The Good Terrorist (2 page)

“Well,” said Pat, strolling to the window to stand by Alice, “have you heard that this happy little community is for the chop?”

She looked much older than Alice, was ten years younger. She offered Alice a cigarette, which was refused, and smoked hers needfully, greedily.

“Yes, and I said, Why not negotiate with the Council?”

“I heard you. But they prefer their romantic squalour.”

“Romantic,” said Alice, disgusted.

“It does go against the grain, negotiating with the Establishment,” said Bert.

“Do you mean that this commune is breaking up?” said Jasper suddenly, sounding so like a small boy that Alice glanced quickly to see whether it had been noticed. It had: by Pat, who stood, holding her cigarette to her lips between two fingers and distancing them, then bringing them back, so that she could puff and exhale, puff and exhale. Looking at Jasper. Diagnosis.

Alice said quickly, her heart full of a familiar soft ache, on Jasper’s account, “It doesn’t go against my grain. I’ve done it often.”

“Oh, you have, have you?” said Pat. “So have I. Where?”

“In Birmingham. A group of seven of us went to the Council over a scheduled house. We paid gas and electricity and water, and we stayed there thirteen months.”

“Good for you.”

“And in Halifax, I was in a negotiated squat for six months. And when I was in digs in Manchester—that was when I was at university—there was a house full of students, nearly twenty of us. It started off as a squat, the Council came to terms, and it ended up as a student house.”

During this the two men listened, proceedings suspended. Jasper had again filled his mug. Bert indicated to Pat that the Thermos was empty, and she shook her head, listening to Alice.

“Why don’t we go to the Council?” said Alice directly to Pat.

“I would. But I’m leaving anyway.” Alice saw Bert’s body stiffen, and he sat angry and silent.

Pat said to Bert, “I told you last night I was leaving.”

Alice had understood that this was more than political. She saw that a personal relationship was breaking up because of some political thing! Every instinct repudiated this. She thought, involuntarily, What nonsense, letting politics upset a personal relationship! This was not really her belief: she would not have stood by it if challenged. But similar thoughts often did pass through her mind.

Pat said, to Bert’s half-averted face, “What the fuck did you expect? At an ordinary meeting like that—two of them from outside, we didn’t know anything about them. We don’t know anything about the couple who came last week. Jim was in the room, and he isn’t even CCU. Suddenly putting forward that resolution.”

“It wasn’t sudden.”

“When we discussed it before, we decided to make individual approaches. To discuss it with individuals, carefully.”

Her voice was full of contempt. She was looking at—presumably—her lover as though he was fit for the dustbin.

“You’ve changed your mind, at any rate,” said Bert, his red lips shining angrily from his thickets of beard. “You agreed that to support the IRA was the logical position for this stage.”

“It is the only correct attitude; Ireland is the fulcrum of the imperialist attack,” said Jasper.

“I haven’t changed my mind,” said Pat. “But if I am going to work with the IRA or anyone else, then I’m going to know who I am working with.”

“You don’t know us,” said Alice, with a pang of painful realisation: she and Jasper were part of the reason for this couple’s breakup.

“No hard feelings,” said Pat. “Nothing personal. But yes. The first I heard of you was when Bert said he had met Jasper at the CND rally Saturday. And I gather Bert hadn’t even met you.”

“No,” said Alice.

“Well, I’m sorry, but that’s not the way to do things.”

“I see your point,” said Alice.

A silence. The two young women stood at the window, in an aromatic cloud from Pat’s cigarette. The two men were in chairs, in the centre of the room. The rainlike pattering of the drum came from Jim beyond the hall.

Alice said, “How many people are left here now?”

Pat did not answer, and at last Bert said, “With you two, seven.” He added, “I don’t know about you, Pat.”

“Yes, you do,” said Pat, sharp and cold. But they were looking at each other now, and Alice thought: No, it won’t be easy for them to split up. She said, “Well, if it’s seven, then four of us are here now. Five if Pat … Where are the other two? I want to get an agreement that I go to the Council.”

“The lavatories full of cement. The electricity cables torn out. Pipes smashed,” said Bert on a fine rising, derisive note.

“It’s not difficult to put it right,” said Alice. “We did it in Birmingham. The Council smashed the place to a ruin. They pulled the lavatories completely out there. All the pipes. Filled the bath with cement. Piled garbage in all the rooms. We got it clean.”

“Who is going to pay for it?” That was Bert.

“We are.”

“Out of what?”

“Oh, belt up,” said Pat, “it costs us more in take-away and running around cadging baths and showers than it would to pay electricity and gas.”

“It’s a point,” said Bert.

“And it would keep Old Bill off our backs,” said Alice.

Silence. She knew that some people—and she suspected Bert, though not Pat, of this—would be sorry to hear it. They enjoyed encounters with the police.

Bert said unexpectedly, “Well, if we are going to build up our organisation, we aren’t going to need attention from Old Bill.”

“Right on,” said Pat. “As I’ve been saying.”

Silence again. Alice saw it was up to her. She said, “One problem. In this borough they need someone to guarantee the electricity and gas. Who is in work?”

“Three of the comrades who left last night were.”

“Comrades!” said Bert. “Opportunistic shits.”

“They are very good, honest communists,” said Pat. “They happen not to want to work with the IRA.”

Bert began to heave with silent theatrical laughter, and Jasper joined him.

“So we are all on Social Security,” said Alice.

“So no point in going to the Council,” said Bert.

Alice hesitated and said painfully, “I could ask my mother …”

At this Jasper exploded in raucous laughter and jeers, his face scarlet. “Her mother, bourgeois pigs …”

“Shut up,” said Alice. “We were living with my mother for four years,” she explained in a breathless, balanced voice, which seemed to her unkindly cold and hostile. “Four years. Bourgeois or not.”

“Take the rich middle class for what you can get,” said Jasper. “Get everything out of them you can. That’s my line.”

“Yes, yes,” said Alice. “I agree. But she did keep us for four years.” Then, capitulating, “Well, why shouldn’t she? She
is
my mother.” This last was said in a trembling, painful little voice.

“Right,” said Pat, examining her curiously. “Well, no point in asking mine. Haven’t seen her for years.”

“Well, then,” said Bert, suddenly getting up from the chair and standing in front of Pat, a challenge, his black eyes full on her. “So you’re not leaving after all?”

“We’ve got to discuss it, Bert,” she said, hurriedly, and walked over to him, and looked up into his face. He put his arm around her and they went out.

Alice surveyed the room. Skilfully. A family sitting room it had been. Comfortable. The paint was not too bad; the chairs and sofa probably stood where they had then. There was a fireplace, not even plastered over.

“Are you going to ask your mother? I mean, to be a guarantor?” Jasper sounded forlorn. “And who’s going to pay for getting it all straight?”

“I’ll ask the others if they’ll contribute.”

“And if they won’t?” he said, knowingly, sharing expertise with her, a friendly moment.

“Some won’t, we know that,” she said, “but we’ll manage. We always do, don’t we?”

But this was too direct an appeal to intimacy. At once he backed away into criticism. “And who’s going to do all the work?”

As he had been saying now for fourteen, fifteen years.

In the house in Manchester she had shared with four other students she had been housemother, doing the cooking and shopping, housekeeping. She loved it. She got an adequate degree, but did not even try for a job. She was still in the house when the next batch of students arrived, and she stayed to look after them. That was how Jasper found her, coming in one evening for supper. He was not a student, had graduated poorly, had failed to find a job after halfhearted efforts. He stayed on in the house, not formally living there but as Alice’s “guest.” After all, it was only because of Alice’s efforts that the place had become a student house: it had been a squat. And Jasper did not leave. She knew he had become dependent on her. But then and since he had complained she was nothing but a servant, wasting her life on other people. As they moved from squat to squat, commune to commune, this pattern remained: she looked after him, and he complained that other people exploited her.

At her mother’s he had said the same. “She’s just exploiting you,” he said. “Cooking and shopping. Why do you do it?”

“We’ve got four days,” said Alice now. “I’m going to get moving.” She did not look at him, but walked steadily past him and into the hall. She carried her backpack into the room where Jim was drumming and said, “Keep an eye on this for me, comrade.” He nodded. She said, “If I get permission from the Council for us to live here, will you share expenses?”

His hands fell from the drums. His friendly round face fell into lines of woe and he said,
“They
say I can’t stay here.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, shit, man, I’m not into politics. I just want to live.” Now he said, incredulously, “I was here first. Before any of you. This was my place. I found it. I said to everyone, Yes, come in, come in, man, this is Liberty Hall.”

“That’s not fair,” said Alice, at once.

“I’ve been here eight months, eight months; Old Bill never knew, no one knew. I’ve been keeping my nose clean and minding my own business, and suddenly …” He was weeping. Bright tears bounced off his black cheeks and splashed on the big drum. He wiped them off with the side of his palm.

“Well,” said Alice, “you just stay put and I’ll get it on the agenda.”

She was thinking as she left the house: All those buckets of shit up there; I suppose Jim filled them, nearly all. She thought: If I don’t pee I’ll … She could not have brought herself to go up and use one of those buckets. She walked to the Underground, took a train to a station with proper lavatories, used them, washed her face and brushed her hair, then went on to her mother’s stop, where she stood in line for a telephone booth.

Three hours after she had left home screaming abuse at her mother, she dialled her mother’s number.

Her mother’s voice. Flat. At the sound of it, affection filled Alice, and she thought, I’ll ask if she wants me to do some shopping for her on the way.

“Hello, Mum, this is Alice.”

Silence.

“It’s Alice.”

A pause. “What do you want?” The flat voice, toneless.

Alice, all warm need to overcome obstacles in behalf of everyone, said, “Mum, I want to talk to you. You see, there’s this house. I could get the Council to let us stay on a controlled-squat basis—you know, like Manchester? But we need someone to guarantee the electricity and gas.”

She heard a mutter, inaudible, then, “I don’t believe it!”

“Mum. Look, it’s only your signature we want. We would pay it.”

A silence, a sigh or a gasp, then the line went dead.

Alice, now radiant with a clear hot anger, dialled again. She stood listening to the steady buzz-buzz, imagining the kitchen where it was ringing, the great warm kitchen, the tall windows, sparkling (she had cleaned them last week, with such pleasure), and the long table where, she was sure, her mother was sitting now, listening to the telephone ring. After about three minutes, her mother did lift the receiver and said, “Alice, I know it is no use my saying this. But I shall say it. Again. I have to leave here. Do you understand? Your father won’t pay the bills any longer. I can’t afford to live here. I’ll have trouble paying my own bills. Do you understand, Alice?”

“But you have all those rich friends.” Another silence. Alice then, in a full, maternal, kindly, lecturing voice, began, “Mum, why aren’t you like us? We
share
what we have. We help each other out when we are in trouble. Don’t you see that your world is finished? The day of the rich selfish bourgeoisie is over. You are doomed.…”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Alice’s mother, and Alice warmed into the purest affection again, for the familiar comforting note of irony was back in her mother’s voice, the awful deadness and emptiness gone. “But you have at some point to understand that your father is not prepared any longer to share his ill-gotten gains with Jasper and all his friends.”

“Well, at least he is prepared to see they are ill-gotten,” said Alice earnestly.

A sigh. “Go away, Alice,” said Alice’s mother. “Just go away. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to hear from you. Try to understand that you can’t say the things to people you said to me this morning and then just turn up, as if nothing had happened, with a bright smile, for another handout.”

The line went dead.

Alice stood, in a dazzle of shock. Her head was full of dizzying shadow and light. Someone behind her in the queue said,
“If
you’ve finished …,” pushed in front of her, and began to dial.

Alice drifted onto the pavement and wandered aimlessly around the perimeter of that area, now fenced off with high, corrugated iron, where so recently there had been a market, full of people buying and selling. She had had a pitch there herself last summer; first she sold cakes and biscuits and sweets, then hot soup, and sandwiches. Proper food, all wholemeal flour and brown sugar, and vegetables grown without insecticides. She cooked all this in her mother’s kitchen. Then the Council closed the place down. To build another of their shitty great enormous buildings, their
dead
bloody white elephants that wouldn’t be wanted by anyone but the people who made a profit out of building them. Corruption. Corruption everywhere. Alice, weeping out loud, blubbering, went stumbling about outside the enormous iron fence like a fence around a concentration camp, thinking that last summer …