The Good Terrorist - Doris May Lessing [138]
He was shouting at her because he knew she was going to refuse him and the rage of rejection was already in him. He could have been threatening her, instead of suggesting a partnership.
“All you people,” he yelled, “never lift a finger, never do any work, parasites, while people like me keep everything going.…” It seemed he was going to weep, his voice was so heavy with betrayal. “They talk about all these unemployed everywhere, people wanting work, but where are they? I can’t find anyone to work with me. So what about it, Alice?” he demanded, aggressive, accusing.
She, of course, said no.
He then shouted at her that she cared about no one but herself—“just like everybody else.” She had got Jim thrown out of his job and had never given a thought to him since. Where was Jim? She didn’t know or care. And Monica—oh yes, he knew all about that, he had heard, Monica had been sent off on a wild-goose chase to an empty house—he supposed that was Alice’s idea of a joke. Faye could have died, for all the trouble she was prepared to take, wouldn’t even call an ambulance. And she didn’t care about him, Philip, once she had got all she could out of him, got him working day and night for peanuts, and now she’d got her house, he—Philip—could go to the wall for all she cared about him.
And so he raved on, half weeping, and Alice knew that if she had got up and put her arms about him he would have collapsed into her embrace like a little heap of matchsticks, with, “Alice, I’m sorry, I don’t mean it, please come and be my partner.”
But she did not, only sat there, thinking that the windows were open, and if Joan Robbins was in the garden she could hear everything.
Philip’s fury died into silence, and misery. He sat staring, not at her, at anywhere but her. Then he ran out of the room, and out of the house.
Alice sat waiting for Jasper to wake. It seemed to her a good part of her life had been spent doing this. She thought again: But I’ll leave, I’ll just go. I must. No, it wouldn’t be forever, but I need time by myself.
She found she was on her feet, opening the refrigerator, searching cupboards. She would make one of her soups. But because she had been working with Philip, there was very little in the house. She went down to the shops, bought food, took time over the preparations, sat at the table while her soup evolved. The cat arrived on the window sill, miaowed through the glass; Alice welcomed it in, offered it scraps. But no, the cat was not hungry; probably Joan Robbins or somebody had fed it. The beast wanted company. It would not sit on Alice’s lap, but lay on the window sill, and stretched out. The cat looked at Alice with its vagabond’s eyes, and let out a little sound, a grunt or miaow of greeting. Alice burst into tears in a passion of gratitude.
The morning went past. When Jasper woke, she would explain it to him: a short break, that was what she needed.
At midday Bert and Jasper came down together, joking about being woken by the smell of Alice’s soup. Their mood of rage, or rebellion, or whatever it had been, seemed to have vanished with their exhaustion.
Chatty, companionable, they offered Alice little anecdotes from their trip and praised her soup. She sat listless, watching them. Her mood soon became obvious to them, and they even exchanged “Mummy-is-cross” glances at one point, earning from her a sarcastic smile.
They abandoned attempts at placating her, and Bert said, “We’ve decided it is time we had a full discussion on policy, Comrade Alice. No, only the real revolutionaries, not the rubbish.” He bared all his lovely white teeth and sneered. Alice let it pass. Jasper, too, leaned towards her, smiling, and said, “We thought tonight. Or tomorrow night at the latest. But the point is, where? Mary and Reggie mustn’t know. Or Philip!” He, too, sneered.
The two of them seemed to have acquired