The Good Terrorist - Doris May Lessing [141]
Then, late, after twelve, Felicity came again to say the hospital had telephoned. Philip was dead. She was very upset, so Alice was told next day. She had had to be asked in, fed Alice’s soup and Roberta’s brandy.
None of this Alice knew till next day. Mid-morning. They were all in the kitchen, the sun coming in, the cat on the window sill.
She said, first, “He went under fast, didn’t he?”—mentally seeing a small broken thing, like a bird or an insect, trying to clutch hold of a straw, a twig, and failing. The others did not understand, but Faye, with a cold smile, said, “Lucky Philip.” Mary said that Philip had struck her as unstable.
Alice remarked that if the police had got this house in their minds as the place to come and have a bit of fun, then it wouldn’t be worth living here. The others of course stared at her, curious: the indifference with which she said it, that was the thing.
Then Alice got up and went upstairs, put Philip’s ladder in position, climbed into the attic, and stood under the great rotten beams, keeping the light of the torch on them. She was thinking—or trying to think, to make her mind, or her comprehension, accept it—that Philip had tackled everything else in the house, all the threats and dangers. But this threat, the main one, he had not dealt with, could not. Because—simply—of his size. Because there was nothing to him but a handful of frail bones and a skim of flesh. Alice could see in her mind’s eye the sort of man who could have pulled down these two rotten beams, then put in others. A large bale of a man (she could see him), shouldering the beams into place. Effortlessly. Humbled but uncomprehending because of the arbitrariness, the frivolity, of life, she went downstairs again, and remarked that if those beams were not dealt with, the house would start falling in, from the top. She sat in the chair she had been in before going upstairs to the beams, at the side of the table. At head and foot, like mother and father, sat Mary and Reggie. They radiated disapproval. They knew they did, but not that they were full of panic as well.
“The beams are obviously going to have to be put right,” said Mary.
Jasper and Bert, Faye and Roberta, who had been observing Alice put things right for weeks, all looked at her, waiting for her to say, perhaps, “It is all right, I have fixed everything.” Jocelin and Caroline were uninvolved.
Alice remarked, “Oh, so you have found yourself a flat, then?”
Startled, even affronted, Mary said, “Yes, but how did you …?” And Reggie, “But we haven’t told anybody yet; it’s not final.”
“And so,” said Alice, “this house is back on the list, is it?”
“Not for demolition,” said Mary. “It was agreed a mistake was made. Both this house and number forty-five will be converted. But, at any rate, nothing will happen immediately. The point is, there will be plenty of time for you to find somewhere else.”
“Find another squat,” said Reggie kindly.
Again the others looked at Alice, who had put so much into this house, and again seemed surprised that she was unconcerned.
She was examining Mary, examining Reggie, quite frankly, for she needed to know what happened. She could see the two, sitting up side by side in their marriage bed, discussing them all, with identical looks of scandalised criticism. Jim. Faye’s suicide attempt. Now Philip. Alice saw that they must have felt trapped among lunatics. Well, never mind, these two good houses were saved, and a lot of people had found shelter for a time.
“Have you got a job?” asked Alice, sure that Reggie had.
Again, annoyance; because, of course, the middle classes did not like to be so transparent.
“As it happens, yes,” said Reggie. “It’s a new firm, in Guildford. Of course, it’ll be a risk, the failure rate with new firms at the moment being what it is. But it’s an interesting venture; it may succeed.”
The fact that he didn’t say what it was meant, Alice thought, that the “venture” was something they, the others, would criticise. Chemicals; Reggie was a chemist. Well, she couldn’t be bothered