The Good Terrorist - Doris May Lessing [20]
Philip, given the sack six months ago from the building firm—the first to be sacked, and Alice knew why, because of his build: of course any employer would think, This weakling—had set himself up. He was now a decorator and, he hoped, a builder. He had: two long ladders, a short ladder, a trestle (but needed, badly, another), paintbrushes, some tools; and could borrow from his friend, in Chalk Farm. He had got the job of decorating a house, in spite of his frail appearance, perhaps because of it; had been paid only half, was told he was not up to it. He knew he would not be paid the rest; it would mean going to law and he could not do that. He was on the dole. He thought he would get a job doing up a pub in Neasden. He said he thought he would get this job, but Alice knew he didn’t much believe it. He lived with Felicity (his girlfriend?) in her flat a couple of streets away. He had to be paid.
The noises through the wall, having died down, were starting off again. Alice dragged her pallet to the other wall, afraid of alerting Jasper, who would feel her being there so close to him as an encroachment. And sure enough, just as she was settling down, he started up and she could see him glaring at her, teeth gritting. “You are in my space,” he said. “You know we don’t get into each other’s space.”
She said, “I don’t like that wall.” This situation having occurred before, repeatedly, she did not have to explain. Leaning up on his elbow, his face clenched with fury and disgust, he listened to what could be plainly heard even from this wall; then lay tense, breathing fast.
She said, “I’m getting up early, to see if I can get hold of some money.”
He did not say anything. Soon, the house became still. He slept.
Alice dozed a little. In her mind she was already living the next day. She waited for the light, which came in gloomily through dirty windows and showed the filth of this room. Now she ached for tea, something to eat. She crept down into the hall, which still belonged to night and the hurricane lamp, and into the sitting room, hoping that the Thermos might be there. But she drank cold water from a jug, then used, with pride but caution, the lavatory, thinking of the pipes left uncared for over an unknown number of winters. Then she went to the Underground, stopping for breakfast at Fred’s Caff. There was room for eight or ten tables, set close. A cosy scene, not to say intimate. Mostly men. Two women were sitting together. At first they seemed middle-aged, because of their stolidity and calm; then it could be seen they were youngish, but tired. Probably cleaners after an early-morning job in local offices. At the counter, Alice asked for tea and—apologetically—brown toast; was told by—very likely—Fred’s wife, for she had a proprietorial air, that they didn’t do brown toast. Alice went to look for a place, carrying tea, a plate of white toast that dripped butter, a rock cake. As a concession to health, she went back to get orange juice. It was clear to her that in this establishment it would be best to sit with the two women, and did so.
They were both eating toast, and drinking muddy coffee. They sat in the loose, emptied poses of women consciously relaxing, and on their faces were vague good-natured smiles which turned on Alice, like shields. They did not want to talk, only to sit.
The salt of the earth! Alice was dutifully saying to herself, watching this scene of workers fuelling themselves for a hard day’s work with plates of eggs, chips, sausages, fried bread, baked beans—the lot. Cholesterol, agonised Alice, and they all look so unhealthy! They had a pallid, greasy look like bacon fat, or undercooked chips. In the pocket of each, or on the tables, being read, were the Sun or the Mirror. Only lumpens, thought Alice, relieved that there was no obligation to admire them. Building or road workers, perhaps even self-employed; it wasn’t these men who would save Britain from herself! Alice settled down to enjoy her delicious butter-sodden toast, and soon felt better. Not really wanting the cold sour orange