The Good Terrorist - Doris May Lessing [173]
Then they took a taxi to Hammersmith, where they saw Diva, a film some of them had seen already more than once. They had supper together in their Indian restaurant near home, agreeing they must go to bed early. They told Reggie and Mary it was because of all the hard work they meant to do tomorrow hefting furniture—this, they could see, seemed reasonable to the couple, for whom the business of moving their furniture, reinstalling their furniture, arranging their furniture was the only thing worthy to occupy their minds. Though Mary did remark, almost absent-mindedly, that this house was on the agenda for next week, and there was a recommendation from Bob Hood that “matters should be expedited.” It was a shame, remarked Mary, that these lovely houses were not being used.
Alice became suddenly so angry that she was hardly able to bring out, “What a pity that the Council was prepared to leave them empty for six years.”
Mary could have flared up, as Alice had done. She went red, while the official and the human being fought inside her, and then she said, with a laugh that was both apologetic and offended, “Yes, I know, it was awful letting things slide for so long.”
“But it will be all right now,” said Alice, not at all mollified. “There will be some people living in them.”
Mary hesitated, then went out of the kitchen, followed by Reggie. Written all over him was, Thank God, I’ll be out of here tomorrow!
Philip’s funeral was at ten o’clock on Wednesday. At nine, leaving the others boisterously loading furniture into a van that seemed to fill the street, Alice went to Felicity’s, where she found two other people who had liked Philip when he lived there. The four went to the crematorium, in Felicity’s car. Philip’s sister was there with her husband. They had come down, it seemed, from Aberdeen. Philip was Scottish, a fact that till this moment had not emerged.
The sister was a pale thin little thing, with a dogged look to her, like Philip: determined not to be blown away by the hostile winds of life. Her husband was a small, pale young man with weak blue eyes and a straggly moustache. They both had strong Scottish accents. This couple seemed anxious to avoid Philip’s four friends, or at least spoke as little as possible, then, politeness satisfied, went to sit by themselves in the “chapel.” It was a proper religious service. Neither Felicity nor Alice, nor the other two, a young man and a girl who had once helped Philip paint out a living room, knew whether Philip had been religious. Perhaps this was only bureaucracy taking its course. And the sister and her husband did not enlighten them. The coffin, large, brown, and shiny, which had to make anyone who had known Philip think of how his frail little body must be lying, like a dead moth, within it, stood full in their view, while a Church of England clergyman did his best to give life to these words that he intoned so often.
And that was that. Philip’s sister said a hurried good-bye. Her eyes were red. Her husband only nodded from a distance. The four drove back. The van stood again outside number 43, having made the journey once and returned. “We had no idea we had so much stuff,” called Mary gaily, standing in the back of the van, her arms loaded with a carton of china