The Good Terrorist - Doris May Lessing [103]
“What are you talking about? She’s been going to move for months.”
“Because you won’t support her,” she shrieked.
“Because I won’t support bums like you and Jasper.”
“Well, what is her address?”
“Find it out yourself. The next thing, I suppose, you’ll be stealing from poor Dorothy and throwing stones through her windows.”
But this came out in a stumbling, heavy voice; he still could hardly believe it all.
Alice went out of his office and along a passage to the general office at the end. To the girl there in charge of the files, she said: “What is my mother’s address? Dorothy Mellings, what is her address?” This girl had, of course, not been told of the scandal of the boss’s daughter, and she willingly went to the tall cabinet, found the card, read it to Alice, who memorised it and ran out. She passed Jill, who stared at her, almost pleadingly, as if Alice were a murderer, or thug, who could attack her.
Alice ran through the stationer’s, where idiots bought magazines about gracious living, romantic or adventure novels, and pretty cards saying “For a Special Friend,” “Love on Your Birthday,” or “I’m Thinking of You.” Or boxes of letter paper with daffodils or roses on them. Or … just shit and rubbish.
Alice went to a café in Finchley Road, and sat for a long time quietly by herself over strong coffee. She needed to think.
She decided that the link with Bert was unlikely to hold Jasper back from one of his binges; that she would have to sit it out; that Bert was almost certainly going after Pat; that the best thing she could do was to organise a Congress of the CCU for as soon as possible. The work for this would foment in the house the right kind of feeling, atmosphere, to do away with the nastiness of the last day or so. She had just saved the situation with Jim. But Philip, a gentle and even timid soul, would leave if something were not done.
When she got home, the door into Jim’s room was open, and all his things gone.
This really did hit her, hard. She wailed, standing there, looking in at the room that had nothing left of him. Not his musical instruments—drums, guitar, accordion; not his sleeping bag, or his clothes, or his record player … nothing. Jim had been blown out of this room as though he had never been.
She did not have any addresses of friends, or family.
She stood at the open door, fists up on either side of her head, banging it, banging it hard, and wailing, “No, no, no, oh no …”
Feet running down the stairs; Faye stood there, indignant, outraged: “Whatever is the matter?” she called.
“Jim—he’s gone, he’s gone.”
“Good riddance,” said Faye, smartly, laughing. “We didn’t want him anyway.”
Looking up, Alice could see, above Faye, Philip, whose face said that he heard this, as—no doubt—Faye wanted him to. But she saw, too, Roberta, who came swiftly to Faye, and seized her two arms, and pulled her back out of sight. Roberta’s face was grave and shocked—hurt because of Faye.
Roberta’s low urgent voice; Faye’s tittering, high laugh. A door slammed. Roberta came running down, grasped Alice, stood rocking the sobbing girl: “There, there, there …”
“It’s my fault,” sobbed Alice. “Mine. I did it. It’s because of me.”
“There, there, there. Never mind.”
She took Alice to the sitting room and made her get inside the sleeping bag. She fetched her a tumbler of whisky, bade her drink, sleep, forget it.
Hysterical Alice, like the so-often hysterical Faye, was being doped into harmlessness.
She slept until evening. Then she found, in the kitchen, Roberta and Faye, Mary and Reggie. Jasper was not there. Bert had gone to see whether he could persuade Pat to return to him.
Alice, sitting down, said, “I think we should organise a CCU Congress.”
“Another democratic decision?” said Faye, laughing.
“I’m suggesting it,” said Alice. “I’m putting it forward.”
“And I’m in favour,” said Roberta. “There are all kinds of members we have never met. A new branch, new groups—we should meet.”
“It sounds