The Good Terrorist - Doris May Lessing [80]
But he did; he did! How could she leave him?
She got up slowly from the table, washed up the mug, and stood for some time absolutely still, staring. She thought: I keep forgetting that time is going on. She was over thirty. Well over thirty, in her mid-thirties … Thirty-six, actually. If she was going to have a child, ever … No, no; real responsible revolutionaries should not have children. (But they did!)
She flung the whole tangle of thought away from her and ran fast up the stairs, as though in the room some delight or pleasure awaited her, not the hard task of painting.
She worked steadily on, until she had finished the first coat. Ceilings and walls were all fresh white where dirt and dinginess had been. Some people would leave it at that, but not Alice: there would be a second coat. She strode through the newspapers all over the floor, some of them with dates from the thirties, even the war. “Second Front!” in big black print slid away under another sheet, and “Attlee Promises …” She was not interested in what Attlee or anyone else had promised. Again in the kitchen, she rested herself, and thought: I’ll have finished our room by midday, I could do another. Well, I’d need help for the sitting room. The worst is the girls’ room, Faye and Roberta’s. I’ll just have a quick look now.…
She was sure they had not come in, but knocked to make sure. Silence. She went in and, because her eyes were on ceilings and walls, did not realise at once that they were, after all, there, two low huddling mounds under blankets, shawls, and all kinds of bits and pieces of stuffs, mostly flowered. Roberta, disturbed but not knowing why, had stretched up arms to yawn, then sat up, womanly breasts lolling, and she stared with displeasure at Alice. Who said, “Sorry, I thought you were out.”
“Well, we are not!” But the look of dislike, which Alice was afraid might be what Roberta did feel for her, was replaced with Roberta’s more amiable look, and she sat up, feeling for cigarettes. From the tense look of the bundle that was Faye, Alice knew she was awake. She explained reasonably, “I am painting our room. I’ll have finished in a couple of hours. I thought I could do yours today, if you like.”
At this Faye sat up, flinging aside covers, in one movement, like a swimmer surfacing, and she glared at Alice as she had at poor Monica.
“No,” she said, in a deadly, cold voice. “You will not paint this room, Alice. You will not. You will leave us alone.”
“Faye,” said Roberta quietly. “It’s all right.”
“No, it’s not all right,” shrilled Faye. “You paint your own fucking room, Alice. Just keep your shitty little hands off us, do you hear?”
Alice, well used to such situations, was standing her ground, was not hurt, or offended, or any of the things she knew Faye wanted her to be. She was thinking: Full marks to Roberta. Just imagine, having to cope with Faye all the time.
“It’s all right, Faye,” said Alice. “Well, of course, I won’t if you don’t want. But the room is pretty far gone, isn’t it?” And she looked with interest at the walls, which, in the strong morning light—the sun was only just leaving one of them—seemed that they might start sprouting mushrooms.
They sat there side by side, Faye and Roberta, staring at Alice, so unlike Mary and Reggie that Alice was even amused—inside, of course, not letting it show. And her heart hurt for the girls. Mary and Reggie—those householders, as Alice contemptuously thought of them—sitting upright in their marriage bed, examining Alice, knew that nothing could ever really threaten them. But Roberta, for all her handsome, dark solidity, her motherliness, and Faye, like a flimsy chick or little bird huddling there behind Roberta’s large shoulder, were vulnerable. They knew that anything, even Alice, could advance over them like bulldozers, crush them to bits.
“It’s all right,” said Alice gently, infinitely pitying. “Don’t worry. I’m sorry.” And she went out, hearing how Faye’s voice shrilled as the door shut, and how Roberta’s voice consoled and gentled.
Alice returned