The Good Terrorist (40 page)

He was a nasty little piece of work, all right. His little black eyes were full of the exaggerated anger that goes with defending a false position, and when he saw her, he shouted, “I said another workman, not your girlfriend!”

Alice said, in her best cold voice, “You are making a mistake. I have done this kind of work often.”

“Yes,” sneered the Greek, using the sneer with a conscious theatricality, “I suppose you’ve put a coat of paint on your kitchen.”

“In any case,” said Alice, “you are grossly underpaying. For the kind of money you are paying for this job, you are not in a position to take that line.”

She did not know what Philip was being paid, though, having seen this man, she did know it was not enough. And she knew that with this type of man you had to be as bad a bully.

She turned her back and went to stand in front of a wall, examining it. Philip followed her lead and stood beside her. The Greek pretended to fuss about by the counter, then said, “I’ll give you two days.” And he went out.

But Alice knew it was hopeless. Yes, because of her, Philip would not be cheated out of as much; but that man had no intention of paying in full.

Therefore, she did not say to Philip that these walls should be properly scraped and cleaned. She said that if Philip had spare overalls, she would start in now; it was only ten o’clock. He went to work on the plastering, and she painted. They worked all night. Twice a pair of policemen, neither of whom Alice knew, went past and looked in. Once the Greek sauntered by, thinking he was not noticed.

By morning Philip had done the plastering. Alice had put a first coat on the three walls and the ceiling.

She knew that the Greek would be in the moment they left and would find fault.

She and Philip went back to number 43; and there were Jasper and Bert, eating bacon and eggs. There was a look to both of them she did not like—this was the first impression, before all of them exploded into smiles and embraces. For, of course, the sight of Jasper melted away everything Alice had felt; she was happy, she was herself, she had been half a person without him. And he was as pleased; he even kissed her, his dry lips light on her cheek, his arms like a circle of bone, but meaning warmth, meaning love.

Philip did not stay, said he must get two hours of sleep. This was the amount he had allowed himself, after two nights and two days of sleeplessness. He imploringly looked at Alice, for she had said that was all she would need before starting in again.

But here was Jasper! Philip, from the door, glanced back at Jasper, and there on his face was the recognition of inevitability, Jasper as doom, for of course now Alice would not keep her word.…

But Alice would keep her word, although she knew that this moment, now, when Jasper was just back and the pressures on him from her, which he had to resist, had not yet begun to build, was when she could hear about his adventures—and once the moment had passed, she would get nothing, only curt yeses and noes.

There was something about these two men—a feverishness in their eyes, some bad kind of excitement—what was it? Well, it wasn’t to do with Jasper’s sex life, for Bert did not share that; but Bert had the same look. Anger, was it? Restlessness, certainly. Only exhaustion? Perhaps. They said the crossing on the boat had been bad, and that they had not slept for some nights. They would go up to sleep now.

Alice explained what she was doing; the conventions of commune or squat life ensured that they would commend her for helping a fellow.

They said nothing about coming to help themselves.

Up the stairs they went together, a pair, a unit, welded by all their experiences, about which they had been prepared to say only that the tour wasn’t bad, the Soviet Union’s trouble was bureaucracy; if the comrades could sort that out, it might even be a pleasure to go there.

And after the Soviet Union? They had left the tour at Moscow, and gone to Holland. It hadn’t stopped raining.

Bert went to his sleeping bag on the other side of the wall from Alice. Jasper found his room upstairs occupied by Jocelin’s things. Great crashes and bangs from up there: Jasper was heaving out the furniture from the room next to Mary and Reggie’s, onto the landing. Alice knew this was happening, could hear from the noise that Jasper was in one of his rages, when he could shift cupboards and packing cases as if he were ten men. She slept, with her internal alarm set for two hours’ time.

And woke again, doleful, desperate; there was no way she could see out of helping Philip, yet she could not really help Philip. And she wanted to be with Jasper.

The Greek’s premises were done by midnight. Two coats on everything. Even on the plaster, though it was too soon. Everything,
too quick, rushed. Done adequately. Done, as far as Alice was concerned, with no pleasure.

At midnight, the three again stood together under the glaring working lights, this time surrounded by primrose-yellow walls, which the Greek stared at, one after another, despising them.

Everything happened as Alice had known it must.

The work was not up to standard; Alice was only an amateur and Philip a crook. He, the Greek, would have to pay someone else to come in and finish the job. (Of course, all three knew that this was a lie; customers would see only a fresh and charming yellow—which would soon, however, begin to flake.) Philip could go to the police if he liked, but not another penny … And so he went on, shouting, putting on theatre, pointing rejecting forefingers at ceilings, at plaster, shrugging shoulders that despaired of the human race, rolling hot bitter little black eyes.

Alice came in with words, cold and hot. They fought. Philip, white as an egg, stutteringly intervened. The end of it was that Philip got two-thirds of what had been contracted.

At one in the morning, Alice and Philip shouldered ladders, trestles out of the shop, knowing that these would be confiscated if they were left. Alice stood guard while little Philip staggered the half mile up the road with a ladder three times his height, and came back with Bert and Jasper, who were helping him because they had to. Bert had been pulled out of his sleeping bag.

Philip’s gear was got safely into the downstairs room, Jim’s room, and Philip stayed there with it, in a state of angry despair.

Bert went back to bed. Smiling and gentle, like a bride, Alice said to Jasper that it would be nice if he would sit with her while she ate. She had scarcely eaten that day. He said, curtly, yes, there was something he wanted to discuss with her. But tomorrow would do. Off he went upstairs, to sleep.

Without eating, so did Alice; she felt as though she were being dragged over a waterfall, or into an abyss, but did not know why.

Awake early because she was hungry, she was in the kitchen eating when Philip came in. He was red-eyed and beside himself. Mad, Alice judged. Simply not himself.

He probably had not slept but had been awake with thoughts he had been marshalling, ready for presentation the moment he could get her alone.

He sat himself down, but so lightly that he could jump up again on the crest of any wave of the argument. His fists rested side by side before him.

He knew of another job, a shop just opening up. He could get it, but it would have to be within the next day or so. It was no use working by himself. He had to have a partner—Alice could see that for herself, surely? Alice ought to come in with him! They would make a fine team. She was such a good painter, so neat and quick. Between them there was no job they couldn’t tackle. After all, Alice wasn’t doing anything with her time!

He was shouting at her because he knew she was going to refuse him and the rage of rejection was already in him. He could have been threatening her, instead of suggesting a partnership.

“All you people,” he yelled, “never lift a finger, never do any work, parasites, while people like me keep everything going.…” It seemed he was going to weep, his voice was so heavy with betrayal. “They talk about all these unemployed everywhere, people wanting work, but where are they? I can’t find anyone to work with me. So what about it, Alice?” he demanded, aggressive, accusing.

She, of course, said no.

He then shouted at her that she cared about no one but herself—“just like everybody else.” She had got Jim thrown out of his job and had never given a thought to him since. Where was Jim? She didn’t know or care. And Monica—oh yes, he knew all about that, he had heard, Monica had been sent off on a wild-goose chase to an empty house—he supposed that was Alice’s idea of a joke. Faye could have died, for all the trouble she was prepared to take, wouldn’t even call an ambulance. And she didn’t care about him, Philip, once she had got all she could out of him, got him working day and night for peanuts, and now she’d got her house, he—Philip—could go to the wall for all she cared about him.

And so he raved on, half weeping, and Alice knew that if she had got up and put her arms about him he would have collapsed
into her embrace like a little heap of matchsticks, with, “Alice, I’m sorry, I don’t mean it, please come and be my partner.”

But she did not, only sat there, thinking that the windows were open, and if Joan Robbins was in the garden she could hear everything.

Philip’s fury died into silence, and misery. He sat staring, not at her, at anywhere but her. Then he ran out of the room, and out of the house.

Alice sat waiting for Jasper to wake. It seemed to her a good part of her life had been spent doing this. She thought again: But I’ll leave, I’ll just go. I must. No, it wouldn’t be forever, but I need time by myself.

She found she was on her feet, opening the refrigerator, searching cupboards. She would make one of her soups. But because she had been working with Philip, there was very little in the house. She went down to the shops, bought food, took time over the preparations, sat at the table while her soup evolved. The cat arrived on the window sill, miaowed through the glass; Alice welcomed it in, offered it scraps. But no, the cat was not hungry; probably Joan Robbins or somebody had fed it. The beast wanted company. It would not sit on Alice’s lap, but lay on the window sill, and stretched out. The cat looked at Alice with its vagabond’s eyes, and let out a little sound, a grunt or miaow of greeting. Alice burst into tears in a passion of gratitude.

The morning went past. When Jasper woke, she would explain it to him: a short break, that was what she needed.

At midday Bert and Jasper came down together, joking about being woken by the smell of Alice’s soup. Their mood of rage, or rebellion, or whatever it had been, seemed to have vanished with their exhaustion.

Chatty, companionable, they offered Alice little anecdotes from their trip and praised her soup. She sat listless, watching them. Her mood soon became obvious to them, and they even exchanged “Mummy-is-cross” glances at one point, earning from her a sarcastic smile.

They abandoned attempts at placating her, and Bert said,
“We’ve decided it is time we had a full discussion on policy, Comrade Alice. No, only the real revolutionaries, not the rubbish.” He bared all his lovely white teeth and sneered. Alice let it pass. Jasper, too, leaned towards her, smiling, and said, “We thought tonight. Or tomorrow night at the latest. But the point is, where? Mary and Reggie mustn’t know. Or Philip!” He, too, sneered.

The two of them seemed to have acquired a fairly dramatic new style, thought Alice, examining them dispassionately.

She enquired, really interested, “And how are you going to class Faye? Serious or not?”

Their faces seemed to cloud; yes, they knew about the suicide attempt, but had not really been bothered about it.

“Well,” said Bert, doubtfully, “I suppose she’ll be fit enough to join in, won’t she?”

Alice laughed. It was a laugh that surprised herself, sounding so natural and even merry. She was finding these two funny, because they were so stupid.

She said indifferently, “If you want a meeting convened, then why don’t you convene it.” She got up and attended to the cauldron of soup, adding some more split peas, salt, then water. Jasper’s and Bert’s appetites had not diminished, she noted.

When she turned, they were sitting disconsolate, opposite to but not looking at each other. Or at her. They were reflecting, she could see, that her anger with them had justification, that they had been foolish not to take it into account. And, too, that they felt her rejection as another in a succession of rejections.

Her heart almost melted. She said to Jasper, “I am sorry. You go off like that, all kinds of lies. Then you just turn up.… I’m sorry.”

She went towards the door, and Jasper was beside her. She felt his frantic grip on her wrist; it was all he knew to bring her back to him. She shook off his hand quite easily, and said, “I’m sorry, Jasper.” And went out.

From outside the door, she relented a little and said, “Let me know when you have convened the meeting.”

She was on her way up, thinking that she would sleep, and then
perhaps ring her old commune in Halifax. A few days there and she would be herself again.

But there was a knock, loud and urgent, at the front door, and she went to it, ready for the police, but it was a woman she did not know, who said quickly, “I am Felicity, you know, from round the corner. Philip’s friend. They telephoned from hospital. Philip was in an accident. They want some of his things taken up.”

She was already turning away on a smile, duty done, but Alice said, “Aren’t you going up?” Meaning, Isn’t this your responsibility?

“Yes, I’ll be up to see him,” said Felicity, vaguely enough. “But not now. His things are here, aren’t they?”

She had been an extension of number 43 all this time, but no one would think so from her manner. She was a small, brisk, authoritative woman, every bit as competent as Alice in holding her own. She was saying that she did not intend Philip to be her responsibility.

Alice thought of Philip that morning, raging and pitiful. She said, “Oh, very well. Is he bad?”

“He’s not dead. He could have been. He was lucky. Broken bones.” She smiled and hastened off.

Alice went upstairs to Philip’s room. On nicely painted shelves were his clothes, tidily arranged. She found three pairs of clean pyjamas, green, blue, and brown, stacked on top of one another; a dressing gown on a hanger behind the door; toothbrush and a flannel spread to dry on the window sill; soap, electric razor. She set off, only saying through the kitchen door to Jasper and Bert that she was going to the hospital, not mentioning Philip. She did not want to hear either of them dismiss this accident as they had Faye’s wrist cutting. It was appalling, and she knew it. This meant some kind of an end for Philip. Of course he had got himself run over, or whatever had happened, because he needed to underline his situation. Make himself helpless: make his helplessness visible.