The Good Terrorist - Doris May Lessing [42]
“Catch,” called Alice, ready to throw, but Pat said, “Wait.” She wriggled onto her stomach and squinted in through the roof.
“There’s a nest on the rafter here,” she said in a hushed voice, as though afraid of disturbing the birds.
“Oh no,” said Alice, “oh, how awful!” She sounded suddenly hysterical, and Pat glanced at her, coldly, over her arm, which was stretched in under the roof. “Oh, for God’s sake,” said Alice, and began to cry.
“A bird,” said Pat. “A bird, not a person.” She pulled out handfuls of straw and stuff, and flung them out into the air, where they floated down. Then something crashed onto the tiles of the roof: an egg. The tiny embryo of a bird sprawled there. Moving.
Alice went on crying, little gusts of breathless sobs, her eyes fixed on the roof in front of her.
Another egg crashed on the roof.
Childlike frantic eyes implored Pat, who still was rooting about with her arm through the hole beneath her. But Pat was deliberately not looking at Alice snuffling and gulping below her.
A third egg flew in an arc and crashed splodgily in the garden.
“Now that’s done,” said Pat, and she looked at Alice. “Stop it!” Alice sniffed herself to silence and, at a nod from Pat, began to throw up the tiles. Pat caught them, carefully, one after another.
Roberta and Faye appeared below, and went off, waving to them.
“Have a good day,” said Pat, brief, ironical, but with a smile saying that she, like Alice, did not expect anything else.
Soon Philip came up to join Pat, and Alice, having cleared all the gutters as far as she could reach, went down to move the heavy ladder along a few paces. She worked, in this way, all round the house, removing wads of sodden leaves, and fallen tiles. Above her, Philip and Pat replaced the tiles.
Alice felt low and betrayed. By somebody. The two minute half-born birds were lying there, their necks stretched out, filmy eyes closed, and no one looked at them. The parent birds fluttered about on the high branches nearby, complaining.
Alice tried to keep her mind on what had to be done next. The cleaning. The cleaning! Windows and floors and walls and ceilings, and then paint, so much paint, it would cost.…
In mid-afternoon she went off to ring the Council, as if this were not an important thing, as if things were settled.
She heard that Mary Williams was not there and her heart went dark.
Bob Hood, an official disturbed in his important work, said curtly that the matter of 43 and 45 had been put off till tomorrow.
Said Alice, “It’s all right, then, is it?”
“No, it certainly is not,” said Bob Hood. “It has not been agreed that you or anyone else can occupy those premises.”
Alice said in a voice as peremptory, as dismissive as his, “You ought to come and see this place. It is a disgrace that it could ever be considered as suitable for demolition. Somebody’s head should roll for it. I am sure heads will roll. These are two perfectly sound houses, in good condition.”
A pause. Huffily he said—but he was retreating—“And there have been more complaints. Things cannot be allowed to continue.”
“But we have cleaned up forty-three—the one we took over. The police would confirm that it has been cleaned up.”
Alice waited, confident. Oh, she knew this type, knew how their cowardly little minds worked, knew she had him. She could hear him breathing, could positively note how mental machineries clicked into place.
“Very well,” he said. “I will come round. I’ve been meaning to take a look at those two properties.”
“Can you give me some indication as to time?” said Alice.
“There’s no need for that, we have keys.”
“Yes, but we can’t have people just wandering around, can we? I’d like you to give us some approximate time.”
This was such cheek that she wondered at