The Good Terrorist - Doris May Lessing [118]
Twenty years ago, more, her mother, in her slapdash, friendly, loud, earth-motherish way, had informed Alice that she would shortly menstruate, but she was sure she knew all about that anyway. Of course Alice had known about it from school, but her mother’s saying it put it on her agenda, so to speak, made it all real. She was angry, not with Nature, but with her mother. Thereafter, her attitude towards “the curse”—her mother insisted on using this jolly word for it, saying it was accurate—was one of detached efficiency. She was not going to let anything so tedious get in the way of living.
When people probed her about her attitudes towards feminism, sexual politics, it was always this beginning (as she saw it) that she went back to in her mind. “Of course people ought to be equal,” she would say, starting already to sound slightly irritated. “That goes without saying.” In short, she was always finding herself in a false position.
Now she sat silent, cuddling her rapidly cooling coffee, smiling away, and waiting for the subject of the fascist professor to pass.
It did, and Bert remarked, “I’ve always liked Milchester.”
This seemed to various people thoroughly off the point. Was he drunk, perhaps? He certainly was drinking more than his share. Everyone was humouring him these days, because of Pat. Unconsciously, probably. His appearance, his condition claimed this from them. He was gaunt, morose, even absent-minded; it was as though other thoughts ran parallel to the ones he expressed.
He went on, “It’s always been a garrison town.”
Incredulous exclamations. Faye said, “God, you’re mad, you like that? War, soldiers?”
Bert said, “But it’s interesting. Why should towns go on being the same, century after century. Milchester was a garrison town under the Romans.”
A silence. Thrown off balance by this note so different from their usual one, they remembered that he had done History at university.
“Countries, for that matter,” said Bert. “Britain goes on being the same. Russia goes on being the same. Germany—”
“Any minute now we are going to have national characters, like genetic doom,” said Faye, furious.
Bert, recalled to himself by her tone, shrugged, and sat silent.
“We’ll go to Milchester,” said Jasper, and, catching Alice’s glance, smiled, then winked. Proudly: he was proud of being nice to her. This meant he would pay for her, the train fare. Weekend return. Eleven pounds. For the three of them, thirty-three pounds. With that they could buy … But that was silly; people had to have a break. Holidays. Comrade Andrew had said so.
She smiled intimately at Jasper, tears of gratitude imminent, but his eyes shifted away from the pressure of her emotion.
Faye said violently to Roberta, “It looks as if you and I will be on our own!”
“Hardly alone, darling. There’ll be a good turnout, I’m sure.”
Faye tittered, looking accusingly at her comrades, and then said, “Well, I’m for bed.” She went out without saying good night. Roberta smiled at them all, asking toleration for Faye, and went after her. They could hear how Faye said on the stairs that they were all fascists and sexists. They smiled at one another.
Then Reggie and Mary said they were to be picked up tomorrow at five, so as to get to Cumberland in time for the demo, and they wanted an early night.
Philip went, too; he was starting work at eight in the morning.
Jasper, Bert, and Alice sat on discussing tomorrow. Alice saw that Jasper did not want