excesses of emotion from the day’s energetic confrontations with Authority as because they were pleased for her.

‘All the same,’ said Faye, ‘we have to come to a group decision,’ and Roberta said, ‘Oh, balls, Faye, come off it. It’s all right…’

The two women exchanged a look; and Alice knew: they had been discussing it down there, and had disagreed. Bert said briefly, as though it really didn’t matter, and had not mattered: ‘Yes, as far as I’m concerned it is all right.’ Jasper echoed, ‘Yes, I agree.’

Pat said, ‘If course it is all right.’

Philip could not speak, for he would have wept; he was shining with relief, with happiness. And Jim: well, he was taking it, Alice could see, as a reprieve; she knew that nothing could ever seem, to Jim, more than a temporary good. But he was pleased enough. There was a warm good feeling in the room. A family…

The good feeling lasted through the meal, and while Alice took them to the kitchen to show them its cleanliness.

‘A wonder, she is,’ sang Faye. ‘Alice the Wonder, the wondrous Alice…’ She was tipsy and exhilarated, and everyone enjoyed looking at her.

Without Alice asking, Bert and Jasper lifted the cooker upright and stood it in its place against the wall.

‘I’ll get it properly fixed tomorrow,’ said Philip, contentedly.

They went together up the stairs, reluctant to separate for the night, so much of a group did they feel.

Lying along the wall, in the dark, Alice’s feet a yard from Jasper’s feet, she remarked dreamily, ‘What have you and Bert decided, then?’

A quick movement from Jasper, which she noted, thinking, I didn’t know I was going to say that.

He was lying stiffly, found out; that was how he had experienced what she had said.

‘Oh I don’t mind, Jasper,’ she said, impatient but conciliatory. ‘But you did discuss it, didn’t you?’

After a pause, ‘Yes, we did.’

‘Well, it does affect us all.’

A pause, Grudgingly. ‘We thought it mightn’t be a bad thing, having other people here. But they have to be CCU. Jim will have to join.’

‘You mean, Philip and Jim will be a cover.’

He said nothing. Silence means consent. She said, ‘Yes, and of course there’ll be more people coming in, and…’

He said fussily, ‘You aren’t to let just anyone come, we can’t have just anybody.’

‘I didn’t say, just anybody. But the others needn’t ever know we are IRA.’

‘Precisely,’ said Jasper.

And then she remarked, in her dreamy voice and to her own surprise, ‘With the comrades in 45, I wonder…’ She stopped. Interested in what she had said. Respectful of it.

But he had shot up on his elbow and was staring at her in the half-dark, where headlamps from the road moved light across the ceiling, the walls, the floor, so they were both irregularly illuminated. He was silent. He did not ask: How do you know about the other house? or say, How dare you spy on me? – things that had been said often enough in the past; until he had learned that she could do this: know, without being told.

She was thinking fast, listening to what she had said. So, Bert and Jasper had been next door to 45, had they? There are comrades there? Yes, that’s it!

She said, ‘Did you just go there, on the off-chance, or – what happened?’

He replied stiffly, after a pause, ‘We were contacted. They sent a message.’

‘To you? To you and Bert?’

From his hesitation she knew that she had been included, but she did not intend to make an issue of it.

‘A message came,’ he said, and lay down.

‘And you and Bert and – the comrades there, decided we should have more people in, as a cover.’

Silence. But she knew he was not asleep. She let a few minutes go by, while she thought. Then she changed the subject, saying, ‘Quite soon people are going to have to start making a contribution. So far I’ve paid for everything.’

‘Where did you get that money?’ he asked at once, reminded about it, as she had intended.

She had it ready for him; she leaned over in the dark and handed him some notes.

‘How much?’ he demanded.

‘Fifty.’

‘How much did you get?’

‘Ask no questions,’ she said, but would have told him had he asked, but he only said, ‘That’s right, squeeze the last blood out of them.’

She said, ‘Tomorrow I’ve got to tackle the Council. Will you get my Social Security?’

‘Right.’

They were both waiting for the sounds of love-making from next door, but Bert and Pat must have dropped off. Jasper and Alice had been lying tense, but now they relaxed and lay companionably silent, and Alice was thinking: We are together…This is like a marriage; talking together before going to sleep. I hope he starts telling me what happened today.

She did not want to ask, but she knew that he knew she craved to hear it all. And soon he was kind; he began to talk. She loved him like this. He told her everything, right from the beginning; how the seven of them had been on the train, they had bought sandwiches and coffee at the station, and had all crowded on the two seats facing each other and shared breakfast. Then how they went by taxi to the printworks. The taxi-driver had been on their side, he had said, ‘Good luck’ as he drove off.

‘That was nice,’ said Alice softly, smiling in the dark.

And so they talked, quietly, Jasper telling everything, for he was good at this, building up word-pictures of an event, an occasion. He ought to be a journalist, thought Alice, he is so clever.

She could have talked all night, because of course she had slept a long time. But he fell asleep quite soon; and she was content to lie there, in the quiet, arranging her plans for the next day which, she knew, would not be easy.

When she woke Jasper was not there. She ran to the top of the house, and looked into the four rooms where she had left all the windows open. The two rooms where the horrible pails had been were already only rooms in which people would soon be living. But she had not come for that. On two of the ceilings were sodden brown patches, and having located on the landing the trapdoor to the attic, she stood on a windowsill to reach. She could, just, and felt the trapdoor lift under her fingers. No problem there!

Down she ran to the kitchen, where there were voices. What she saw made her eyes fill with tears. They were sitting round the table, Bert and Pat, these two close together; Jasper; Jim smiling and happy, and Philip, already working on the cooker, bending over behind it, a cup of coffee on its top. Bert had gone to his friend Philip’s girlfriend, Felicity, the thermos had been filled, he had bought croissants and butter and jam. It was a real meal. She slid into her place at the head of the table opposite Bert and said, ‘If this room had some curtains…’ They all laughed.

‘Before talking about curtains, you had better get things fixed with the Council,’ said Jasper, rather hectoring, but only because he was jealous of Pat, who said, ‘Oh, I’d back Alice. I’d back her in anything.’

Coffee and croissants appeared before her, and Alice said, ‘Has anybody noticed the ceilings upstairs?’

‘I have,’ said Pat.

Philip said, ‘I can’t do everything at once.’ He sounded aggrieved and Pat said, ‘Don’t worry. It’s not difficult to fix slates. I did it once in another squat.’

‘I’ll do it with you when I’ve finished this,’ said Philip.

Pat said to Bert, ‘If someone could get the slipped-down tiles out of that guttering?’

‘No head for heights,’ said Bert comfortably.

‘I can do that,’ said Alice. Then she said to Jasper, not Bert, ‘If you could borrow the car from 45 you could go looking in the skips for some furniture? I saw four skips in my father’s street with all sorts of good stuff.’ She added fiercely, ‘Waste. All this waste.’ She knew her look was about to overcome her, as she said, ‘This house, all these rooms…people throwing things out everywhere, when there’s nothing wrong with them.’ She sat fighting with herself, knowing that Pat was examining her, diagnostic. Pat said to Bert, ‘There you are, Bert, job for the day. You and Jasper.’ As he sat laughing from some old joke about his laziness, she said, irritated, ‘Oh, for shit’s sake, Alice has done all the work.’

‘And found all the money,’ said Philip, from the cooker.

‘Put like that,’ said Bert.

‘Put like that,’ agreed Jasper, pleased, already restlessly moving about because of wanting to be off with Bert, looting and finding, street-combing…

Those two went off as Roberta and Faye came in, saw the remains of the croissants and sat down to consume them.

Alice dragged Philip’s heavy ladder to the front of the house, and went up it. Luckily the house was built squat, heavy on the earth, not tall and frightening. By the time she reached the top, Pat was already on the roof, sitting near the chimney with one arm round it. She had come up through the attic and the sky-light. Around the chimney’s base the roof looked eroded, pocked. A great many tiles had slipped and were now propped along the gutter. All that water pouring in, and going where? They had not properly examined the attics yet.

Alice was reaching out for the fallen tiles, and laying them on the roof in front of her. Pat seemed in no hurry to start; she was enjoying sitting there, looking at roofs and upper windows. And at neighbours, of course, watching them, two women at work on a roof. And where were the men? these people could positively be heard thinking – Joan Robbins, the old woman sitting there under her tree, the man staring grumpily out of a top window.

‘Catch,’ called Alice, ready to throw, but Pat said, ‘Wait.’ She wriggled on to her stomach and squinted in through the roof.

‘There’s a nest on the rafter here,’ she said in a hushed voice, as though afraid of disturbing the birds.

‘Oh no,’ said Alice, ‘oh how awful!’ She sounded suddenly hysterical, and Pat glanced at her, coldly, over her arm which was stretched in under the roof. ‘Oh for God’s sake,’ said Alice, and began to cry.

‘A bird,’ said Pat. ‘A bird, not a person.’ She pulled out handfuls of straw and stuff, and flung them out into the air, where they floated down. Then something crashed on to the tiles of the roof: an egg. The tiny embryo of a bird sprawled there. Moving.

Alice went on crying, little gusts of breathless sobs, her eyes fixed on the roof in front of her.

Another egg crashed on the roof.

Childlike frantic eyes implored Pat, who still was rooting about with her arm through the hole beneath her. But Pat was deliberately not looking at Alice snuffling and gulping below her.

A third egg flew in an arc and crashed splodgily in the garden.

‘Now, that’s done,’ said Pat, and she looked at Alice. ‘Stop it!’ Alice sniffed herself to silence, and at a nod from Pat, began to throw up the tiles. Pat caught them, carefully, one after the other.

Roberta and Faye appeared below, and went off, waving to them.

‘Have a good day,’ said Pat, brief, ironical, but with a smile saying that she, like Alice, did not expect anything else.

Soon Philip came up to join Pat, and Alice, having cleared all the gutters as far as she could reach, went down to move the heavy ladder along a few paces. She worked, in this way, all round the house, removing wads of sodden leaves, and fallen tiles. Above her, Philip and Pat replaced the tiles.

Alice felt low and betrayed. By somebody. The two minute half-born birds were lying there, their necks stretched out, filmy eyes closed, and no one looked at them. The parent birds fluttered about on the high branches near by, complaining.

Alice tried to keep her mind on what next had to be done. The cleaning. The cleaning! Windows and floors and walls and ceilings, and then paint, so much paint, it would cost…

In mid-afternoon she went off to ring the Council, as if this were not an important thing, as if things were settled.

She heard that Mary Williams was not there and her heart went dark.

Bob Hood, an official disturbed in his important work, said curtly that the matter of 43 and 45 had been put off until tomorrow.

Said Alice, ‘It’s all right, then, is it?’

‘No, it certainly is not,’ said Bob Hood. ‘It has not been agreed that you or anyone else can occupy those premises.’

Alice said in a voice as peremptory, as dismissive as his, ‘You ought to come and see this place. It is a disgrace that it could ever be considered as suitable for demolition. Somebody’s head should roll for it. I am sure heads will roll. These are two perfectly sound houses, in good condition.’

A pause. Huffily he said – but he was retreating, ‘And there have been more complaints. Things cannot be allowed to continue.’

‘But we have cleaned up 43 – the one we took over. The police would confirm that it has been cleaned up.’

Alice waited, confident. Oh, she knew this type, knew how their cowardly little minds worked, knew she had him. She could hear him breathing, could positively note how mental machineries clicked into place.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will come round. I’ve been meaning to take a look at those two properties.’

‘Can you give me some indication as to time?’ said Alice.

‘There’s no need for that, we have keys.’

‘Yes, but we can’t have people just wandering around, can we? I’d like you to give us some approximate time.’

This was such cheek, that she wondered at herself. Yet she knew it was not over the top, because of her manner: every bit as authoritative as his. She was not surprised when he said, ‘I’ll come round now.’

‘Right,’ said Alice. ‘We’ll expect you.’ And put down the receiver on him.

She raced back. She called up to Philip and Pat that the Council was coming, and on no account should they stop because it would be a good thing for them to be seen at work up there. She ran indoors to check on sitting-room, kitchen. She went upstairs to the rooms where they slept, and marvelled that Roberta’s and Faye’s room was a veritable bower of femininity, with dressing-table, cushions, duvet on the double sleeping-bag, photographs – a bit grubby, but it would make a good impression. She whisked on a skirt. Her hair, her nails. She heard a knock before she expected it and tripped down the stairs with a cool smile already adjusted on her face to open the door correctly on, ‘Bob Hood? I am Alice Mellings.’

‘I hope those two on the roof know what they are doing?’

‘I expect so. He is a builder. She is assisting him. As an amateur, but she has done it before.’

She had silenced him. Oh you nasty little man, she was thinking behind her good girl’s smile. You nasty little bureaucrat.

‘Shall I show you downstairs first? Of course this will give you no idea of what it was like only three days ago. For one thing, the Council workmen had filled in the lavatory bowls with concrete and ripped the electric cables out – they left them anyhow, a fire hazard.’

He said, ‘I have no doubt they were fulfilling their instructions.’

‘You mean, they were instructed to leave the cables dangerous, and to concrete over the main water tap? I wonder if the Water Board knows about that?’

He was red, and furious. Not looking at him, she flung open one door after another downstairs, lingering over the kitchen. ‘The electrician has made it safe in here, but you were lucky the place didn’t go up in flames. Mary Williams said you had been over this house. How was it you didn’t notice the cables?’

Upstairs, she said, knowing that to this man anything incorrect, even so much as a mattress on a floor rather than on a bed, must for ever be an affront, ‘Of course you will have to take my word for it – the state of these rooms was unspeakably awful when we came, but we have only just started.’

‘Unspeakably awful now,’ he said huffily, looking in at the room she and Jasper slept in, the two sleeping-bags like the shed skins of snakes loose against the wall.

‘It’s relative. I think you will be surprised when you see it in a month’s time.’

He said, quick to take his advantage, ‘I told you, don’t expect anything.’

‘If this house is left empty again, it will be filled to the brim with vandals and derelicts inside a week, you know that. You’re lucky to have us. It’s being put back into order, with no expense to the ratepayer.’

He did not reply to that. In silence they went through the rooms on the top floor, now sweet-smelling, the air blowing through them. He instinctively closed the windows one after another, performing the task with a fussy, virtuous, irritated little air. Like a fucking housewife, thought the smiling Alice.

They went downstairs. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I have to agree with you – there’s no reason why these houses should come down, that I can see. I’ll have to look into it.’

‘Unless,’ said Alice, sweet and cold, ‘someone was going to make a profit out of it. Did you see the article in the Guardian? The Scandal of Council Housing?’

‘As it happens, I did. But it is not relevant to this case.’

‘I see.’

They were at the door.

She was waiting. She deserved a capitulation; and it came. The official said, unsmiling but with his whole body expressing unwilling complicity. ‘I’ll put the case for you tomorrow. But I am not promising. And it is not just this house, it’s No. 45. I’m going there now.’

Again Alice had forgotten next door.

Bob Hood gone, she ran up to a little window that overlooked next door, and watched, in a rage of frustration, how the well-brushed, well-dressed clean young man stood looking at the piles of rubbish in that garden, saw that the expression on his face was like that on the dustmen’s faces: an exasperated, incredulous disgust.

Unable to bear the beating of her heart, her churning stomach, she went down, slowly, suddenly out of energy, and collapsed in the sitting-room as Pat came in, with Philip.

‘Well?’ demanded Pat; and Philip’s face was stunned with need, with longing, his eyes a prayer.

‘It’s dicey,’ said Alice, and began to weep, to her own fury.

‘Oh God,’ she wept. ‘Oh Christ. Oh shit. Oh no.’

Pat, close on the arm of the chair she was huddled in, put her arm around the dejected shoulders and said, ‘You’re tired. Surprise! – you are tired.’

‘It’ll be all right,’ sobbed Alice. ‘I know it will be, it will, I feel it.’

From the silence, she knew that above her head Philip and Pat shared glances that said she, Alice, had to be humoured, patted, caressed, given coffee from the flask, then brandy from a reserve bottle. But she knew that while Pat’s interest was real, it was not like Philip’s and like her own. Pat’s heart would never beat, nor her stomach churn…For this reason, she did not accept Pat’s encircling sisterliness, remained herself, alone, sad and isolated, drinking her coffee, her brandy. Philip was her charge, her responsibility: her family, so she felt, because he was as she was. She was pleased, though, to have Pat as an ally.

And at this point, Jasper and Bert arrived with gleanings from London, that great lucky dip, and Alice flew into the hall, to welcome a load of stuff, which had to be sorted out; and which switched her emotions back to another circuit. ‘Oh the wicked waste of it all,’ she raged, seeing plastic bags full of curtains, which were there because someone had tired of them; a refrigerator, stools, tables, chairs – all of them serviceable, if some needed a few minutes’ work to put right.

Bert and Jasper went out again; they were elated and enjoying it. A pair, a real pair, a team; united by this enterprise of theirs, furnishing this house. And they had the car for the whole day, and must make the most of it.

Philip and Pat left the roof, while they helped Alice allot furniture, flew out to buy curtain fittings for which Alice found the money from her hoard.

They ran around, and up and down, dragging furniture, hanging curtains, spreading on the hall floor a large carpet that needed only some cleaning to make it perfect.

Bert and Jasper came back in the late afternoon, having scavenged around Mayfair and St John’s Wood, with another load, and said that was it, no more for today – and the householders sat in the kitchen drinking tea and eating bacon and eggs properly cooked on the stove, with the purr of the refrigerator for company.

And in the middle of this feast, which was such a delicate balancing of interests, the result of careful and calculated goodwill, there was a knock. It was, however, tentative, not a peremptory summons. They turned as one; from the kitchen they could see the front door, and it was opening. A young woman stood there and, as the others stared: whose friend is she? Alice’s heart began to pound. She already knew it all, from the way this visitor was looking around the hall, which was carpeted, warm, properly if dimly lit, then up the solid stairs, and then in at them all. She was all hungry determination and purpose.

‘The Council,’ reassured Alice. ‘It’s Mary Williams. The colleague of that little fascist who was here today. But she’s all right…’ This last she knew was really the beginning of an argument that would be taking place later, perhaps even that night. Perhaps not an argument, not bitterness, but only a friendly discussion – oh, prayed Alice, let it be all right, and she slipped away from the others, saying, ‘It’s all right, I’ll just…’

She shut the door on the kitchen, and on a laugh which said she was bossy, but not impossibly so. Oh please, please, please, she was inwardly entreating – Fate, perhaps – as she went smiling towards Mary. Who was smiling in entreaty at Alice.

As Alice had absolutely expected, Mary began, ‘I dropped in at the office – I was on a course today, you know, they send you on courses, I’m doing Social Relationships – and I saw Bob on his way out. He told me he had been here…’ Alice was opening the door into the sitting-room, which was looking like anybody’s warm sitting-room, if a trifle shabby, and she saw Mary’s anxious face go soft, and heard her sigh.

They sat down. Now Mary was petitioner, Alice the judge. Alice helped with, ‘It is a nice house, isn’t it? Mad, to pull it down.’

Mary burst out, ‘Well, they are mad.’ (Alice noted that they with a familiar dry, even resigned, amusement.) ‘When I opted for Housing, it was because I thought, Well, I’ll be housing people, I’ll be helping the homeless, but if I had known…well, I’m disillusioned now, and if you knew what goes on…’

‘But I do.’

‘Well, then…’

Mary was blushing, eyes beseeching. ‘I am going to come to the point. Do you think I could come and live here? I need it. It’s not just me. We want to get married – me and my boyfriend. Reggie. He’s an industrial chemist.’ This chemist bit was there to reassure her, thought Alice, with the beginning of scorn which, however, she had to push down and out of sight. ‘We were just saving up to buy a flat and he lost his job. His firm closed down. So we had to let that flat go. We could live with my mother or with his parents, but…if we lived here we could save some money…’ She made herself bring it all out, hating her role as beggar; and the result of this effort was a bright determination, like a command.

But Alice was thinking, Oh, shit no, it’s worse than I thought. What will the others say?

She played for time with, ‘Do you want to see the house?’

‘Oh God,’ said Mary, bursting into tears. ‘Bob said there were rooms and rooms upstairs, all empty.’

‘He’s not going to move in!’ said Alice, not knowing she was going to, with such cold dislike for him that Mary stopped crying and stared.

‘He’s all right, really,’ she said. ‘It’s just his manner.’

‘No,’ said Alice, ‘it’s not just his manner.’

‘I suppose not…’

This acknowledgment of Bob’s awfulness made Alice feel friendlier, and she said gently, ‘Have you ever lived in a squat? No, of course you haven’t! Well, I have, in lots. You see, it’s tricky, people have to fit in.’

Mary’s bright hungry eyes – just like the poor cat’s, thought Alice – were eating up Alice’s face with the need to be what Alice wanted. ‘No one has ever said I am difficult to get on with,’ she said, trying to sound humorous, and sighing.

‘Most of the people here’, said Alice, sounding prim, ‘are interested in politics.’

‘Who isn’t? It is everyone’s duty to be political, these days.’

‘We’re socialists.’

‘Well, of course.’

‘Communist Centre Union,’ murmured Alice.

‘Communist?’

Alice thought, If she goes to that meeting tomorrow and says, They are communists…she’s quite capable of it, and with a bright democratic smile! She said, ‘It’s not communist, like the Communist Party of Great Britain.’ Keeping her eyes firmly on Mary’s face, for she knew that what Mary saw was reassuring – unless she, Alice, was wearing her look and she was pretty sure she was not – she said firmly, ‘The comrades in Russia have lost their way. They lost their way a long time ago.’

‘There’s no argument about that,’ said Mary, with a hard brisk little contempt, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. She sat restored, a pleasant ordinary girl, all brown shining curls and fresh skin. Like an advertisement for medium-quality toilet soap. But tomorrow she could decide the fate of them all, thought Alice, curiously examining her. If she said to Bob, tomorrow morning, sharing cups of coffee before the meeting, I dropped in last night at that house, you know, 43 Old Mill Road, and my God, what a set-up!…Then he could change his mind, just like that, particularly with 45 in such a mess.

She asked, ‘Did Bob Hood say anything about next door?’

‘He said there’s nothing structurally wrong.’

‘Then why, why, why, why?’ burst out Alice, unable to stop herself.

‘The plan was to build two blocks of flats, where these houses are. No, not awful flats, quite decent really, but they wouldn’t fit, not with these houses around here.’ She added bitterly, forgetting her status, ‘But some contractor will make a packet out of it.’ And then, going a step worse, ‘Jobs for pals.’ Shocked by herself, she shot an embarrassed glance at Alice, and added a social smile.

‘We can’t let them,’ said Alice.

‘I agree. Well, it’s what Bob says that counts, and he is furious, he is really. He is really going to fight. He says it’s a crime these houses should come down.’ She hesitated, and took the plunge into what she clearly felt was a descent into even worse indiscretion with, ‘I was in Militant Tendency for a bit, but I don’t like their methods. So I left.’

Alice sat silent with amazement. Mary, in Militant! Well, of course she wouldn’t like Militant’s methods. And she wouldn’t like the methods of Alice, Jasper, Pat, Roberta or Faye. Nor, for that matter, Jim’s. (So Alice suspected.) But that Mary had gone anywhere near Militant, that was the impossibility! She asked cautiously, ‘And Reggie?’

‘He was trying out Militant for the same reason I was. I was shocked by what I saw going on at work, jobs for pals, as I said…’ Again the brief, social smile, like a frozen apology. ‘We decided at once Militant was not for us. We joined Greenpeace.’

‘Well, of course,’ said Alice, hopefully, ‘but if you are Trotskyists…’ With a bit of luck Mary would say Yes, she counted herself with the Trots, and then of course this house would be impossible…But she heard, ‘We’re not anything at the moment, only Greenpeace. We thought of joining the Labour Party, but we need something more…’

‘Dynamic,’ said Alice, choosing a flatteringly forceful but not ideological word. ‘I think perhaps the CCU would suit you. Anyway, come and see the house.’ She got up, so did Mary – it was like the termination of an interview. Alice had decided that she really did like Mary. She would do. But what of Reggie? Thoughts of Reggie accompanied the two women as they went rapidly around the upper floors. Alice flung open doors on empty rooms, and heard how Mary sighed and longed, and was not at all surprised to hear her say, as they came down the stairs again, ‘Actually, Reggie is in the pub down the road.’

Alice laughed, a robust girl’s laugh, and Mary chimed in, after a pause, with a breathless little tinkle.

‘The thing is,’ said Alice, ‘we have to discuss it. All of us. A group decision, you know.’

‘If we come back in half an hour?’

‘Longer than that,’ said Alice, and added, because of Mary’s beseeching eyes, ‘I’ll do my best.’

She went into the kitchen, where they sat in a fug of comfort (created by her), and sat down, and she put the situation to them.

Because of all that food and chat and good nature and togetherness, there was an explosion of laughter. Literally, they fell about. But there was a theatrical quality to it that Alice did not much like.

Silence at last, and Pat said, ‘Alice, are you saying that if we don’t let them come here, we won’t get this house?’

Alice did not reply at once. At last she said, ‘She wouldn’t do anything spiteful on purpose, I am sure of that. But if she was coming here to live, she’d be careful about what she said. It’s human nature,’ said Alice, feebly, using a phrase which of course was simply beyond the pale.

‘What could she say that would make such a difference?’ Pat persisted.

‘If she said, they are a bunch of Reds, Bob Hood would soon find a reason to have us kicked out. She doesn’t care, because she’s one herself.’

‘That girl is a revolutionary?’ asked Bert, laughing.

‘She’s a Trotskyist. Of a sort. Or she was one.’

‘Then how can they come and live here, Alice?’ said Bert, firm but kind.

‘I don’t think she’s anything much, at the moment. Ideologically. And anyway,’ Alice persisted, courageously, knowing what this argument of hers had cost her in the past, earning her all kinds of accusations, ‘in a sense, aren’t we? After all, we don’t say that Trotsky never existed! We give him full credit for his achievements. We say that it was Lenin who was the real workers’ Leader, and then the comrades there took a wrong turning with Stalin. If saying that Trotsky was a good comrade and he took the wrong turning makes you a Trot, then I don’t see why we aren’t? Anyway, I don’t seem to remember we actually defined our line on Trotsky. Not in the CCU, anyway.’

‘Oh Alice,’ said Jasper, with the finality of superiority, ‘ideology is simply not your line.’

‘Well,’ said Pat, having exchanged efficient looks with Bert, ‘I for one don’t think this is the moment to define our attitude to Comrade Trotsky. There is something in what Alice says. That’s not the point. My point is that this business of having a nice clean house and a roof over our heads is beginning to define us. It is what we do.’

‘It’s taken four days,’ said Alice, ‘four days,’ and she was appealing for justice.

‘Yes, but now it looks as if we are going to have two new people here just to keep the house.’

Jim said, ‘Why don’t we ask them to join the CCU? I’m going to join.’

‘Well, why not?’ said Bert, after a considerable pause. Alice saw him and Jasper exchange a long thoughtful look. She knew they were thinking that perhaps they should go next door to ask someone, who? for advice. Or instruction.

She said, ‘We must decide tonight. The meeting is tomorrow.’ And now she did have her look. Her voice told her so; and told the others, who turned to see how she sat swelling and suffering there.

Bert and Jasper still sat gazing at each other in an abstracted way. What they were doing, in fact, was playing back in their minds what had been said by someone next door, and wondering how to fit this situation into it.

Bert said, ‘I don’t see why we shouldn’t ask them to join. We keep saying we want to recruit. It sounds to me as if these two might be ripe. With a bit of political education…’ And on these words he and Jasper got up, as one, and went out, Jasper remarking, ‘We’ll be back in a minute.’

Pat said, ‘And I’m off. I’m off to visit someone.’

‘But don’t you want to meet Mary and Reggie?’

Pat shrugged, smiled and left. Alice was reminded – as, she was sure, Pat had intended – that Pat did not really care, was going to leave anyway.

Remained Alice and Jim and Philip.

Soon in came Mary, with a man of whom Alice found herself thinking, at first glance, Well, of course! – meaning that he and Mary were a pair. Not in looks, for he was a tall, knobbly-looking man, with very white skin, small black eyes under strong black brows, and dense, very fine black hair. He would be bald early. Where he matched with Mary was in an air of measure, of common sense ordered by what was due. Due, that is, to their surroundings, their fellows, to society. Alice was looking, and she knew it, at respectability. It was not that she did not value this type of good sense; but it was not the kind of sense that would be appropriate here, in this household. It was with an infinite feeling of tolerance she allowed that other people had need of these struts and supports. She was thinking, Good God, they were born to be two nice little bourgeois in a nice little house. They’ll be worrying about their pensions next.

Seeing them together, she felt, simply, that a mistake was being made. They should not be here. Alone with Mary, she liked her. Seeing her with her mate Reggie, Alice felt alienated, with the beginnings of a strong hostility.

‘Sit down,’ she smiled. And she put the saucepan on the stove and switched on the electricity. A pity, a gas stove would be so much better. Well, they would find one on a skip, or even get a reconditioned one for ten pounds or so.

She turned to see Reggie examining Jim, and thought, With a bit of luck he’s colour-prejudiced, and won’t want to be here. But no such luck, he seemed to like Jim. Or, if he didn’t like blacks, his manner said nothing about that. Of course, thought Alice, this lot, the bloody middle classes, you’d find out nothing from their manner, politeness is all. But no, it was genuine, she was pretty sure of it; body-language – a skill Alice had been equipped with by instinct, long before there was a name for it – told her that Reggie was all right about colour, at least. She sat listening to them talk, everything easy, Reggie with Jim, Mary with Philip. She made mugs of coffee and set before them a plate of cake.

Chat. How she, Alice, had fixed things with Electricity, and would with the Gas Board. The Water Board of course would be told. Alice did not say that the Water Board would not catch up with them for months and that she had no intention of attracting their attention. These two were bill-payers and keepers of accounts.

She said, to warn them, ‘I have lived in a lot of squats, and you’ll have to accept it, some people don’t pull their weight. They just don’t.’

At this Jim said, hurt, ‘Until you came there wasn’t anything to pay, was there?’ and she said, ‘No, I’m not talking about you, I’m talking about the situation. It’s no good these two moving in and expecting everything to be regular.’

Mary said, ‘But with so many people here, it will still be cheaper than anything else could possibly be, with no rent.’

‘Exactly,’ said Reggie. And came straight to his point, with, ‘Tell us about the CCU? You know, we’ve never heard of it. Mary and I were talking in the pub. It didn’t ring a bell with either of us.’

‘Well, it’s not a very big party, really,’ said Alice. ‘But it’s growing. When we started it, we never meant it to be a mass party, we don’t want it to be. These mass parties, they lose touch with the people.’

‘Well, that’s true enough,’ said Reggie, but he said it carefully, as though he could have said other things; and Alice thought: He and Mary are going to exchange glances…They didn’t, but only with an effort so obvious she thought contemptuously: People are so amazing. They exchange glances as if no one can see them, and they don’t know how they give themselves away…anyone can read what people are thinking.

Reggie: ‘The CCU – the Communist Centre Union?’

‘Centre, because we wanted to show we were not left deviants or revisionists.’

‘Union – two parties joined, two groups?’

‘No, a union of viewpoints, you see. No hair-splitting. We didn’t want any of that.’

‘And you started the CCU?’

‘I was one of them. And Jasper Willis. Have you heard of him?’ As Reggie and Mary shook their heads, Alice thought, But you will. ‘Several of us. It was up in Birmingham. We have a branch there. And a comrade wrote last week to say he had started a branch in Liverpool. He has four new members. And there’s the branch here, in London.’

Here Mary and Reggie were finally unable to prevent their eyes from meeting. Alice felt a flush of real contempt, like hatred. She said, ‘All political parties have to start, don’t they? They start with only a few members. Well, we’ve only been going a year and we have thirty members here in London. Including the comrades in this house.’ She resisted the temptation to say: And of course there are some next door.

‘And your policy?’ asked Reggie, still in the same careful way that means a person is not going to allow a real discussion to start because his opinion has to be kept in reserve.

All right! thought Alice again, you just wait, you’ll hear of the CCU. Anyway, you are going to join because you want to live here. Opportunist! She was thinking at the same time, we’ll educate you. Raw material is raw material. It’s what you’ll be like in a year that counts. If you haven’t saved up enough to move out before then. Well, at least you two will be in no hurry to see this squat come to an end. She said, ‘We’ve got a policy statement. I’ll give you one. But we are going to have a proper Conference next month and thrash out all the details.’

But they weren’t listening, Alice could see. They were thinking about how soon they could move in.

They asked whether they could bring in some furniture, and offered pots and pans and an electric kettle.

‘Gratefully accepted,’ said Alice, and so they chatted on until Jasper and Bert came back from next door, and Alice knew that there was no problem at all about these two staying. Not from that quarter, anyway, whatever it might turn out to be; though Roberta and Faye were another thing.

Reggie sat quietly, leaning back in the chair, summing up Jasper, summing up Bert. Alice knew that he warmed to Bert. Well, they were two of a kind. He did not much like Jasper. Oh, she knew that look when people first met Jasper. She remembered how she too, when she had first seen Jasper all those years ago, had felt some instinctive warning, or shrinking. And look how mistaken she had been.

At eleven Mary and Reggie went off; they were afraid to miss the last trains back to Highgate, and Fulham, where they respectively lived, so far apart.

Philip said he was tired and went to bed.

Jim went into his room and they heard soft music from his record-player accompanied by his softer drums.

‘What’s happened to Faye and Roberta?’ asked Alice, and Bert said, ‘There’s a women’s commune in Paddington, they go there a lot.’

‘Why don’t they move in there?’

‘They like it here,’ said Bert, with a grimace that said, Ask no questions and…

Bert went up to sleep. Jasper and Alice were alone in the kitchen.

‘All right,’ said Jasper. ‘I’ll tell you, give me a chance.’

They went up to their room; Jasper had not said she must move out, or that he would; and Alice slid down into the sleeping-bag the way a dog slinks, eyes averted, into a favourite place, hoping no one will notice.

They could hear Bert moving about next door. Jasper said, ‘Bert and Pat are going away for the weekend.’ His voice was painful to hear.

‘Only for the weekend,’ Alice comforted him for the loss of Bert. As for her, her saddened heart told her how much she would miss Pat, even for the weekend. ‘Where are they going?’

‘They didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.’

They lay companionably along their wall, their feet not far from each other. They had not yet found curtains for this room, and the lights from the traffic still chased across the ceiling, and the whole house shook softly with the heavy lorries going north, giving Alice a comforting sense of familiarity, as if they had been living here for months, not days; she seemed to have lived all her life in houses that shook to heavy traffic.

‘Would you like to come down to the picket tomorrow?’

‘But I really have to be here,’ mourned Alice.

‘Well, Saturday night we could go and paint up a few slogans.’

She steadied her voice so that it would not betray her surge of delight, of gratitude. ‘That’d be nice, Jasper.’

‘Yes. Get some spray paint.’ He turned to the wall. She was not going to hear anything about next door tonight. But tomorrow, tomorrow night…she might. And on Saturday…



She woke when Jasper did, at seven, but lay still, watching him from nearly-closed eyes. His wiry body was full of the energy of expectation. Everything from his gingery hair (which she thought of privately as cinnamon-coloured) to his small deft feet, which she adored, because they were so white and slender, was alive. He seemed to dance his way into his clothes, and his pale face was innocent and sweet, when he stood momentarily at the window, to see what the weather was like for the day’s picketing. There was an exalted dreamy look to him, as he went past the apparently sleeping Alice to the door. He did not look at her.

She relaxed, lay on her back, and listened. He knocked next door, and she heard Bert’s reluctant response, and Pat’s prompt, ‘Right, we’re awake.’ Then the knock on Roberta’s and Faye’s door. Philip? Oh, not Philip, she needed him here! But there was no other knock, and then she began worrying: I hope Philip won’t feel left out, despised? A knock on the door of the room immediately below this one; the big room that was Jim’s, though it was really a living-room, and should perhaps be used as such…No, that was not fair. A startled shout from Jim; but she could not decide whether he was pleased to be roused, or not.

The sounds of the house coming to life. She could go down if she wanted, could sit with the cheerful group and send them on their way with smiles, but her mouth was dry and her eyes pricked. For some reason – a dream perhaps? – she wanted to weep, go back to sleep. To give up. She distrusted what she felt; for it had been with her since she could remember: being excluded, left out. Unwanted. And that was silly, because all she had to do was to say she was going too. But how could she, when their fate, the fate of them all, would be decided that morning at the Council, and it was by no means certain the house was theirs. When Mary had gone off saying, ‘I’ll do my best,’ it meant no more than that. Alice brought Bob Hood to life in her mind’s eye, and, staring at the correct, judicious young man, willed him to do what she wanted. ‘Put our case,’ she said to him. ‘Make them let us have it. It’s our house.’ She kept this up for some minutes, while listening to how the others moved about the kitchen. Almost at once, though, they were out of the house. They were going to breakfast in a café. That was silly, raged Alice: wasting all that money! Eating at home was what they would have to learn to do. She would mention it, have it out with them.

Oh, she did feel low and sad.

For some reason she thought of her brother Humphrey, and the familiar incredulous rage took hold of her. How could he be content to play their game? A nice safe little job – aircraft controller, who would have thought anyone would choose to spend his life like that! And her mother had said he had written to announce a child. The first, he had said. Suddenly Alice thought: That means I am an aunt. It had not occurred to her before. Her rage vanished, and she thought, Well, perhaps I’ll go and see the baby. She lay smiling there for some time, in a silent house, though the din from the traffic encompassed it. Then, consciously pulling herself together, with a set look on her face, she rolled out of the sleeping-bag, pulled on her jeans, and went downstairs. On the kitchen table were five unwashed coffee-cups – they had taken time for coffee, so that meant they hadn’t gone to the café; they would have a picnic on the train again; no, don’t think about that. She washed up the cups, thinking, I’ve got to organize something for hot water – it used to come off the gas, but of course the Council workmen stole the boiler. We can’t afford a new one. A second-hand one? Philip will know where and how…today he will fix the windows, if I get the glass. He said he needed another morning for the slates. Seven windows – what is that going to cost, for glass!

She took out the money that was left: less than a hundred pounds. And with everything to be bought, to be paid for…Jasper said he would get her Social Security, but of course, she couldn’t complain, he worked really hard yesterday, getting all that good stuff from the skips. At this moment she saw, on the windowsill, an envelope with ‘Alice’ scribbled on it, and under that ‘Have a nice day!’ And under that ‘Love, Jasper’. Her money was in it. She quickly checked: he had been known to keep half, saying: We must make sacrifices for the sake of the future. But there were four ten-pound notes there.

She sat at the table, soft with love and gratitude. He did love her. He did. And he did these wonderful, sweet things.

She sat relaxed, at the head of the great wooden table. If they wanted to sell it, they could get fifty for it, more. The kitchen was a long room, not very wide. The table stood near a window that had a broad sill. From the table she could see the tree, the place where she and Jim had buried the shit, now a healthy stretch of dark earth, and the fence beyond which was Joan Robbins’s house. It was a tall wood fence, and shrubs showed above it, in bud. A yellow splodge of forsythia. Birds. The cat sneaked up the fence, and opened its mouth in a soundless miaow, looking at her. She opened the window that sparkled in the sun, and the cat came in to the sill, drank some milk and ate scraps, and sat for a while, its experienced eyes on Alice. Then it began licking itself.

It was in poor condition, and should be taken to the vet.

All these things that must be done. Alice knew that she would do none of them, until she heard from Mary. She would sit here, by herself, doing nothing. Funny, she was described as unemployed, she had never had a job, and she was always busy. To sit quietly, just thinking, a treat, that. To be by oneself – nice. Guilt threatened to invade with this thought: it was disloyalty to her friends. She didn’t want to be like her mother who was selfish. She used to nag and bitch to have an afternoon to herself: the children had to lump it. Privacy. That lot made such a thing about privacy; 99 per cent of the world’s population wouldn’t know the word. If they had ever heard it. No, it was better like this, healthy, a group of comrades. Sharing. But at this, worry started to nibble and nag, and she was thinking: That’s why I am so upset this morning. It’s Mary, it’s Reggie. They are simply not like us. They will never really let go and meld with us, they’ll stay a couple. They’ll have private viewpoints about the rest of us. Well then, that was true of Roberta and Faye, a couple; they made it clear they had their own attitudes and opinions. They did not like what was happening now, with the house. And Bert and Pat? No, they did not have a little opinion of their own set against the others; but Pat was only here at all because she actually enjoyed being screwed (the right word for it!). Jim? Philip? She and Jasper? When you got down to it, she and Jasper were the only genuine revolutionaries here. Appalled by this thought, she nevertheless examined it. What about Bert? Jasper approved of him. Jasper’s attachments to men who were like elder brothers had nothing to do with their politics but with their natures; they had always been the same type, easy-going. Kind. That was it. Bert was a good person. But was he a revolutionary? It’s unfair to say that Faye and Roberta are not real revolutionaries just because I don’t like them, thought Alice…where were these thoughts getting her? What was the point? The group, her family, lay in its parts, diminished, criticized out of existence. Alice sat alone, even thinking, Well, if we don’t get the house, we’ll go down to the squat in Brixton.

A sound upstairs, immediately above. Faye and Roberta: they had not gone with the others. Alice listened to how they got themselves awake and up: stirrings, and the slithering sound the sleeping-bags made on the bare boards; a laugh, a real giggle. Silence. Then footsteps and they were coming into the kitchen.

Alice got up to put the saucepan on the heat, and sat down. The two smelled ripe; sweaty and female. They were not going to wash in cold water, not these two!

The two women, smiling at Alice, sat together with their backs to the stove, where they could look out of the window and see the morning’s sun.

Knowing that she was going to have to, Alice made herself tell about last night, about Mary and Reggie. She did not soften it at all. The other two sat side by side, waiting for their coffee, not looking at each other, for which Alice was grateful. She saw appear on their faces the irony that she heard in her own voice.

‘So the CCU has two recruits?’ said Roberta, and burst out laughing.

‘They are good people,’ said Alice reprovingly. But she laughed too.

Faye did not laugh, but little white teeth held a pink lower lip, her shining brown brows frowned, and the whole of her person announced her disapproval. Roberta stopped laughing.

Hey, thought Alice, I’ve seen this before: you’d think it was Roberta who was the strong one; she comes on so butch-motherly, she’s like a hen with one chick, but no, it’s Faye who’s the one, never mind about all her pretty bitchy little ways. And she looked carefully and with respect at Faye, who was about to pronounce. And Roberta waited too.

‘Listen, Alice, now you listen, you listen carefully, for I am about to say my piece…’ And Alice could see it was hard for her to assert herself, that this was why she had so many little tricks and turns, little poutings and hesitations and small wary glances and little smiles at Roberta and at herself, but underneath she was iron, she was formidable. ‘Once and for all, I do not care about all this domestic bliss, all the house and garden stuff…’ Here she waited, politely, while first Roberta and then Alice – seeing that Roberta did – laughed. ‘Well, for me it is all pretty classy stuff,’ said Faye, ‘this house would have seemed a palace to me once. I’ve lived in at least a thousand squats, dens, holes, corners, rooms, hovels and residences, and this is the best yet. And I don’t care.’ Here she pettishly, humorously, wagged a finger at Alice. Roberta had her eyes on her love’s face, exactly like an elder sister; is she going to go too far? Too far, Alice knew, with all this presentation, the manner, the means that enabled Faye to say her piece. Roberta did not want Alice to think that this girl was frivolous or silly.

Well, she certainly did not.

‘Any minute now we are going to have hot running water and double glazing, I wouldn’t be surprised. For me this is all a lot of shit, do you hear? Shit!’

Alice got up, poured boiling water into the three mugs that already had coffee powder in them, set the mugs on the table, put the milk bottle and the sugar near Faye. She did this as something of a demonstration and saw that as Faye stretched out her hand for the coffee, which she was going to drink black and bitter, she knew it, and even appreciated it, judging from her quick shrewd little smile. But she was going on, with determination. She had also lost her cockney self, and the voice that went with it.

It was in all-purpose BBC English that she went on, ‘I don’t care about that, Alice. Don’t you see? If you want to wait on me, then do. If you don’t, don’t. I don’t care, either way.’

Roberta said quickly, protectively, ‘Faye has had a terrible life, such an awful shitty terrible life…’ And her voice broke and she turned her face away.

‘Yes, I did,’ said Faye, ‘but don’t make a thing of it. I don’t.’ Roberta shook her head, unable to speak, and put her hand, tentatively, ready to be rejected, on Faye’s arm. Faye said, ‘If you are going to tell Alice about my ghastly childhood then tell her but not when I am here.’

She drank gulps of the bitter coffee, grimaced, reached for a biscuit, took a neat sharp bite out of it, and crunched it up, as if it were a dose of medicine. Another gulp of caffeine. Roberta had her face averted. Alice knew that she was infinitely sorrowful about something; if not Faye’s past, then Faye’s present: her hand, ignored by Faye, had dropped from Faye’s arm, and crept back into her own lap, where it lay trembling and pitiful, and her lowered head with its crop of black silvered curls made Alice think of a humbly loving dog’s. Roberta was radiating love and longing. At this moment, at least, Faye did not need Roberta, but Roberta was dying of need for Faye.

Faye probably has times when she wants to be free of Roberta, finds it all too much – yes, that’s it. Well, I bet Roberta never wants to be free of Faye! Oh God, all this personal stuff, getting in the way of everything all the time. Well, at least Jasper and I have got it all sorted out.

Faye was going on. Christ, listen to her, she could get a job with the BBC, thought Alice. I wonder when she learned to do it so well. And what for?

‘I’ve met people like you before, Alice. In the course of my long career. You cannot let things be. You’re always keeping things up and making things work. If there’s a bit of dust in a corner you panic.’ Here Roberta let out a gruff laugh, and Alice primly smiled – she was thinking of all those pails. ‘Oh laugh. Laugh away.’ It seemed she could have ended there, for she hesitated, and the pretty cockney almost reclaimed her, with a pert flirtatious smile. But Faye shook her off, and sat upright in a cold fierce solitude, self-sufficient, so that Roberta’s again solicitous and seeking hand fell away. ‘I care about just one thing, Alice. And you listen to me, Roberta, you keep forgetting about me, what I am, what I really am like. I want to put an end to this shitty fucking filthy lying cruel hypocritical system. Do you understand? Well, do you, Roberta?’

She was not at all pretty, nor 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 at 45 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 realize,’ 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 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?’ inquired 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 45,’ 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 on Alice 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, 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 launderette 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.’ While she went on in a hoarse angry 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 dear 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 43.’

‘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 launderette used up three-quarters of an hour. She collected her mug 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 judgment, 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 warning; 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 on to 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 hurtful 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 £10 or £15 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,’ inquired 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 demanded, 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’m 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 No. 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 No. 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 No. 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 boxes. 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; 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 boxes 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.

He sat down in this chair, and nodded to another, opposite it. Alice sat.

She was thinking, impressed: This one, he’s the real thing.

He was waiting for her to say something.

The one thing she knew now she could not say was: Have you been telling Jasper and Bert what to do? – which was what she wanted to know.

She said, ‘We have just got permission from the Council, we are short-term housing, you know.’ He nodded. ‘Well, we thought you should do the same. It makes life much easier, you see. And it means the police leave you alone.’

He seemed to relax, sat back, pushed a packet of cigarettes towards her, lit one himself as she shook her head, sat holding a lungful of smoke which he expelled in a single swift breath and said, ‘It’s up to the others. I don’t live here.’

Was that all he was going to say? It seemed so. Well, he had in fact said everything necessary. Alice, confused, hurried on, ‘There’s the rubbish. You’ll have to pay the dustmen…’ she faltered.

He had his eyes intent on her. She knew that he was seeing everything. It was a detached, cold scrutiny. Not hostile, not unfriendly, surely? She cried, ‘We’ve been given a year. That means, once the place is straight, we can give all our attention to – ‘ she censored ‘the revolution’, but said, ‘politics.’

He seemed not to have heard. To be waiting for more? For her to go? Floundering on, she said, ‘Of course not everyone in our squat…for instance, Roberta and Faye don’t think that…but why should you know about them. I’ll explain…’

He cut in, ‘I know about Roberta and Faye. Tell me, what are those two new ones like?’

She said, giving Reggie and Mary the credit due, ‘They were once members of Militant, but they didn’t like their methods.’ Here she dared to offer him a smile, hoping he would return it, but he said, ‘She works for the Council? On what sort of level?’

‘She doesn’t take decisions.’

He nodded. ‘And what about him? A chemist, I believe?’

‘Industrial chemist. He lost his job.’

‘Where?’

‘I didn’t ask.’ She added, ‘I’ll let you know.’

He nodded. Sat smoking. Sat straight to the table, both forearms on it, in front of him a sheet of paper on which his eyes seemed to make notes. He was like Lenin!

She thought: His voice. American. Yes, but something funny for an American voice. No, it was not the voice, the accent but something else, in him.

He didn’t say anything. The question, the anxiety, that were building up in her surfaced. ‘Jasper and Bert have gone down to Melstead. They went early.’

He nodded. Reached for a neatly-folded newspaper, and opened it in front of him, turning the pages. ‘Have you seen today’s Times?’

‘I don’t read the capitalist press.’

‘I think perhaps that is a pity,’ he commented after a pause. And pushed across the paper, indicating a paragraph.



Asked whether they welcomed these reinforcements to the picket line, Crabit, the strikers’ representative, said he wished the Trotskyists and the rent-a-picket crowd would keep away. They weren’t wanted. The workers could deal with things themselves.



Alice felt she could easily start crying again.

She said, ‘But this is a capitalist newspaper. They’re just trying to split the democratic forces, they want to disunite us.’ She was going to add: Can’t you see that? but could not bring it out.

He took back the paper and laid it where it had been. Now he was not looking at her.

‘Comrade Alice,’ he said, ‘there are more efficient ways of doing things, you know.’

He stood up. ‘I’ve got work to do.’ She was dismissed. He came out from behind the table and walked with her to the door and back through the hall to the front door.

‘Thank you for coming to see me,’ he said.

She stammered, ‘Would there be a room in this house we could use for a – discussion? You see, some of us are not sure about – some of the others.’

He said, ‘I’ll ask.’ He had not reacted as she had feared he would. Bringing it out had sounded so feeble…

He nodded, and at last, gave her a smile. She went off in a daze. She was telling herself, But he’s the real thing, he is.

He had not told her his name.

She walked along the short stretch of main road slowly, because in front of her, in the middle of the pavement, was a girl with a small child in a pushchair. The child looked like a fat plastic parcel with a pale podgy spotty face coming out of the top. He was whining on a high persistent note that set Alice’s teeth on edge. The girl looked tired and desperate. She had lank unwashed-looking pale hair. Alice could see from the set angry shoulders that she wanted to hit the child. Alice was waiting to walk faster when she could turn off into her own road, but the girl turned, still in the middle of the pavement. There she stopped, looking at the houses and, in particular, at No. 43. Alice went past her and in at her gate. She heard the girl say, ‘Do you live here? In this house?’

‘Yes, I do,’ said Alice, without turning, in a curt voice. She knew what was coming. She walked on up the path. She heard the wheels of the pushchair crunch after her.

‘Excuse me,’ she heard, and knew from the stubborn little voice that she could not get out of it. She turned sharply, blocking the way to the front door. Now she faced the girl squarely, with a No written all over her. This was not the first time, of course, that she had been in this position. She was feeling: It is unfair that I have to deal with this.

She was a poor thing, this girl. Probably about twenty. Already worn down with everything, and the only energy in her the irritation she was containing because of her grizzling child.

‘I heard this house is short-term housing now,’ she said, and she kept her eyes on Alice’s face. They were large grey rather beautiful eyes, and Alice did not want the pressure of them. She turned to the front door, and opened it.

‘Where did you hear that?’

The girl did not answer this. She said, ‘I’m going mad. I’ve got to have a place. I’ve got to find somewhere. I’ve got to.’

Alice went into the hall, ready to shut the door, but found that the girl’s foot stopped her. Alice was surprised, for she had not expected such enterprise. But her own determination was made stronger by her feeling that if the girl had that much spirit, then she wasn’t in such a bad way after all.

The door stood open. The child was now weeping noisily and wholeheartedly inside his transparent shroud, his wide-open blue eyes splashing tears on to the plastics. The girl confronted Alice, who could see she was trembling with anger.

‘I’ve got as much right here as you have,’ she said. ‘If there’s room I’m coming here. And you have got room, haven’t you? Look at the size of this place, just look at it!’ She stared around the large hall with its glowing carpet that gave an air of discreet luxury to the place, and to the various doors that opened off it to rooms, rooms, a treasury of rooms. And then she gazed at the wide stairs that went up to another floor. More doors, more space. Alice, in an agony, looked with her.

‘I’m in one of those hotels, do you know about them? Well, why don’t you, everyone ought to. The Council shoved us there, my husband and me and Bobby. One room. We’ve been there seven months.’ Alice could hear in her tone, which was incredulous, at the awfulness of it, what those seven months had been like. ‘It’s owned by some filthy foreigners. Disgusting, why should they have a hotel and tell us what to do? We are not allowed to cook. Can you imagine, with a baby? One room. The floor is so filthy I can’t put him to crawl.’ This information was handed out to Alice in a flat, trembling voice, and the child steadily and noisily wept.

‘You can’t come here,’ said Alice. ‘It’s not suitable. For one thing there’s no heating. There isn’t even hot water.’

‘Hot water,’ said the girl, shaking with rage. ‘Hot water! We haven’t had hot water for three days, and the heating’s been off. You ring up the Council and complain, and they say they are looking into it. I want some space. Some room. I can heat water in a pan to wash him. You’ve got a stove, haven’t you? I can’t even give him proper food. Only rubbish out of packets.’

Alice did not answer. She was thinking, Well, why not? What right have I got to say no? And, as she thought this, she heard a sound from upstairs, and turned to see Faye, standing on the landing, looking down. There was something about her that held Alice’s attention; some deadliness of purpose, or of mood. The pretty, wispy, frail creature, Faye, had again disappeared; in her place was a white-faced, malevolent woman, with punishing cold eyes, who came in a swift rush down the stairs as though she would charge straight into the girl, who stood her ground at first and then, in amazement, took a step back with Faye right up against her, leaning forward, hissing, ‘Get out. Get out. Get out. Get out.’

The girl stammered, ‘Who are you, what…’ While Faye pushed her, by the force of her presence, her hate, step by step back towards the door. The child was screaming now.

‘How dare you,’ Faye was saying. ‘How dare you crash in here, no one said you could. I know what you’re like. Once you are in, you’d take everything you could get, you’re like that.’

This insanity kept Alice silent, and had the girl staring open-eyed and open-mouthed at this cruel pursuer, as she retreated to the door. There Faye actually gave her a hard shove, which made her step back on to the pushchair, and nearly knock it over.

Faye crashed the door shut. Then, opening it, she crashed it shut again. It seemed she would continue this process, but Roberta had arrived on the scene. Even she did not dare touch Faye at that moment, but she was talking steadily in a low, urgent, persuasive voice:

‘Faye, Faye darling, darling Faye, do stop it, no, you must stop it. Are you listening to me? Stop it, Faye…’

Faye heard her, as could be seen from the way she held the door open, hesitating before slamming it again. Beyond could be seen the girl, retreating slowly down the path, with her shrieking child. She glanced round in time to see Faye taken into Roberta’s arms and held there, a prisoner. Now Faye was shouting in a hoarse, breathless voice, ‘Let me go.’ The girl stopped, mouth falling open, and her eyes frantic. Oh no, those eyes seemed to say, as she turned and ran clumsily away from this horrible house.

Alice shut the door, and the sounds of the child’s screams ceased.

Roberta was crooning, ‘Faye, Faye, there darling, don’t, my love, it’s all right.’ And Faye was sobbing, just like a child, with great gasps for breath, collapsed against Roberta.

Roberta gently led Faye upstairs, step by step, crooning all the way, ‘There, don’t, please don’t, Faye, it’s all right.’

The door of their room shut on them, and the hall was empty. Alice stood there, stunned, for a while; then went into the kitchen and sat down, trembling.

In her mind she was with the girl on the pavement. She was feeling, not guilt, but an identification with her. She imagined herself going with the heavy awkward child to the bus-stop, waiting and waiting for the bus to come, her face stony and telling the other people in the queue that she did not care what they thought of her screaming child. Then getting the difficult chair on to the bus, and sitting there with the child, who if not screaming would be a lump of exhausted misery. Then off the bus, strapping the child into the chair again, and then the walk to the hotel. Yes, Alice did know about these hotels, did know what went on.

After a while she made herself strong tea and sat drinking it, as if it were brandy. Silence above. Presumably Roberta had got Faye off to sleep?

Some time later Roberta came in, and sat down. Alice knew how she must look, from Roberta’s examination of her. She thought: What she really is, is just one of these big maternal lezzies, all sympathy and big boobs; she wants to seem butch and tough, but bad luck for her, she’s a mum.

She did not want to be bothered with what was going to come.

When Roberta said, ‘Look, Alice, I know how this must look, but…’ she cut in, ‘I don’t care. It’s all right.’

Roberta hesitated, then made herself go on, ‘Faye does sometimes get like this, but she is much better, and she hasn’t for a long time. Over a year.’

‘All right.’

‘And of course we can’t have children here.’

Alice did not say anything.

Roberta, needing some kind of response she was not getting, got up to fuss around with tea-bags and a mug, and said in a low, quick, vibrant voice, ‘If you knew about her childhood, if you knew what had happened to her…’

‘I don’t care about her fucking childhood,’ remarked Alice.

‘No, I’ve got to tell you, for her sake, for Faye’s…She was a battered baby, you see…’

‘I don’t care,’ Alice shouted suddenly. ‘ You don’t understand. I’ve had all the bloody unhappy childhoods I am going to listen to. People go on and on…As far as I am concerned, unhappy childhoods are the great con, the great alibi.’

Shocked, Roberta said, ‘A battered baby – and battered babies grow up to become adults.’ She was back in her place, sitting, leaning forward, her eyes on Alice’s, determined to make Alice respond.

‘I know one thing,’ Alice said. ‘Communes. Squats. If you don’t take care, that’s what they become – people sitting around discussing their shitty childhoods. Never again. We’re not here for that. Or is that what you want? A sort of permanent encounter group. Everything turns into that, if you let it.’

Roberta, convinced that Alice was not going to listen, sat silent. She noisily drank tea, and Alice felt herself wince.

There was something coarse and common about Roberta, Alice was thinking, too disturbed and riled up to censor her thoughts. She hadn’t washed yet, even though water was running in the taps. There was the sharp metallic tang of blood about her. Either she or Faye, or both, were menstruating.

Alice shut her eyes, retreated inside herself to a place she had discovered long years ago, she did not know when, but she had been a small child. Inside here, she was safe, and the world could crash and roar and scream as much as it liked. She heard herself say, and it was in her dreamy abstracted voice:

‘Well, I suppose Faye will die of it one of these days. She has tried to commit suicide, hasn’t she?’

Silence. She opened her eyes to see Roberta in tears.

‘Yes, but not since I…’

‘All those bracelets,’ murmured Alice. ‘Scars under bracelets.’

‘She’s got one tiny scar,’ pleaded Roberta. ‘On her left wrist.’

Alice had shut her eyes again, and was sipping tea, feeling that her nerves would soon begin to stand up to life again. She said, ‘One of these days I’ll tell you about my mother’s unhappy childhood. She had a mad mum, and a peculiar dad. Peculiar is the word. If I told you!’ She had not meant to mention her mother. ‘Oh never mind about her,’ she said. She began to laugh. It was a healthy, even jolly laugh, appreciative of the vagaries and richnesses of life. ‘On the other hand my father – now that was a different kettle of fish. When he was a child he was happy the whole day long, so he says, the happiest time in his life. But do we believe him? Well, I am inclined to, yes. He is so bloody thick and stupid and awful that he wouldn’t have noticed it if he was unhappy. They could have battered him as much as they liked, and he wouldn’t even have noticed.’

She opened her eyes. Roberta was examining her with a small shrewd smile. Against her will, Alice smiled in response.

‘Well,’ said Alice, ‘that’s that, as far as I am concerned. Have you got any brandy? Anything like that?’

‘How about a joint?’

‘No, doesn’t do anything for me. I don’t like it.’

Roberta went off and came back with a bottle of whisky. The two sat drinking in the kitchen, at either end of the big wooden table. When Philip came staggering in under the heavy panes of glass, ready to start work, he refused a drink saying he felt sick. He went upstairs back to his sleeping-bag. What he was really saying was that Alice should be working along with him, not sitting there wasting time.

Roberta, having drunk a lot, went up to Faye and there was silence overhead.

Alice decided to have a nap. In the hall was lying an envelope she thought was junk mail. She picked it up to throw it away, saw it was from the Electricity Board, felt herself go cold and sick; decided to give herself time to recover before opening it. She went to the kitchen. By hand. Mrs Whitfield had said she came past on her way to and from work. She had dropped this in herself, on her way home. That was kind of her…Alice briskly opened the letter, which said:

Dear Miss Mellings, I communicated with your father about guaranteeing payment of accounts for No. 43 Old Mill Road, in terms of our discussion. His reply was negative, I am sorry to say. Perhaps you would care to drop in and discuss this matter in the course of the next few days?



Yours sincerely,

D. Whitfield.




Chapter 6 (#ulink_70f91974-4e2b-5cce-9979-ed437e46e453)


This pleasant, human little letter made Alice first feel supported, then rage took over. Luckily there was no one to see her, as she exploded inwardly, teeth grinding, eyes bulging, fists held as if knives were in them. She stormed around the kitchen, like a big fly shut in a room on a hot afternoon, banging herself against walls, corners of table and stove, not knowing what she did, and making grunting, whining, snarling noises – which, soon, she heard. She knew that she was making them and, frightened, sat down at the table, perfectly still, containing what she felt. Absolute quiet after such violence, for some minutes. Then she whirled into movement, out of the kitchen and up the stairs, to knock sharply on Philip’s door. Stirrings, movements, but no reply, and she called, ‘Philip, it’s me, Alice.’

She went in as he said, ‘Come in,’ and saw him scrambling up out of his sleeping-bag and into his overalls. ‘Oh sorry,’ she said, dismissing his unimportant embarrassment and starting in at once.

‘Philip, will you guarantee our electricity bill?’ As he stared, and did not understand: ‘You know, the bill for this house? My mother won’t, my father won’t, bloody bloody Theresa and blood bloody Anthony won’t…’

He was standing in front of her, the late-afternoon light strong and yellow behind him, a little dark figure in a stiff awkward posture. She could not see his face and went to the side of the room, so that he turned towards her, and she saw him confronting her, small, pale but obstinate. She knew she would fail, seeing that look, but said sharply, ‘You have a business, you have a letterhead, you could guarantee the account.’

‘Alice, how can I? I can’t pay that money, you know I can’t.’ Talking as though he would have to pay, thought Alice, enraged again. But had he heard her joke that the first payment would be the last?

She said, bossy, ‘Oh, Philip, don’t be silly. You wouldn’t have to, would you? It’s just to keep the electricity on.’

He said, trying to sound humorous, ‘Well, Alice, but perhaps I would have to?’

‘No, of course not!’

He was – she saw – ready to laugh with her, but she could not.

‘What can I do?’ she was demanding. ‘I don’t know what to do!’

‘I don’t think I believe that, Alice,’ he said, really laughing now, but nicely.

In a normal voice, she said, ‘Philip, we have to have a guarantor. You are the only one, don’t you see?’

He held his own, this Petrouchka, this elf, with, ‘Alice, no. For one thing, that address on the letterhead is the place I was in before Felicity – it’s been pulled down, demolished. It isn’t even there.’

Now they stared at each other with identical appalled expressions as if the floorboards were giving way; for both had been possessed, at the same moment, by a vision of impermanence; houses, buildings, streets, whole areas of streets, blown away, going, gone, an illusion. They sighed together, and on an impulse, embraced gently, comforting each other.

‘The thing is,’ said Alice, ‘she doesn’t want to disconnect. She wants to help, she just needs an excuse, that’s all…Wait – wait a minute, I think I’ve got it…’

‘I thought you would,’ he said and she nodded and said excitedly, ‘Yes. It’s my brother. I’ll tell Electricity he will guarantee, but that he’s away on a business trip in – Bahrain, it doesn’t matter where. She’ll hold it over, I know she will…’

And making the thumbs-up sign she ran out, laughing and exultant.

Too late to ring Mrs Whitfield now, but she would tomorrow, and it would be all right.

No need to tell Mary and Reggie anything about it. Of course, if Mary was any good, she would be prepared to guarantee the account; she was the only one among them in work. But she wouldn’t, Alice knew that.

She needed sleep. She was shaky and trembling inside, where her anger lived.




Chapter 7 (#ulink_33844485-9ab5-5798-b395-6700323deb2a)


It was getting dark when Alice woke. She heard Bert’s laugh, a deep ho, ho, ho, from the kitchen. That’s not his own laugh, Alice thought. I wonder what that would be like? Tee hee hee more likely. No, he made that laugh up for himself. Reliable and comfortable. 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 did she mean? But Pat was getting up. Terminating the discussion. Alice wanted her to stay. She could not believe that Pat was ready to go off now, at this thrilling moment when fabulous happenings seemed imminent. But Pat was stretching her arms about and yawning. Her smile was luxurious, and as her eyes did briefly meet Alice’s, she seemed actually to be tantalizing and teasing. She’s so sensual, Alice indignantly thought.

But she said, ‘I asked – Comrade Andrew, if we can use a room in that house for meetings. I mean, meetings of the inner group.’

‘So did we. He said yes.’

Pat smiled, lowered her arms, and then stood looking at Alice, without smiling, saying with her body that she had had enough of Alice, and wanted to go. ‘Where are our new comrades?’ She was on her way to the door.

‘They are upstairs.’

‘I doubt whether we shall see much of them. Still, they are all right.’ She yawned, elaborately, and said, ‘Too much effort to go chasing out for a bath. Bert can put up with me as I am.’

She went, and Alice sat still until she had heard her go up the stairs, and the closing of her door.

Then she swiftly went out of the house. It was too early for what she was going to do. The street, though dark, had the feeling of the end of the day, with cars turning in to park, others leaving for the evening entertainments, a rest-lessness of lights. But the traffic was pounding up the main road with the intensity of daytime. She dawdled along to look into the garden of 45. It seemed to her that a start had been made on the rubbish; yes, it had, and some filled sacks stood by the hedge, the plastic gleaming blackly. She saw two figures bending over a patch towards the back; not far from the pit she and Pat and Jim had dug, though a big hedge stood between. Were they digging a pit too? It was very dark back there. Lights from Joan Robbins’s top windows illuminated the higher levels of No. 45, but did not reach the thickets of the overgrown garden. Alice loitered around for a while, and no one came in or out, and she could not see Comrade Andrew through the downstairs windows, for the curtains were drawn.

She went to the Underground, sat on the train planning what she was going to do, and walked up the big rich treelined road where Theresa and Anthony had their home. She stood on the pavement looking up at the windows of their kitchen on the third floor. She imagined that they were sitting there on opposite sides of the little table they used when they were alone. Delicious food. Her mouth was actually watering as she thought of Theresa’s cooking. If she rang the bell, she would hear Theresa’s voice: Darling Alice, is that you? Do come in. She would go up, join them in their long comfortable evening, their food. Her mother might even drop in. But at this thought rage grasped her and shook her with red-hot hands, so that her eyes went dark and she found herself walking fast up the road, and then along another, and another, walking as though she would explode if she stopped. She walked for a long time, while the feeling of the streets changed to night. She directed herself to her father’s street. She walked along it casually. The lights were on downstairs, every window spilled out light. Upstairs was a low glow from the room where the babies slept. Too early. She walked some more, around and back, past Theresa and Anthony, where kitchen windows were now dark, up to the top of the hill, down and around and into her father’s street. Now the lights were dark downstairs, but on in the bedroom. An hour or so ago, she had seen a stone of the right size and shape lying on the edge of a garden, and had put it into her pocket. She looked up and down the quiet street, where the lights made golden leafy spaces in the trees. A couple, arm-in-arm, came slowly up from the direction of the Underground. Old. An old couple. They were absorbed in the effort of walking, did not see Alice. Who went to the end of the street, nevertheless, and came back briskly on the impetus of her need, her decision. There was now not a soul in the street. As she reached her father’s house she walked straight in at the gate, which she hardly bothered to open quietly, and flung the stone as hard as she could at the glass of the bedroom window. This movement, the single hard clear line of the throw, with her whole body behind it; and then the complete turn in the swing of the throw, and her bound out to the pavement – the speed and force of it, the skill, could never have been deduced from how Alice was, at any other time of the day or night, good-girl Alice, her mother’s daughter…She heard the shattering glass, a scream, her father’s shout. But she was gone, she had run down in the thick tree shadows to a side street, was down that and in the busy main street within sixty seconds after she had thrown the stone.

She was breathing too hard, too noisily…she stood looking into a window to slow her breath. She realized it was crammed full of television sets, and sedately moved to the next, to examine dresses, until she could walk into the supermarket without anyone remarking on her breathing. There she stayed a good twenty minutes, choosing and rejecting. She took the loaded wire basket to the outlet, paid, filled her carrier-bags, and went homewards by Underground. Since the stone had left her hand she had scarcely thought about what might be happening in her father’s house.

Now, seeing the sober blue gleam from the police station she went in. At the Reception Desk, no one, but she could hear voices from a part of the room that was out of sight. She rang. No one came. She rang again, peremptorily. A young policewoman came out, took a good look at her, decided to be annoyed, and went back. Alice rang again. Now the young woman, as tidy and trim in her dark uniform as Alice in hers – jeans and bomber jacket – came slowly towards her, an annoyed, decided little face showing that words were being chosen to put Alice in her place.

Alice said, ‘It might have been an emergency, how were you to know? As it happens, it isn’t. So you are lucky.’

The policewoman’s face suddenly suffused with scarlet, she gasped, her eyes widened.

Alice said, ‘I have come to report on an agreed squat – you know, short-term housing – surely you know…’

‘At this time of night?’ the policewoman said smartly, in an attempt to regain mastery.

It can’t be much more than eleven,’ said Alice. ‘I didn’t know you had a set time for dealing with housing.’

The policewoman said, ‘Since you’re here, let’s do it. What do you want to report?’

Alice spelled it out. ‘You people were around – a raid, three nights ago. You had not understood that it was an agreed tenancy – with the Council. I explained the situation. Now I’ve come to confirm it. It was agreed at the regular meeting of the Council, today.’

‘What’s the address?’

‘No. 43 Old Mill Road.’

A little flicker of something showed on the policewoman’s face. ‘Wait a minute,’ she said and disappeared. Alice listened to voices, male and female.

The policewoman came back, with a man; Alice recognized him as one of those from the other night. She was disappointed it was not the one who had kicked in the door.

‘Ah, good evening,’ she addressed him kindly. ‘You remember, you were in 43 Old Mill Road, the other night.’

‘Yes, I remember,’ he said. Over his face quivered shades of the sniggers he had just been enjoying with his mates. ‘You were the people who had buried – who dug a pit…’

‘Yes. We buried the faeces that the previous people had left upstairs. In buckets.’

She studied the disgusted, prim, angry faces opposite her. Male and female. Two of a kind.

She said, ‘I really cannot imagine why you should react like this. People have been burying their excrement in pits for thousands of years. They do now, over most of the world…’ As this did not seem adequately to reach them, ‘In this country, we have only generally had waterborne sewage for a hundred years or so. Much less in some areas.’

‘Yes, well, we have it now,’ said the policewoman smartly.

‘That’s right,’ said the policeman.

‘It seems to me we did the responsible and the hygienic thing. Nature will take care of it soon enough.’

‘Well, don’t do it again,’ said the policeman.

‘We won’t have any need to, will we?’ said Alice sweetly. ‘What I came to say was, if you check with the Council, you will have confirmation: No. 43 is now an agreed squat. An agreed short-term tenancy.’

The policewoman reached for a form. Her colleague went back to join his mates. Soon there was a burst of loud scandalized laughter. Then another. The policewoman, diligently filling in her form, tightened her lips, Alice could not make out whether in criticism or not.

‘Small things amuse small minds,’ said Alice.

The policewoman shot her a look which said that it was not for her to say so, even if she, herself, had been thinking it.

Alice smiled at her, woman to woman. ‘And so,’ she said, ‘that’s it. No. 43 is now legal, and in order. Any more raids and you’ll be stepping well over the line.’

‘That’s for us to say, I think,’ said the policewoman, with a tight little smile.

‘No,’ said Alice. ‘As it happens, no. I think not. There will certainly be no further complaints from the neighbours.’

‘Well, we’ll have to hope not,’ and the policewoman retreated to join her own in the back room.

Alice, satisfied, went out, and home, directing herself to pass 45. No one in the garden now. But in the deep shade in the angle of the two hedges she could just make out that a pit had been dug. She could not resist. For the second time that night she slid silently in at a garden gate. 45 looked deserted; all the windows were dark. The pit was about four feet deep. There was a strong sweet earthy smell from the slopes of soil around its edges. The bottom looked very flat – water? She bent to make sure. A case, or carton, something like that, had been placed at the bottom. She swiftly straightened, looked around. Consciously enjoying her condition, the sense of danger, of threat, she thought: They will be watching from those curtains or upstairs – I would be, in their position. What a risky thing to do, though; she turned to examine the strategy of the operation. No, perhaps it was all right. Whereas the digging of their own pit on the other side of the hedge could have been observed by the occupants of three houses and by anyone about in Joan Robbins’s house, here, two sides were tall hedge, the third the house. Between here and the gate were shrubs and bushes. Joan Robbins’s upper windows were dark. Over the road, set back in its own garden, a house; and certainly anyone could see what they liked from the upstairs windows. Which were still dark; the people had not yet gone upstairs to bed. She had seen what she needed to see. She would have liked to stay, the sweet earthy smells and the impetus of risk firing her blood, but she moved, swift as a shadow, to the front door and knocked, gently. It was opened at once. By Andrew.

‘I knew you must be watching,’ she said. ‘But I’ve come to say that I told the police station 43 is an agreed squat. So they will be quite prepared to accept it when you say you are.’

Her pulses were beating, her heart racing, every cell dancing and alert. She was smiling, she knew; oh, this was the opposite of ‘her look’, when she felt like this, as if she’d drunk an extra-fine distilled essence of danger, and could have stepped out among the stars or run thirty miles.

She saw the short, powerful figure come out of the dark of the hall, to where she could examine his face in the light from the streetlamps. It was serious, set in purpose, and the sight of it gave her an agreeable feeling of submission to higher powers.

‘I’ve buried something – an emergency,’ he said. ‘It will be gone in a day or two. You understand.’

‘Perfectly,’ smiled Alice.

He hesitated. Came out further. She felt powerful hands on her upper arms. Did she smell spirits? Vodka? Whisky.

‘I am asking you to keep it to yourself.’

She nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘I mean, no one else.’ She nodded, thinking that if only one person was to know in 43, nevertheless in this house surely several must?

He said, ‘I am going to trust you completely, Alice.’ He allowed her his brief tight smile. ‘Because I have to. No one in this house knows but myself. They have all gone out. I took the opportunity to – make use of a very convenient cache. A temporary cache. I was going to fill in another layer of earth, and then put in some rubbish.’

Alice stood smiling, disappointed in him, if not in her own state; she was still floating. She thought that what he had said was likely to be either partially or totally untrue, but it was not her concern. He still gripped her by her upper arms which, however, were on the point of rejecting this persistent, warning masculine pressure. He seemed to sense this, for his hands dropped.

‘I have to say that I have a different opinion of you than of some of the others from your house. I trust you.’

Alice did not say anything. She simply nodded.

He went indoors, nodding at her, but did not smile.

She was going to have to think it out. Better, sleep on it.

Her elation was going, fast. She thought: But tomorrow Jasper and I are going out together, and then…it would be a whole evening of this fine racing thrilling excitement.

But poor Jasper, no, he would not feel like it, probably, if he had spent the night in the cells. What was Enfield Police Station like? She could not remember any reports of it.

From the main road she saw outside No. 43 gate a slight drooping figure. An odd posture, bent over – it was the girl of this afternoon, and she was going to throw something at the windows of the sitting-room. A stone! Alice thought: Throwing underhand, pathetic! – and this scorn refuelled her. Alive and sparkling, she arrived by the girl, who turned pathetically to face her, with an ‘Oh’.

‘Better drop that,’ advised Alice, and the girl did so.

In this light she had a washed-out look: colourless hair and face, even lips and eyes. Whose pupils were enormous, Alice could see.

‘Where’s your baby?’ hectored Alice.

‘My husband is there. He’s drunk,’ she said and wailed, then stopped herself. She was trembling.

Alice said, ‘Why don’t you go to the short-term housing people? You know, there are people who advise on squats.’

‘I did.’ She began weeping, a helpless, fast, hiccuping weeping, like a child who has already wept for hours.

‘Look,’ said Alice, feeling in herself the beginnings of an all too familiar weight and drag. ‘You have to do something for yourself, you know. It’s no good just waiting for people to do something for you. You must find a squat for yourself. Move in. Take it over. Then go to the Council…Stop it,’ she raged, as the girl sobbed on. ‘What’s the good of that?’

The girl subdued her weeping, and stood, head bent, before Alice, waiting for her verdict, or sentence.

Oh God, thought Alice. What’s the use? I know this one inside out! She’s just like Sarah, in Liverpool, and that poor soul Betty. An official has just to take one look, and know she’ll give in at once.

An official…why, there was an official here, in this house; there was Mary Williams. Alice stood marvelling at this thought: that only a couple of days ago Mary Williams had seemed to hold her own fate – Alice’s – in her hands; and now Alice had difficulty in even remembering her status. She felt for Mary, in fact, the fine contempt due to someone or to an institution that has given way too easily. But Mary could be appealed to on behalf of this – child. Alice again took in the collapsed look of her, the passivity, and thought: What is the use, she’s one of those who…

It was exasperation that was fuelling her now.

‘What is your name?’

The drooping head came up, the drowned eyes presented themselves, shocked, to Alice. ‘What do you think I’m going to do?’ demanded Alice. ‘Go to the police and tell them you were going to throw a stone through our window?’ And suddenly she began to laugh, while the girl watched her amazed; and took an involuntary step back from this lunatic. ‘I’ve just thought of something. I know someone in the Council who might perhaps – it is only a perhaps…’ The girl had come to life, was leaning forward, her trembling hand tight on Alice’s forearm.

‘My name is Monica,’ she breathed.

‘Monica isn’t enough,’ said Alice, stopping herself from simply walking away out of impatience. ‘I’ll have to know your full name, and your address, won’t I.’

The girl dropped her hand, and began a dreary groping in her skirts. From a pocket she produced a purse, into which she peered.

‘Oh never mind,’ said Alice. ‘Tell me, I’ll remember.’

The girl said she was Monica Winters, and the hotel – which Alice knew about, all right – was the such-and-such, and her number, 556. This figure brought an image with it of concentrated misery, hundreds of couples with small children, each family in one room, no proper amenities, the squalor of it all. All elation, excitement gone, Alice soberly stood there, appalled.

‘I’ll ask this person to write to you,’ said Alice. ‘Meanwhile, if I were you, I’d walk around and have a look at what empty houses you can see. Take a look at them. You know. Nip inside, have a look at the amenities – plumbing and…’ She trailed off dismally, knowing that Monica was not capable of flinging up a window in an empty house and climbing in to have a look, and that, very likely, her husband was the same.

‘See you,’ said Alice, and turned away from the girl and went in, feeling that the 556 – at least – young couples with their spotty, frustrated infants had been presented to her by Fate, as her responsibility.

‘Oh God,’ she was muttering, as she made herself tea in the empty kitchen. ‘Oh God, what shall I do?’ She could easily have wept as messily and uselessly as Monica. Jasper was not here!

She toiled up the stairs, and saw that a light showed on the landing above. She went up. Under the door of the room taken by Mary and Reggie a light showed. She forgot it was midnight and this was a respectable couple. She knocked. After stirrings and voices came, ‘Come in.’

Alice looked in at a scene of comfort. Furniture, pretty curtains, and a large double bed in which Mary and Reggie lay side by side, reading. They looked at her over their books with identical wary expressions that said, ‘Thus far and no further!’ A wave of incredulous laughter threatened Alice. She beat it down, while she thought, These two, we’ll see nothing of them, they’ll be off…

She said, ‘Mary, a girl has just turned up here, she’s desperate; she’s in Shaftwood Hotel, you know…’

‘Not in our borough,’ said Mary instantly.

‘No, but she…’

‘I know about Shaftwood,’ said Mary.

Reggie was examining his hand, back and front, apparently with interest. Alice knew that it was the situation he was examining; he was not used to this informality, to group-living, but he was giving it his consideration.

‘Don’t we all? But this girl…her name is Monica…she looks to me as if she’s suicidal, she could do anything.’

Mary said, after a pause, ‘Alice, I’ll see what there is, tomorrow, but you know that there are hundreds, thousands of them.’

‘Oh yes, I know,’ said Alice, and added, ‘Good-night,’ and went downstairs, thinking, I am being silly. It isn’t as if I don’t know the type. If you did find her a place, she’d muck it all up somehow. Remember Sarah? I had to find her a flat, move her in, go to the Electricity Board, and then her husband…Monica’s one of those who need a mother, someone who takes her on…An idea came into Alice’s head of such beautiful and apt simplicity that she began laughing quietly to herself.





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