The Good Terrorist - Doris May Lessing [102]
It had all been rubbish, all of it. What Alice could not forgive herself for was that she had been taken in by it all.… Well, she had had the sense to get out in time, and meet people who could lead her on the right path.…
At last Cedric Mellings sighed, opened his eyes, and, having thought out his position, leaned forward and, without looking at Alice but keeping his eyes down, said, “Very well, you took the money, if you say so. I am sorry about that young man. Tell him to come back and … I am sure we can make it all right. Now, as for you, Alice. I suppose it will be a surprise to you, you live in such a dreamworld, but that thousand pounds is not a sum that the firm can afford to lose. We are suffering from the recession, too, you know. It is touch and go—we might have to fold. The printing firm, not the stationer’s.” He let out the incredulous, admiring little snort of laughter he usually did when mentioning the stationer’s: “Greeting cards! That’s the thing. And, of course, the sweets and chocolates and all that sort of rubbish.”
Now he did look at Alice, and was able to sustain the look, though it was evident it was a strain, keeping his eyes on his daughter’s eyes; he simply did not understand what he was seeing.
“I suppose it is no good asking you to return the money?” he almost pleaded.
At this Alice laughed. The laugh acknowledged, even admiringly, some sort of necessity that Cedric, poor fool, could not begin to understand. He, however, nodded, having understood. He said, “I suppose that Jasper of yours has already got it. Well, I know it is no use saying anything to you about him. You have a blind spot of some kind. But you must understand this: you are not having any more money from me. I see no reason why I should support that—well, let that go. I am very pushed for money, Alice–do you understand that? And it’s not just this thousand. A few days ago, some hooligan or other walked into our bedroom, mine and Jane’s—and lifted …” Suddenly, as the thought struck him, he jerked back in his chair as if he had been given a minor electric shock and stared at Alice, his jaw literally dropping. Until this moment, that theft had not been connected with Alice. She merely smiled, admitting nothing, but knowing that she need not bother with denials.
Again he had been shocked to the heart, could not speak, sat struggling to order his thoughts. He was breathing shallowly, in quick gasps. Then he fumbled for a cigarette, lit it clumsily, and sat drawing in smoke as if it were a narcotic.
At last he said, “Alice, I don’t know.… Now you are a thief? Is that it? Is that how you live? I don’t understand.” Putting out the cigarette again, as though stubbing Alice out of existence, he said, “I thought it was some hooligan, these kids who come into a house on an impulse.…” It was at this point that the next thought hit him, and again he sat staring. “Was that you?” he asked blankly; “did you throw that stone?” He knew it was; this was not a question.
He said, “That stone missed little Deborah by six inches. There was glass everywhere—Jane got a splinter in her leg.…”
He shook his head, like a dog with pain in its ears. He was shaking Alice off—forever.
“You are, of course, quite right in your calculations,” he said. “You worked it all out. You decided I would not go to the police, because you are my daughter. I won’t this time. But next time I shall. As far as I am concerned, you’ve become some sort of wild animal. You are beyond ordinary judgement.”
Alice stood up. She did not feel pain at this casting off; she felt that she had been cast off, abandoned, long ago.
She said, “What is my mother’s address?”
This query took some time to reach Cedric. He had to give himself time to let the thought reach him. He said, “Have you lost her address, then?”
“I never