The Good Terrorist - Doris May Lessing [139]
She enquired, really interested, “And how are you going to class Faye? Serious or not?”
Their faces seemed to cloud; yes, they knew about the suicide attempt, but had not really been bothered about it.
“Well,” said Bert, doubtfully, “I suppose she’ll be fit enough to join in, won’t she?”
Alice laughed. It was a laugh that surprised herself, sounding so natural and even merry. She was finding these two funny, because they were so stupid.
She said indifferently, “If you want a meeting convened, then why don’t you convene it.” She got up and attended to the cauldron of soup, adding some more split peas, salt, then water. Jasper’s and Bert’s appetites had not diminished, she noted.
When she turned, they were sitting disconsolate, opposite to but not looking at each other. Or at her. They were reflecting, she could see, that her anger with them had justification, that they had been foolish not to take it into account. And, too, that they felt her rejection as another in a succession of rejections.
Her heart almost melted. She said to Jasper, “I am sorry. You go off like that, all kinds of lies. Then you just turn up.… I’m sorry.”
She went towards the door, and Jasper was beside her. She felt his frantic grip on her wrist; it was all he knew to bring her back to him. She shook off his hand quite easily, and said, “I’m sorry, Jasper.” And went out.
From outside the door, she relented a little and said, “Let me know when you have convened the meeting.”
She was on her way up, thinking that she would sleep, and then perhaps ring her old commune in Halifax. A few days there and she would be herself again.
But there was a knock, loud and urgent, at the front door, and she went to it, ready for the police, but it was a woman she did not know, who said quickly, “I am Felicity, you know, from round the corner. Philip’s friend. They telephoned from hospital. Philip was in an accident. They want some of his things taken up.”
She was already turning away on a smile, duty done, but Alice said, “Aren’t you going up?” Meaning, Isn’t this your responsibility?
“Yes, I’ll be up to see him,” said Felicity, vaguely enough. “But not now. His things are here, aren’t they?”
She had been an extension of number 43 all this time, but no one would think so from her manner. She was a small, brisk, authoritative woman, every bit as competent as Alice in holding her own. She was saying that she did not intend Philip to be her responsibility.
Alice thought of Philip that morning, raging and pitiful. She said, “Oh, very well. Is he bad?”
“He’s not dead. He could have been. He was lucky. Broken bones.” She smiled and hastened off.
Alice went upstairs to Philip’s room. On nicely painted shelves were his clothes, tidily arranged. She found three pairs of clean pyjamas, green, blue, and brown, stacked on top of one another; a dressing gown on a hanger behind the door; toothbrush and a flannel spread to dry on the window sill; soap, electric razor. She set off, only saying through the kitchen door to Jasper and Bert that she was going to the hospital, not mentioning Philip. She did not want to hear either of them dismiss this accident as they had Faye’s wrist cutting. It was appalling, and she knew it. This meant some kind of an end for Philip. Of course he had got himself run over, or whatever had happened, because he needed to underline his situation. Make himself helpless: make his helplessness visible.
But in the hospital Alice found it was worse than Felicity had said. Broken shoulder. Broken kneecap. Fractured left wrist. Bruises. But he also had a fractured skull. He was being taken down to the operating theatre again in a few minutes. They suspected internal damage. Meanwhile, he was unconscious. Because Alice said that as far as she knew Philip didn’t have a family, or if so, she couldn’t supply an address, the ward sister had put her down on the form as “next of kin.” Telephone number? But Alice, determined that Felicity should not slide out altogether, said Felicity