The Good Terrorist - Doris May Lessing [116]
She said, “I don’t understand why you are always wanting me to do such middle-class things.”
“What’s middle-class about a holiday? Everyone has to have holidays. Modern life is very bad for everyone.” She thought he was teasing her, but a glance showed him to be serious.
“Anyway, where could I go? You despise all the people I know.”
“I didn’t say all of them. Of course not.”
“You don’t mind Pat, I seem to remember. Did you know she’s left Bert because she doesn’t think he is serious, either?”
“Yes, I did know. She is a serious person. Like you, Alice.”
“Well, you yourself were wanting Bert to do something or other.”
“I have changed my mind about him,” he said severely. “That was an error of judgement on my part.”
“Well, I don’t know,” she said drearily at last. She began a small childish snuffling.
“I do. You are tired, Comrade Alice. You work and you work, and most of these people aren’t worth it.”
At this she let out a real wail, like a child, turned to him, and was held, like a child, against him, while he made consoling, soothing noises. She cried herself out.
“Poor Alice,” he said at last. “But it is no good crying. You are going to have to make a decision. Look, these two Errol Flynns are going to Moscow. Why don’t you leave before they come back?”
“Errol Flynn!”
“Don’t you like Errol Flynn? I have always enjoyed his films.”
“There is a great difference in our two cultures,” she said, dreamily, speaking into his chest. They were lying in such a way that his hard protrusion was kept away from her, so she didn’t mind it.
“That is very true. But surely people like Errol Flynn? Why, otherwise, is he a famous star?”
“Well,” she said, “I’m going to think about all this.”
“Yes, you must.”
“And when are you coming back?”
“How did you know I was going away?”
“Oh, I just thought you might be.”
He hesitated. “You are right, as it happens. I shall be away, probably, for some weeks—” He felt her seem to shrink, and he said, “Or perhaps only for a week or two.” Another pause. “And, Alice,” he said, “you must, you must separate yourself. Believe me, Alice, I’m not without experience of … this type of person. Where they are, there is always trouble.”
After some minutes, she sat up, putting aside his hands in a tidy, housewifely way.
She said, “Thank you, Comrade Andrew. I shall think carefully about everything you have said.”
“And thank you, Comrade Alice. I am sure you will.”
From the door, she turned to give him an awkward smile, and went out, hurrying so as not to have to talk to Muriel, who, though a serious person, was not one Alice was prepared to like, even at the behest of Comrade Andrew.
The few days that followed were the happiest she had known.
Usually, when Jasper was in tow—a phrase other people had used, not she—to a brother figure, like Bert, she saw little of him. But they were asking her to accompany them in everything they did. The cinema, more than once. The National Theatre—Bert said that Shakespeare had many lessons for the struggle, and they must learn to use every weapon life offered them if they were not to be primitive Marxists. They spent an evening in a pub that Alice knew was chosen carefully by Jasper so as not to show her even a whisker of that other life of his. And not to show Bert, either …
But best of all, though they did not go slogan-painting, which was Alice’s favourite, Jasper suggested a day’s demonstrating. This he did, she knew, to please her, and to make up for his being away.
The discussions about where, and against whom, they would demonstrate were as agreeable as the expedition itself. Of course, in this fascistic stage of Britain’s history, there could not be any lack of something to protest about; but it happened that the coming weekend would be rich in choice. The Defence Secretary was to speak in Liverpool,