The Good Terrorist

‘It was a very large pit,’ she said. ‘We came by chance on some lush’s bottle-bin. It was a good five feet deep. We’d show you, but it’s raining. If you come round tomorrow we could show you then?’

A silence. It hung in the balance. Please, please, God, thought Alice, nothing will happen, the two girls won’t walk in; that really would finish it, or Jasper doesn’t suddenly take it into his head…For Jasper, in a certain mood, might easily come out and enjoy provoking a confrontation.

But the thing held. The five policemen who had been scattered around the space of the hall came in closer to their leader, like a posse, and Alice said, ‘Excuse me, but could I have that?’ For the sergeant still held the yellow paper. He read it through again, solemnly, and then gave it back.

‘I’ll have to report that pit to the Water Board,’ he said.

‘There were no pipes where we dug,’ said Alice, ‘not one.’

‘Only a skeleton,’ said Pat, negligently. As one the six men turned, glaring. ‘A dog,’ said Pat. ‘It was a dog’s grave.’

The men relaxed. But they kept their eyes on Pat. She had got a rise out of them, but so smoothly. In the dim light from the single bulb, she lounged there, a dark handsome girl, politely smiling.

‘We’ll be back,’ said the sergeant, and hitched his head at the door. They all went out, the killer last, with a cold frustrated look at little Philip, at Pat, but not much at the ordinary, unchallenging Alice.

The door shut. No one moved. They all stood staring at that door; they could come crashing back again. A trap? But the seconds went past. They heard a car start up. Alice shook her head at Philip, who seemed about to break into some effusion of feeling. And the door did open. It was the sergeant.

‘I’ve been taking a look at those sacks,’ he said. ‘You said they were being taken tomorrow?’ But his eyes were at work all around the hall, lingering with a slight frown on the smashed-in cupboard door under the stairs.

‘Tomorrow,’ said Alice. Then, in a disappointed voice, ‘Not very nice, was it, smashing in that little door, for nothing.’

‘Put in a complaint,’ he said, briefly, almost good-naturedly, and disappeared.

‘Fascist shits,’ said Pat, like an explosion, and did not move. They remained where they were. They might have been playing ‘statues’.

They let a couple of minutes go past, then, as one, came to life as Jim emerged from the shadows of his room, grinning, and the four went into the sitting-room where Jasper and Bert lounged, drinking beer. Alice knew from how they looked at her that Jasper had been telling Bert, again, how good she was at this – reflecting credit on himself; and that Pat had been impressed, and Jim was incredulous at the apparent ease of it all. She knew that this was a moment when she could get her own way about anything, and in her mind, at the head of her long agenda of difficulties to be overcome, stood the item: Philip and Jim.

She accepted a bottle of beer from Bert, who gave her, with it, the thumbs-up sign, and soon they were all sitting in a close group, in the centre of the tall room. Candlelit, there had not been time to put a bulb in. But Philip had sat down a little apart, and tentatively.

‘First,’ said Pat, ‘to Alice!’

They drank to her, and she sat silent, smiling, afraid she would cry.

Now she thought, I’ll bring up Philip. I’ll bring up Jim. We’ll get it settled.

But in the hall, suddenly, were voices, laughter, and in a moment the two girls came in, lit with the exaltation that comes from a day’s satisfactory picketing and demonstrating and marching.

Roberta, laughing, came over to the carrier of bottles, put one to her mouth, and drank standing, swallowing the beer down, then handed the bottle to Faye, who did the same.

‘What a day,’ said Roberta, and she let herself slide on to the arm of a chair, while Faye sat on the other. A couple apart, they surveyed the rest, as adventurers do stay-at-homes, and began their tale, Roberta leading, Faye filling in.

It was a question of the two or three hundred pickets – numbers had varied, as people came and went – preventing vans with newspapers from getting through the gates to distribute them. The police had been there to see the vans safely through.

‘Two hundred police,’ said Roberta, scornfully. ‘Two hundred fucking police!’

‘More police than pickets,’ said Faye, laughing, and Roberta watched her, fondly. Faye, animated and alive, was really very pretty. Her look of listlessness, even depression, had gone. She seemed to sparkle in the dim room.

‘I had to stop Faye from getting carried away,’ said Roberta. ‘Otherwise she’d have been out there. Of course, with both of us having to keep a low profile…’

‘Were there arrests?’

‘Five,’ said Roberta. ‘They got Gerry. He didn’t go quietly though.’

‘I should say not,’ said Faye proudly.

‘Who else?’

‘Didn’t know the others. They were the Militant lot, I think.’

A pause. Alice knew she had lost her advantage, and felt discouraged. And, seeing Jasper’s face as he watched the two campaigning girls, she was thinking: He’ll be off down there tomorrow, if I know anything.

He said, ‘I’ll go down tomorrow.’ And he looked at Bert who said, ‘Right.’

Bert looked at Pat, and she said, ‘I’m on.’

A silence. Faye said excitedly, ‘I’d like to have a go at one of those vans. You know, when I saw that thing standing there, armoured, all lit up, it had wire over the windscreen, I just hated it so much – it looked bloody evil.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Bert. ‘Epitomizes everything we hate.’

‘I’d like to – I’d like to –’ Here Faye, seeing how her lover looked at her, began playing up to it prettily, said with a mock shiver, ‘I’d like to sink my teeth into it!’ and Roberta gave her a soft friendly clout across the shoulders, and then hugged her briefly.

‘All the same,’ she said, ‘we two ought not to be there again. We mustn’t be caught.’

‘Oh,’ pouted Faye, ‘why not, we just have to be careful.’

‘They’ll have it all photographed, of course, they’ll have your pictures,’ said Jim excitedly.

‘Yes, but we weren’t doing anything,’ said Faye, ‘worse luck, keeping our noses clean…’

‘I’ll come down,’ said Jim. ‘I’d like to. Fucking pigs.’ And he spoke sorrowfully, genuinely, so that Faye and Roberta looked at him, curious, and Bert said, ‘The police were here tonight.’

‘Just as well we weren’t then,’ said Roberta.

‘Alice handled them. A marvel she is,’ said Pat, but not as friendlily as she would if the two girls had not come in and split allegiances.

Ruined everything, Alice thought bitterly, surprising herself. A moment before she had been thinking: Here am I, fussing about a house, when they are doing something serious.

‘Oh well,’ said Faye, dismissing the police’s visit to the house as unimportant compared to the real issues, ‘I’m off to sleep, if we’re going to get up early tomorrow.’

The two women stood up. Roberta was looking at Philip, who still sat there, apart, as if waiting. ‘You staying here tonight?’ she asked, and Philip looked at Alice. She said, ‘I’ve told Philip he can live here.’ She heard the appeal in her voice, knew she had her look, knew she might simply break down and weep.

Roberta’s body had subtly changed, hardened, looked affronted, though she had made sure her face was impartial. Philip seemed as if he were sustaining invisible blows.

Roberta looked at Bert, eyebrows raised. Bert’s gaze back was non-committal. He was not going to take sides. Again Alice thought, He’s not up to much! He’s no good.

Alice looked at Pat, and saw something there that might save the position. Pat was waiting for Bert; yes, something had been said, discussed, when she was not there. A decision?

Pat said, since Bert did not, ‘Philip, Alice can’t make decisions as an individual. Alice, you know that! We’ve got to have a real discussion.’ Here she glanced at Jim, who at once said, ‘I was here before any of you, this was my house.’ He sounded wild, was wild, dangerous, all his smiling amiability gone. ‘I said to you, come in, this is Liberty Hall, I said.’ Here was a point of principle. Alice recognized it. She thought: It’s Jim who will save Philip! – Jim was going on, ‘And then I hear, “You’ve got to leave here, this is not your place!” How come? I don’t get it.’