The Good Terrorist - Doris May Lessing [64]
“You asked,” said Pat. And then, “In my view, Comrade Andrew has bigger fish to fry.” A thrill went through Alice, as when someone who has been talking for a lifetime about unicorns suddenly glimpses one. She looked with tentative excitement at Pat, who, it seemed, did not know what she had said. If she had not been implying that they, the comrades at number 43 Old Mill Road, had unwittingly come closer to great events, then what had she meant? But Pat was getting up. Terminating the discussion. Alice wanted her to stay. She could not believe that Pat was ready to go off now, at this thrilling moment when fabulous events seemed imminent. But Pat was stretching her arms about and yawning. Her smile was luxurious, and as her eyes did briefly meet Alice’s, she seemed actually to be tantalising and teasing. She’s so sensual, Alice thought indignantly.
But she said, “I asked … Comrade Andrew if we can use a room in that house for meetings. I mean, meetings of the inner group.”
“So did we. He said yes.”
Pat smiled, lowered her arms, and then stood looking at Alice, without smiling, saying with her body that she had had enough of Alice and wanted to go. “Where are our new comrades?” She was on her way to the door.
“They are upstairs.”
“I doubt whether we shall see much of them. Still, they are all right.” She yawned, elaborately, and said, “Too much effort to go chasing out for a bath. Bert can put up with me as I am.”
She went, and Alice sat still until she had heard her go up the stairs and close her door.
Then Alice swiftly went out of the house. It was too early for what she was going to do. The street, though dark, had the feeling of the end of the day, with cars turning in to park, others leaving for the evening’s entertainments, a restlessness of lights. But the traffic was pounding up the main road with the intensity of daytime. She dawdled along to look into the garden of 45. It seemed to her that a start had been made on the rubbish; yes, it had, and some filled sacks stood by the hedge, the plastic gleaming blackly. She saw two figures bending over a patch towards the back; not far from the pit she and Pat and Jim had dug, though a big hedge stood between. Were they digging a pit, too? It was very dark back there. Lights from Joan Robbins’s top windows illuminated the higher levels of number 45, but did not reach the thicket of the overgrown garden. Alice loitered around for a while, and no one came in or out; she could not see Comrade Andrew through the downstairs windows, for the curtains were drawn.
She went to the Underground, sat on the train planning what she was going to do, and walked up the big rich tree-lined road where Theresa and Anthony had their home. She stood on the pavement looking up at the windows of their kitchen on the third floor. She imagined that they were sitting there on opposite sides of the little table they used when they were alone. Delicious food. Her mouth was actually watering as she thought of Theresa’s cooking. If she rang the bell, she would hear Theresa’s voice: Darling Alice, is that you? Do come in. She would go up, join them in their long comfortable evening, their food. Her mother might even drop in. But at this thought rage grasped her and shook her with red-hot hands, so that her eyes went dark and she found herself walking fast up the road, and then along another, and another, walking as though she would explode if she stopped. She walked for a long time, while the feeling of the streets changed to night. She directed herself to her father’s street. She walked along it casually. The lights were on downstairs; every window spilled out light. Upstairs was a low glow from the room where the babies slept. Too early. She walked some more, around and back, past Theresa and Anthony, where kitchen windows were now dark, up to the top of the hill, down and around and into her father’s street. Now the lights were dark downstairs,