The Good Terrorist

Pat said nicely, ‘That little bundle won’t last long at this rate.’

‘No.’

Alice was praying: Let Bert go. Let him go upstairs. I want to talk to Pat. She was thinking this so hard that she was not surprised when he stood up and said, ‘I’m going to drop around to Felicity’s and get myself a real bath.’

‘I’ll come in a minute,’ said Pat.

Bert went, and the two women sat on.

Alice asked, ‘What is the name of that man next door?’

‘Lenin?’ said Pat. Alice gratefully laughed with her, feeling privileged and special in this intimacy with Pat that admitted her into important conspiracy. Pat went on, ‘He says his name is Andrew.’

‘Where would you say he was from?’

‘Good question.’

‘Ever such an American accent,’ said Alice.

‘The new world language.’

‘Yes.’

They exchanged looks.

Having said all they needed to on this subject, they left it, and Alice said after a pause, ‘I went round this afternoon. To ask them to do something about that mess.’

‘Good idea.’

‘What’s in all those packages?’

‘Leaflets. Books. So it is said.’

‘But with the police around all the time?’

‘The packages weren’t there the day before yesterday. And I bet they’ll be gone by tomorrow. Or gone already.’

‘Did you actually see the leaflets?’

‘No, but I asked. That’s what he said – Andrew. Propaganda material.’

Again a subject was left behind, by unspoken consent.

Pat said, ‘I gather Bert thinks his comrade – the one Jasper was talking to at Melstead – may have some useful leads.’

‘You mean, for the IRA?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Did you hear anything of what they said?’

‘No. But Bert was there part of the time.’

At this Alice could have asked, What does Bert think of him? But she did not care what Bert thought. Pat’s assessment, yes.

‘What did he look like? Perhaps I know him,’ she asked. ‘He wasn’t one of the usual crowd?’

‘I’ve never seen him before, I’m sure. Nothing special to report.’

‘Did – Comrade Andrew tell you to go down to the picket? Did he say anything about Melstead to you? How many times have you been next door?’

Pat smiled and replied, though she indicated by her manner that there was no reason why she should, ‘I have been next door twice. Bert and Jasper have been over much more often. As for Melstead, I get the impression that Comrade Andrew…’ and she slightly emphasized the ‘comrade’, as if Alice would do well to think about it, ‘that Comrade Andrew is not all that keen on cadres from outside joining the pickets.’

Alice said hotly, ‘Yes, but it is our struggle too. It is a struggle for all the progressive forces in the country. Melstead is a focal point for imperialist fascism, and it is not just the business of the Melstead trade unionists.’

‘You asked,’ said Pat. And then, ‘In my view, Comrade Andrew has bigger fish to fry.’ A thrill went through Alice, as when someone who has been talking for a lifetime about unicorns suddenly glimpses one. She looked with tentative excitement at Pat who, it seemed, did not know what she had said. If she had not been implying that they, the comrades at No. 43 Old Mill Road, had unwittingly come closer to great events, then what did she mean? But Pat was getting up. Terminating the discussion. Alice wanted her to stay. She could not believe that Pat was ready to go off now, at this thrilling moment when fabulous happenings seemed imminent. But Pat was stretching her arms about and yawning. Her smile was luxurious, and as her eyes did briefly meet Alice’s, she seemed actually to be tantalizing and teasing. She’s so sensual, Alice indignantly thought.

But she said, ‘I asked – Comrade Andrew, if we can use a room in that house for meetings. I mean, meetings of the inner group.’

‘So did we. He said yes.’

Pat smiled, lowered her arms, and then stood looking at Alice, without smiling, saying with her body that she had had enough of Alice, and wanted to go. ‘Where are our new comrades?’ She was on her way to the door.

‘They are upstairs.’

‘I doubt whether we shall see much of them. Still, they are all right.’ She yawned, elaborately, and said, ‘Too much effort to go chasing out for a bath. Bert can put up with me as I am.’

She went, and Alice sat still until she had heard her go up the stairs, and the closing of her door.

Then she swiftly went out of the house. It was too early for what she was going to do. The street, though dark, had the feeling of the end of the day, with cars turning in to park, others leaving for the evening entertainments, a rest-lessness of lights. But the traffic was pounding up the main road with the intensity of daytime. She dawdled along to look into the garden of 45. It seemed to her that a start had been made on the rubbish; yes, it had, and some filled sacks stood by the hedge, the plastic gleaming blackly. She saw two figures bending over a patch towards the back; not far from the pit she and Pat and Jim had dug, though a big hedge stood between. Were they digging a pit too? It was very dark back there. Lights from Joan Robbins’s top windows illuminated the higher levels of No. 45, but did not reach the thickets of the overgrown garden. Alice loitered around for a while, and no one came in or out, and she could not see Comrade Andrew through the downstairs windows, for the curtains were drawn.

She went to the Underground, sat on the train planning what she was going to do, and walked up the big rich treelined road where Theresa and Anthony had their home. She stood on the pavement looking up at the windows of their kitchen on the third floor. She imagined that they were sitting there on opposite sides of the little table they used when they were alone. Delicious food. Her mouth was actually watering as she thought of Theresa’s cooking. If she rang the bell, she would hear Theresa’s voice: Darling Alice, is that you? Do come in. She would go up, join them in their long comfortable evening, their food. Her mother might even drop in. But at this thought rage grasped her and shook her with red-hot hands, so that her eyes went dark and she found herself walking fast up the road, and then along another, and another, walking as though she would explode if she stopped. She walked for a long time, while the feeling of the streets changed to night. She directed herself to her father’s street. She walked along it casually. The lights were on downstairs, every window spilled out light. Upstairs was a low glow from the room where the babies slept. Too early. She walked some more, around and back, past Theresa and Anthony, where kitchen windows were now dark, up to the top of the hill, down and around and into her father’s street. Now the lights were dark downstairs, but on in the bedroom. An hour or so ago, she had seen a stone of the right size and shape lying on the edge of a garden, and had put it into her pocket. She looked up and down the quiet street, where the lights made golden leafy spaces in the trees. A couple, arm-in-arm, came slowly up from the direction of the Underground. Old. An old couple. They were absorbed in the effort of walking, did not see Alice. Who went to the end of the street, nevertheless, and came back briskly on the impetus of her need, her decision. There was now not a soul in the street. As she reached her father’s house she walked straight in at the gate, which she hardly bothered to open quietly, and flung the stone as hard as she could at the glass of the bedroom window. This movement, the single hard clear line of the throw, with her whole body behind it; and then the complete turn in the swing of the throw, and her bound out to the pavement – the speed and force of it, the skill, could never have been deduced from how Alice was, at any other time of the day or night, good-girl Alice, her mother’s daughter…She heard the shattering glass, a scream, her father’s shout. But she was gone, she had run down in the thick tree shadows to a side street, was down that and in the busy main street within sixty seconds after she had thrown the stone.

She was breathing too hard, too noisily…she stood looking into a window to slow her breath. She realized it was crammed full of television sets, and sedately moved to the next, to examine dresses, until she could walk into the supermarket without anyone remarking on her breathing. There she stayed a good twenty minutes, choosing and rejecting. She took the loaded wire basket to the outlet, paid, filled her carrier-bags, and went homewards by Underground. Since the stone had left her hand she had scarcely thought about what might be happening in her father’s house.

Now, seeing the sober blue gleam from the police station she went in. At the Reception Desk, no one, but she could hear voices from a part of the room that was out of sight. She rang. No one came. She rang again, peremptorily. A young policewoman came out, took a good look at her, decided to be annoyed, and went back. Alice rang again. Now the young woman, as tidy and trim in her dark uniform as Alice in hers – jeans and bomber jacket – came slowly towards her, an annoyed, decided little face showing that words were being chosen to put Alice in her place.

Alice said, ‘It might have been an emergency, how were you to know? As it happens, it isn’t. So you are lucky.’

The policewoman’s face suddenly suffused with scarlet, she gasped, her eyes widened.

Alice said, ‘I have come to report on an agreed squat – you know, short-term housing – surely you know…’

‘At this time of night?’ the policewoman said smartly, in an attempt to regain mastery.

It can’t be much more than eleven,’ said Alice. ‘I didn’t know you had a set time for dealing with housing.’

The policewoman said, ‘Since you’re here, let’s do it. What do you want to report?’