The Good Terrorist - Doris May Lessing [67]
“I’ve buried something—an emergency,” he said. “It will be gone in a day or two. You understand.”
“Perfectly,” smiled Alice.
He hesitated. Came out farther. She felt powerful hands on her upper arms. Did she smell spirits? Vodka? Whisky.
“I am asking you to keep it to yourself.”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“I mean, no one else.” She nodded, thinking that if only one person was to know in 43, nevertheless in this house surely several must?
He said, “I am going to trust you completely, Alice.” He allowed her his brief tight smile. “Because I have to. No one in this house knows but myself. They have all gone out. I took the opportunity to … make use of a very convenient cache. A temporary cache. I was going to fill in another layer of earth, and then put in some rubbish.”
Alice stood smiling, disappointed in him, if not in her own state; she was still floating. She thought that what he had said was likely to be either partly or totally untrue, but it was not her concern. He still gripped her by her upper arms, which, however, were on the point of rejecting this persistent, warning, masculine pressure. He seemed to sense this, for his hands dropped.
“I have to say that I have a different opinion of you than of some of the others from your house. I trust you.”
Alice did not say anything. She simply nodded.
He went indoors, nodding at her, but did not smile.
She was going to have to think it out. Better, sleep on it.
Her elation was going, fast. She thought, “But tomorrow Jasper and I are going out together, and then …” It would be a whole evening of this fine racing thrilling excitement.
But poor Jasper, no, he would not feel like it, probably, if he had spent the night in the cells. What was Enfield Police Station like? She could not remember any reports of it.
From the main road, she saw outside number 43’s gate a slight drooping figure. An odd posture, bent over—it was the girl of this afternoon, and she was going to throw something at the windows of the living room. A stone! Alice thought: Throwing underhand, pathetic; and this scorn refuelled her. Alive and sparkling, she arrived by the girl, who turned pathetically to face her, with an “Oh.”
“Better drop that,” advised Alice, and the girl did so.
In this light she had a washed-out look: colourless hair and face, even lips and eyes. Whose pupils were enormous, Alice could see.
“Where’s your baby?” hectored Alice.
“My husband is there. He’s drunk,” she said, and wailed, then stopped herself. She was trembling.
Alice said, “Why don’t you go to the short-term-housing people? You know, there are people who advise on squats.”
“I did.” She began weeping, a helpless, fast, hiccupping weeping, like a child who has already wept for hours.
“Look,” said Alice, feeling in herself the beginnings of an all-too-familiar weight and drag. “You have to do something for yourself, you know. It’s no good just waiting for people to do something for you. You must find a squat for yourself. Move in. Take it over. Then go to the Council.… Stop it,” she raged, as the girl sobbed on.
The girl subdued her weeping and stood, head bent, before Alice, waiting for her verdict, or sentence.
Oh, God, thought Alice. What’s the use? I know this one inside out! She’s just like Sarah, in Liverpool, and that poor soul Mabel. An official has just to take one look, and know she’ll give in at once.
An official … Why, there was an official here, in this house; there was Mary Williams. Alice stood marvelling at this thought: that only a couple of days ago Mary Williams had seemed to hold her own fate—Alice’s—in her hands; and now Alice had difficulty in even remembering her status. She felt for Mary, in fact, the fine contempt due to someone or to an institution that has given way too easily. But Mary could be appealed to on behalf of this … child. Alice again took in the collapsed look of her, the passivity, and thought: What is the use, she’s one of those who …
It was exasperation that was fuelling