The Good Terrorist (4 page)

Alice gave the address of her house confidently, stated her case, and waited while the official turned to press a button or two, and the information arrived, to be set on the desk between them.

“Scheduled for demolition,” said Mary Williams, and sat smiling, nothing more to be said.

This Alice had not expected. She could not speak. It was grief that filled her, transmuting, but slowly, to rage. The face that Mary Williams saw swelled and shone, and caused her to say uncomfortably, even stammering, “Why, why, what is the matter?”

“It can’t be demolished, it can’t,” stated Alice, in a toneless, empty voice. Then, rage exploding, “It’s a marvellous house, perfect! How can you demolish it? It’s a bloody scandal.”

“Yes, I know that sometimes …” said Mary Williams swiftly. She sighed. Her glance at Alice was a plea not to make a scene. Alice saw it, saw that scenes not infrequently occurred at this desk.

She said, “There must be a mistake. Surely they aren’t entitled to destroy a house like this.… Have you seen it? It’s a good house. A good place …”

“I think they mean to put up flats.”

“Naturally! What else?”

The two young women laughed, their eyes meeting.

“Wait,” said Mary Williams, and went off to confer, in her hand the sheet containing the vital statistics of the house. She stood by the desk of a man at the end of the room, and came back to say, “There have been a lot of complaints about the state of the houses. The police, for one.”

“Yes, it’s a disgusting mess,” agreed Alice. “But it’ll be cleared up in no time.”

Here Mary nodded—Proceed!—and sat doodling, while Alice talked.

And talked. About the house. Its size, its solidity, its situation. Said that, apart from a few slates, it was structurally sound. Said it needed very little to make it livable. She talked about the Birmingham squat and the agreed tenancy there; about Manchester, where a slum scheduled for demolition had been reprieved, and became an officially recognised student residence.

“I’m not saying it couldn’t happen,” said Mary.

She sat thinking, her biro at work on a structure of cells, like a honeycomb. Yes, Alice knew, Mary was all right, she was on their side. Although Mary was not her style, with her dark little skirt and crisp little blouse, with her bra outlining the modest breast where the whale cavorted, tail in the sky, black on blue sea. All the same, Mary’s soft masses of dark hair that went into curls on her forehead, and her plump white hands, made Alice feel warm and secure. She knew that if Mary had anything to do with it, things would go well.

“Wait a minute,” Mary said, and again went to confer with her colleague. This man now gave Alice a long inspection, and Alice sat confidently, to be looked at. She knew how she seemed: the pretty daughter of her mother, short curly fair hair nicely brushed, pink-and-white face lightly freckled, open blue-grey gaze. A middle-class girl with her assurance, her knowledge of the ropes, sat properly in the chair, and if she wore a heavy blue military jacket, under it was a flowered pink-and-white blouse.

Mary Williams came back and said, “The houses are coming up for a decision on Wednesday.”

“The police gave us four days to clear out.”

“Well, I don’t see what we can do.”

“All we need is a statement, in writing, that the case is being considered, to show the police, that’s all.”

Mary Williams did not say anything. From her posture, and her eyes—which did not look at Alice—it was suddenly clear that she was, after all, very young, and probably afraid for her job.

There was some sort of conflict there, Alice could see: this was more than just an official who sometimes did not like the work
she had to do. Something personal was boiling away in Mary Williams, giving her a stubborn, angry little look. And this again brought her to her feet and took her for the third time to the official whose job it was to say yes and no.

“You do realise,” said Mary Williams, talking for her colleague, “that this letter would say only that the house is on the agenda for Wednesday?”

Alice said, inspired, “Why don’t you come and see it? You and—?”

“Bob Hood. He’s all right. But he’s the one who …”

“Yes, yes,” said Alice. “But why don’t you both come and see the house?”

“The houses, yes—I think Bob did see them, but it was some time ago—yes, perhaps we should.”

Mary was writing the words that would—Alice was sure—save the house. For as long as it was needed by Alice and the others. Save it permanently, why not? The piece of paper was slid into an envelope bearing the name of the Council, and Alice took it.

“Have you got a telephone in the house?”

“It was ripped out.” It was on the tip of Alice’s tongue to describe the state of the house: cement in the lavatories, loose electric cables, the lot; but instinct said no. Although she knew that this girl, Mary, would be as furious, as sick, as anyone could be that such deliberate damage could be done to a place, the damage had been done by officialdom, and Mary was an official. Nothing should be done to arouse that implacable beast, the bureaucrat.

“When should I ring you?” she asked.

“Thursday.”

That was the day the police said they would be thrown out.

“Will you be here on Thursday?”

“If not, Bob over there will take the call.”

But Alice knew that with Bob things would not go so well.

“It’s routine,” said Mary Williams. “Either they will pull the houses down at once, or they will postpone it. They have already postponed several times.” Here she offered Alice the smile of their complicity, and added, “Good luck.”

“Thanks. See you.”

Alice left. It was only five o’clock. In one day she had done it. In eight hours.

In the soft spring afternoon everything was in movement, the pastel clouds, new young leaves, the shimmering surfaces of lawns; and when she reached her street it was full of children, cats, and gardeners. This scene of suburban affluence and calm provoked in her a rush of violent derision, like a secret threat to everything she saw. At the same time, parallel to this emotion and in no way affecting it, ran another current, of want, of longing.

She stopped on the pavement. From the top of her house a single yellow jet splashed onto the rubbish that filled the garden. Across the hedge from her, in the neighbouring house, a woman stood with a trowel loaded with seedlings, their roots in loose black earth, and she was staring at the shameful house. She said, “Disgusting, I’ve rung the Council!”

“Oh no,” cried Alice, “no, please …” But, seeing the woman’s hardened face and eyes, she said, “Look, I’ve just been to the Council. It will be all right; we are negotiating.”

“And how about all that rubbish, then,” stated, not asked, the woman. She turned her back on Alice, and bent to the fragrant earth of her flower bed.

Alice arrived at her door in a tumult of passionate identification with the criticised house, anger at whoever was responsible for the errant stream—probably Jasper—and a need to get the work of reconstruction started.

The door would not budge when she pushed it. The red heat of rage enveloped her, and she banged on the door, screaming, “How dare you, how dare you lock me out?,” while she saw with her side vision how the woman gardener had straightened and was gazing at this scene over her neat little hedge.

Her anger went as she told herself, You must do something about her, soon; she
must
be on our side.

She offered the woman a quick little placatory smile and wave
of the hand, rather like the wagging tail of an apologetic dog, but her neighbour only stared and turned away.

Suddenly the door opened and Jasper’s fingers were tight around her wrist. His face had a cold grin on it which she knew was fear. Of whom?

As he dragged her in, she said, in a voice like a hushed shout, “Let me go. Don’t be stupid.”

“Where have you been?”

“Where do you think?”

“What have you been doing all day?”

“Oh, belt up,” she said, shaking her wrist to restore it, as he released her on seeing that doors had opened and in the hall were Jim, Pat, Bert, and two young women dressed identically in loose blue dungarees and fluffy white cardigans, standing side by side and looking critical.

“We always keep this door locked and barred because of the police,” said Bert, in a hurried, placating way, and Alice thought, Well, there’s no need to bother much with
him
, as she said, “It wasn’t locked this morning, when we came. And the police don’t come at this hour, do they?” She said this because she had to say something: she knew her fit of rage outside the door was unfortunate.

The five were all staring at her, their faces shadowed by the dull light from the hurricane lamp, and she said, in her ordinary mild voice, “I’ve seen the Council, and it’s all right.”

“What do you mean, it’s all right?” demanded Bert, asserting his rights.

Alice said, “Everyone’s here, I want to discuss it. Why not now?”

“Anyone against?” said Jasper jocularly, but he was shielding Alice, as she saw with gratitude. The seven filed into the sitting room, which was still in full daylight.

Alice’s eyes were anxiously at work on the two unknown girls. As if unable or unwilling to give much time to this affair, they perched on the two arms of a shabby old chair. They were sharing a cigarette. One was a soft-faced fair girl, with her hair in a ponytail,
and little curls and tendrils all around her face. The other was a bulky girl, no, a woman, with short black curls that had a gleam of silver in them. Her face was strong, her eyes direct, and she looked steadily at Alice, reserving judgement. She said, “This is Faye. I am Roberta.”

She was saying, too, that they were a couple, but Alice had seen this already.

“Alice. Alice Mellings.”

“Well, Comrade Alice, you don’t let the grass grow. I, for one, would have liked to discuss it all first.”

“That’s right,” said Faye, “that goes for me, too. I like to know what’s being said in my name.” She spoke in a cockney voice, all pert and pretty, and Alice knew at once that she affected it, had adopted it, as so many others did. A pretty little cockney girl sat presenting herself, smiling, to everyone, and Alice was staring at her, trying to see what was really there.

This acute, judging inspection made Faye shift about and pout a little, and Roberta came in quickly with, “What are we being committed to, Comrade Alice?”

“Oh, I see,” said Alice. “You’re lying low.”

Roberta let out a short amused snort that acknowledged Alice’s acuity, and said, “You’re right. I want to keep a low profile for a bit.”

“Me, too,” said Faye. “We are drawing Security over in Clapham, but better not ask how. Least said, soonest mended,” she ended, prettily, tossing her head.

“And what you don’t know don’t hurt you,” said Roberta.

“Ask no questions and get told no lies,” quipped Faye.

“But truth is stranger than fiction,” said Roberta.

“You can say that again,” said Faye.

This nice little act of theirs made everyone laugh appreciatively. As good as a music-hall turn: Faye, the cockney lass, and her feed. Roberta was not speaking cockney, but had a comfortable, accommodating, homely voice with the sound of the North in it. Her own voice? No, it was a made-up one. Modelled on “Coronation Street,” probably.

“That’s another reason we don’t want the police crashing in all the time,” said Bert. “I am pleased Comrade Alice is trying to get this regularised. Go on with your report, Comrade Alice.”

Bert had also modified his voice. Alice could hear in it at moments the posh tones of some public school, but it was roughened with the intention of sounding working-class. Bad luck, he gave himself away.

Alice talked. (Her own voice dated from the days of her girls’ school in North London, basic BBC correct, flavourless. She had been tempted to reclaim her father’s Northern tones, but had judged this dishonest.) She did not say that she had rung her mother and her father, but said she could get fifty pounds at short notice. Then she summed up her visit to the Council, scrutinising what she saw in her mind’s eye: the expressions on the face of Mary Williams, which told Alice the house would be theirs, and because of some personal problem or attitude of Mary’s. But all Alice said about this, the nub of the interview with Mary, was, “She’s all right. She’s on our side. She’s a good person.”

“You mean, you’ve got something to show the police?” said Jim, and when Alice handed over the yellow envelope he took out what was in it and pored over it. He was one whose fate, Alice could see, had always been determined by means of papers, reports, official letters. Jim’s voice was genuine cockney, the real thing.

She asked suddenly, “Are you bound over?”

Jim’s look at her was startled, then defensive, then bitter. His soft, open boyish face closed up and he said, “What about it?”

“Nothing,” said Alice. Meanwhile, a glance at Faye and Roberta had told her that both of them were bound over. Or worse. Yes, probably worse. Yes, certainly worse. On the run?

“Didn’t know you were,” said Bert. “I was until recently.”

“So was I,” claimed Jasper at once, not wanting to be left out. Jasper’s tones were almost those of his origins. He was the son of a solicitor in a Midlands town, who had gone bankrupt when Jasper was halfway through his schooling at a grammar school. He had finished his education on a scholarship. Jasper was very clever; but he had seen the scholarship as charity. He was full of hatred for his father, who had been stupid enough to go in for dubious investments.
His middle-class voice, like Bert’s, had been roughened. With working-class comrades he could sound like them, and did, at emotional moments.

Pat remarked, “It’s getting dark,” and she stood up, struck a match, and lit two candles that stood on the mantelpiece in rather fine brass candlesticks. But they were dull with grease. The daylight shrank back beyond the windows, and the seven were in a pool of soft yellow light that lay in the depths of a tall shadowed room.

Now Pat leaned her elbow on the mantelpiece, taking command of the scene. In the romantic light, with her dark military clothes, her black strong boots, she looked—as she must certainly know—like a guerilla, or a female soldier in somebody’s army. Yet the light accentuated the delicate modelling of her face, her hands, and in fact she was more like the idealised picture of a soldier on a recruiting poster. An Israeli girl soldier, perhaps, a book in one hand, a rifle in the other.