The Good Terrorist - Doris May Lessing [122]
Pat was laughing, but not happily, since she was mocking Bert; and Alice was suffering for Jasper.
“At once some very important comrade will appear, and say, ‘Comrade Willis, Comrade Barnes? At your service!’ Jasper and Bert will explain that they have decided to train as spies, preferably in Czechoslovakia or in Lithuania, where all the best spy schools are. The Russian will say, ‘Of course, what a good idea! But it will take an hour or two to fix up. Just wait for my return, comrades.’ ”
Alice dubiously laughed, stopped laughing, and remarked, “Well, all right. But what about Comrade Andrew?”
“What about Comrade Andrew?”
“It’s pretty casual with him, don’t you think? I mean, he says to just anybody he fancies, how about a spot of training.”
“He’s not done too badly, who he’s chosen.”
“Bert?”
“Bert said no. But just imagine Bert actually under discipline somewhere. In some kind of structured situation. He has a lot of qualities, Bert has.”
“Me?” enquired Alice, dubiously. “Are you going to say I need a structured situation?”
“No! I am certainly not. What you need is …”
“Oh, all right, I know. To be free of Jasper.”
“Poor Alice,” said Pat gently.
“Then poor Pat!”
“That, too!”
Alice put her head down on the arm of her chair, all energy gone out of her, as happened at those times when she was seeing Jasper clearly.
The two women stayed where they were for a few minutes, silent. Alice did not move; Pat smoked restlessly.
Alice said, “There’s another thing, so many people knowing. What’s to stop people from informing?”
“You mean, the police?”
“Yes.”
“Well, who of us would?”
Alice allowed the faces of those in the know to pass before her. Sat straight up, eyes shut, looking at these mental portraits. Faye. Roberta. Bert. Jasper. Pat. Herself. Muriel. Caroline? Jocelin?
“I suppose not,” she said. But she remained where she was, upright, looking. Now it was at the scene of her with Andrew after she had seen the … whatever it was at the bottom of the pit in the garden at 45. Pat did not know about that. Only she, Alice, knew.… Only she, Alice, knew because she had not told, would never tell, anyone else. She was reliable, she was. Because this was true, and because she had confidence in her absolute discretion, she felt confidence in Comrade Andrew.
“Yes, I think I agree with you,” she said. She spoke modestly, with a little air of discretion, of judgement. Pat smiled, and with affection, because this was very much Alice; and she said, deliberately changing the subject and their mood, “And now we are going to have a good time. That’s what I’ve come for!”
Then Pat suggested all kinds of little treats that Alice would never have thought of for herself.
They went to tea at the Savoy, for a start. Pat treated Alice. Pat wore a very smart black wool dress embroidered with bright wools she had bought at a jumble sale, and looked more striking, more fashionable than any other woman in the great pillared, gilded, romantic Savoy. Alice wore a skirt, but otherwise was as usual. They ate a lot, and Pat was fussy about her tea. They came out like successful buccaneers.
Then they spent a morning in Harrods, buying with their eyes. Rather, Pat did: Alice did not care about luxury, but she enjoyed Pat’s enjoyment. Again Pat wore this best dress of hers, the dramatic black wool, which made her, with her vivid glossy colouring, seem exotic, un-English. Then, next day, with the rain easing off, they went to Regent’s Park and walked about among puddles and lilacs and flowering cherries.
Then Pat said she must go back home. She said “home,” Alice noted.
She said to Pat, “Will you come down again? Soon?”
Pat looked self-conscious, laughed, and said, “Alice, I don’t think we will be seeing each other again. Well, perhaps. And yet again, perhaps not …” She was making a joke of it, in her way, but her eyes sent messages of regret.
“Why?” demanded Alice.