The Good Terrorist - Doris May Lessing [117]
The kitchen was mellow, alive. The jug on the little stool held tulips and lilacs. Reggie and Mary had contributed two bottles of red wine, about which Reggie—naturally—talked knowledgeably.
Although tomorrow it would be May, they seemed enclosed by a steady cold rain, and that made this scene, this company, even pleasanter. So Alice thought, smiling and grateful, although her heart ached. Her poor heart seemed to live a life of its own these days, refusing to be brought to heel by what she thought. But to linger there all evening, with good friends, was agreeable. For, since the party which had made them one, many of the stresses seemed to have gone.
Even Philip, who would be working all weekend and could not demonstrate with them, contributed useful thoughts. For instance, that the Greenpeace demo would have been his choice: it was only because of the efforts of Greenpeace that the government had had to admit the extent of the radioactive pollution; otherwise it would certainly have gone on lying about it. Reggie and Mary, bound tomorrow for Cumberland, liked this: what they felt had been said. For they—they could not prevent it from showing that they felt this—believed that demonstrating on specific issues, such as the spoiling of a coastline, was more effective than a general protest, like “shouting and screaming at Maggie Thatcher.”
Thus showing what he felt about much of their politics, or at least their methods, Reggie did slightly chill the good humour, which was strong enough to let them tease the Greenpeace couple in a robust chorus of “ohhh”s and groans.
“That’s right,” said Mary, putting her hand into Reggie’s for support; “you aren’t going to change her ideas with a few boos. But facts will unlodge them.”
“I agree,” said Philip. It was an effort for him to do this—challenge the real power holders of the commune (as they were now calling it, not a squat). But he did it. He looked even frailer and smaller than he had before he started this new job. There was a peaky, sharp-edged look to him. His eyes were red. But there was a tough, angry little look, too; he was being given a bad time at his work, which, said the Greek, his employer, went too slowly.
Oh yes, all this love and harmony was precarious enough, Alice was thinking as she sat and smiled; just one little thing—puff!—and it would be gone. Meanwhile, she put both hands around her mug of coffee, feeling how its warmth stole through her, and thought: It is like a family, it is.
Faye was saying, her teeth showing as she bared them, in her characteristic cold excitement, “Boos! Screams! I’m going to kill him! What right has he got to come here with all the filthy poison of his about women. We have enough reactionaries of our own!”
Roberta said, “All creeping out of their little holes and showing their true colours. Are you coming with us, Jasper? Bert? Show solidarity with the women?”
A pause. It was to Milchester that Alice longed to go. To Mrs. Thatcher. But here was a lift to Liverpool, and that would cost nothing. Jasper knew she wanted Milchester. So did Bert. She had said she had no money. Which was true; only her Social Security. She was ready to go to Liverpool. She hated the Defence Secretary, and not only because of his policies—there was something about that sly, malevolent Tory face of his.…
As for the fascist American professor, she could not see what Roberta and Faye and all the others were on about. She had never been able to see why the word “genetic” should provoke such rage. She thought they were silly, and even frivolous. If that’s how things were, then—they were. One had to build around that.
Once, long ago, during her