The Good Terrorist (26 page)

Alice said, “Yes. Why?”

“He was here all through the evening?”

“Yes, he had supper here, and then we spent the evening playing cards.”

There had been the slightest tremor in Alice’s voice; she had been going to say, “We all spent the evening,” but remembered in time that “all” might not be prepared to stick their necks out for Jim, if “all” could be reached and warned in time.

“You and he were here?”

“And a friend of his. A white boy. William something-or-other.”

Alice knew that the little hitch in the smoothness had reached the policewoman, even if only subliminally. But it was all right, she thought; she could tell that from the indecision of the woman’s manner.

Alice yawned, put her hand over her mouth, said, “Sorry, we
were up late …,” and yawned again, offering the right sort of smile to the policewoman. Who smiled briefly in return, as she again looked carefully into the reassuring hall.

“Thanks,” she said, and went off to the gate, where she and her companion resumed their sharp-eyed stroll around the guilty streets.

Alice glanced quietly into Jim’s room. He was asleep.

She then went into the kitchen and wrote a letter to her mother, which she would have ready for Monica Winters, who would certainly be turning up here in the next day or two.

While she was doing this, within a few minutes of one another came Jasper, then Pat and Bert, then Roberta and Faye. The six sat round the table in the kitchen, with an assortment of take-away, which they had brought in separately and would now consume together: pizzas, and fish and chips, and pies. Alice made coffee, set the mugs around, and sat at the head of the table. Her happiness because of this scene was so strong she closed her eyes so that it would not beam out in great mellow streams and betray her to the sternness of the others.

Bert wanted to know about Jack. Jasper reported. The glances exchanged by Faye and Roberta told Alice that trouble would ensue.

It did. Faye demanded, in her pert, pretty way that did nothing to hide her seriousness, why all these plans had been made without a meeting to get everyone’s approval? Pat said she agreed: Jasper had no right to take it on himself.…

This, Alice knew, was partly directed at Bert, who had been Jasper’s accomplice.

Jasper, and then Bert, said that no one was being committed to anything. All that was planned was a quick, exploratory trip to Ireland, to meet a representative of the IRA, and to offer cooperation with a group here.

“A group of what?” demanded Faye, showing her pretty little teeth.

“Yes,” said Pat, though with a little edge of humour that told Alice it would be all right, “are we still committing all the vast resources of the CCU, or only ourselves?”

Alice saw that Roberta would have laughed at this, had Faye’s mood permitted it.

Bert, because he wanted to reinstate himself with Pat, took command and, his white teeth showing in the thickets of his beard while he offered a steady, responsible, forceful smile, said, “I can appreciate the comrades’ reservations. But in the nature of things”—and here he twisted his red lips to signal and to share with them the perspectives of this operation—“certain approaches have to be tentative and even, apparently,
ad hoc
. After all, the meeting with Jack was fortuitous. It was chance, and became productive, thanks to Comrade Jasper. It was he who made the first approaches.…” Alice could see that it was not going to be easy for any of them to admit obligation to Jasper, even though he was being correctly impersonal, sitting somewhat to one side of the scene, waiting for their approval, the image of a responsible cadre.

But just then there was a sound in the hall, the door to outside shut, and Jasper, jumping up to look, reported it was Philip going down the street. The fact that he had not come into the kitchen meant he felt unwanted, and this brought Faye in with, “And there is no place we can talk in this house now. Alice has seen to that.”

Pat said quickly, “Well, we can go next door. But surely it is all right for a few minutes here.”

“And then Jim will come in. Why not?” demanded Faye sweetly. “ ‘Oh Jim,’ we can say, ‘we are just having a little chat about the IRA.’ ”

“Or Mary and Reggie,” said Roberta, allying herself with Faye out of love. Actually, as the others knew, she agreed with them, did not need the furious condemnation that Faye had to use as a fuel to keep going.

“Why don’t we just agree, quickly, now, to one or two basics,” said Pat. “There isn’t very much to discuss, is there?”

“No,” said Faye. “I’m serious about it, if no one else is.” And with petulant little movements of her lips and eyes, she challenged them; then reached for a cigarette, and lit it, and blew out thick smoke in irritation.

And, to support her, came sounds from the hall: Mary and
Reggie, who, full of talk and laughter, opened the door of the kitchen and were silent. With no reason not to come in—since it was the spirit of the house that people should sit around the kitchen table talking—they seemed to sense a unity, to know they were not wanted. Smiling politely, they said, “Oh, we were just …” And, in spite of cries of invitation that they should stay—from Alice, from Pat—went off up the stairs.

“Brilliant,” said Faye.

“I agree,” said Pat. “That wasn’t good. Well, I suggest someone nips over next door to see if we can borrow a room—that is, if it is felt that we need actually to discuss anything more.”

“I need to discuss a good deal,” said Faye.

Jasper went, was gone it seemed only for a minute, came back to say that they would be welcome.

He returned next door at once. Then Alice went, and Bert and Pat. Then Faye and Roberta.

The goose-girl admitted them, indicating a room at the top of the stairs—the same as that which in their house was inhabited by Jasper and Alice. It had been a nursery, and had lambs, ducks, Mickey Mouses, humorous dinosaurs, coy robots, witches on broomsticks, and the other necessities of the middle-class child’s bedroom.

“Christ,” said Faye violently, “what utter bloody
shit,”
and she even held out her pretty hands, clawed to show slender nails painted bright red, as if she would scratch the pictures off the walls. She smiled, however, if you could call it a smile.

It turned out that, after all, there was nothing much more to be said.

What was evident was that they had all expected Comrade Andrew to join them, even Alice, who knew he disapproved. Of what, exactly, she wondered now? Of the IRA? No, of course not. Of working with the IRA? How could he? Then, it must be, of
them
, this group, approaching the Irish comrades in this way. Or this group. Period.

But not of her, Alice. He approved of her. Secretly warmed, supported by this thought, which she could share with no one at all, Alice sat reticent, watching the “meeting” develop, seeing on
Jasper’s and Bert’s faces how they longed to hear steps, hear a knock, hear, “May I join you, comrades?”

But nothing.

It was reiterated that Bert and Jasper would make the trip purely as a reconnaissance. They could find out what kind of support the Irish comrades would accept. This being found somewhat lukewarm, somewhat unsatisfying and unsatisfactory, the formulation was amended and became: that Bert and Jasper were empowered by those present to offer support to the Irish revolutionaries, and ask to be given concrete tasks.

They did not linger. No one was comfortable in this former nursery, which had the ghosts of privileged children—of loved children?—so strongly in it.

Quickly they finished, and left, severally going back to number 43. Roberta and Faye went away to the pictures. They liked violent, even pornographic films, and there was one at the local cinema. The other four found Mary and Reggie in the kitchen, eating properly off plates. The mess of pizza fragments, uneaten chips, beer cans, papers had been swept into the litter bin.

Mary and Reggie said, “Do sit down and join us,” but just as the six had repelled Mary and Reggie, so now did Mary and Reggie seem surrounded by an invisible current: Keep off. Well, thought Alice, they are probably still sulky about last night. I did go too far, I suppose. Well, let them.

With many smiles and good-nights, the four went upstairs, and another meeting took place in the newly painted room, where they sat on the floor and discussed the new problem posed by Faye and Roberta, who did not like Comrade Andrew’s role in their affairs. That was why they had hoped he would drop in on the meeting next door. “Who
was
Comrade Andrew?” they had wanted to know. By the time the four had finished critically discussing the two women, they were a warm, close unit, comrades to the death. And yet Alice kept thinking that Pat, no matter how committed she sounded now, did not really stand by Bert. The attractive, lively girl, affectionate and easy with Bert after their weekend away together, presumably alone, did not convince Alice. Glossy cherry lips
and shining cheeks would be pressed to Bert’s sensual red lips, and then doubtless all those white teeth would clash and nip, all that bushy black hair of Bert’s … But nevertheless, thought Alice, nevertheless … And Pat very much did not like Bert’s going with Jasper to Ireland. She did not like Jasper. This wasn’t a unit at all, only seemed like one, and Alice sat inwardly separated, thinking that Pat probably felt the same.

The smell of paint was very strong. Soon Jasper said he couldn’t sleep in it and went upstairs. His tone was such that Alice did not dare to go with him. She went down into the sitting room for the night.

She slept badly, often waking to listen so that she would not miss his going in the morning. She heard the two men come down the stairs and go into the kitchen. She followed them; felt herself already excluded, not wanted. It was only six, a fresh sunny chilly late-spring morning.

It seemed to Alice that Jasper hardly saw her as he went off. He waved to her from the gate, where she stood like any housewife seeing off her man.

She went back to her sleeping bag, with the feeling that a lot of time had to be got through before Jasper came home to her.

But the days went by pleasantly. Pat was infinitely available to Alice, helping with painting and cleaning; between them the two women accomplished miracles, dingy caves being transformed one after another to fresh and lively rooms. Pat was funny and sweet, agreeable, entertaining. Alice opened and expanded in this normality, this ease, and thought again how much of her time was spent with a tightened heart and grim expectation of another put-down from Jasper. Yet, while she enjoyed it all, liked Pat, felt she had never been so happy, she was thinking, Yes, but this is how people behave when they have decided to go away: in a sense she has already left.

Philip, affectionately supported by the two women, got the hot-water system working. They all had celebratory baths. Even
Faye did, when encouraged by Roberta. Philip went back onto the roof and finished the tiling. He replaced floors and fallen plaster, mended the machineries of lavatory cisterns, and, borrowing the car from next door, got new piping to replace old. He found a thrown-away central-heating panel or two, and there was real heating. He located two great beams of good timber lying on a waste lot half a mile away, but could not lift them; they would have to wait for Bert and Jasper to help him.

Between Alice and Mary and Reggie took place the accounting session that would bring in a regular contribution to the household. Mary, who of course knew exactly what would have to be paid, had already worked out her and Reggie’s shares. It was very little. Electricity, gas? With ten in the house, what could that come to? An assessment was made. Water? The Water Board had not yet caught up with them. It seemed this was as far as the couple had thought; as though that would be it. Alice said dryly that this and this and this had been brought in.

“Yes, but from the skips,” said Mary sharply, betraying that she had not omitted to notice what was being brought in.

This was taking place at the kitchen table. Reggie and Mary opposite each other, so amiable and self-assured; Alice sitting at the head of that table, waiting for what would come her way. She knew already. She could see in Mary’s eyes a gleam that meant she was calculating, not what she might owe to Alice, but what she was accumulating, of course at the moment only in imagination, for the purchase of their flat, or house.

Alice said, “We’ve paid for the gas boiler, for a lot of cable, for tools, for wood, for glass.”

She did not expect very much. Rightly. Glances flew back and forth between Reggie and Mary, and a sum of twenty pounds was offered and accepted.

No mention was made of Philip’s work. Alice could positively hear the thought: But of course he wouldn’t do it if he weren’t going to live here.

Smiling, even demure, Alice accepted the tea that Mary offered to prepare—out of guilt, of course—and looked at the other two
and thought: God, how I hate you people. How I hate your mean, scrimping, grabbing, greedy guts. Because she knew she swelled and paled, in the grip of her look, she smiled even more and then invited them to start talking about their plans for their future home, which they did at once, and ceased to notice her.

Jim took the letter to Cedric Mellings, and came back limp and weepy with happiness. He could start tomorrow. By chance someone was leaving. By chance, Jim would suit Cedric Mellings very well. Jim could look forward, too, to training in the new technical mysteries.

Alice said sharply, “Guilty conscience. That lot—it’s all guilt with them.”

Jim said, “He’s very nice, Alice. He was very nice to me.” They were in the kitchen. Jim, seated, or perched, on his chair, could not settle, but got up and stumbled about, laughing helplessly, or sat and laid his head on the table and laughed, sounding as if he wept, then, in an excess of happiness and gratitude, banged his two fists on either side of his head, which banging turned into a little sharp jubilant rhythm. Next he sat up and flung wide his arms in the same movement, his eyes rolling, his black face smiling wide, white teeth showing.

Alice, with a thousand terrible things to say about her father, kept them back, because she loved Jim, loved his helplessness, his vulnerability, and her own part in alleviating these wounds; because she knew this man, or boy—he was twenty-two—was really sweet, had a sweet gentle warmth in him; and she knew that a spell of happiness, of success, would transform him. She could imagine how he would be, earning money, taking command of his life. She could see him clearly: Jim as he was now, but filled out with confidence and new skills. Therefore, she said not one more word about her shitty father, but only listened, sharing in what she knew was a moment in his life he could never forget.