The Good Terrorist - Doris May Lessing [31]
“I’ll talk to the woman next door.”
“I can’t see Joan Robbins being mad with joy.”
“But it will be the end of it, won’t it? And they would all be pleased about that.”
“It would mean you, me, and Jim.”
“Yes, I know. I’ll go across to the Robbins woman. You ask Jim.”
A pause. Pat yawned, wriggled around in her chair, lifted her book, let it drop again, and then said, “I suppose so.”
In the next garden, which was wide, divided by a crunching gravel path, Joan Robbins worked on a border with a fork. Under a tree on the other side sat a very old woman, staring at the sky.
Joan Robbins stood up when Alice appeared, looking defensive and got at. But Alice did not give her time for grievance. She said, “Mrs. Robbins, can we keep the tools for a bit? We want to dig a pit. A big one. For rubbish.”
Joan Robbins, who had withstood the annoyances of this dreadful number 43 for so long, looked as if she would say no, say she had had enough of it all. Her pleasant face was irritable, and flushed.
But now the old woman under the tree sat up in the chair, leaned forward, staring. Her face was gaunt and purplish, with white woolly hair sticking out around it. She said in a thick, old, unsteady voice, “You dirty people.”
“No,” said Alice steadily. “No, we’re not. We’re cleaning it all up.”
“Nasty dirty people,” said the old woman, less certain of herself, having taken in Alice, such a nice girl, standing on the green lawn with daffodils behind her.
Alice said, “Your mother?”
“Sitting tenant. Upstairs flat,” said Mrs. Robbins, not moderating her voice, and Alice understood the situation in a flash. She went over to the old woman and said, “How do you do? I’m Alice Mellings. I’ve just moved into forty-three, and we’re fixing the place up, and getting the rubbish out.”
The old woman sank back, her eyes seeming to glaze with the effort of it all.
“Good-bye,” said Alice. “See you again soon,” and went back to Mrs. Robbins, who asked sullenly, “What are you going to bury?,” indicating the ranks and ranks of filled shiny black sacks.
She knew!
Alice said, “It’ll get rid of all the smell all at once. We thought, get the pit dug this afternoon, and get rid of everything tonight … once and for all.”
“It’s terrible,” said Mrs. Robbins, tearful. “This is such a nice street.”
“By this time tomorrow the rubbish will be all gone. The smell will be gone.”
“And what about the other house. What about forty-five? In summer, the flies! It shouldn’t be allowed. The police got them out once but … they are back again.”
She could have said you; and Alice persisted, “If we start digging now …”
Joan Robbins said, “Well, I suppose if you dig deep enough …”
Alice flew back home. In the room where she had first seen him, Jim was tapping his drums. He at first did not smile, then did, because it was his nature, but said, “Yes, and the next thing, they’ll say Jim, you must leave,” he accused.
“No, they won’t,” said Alice, making another promise.
He got up, followed her; they found Pat in the hall. In the part of the garden away from the main road, concealed from it by the house, was a place under a tree that had once been a compost heap. There they began digging, while over the hedge Mrs. Robbins was steadily working at her border, not looking at them. But she was their barrier against the rest of the busybody street, which of course was looking through its windows at them, gossiping, even thinking it was time to ring the police again.
The earth was soft. They came on the skeleton of a large dog; two old pennies; a broken knife; a rusting garden fork, which would be quite useful when cleaned up; and then a bottle … another bottle. Soon they were hauling out bottles, bottles, bottles. Whisky and brandy and gin, bottles of all sizes, hundreds, and they were standing to waist level in an earthy sweet-smelling pit with bottles rolling and standing around the rim for yards, years of hangovers, oblivion, for someone.
People were coming home from work, were standing and looking, were making comments. One man said unpleasantly: