The Good Terrorist - Doris May Lessing [121]
Even the Thatcher demonstration sounded effective, in retrospect. After all, quite a few had been arrested. Reggie and Mary had—of course!—a television in their room. They all went up, and crowded in, making jokes about the large bed, the tidy furniture, the carpets. They sat on the bed and watched the news. There was no mention of the fascist professor, but there was a brief scene of the demonstrators struggling with the police at the university. The three were disappointed that they did not appear on the screen. The newscaster said that at one point the police were afraid a bomb had been thrown. “It was an orange,” screamed Alice, and they all laughed and jeered, and went down for more talk in the kitchen, taking with them four bottles of wine from a case of it that Reggie and Mary had under the dressing table.
“They won’t mind,” said Faye, laughing, but in a way that said they all knew they would mind very much.
Philip came in, but he was tired and went to bed.
The five sat up drinking and talking till late.
The demonstrations sounded better and better as the night wore on. They drank to the comrades in the police cells. Alice was sad she was not there—as it happened she had not been arrested for some time; she was beginning to feel she was not pulling her weight in the Struggle. But it was just as well, for on Monday Jasper and Bert were told the visas had gone through and the trip was on. They went off that afternoon.
Alice said, as they left, “See you in ten days.”
She saw them glance at each other—yet again the ridiculous, insulting, perfectly obvious “secret” shared look that people used all the time. It came to her, stunningly, that they did not expect to be back in ten days.
She thought this all over carefully, slept on it, and then wrote to the address she had for Pat.
Bert and Jasper have gone off, she wrote. Why don’t you come down for a day or two? Or, if you can’t come, please write. Do you know anything about this trip? Did Bert say anything about not coming back in ten days?
This letter brought a card, “Ring me at nine o’clock Thursday or Friday. Much love, Pat.” This “Much love” hurt Alice, and she wept a little.
When she heard Pat’s bright, firm, likable voice, Alice pleaded, “Do come down, do, Pat.”
“But I am short of money.”
“I’ll pay for your ticket. Do come.”
Pat said she would, and Alice understood, from the rise in her own spirits, how little she felt at home with Faye and Roberta, how little she had in common with the respectable Reggie and Mary.
Pat came next day, and the two young women commandeered the sitting room and stayed there, gossiping, exchanging news. Pat had met people Alice knew, in the commune she now lived in. Alice had to tell about the anti-Thatcher demo. She also delicately mentioned the fascist professor, hoping for some kind of support from Pat in her own private thoughts. But on Pat’s face came the helpless resentful look Alice half expected, and Pat reached for a cigarette and began to smoke furiously.
“You don’t imagine it’s any accident,” she said, “that all this stuff about genetic differences is being peddled now!”
“Why?” asked Alice, timid but dogged. “You mean he’s being paid to do it? Who? The CIA?”
Pat tossed her head angrily, blew out bitter clouds, and said vaguely, “Well, why not?”
Alice decided to leave it; no point in going on. Instead she asked Pat why she, Alice, had this impression that Bert and Jasper were not planning to come home at once. Pat sighed, and looked with unmistakable pity at her friend.
“They will be home, Alice,” she said gently. “On the day appointed. But they think they won’t be, do you see?”
Alice saw. In fact she had seen the moment Jasper had first mentioned it. But then she had blocked it off, for it was all so painfully ridiculous.
“Look, it’s Ireland, all over again. They had it all worked out. They will say to the Intourist guide: ‘Comrades, we want to speak to someone in authority.’ ”
“Oh, God,” muttered Alice, ashamed. “Oh, no!”
“Oh, yes! Yes, yes! The Intourist guide will of