The Good Terrorist

by Doris Lessing

  Now he did look at Alice, and was able to sustain the look, though it was evident it was a strain, keeping his eyes on his daughter’s eyes; he simply did not understand what he was seeing.

  “I suppose it is no good asking you to return the money?” he almost pleaded.

  At this Alice laughed. The laugh acknowledged, even admiringly, some sort of necessity that Cedric, poor fool, could not begin to understand. He, however, nodded, having understood. He said, “I suppose that Jasper of yours has already got it. Well, I know it is no use saying anything to you about him. You have a blind spot of some kind. But you must understand this: you are not having any more money from me. I see no reason why I should support that—well, let that go. I am very pushed for money, Alice–do you understand that? And it’s not just this thousand. A few days ago, some hooligan or other walked into our bedroom, mine and Jane’s—and lifted …” Suddenly, as the thought struck him, he jerked back in his chair as if he had been given a minor electric shock and stared at Alice, his jaw literally dropping. Until this moment, that theft had not been connected with Alice. She merely smiled, admitting nothing, but knowing that she need not bother with denials.

  Again he had been shocked to the heart, could not speak, sat struggling to order his thoughts. He was breathing shallowly, in quick gasps. Then he fumbled for a cigarette, lit it clumsily, and sat drawing in smoke as if it were a narcotic.

  At last he said, “Alice, I don’t know.… Now you are a thief? Is that it? Is that how you live? I don’t understand.” Putting out the cigarette again, as though stubbing Alice out of existence, he said, “I thought it was some hooligan, these kids who come into a house on an impulse.…” It was at this point that the next thought hit him, and again he sat staring. “Was that you?” he asked blankly; “did you throw that stone?” He knew it was; this was not a question.

  He said, “That stone missed little Deborah by six inches. There was glass everywhere—Jane got a splinter in her leg.…”

  He shook his head, like a dog with pain in its ears. He was shaking Alice off—forever.

  “You are, of course, quite right in your calculations,” he said. “You worked it all out. You decided I would not go to the police, because you are my daughter. I won’t this time. But next time I shall. As far as I am concerned, you’ve become some sort of wild animal. You are beyond ordinary judgement.”

  Alice stood up. She did not feel pain at this casting off; she felt that she had been cast off, abandoned, long ago.

  She said, “What is my mother’s address?”

  This query took some time to reach Cedric. He had to give himself time to let the thought reach him. He said, “Have you lost her address, then?”

  “I never had it. She just left, didn’t she? Just left our house, just abandoned it.” Alice’s voice was all furious accusation.

  “What are you talking about? She’s been going to move for months.”

  “Because you won’t support her,” she shrieked.

  “Because I won’t support bums like you and Jasper.”

  “Well, what is her address?”

  “Find it out yourself. The next thing, I suppose, you’ll be stealing from poor Dorothy and throwing stones through her windows.”

  But this came out in a stumbling, heavy voice; he still could hardly believe it all.

  Alice went out of his office and along a passage to the general office at the end. To the girl there in charge of the files, she said: “What is my mother’s address? Dorothy Mellings, what is her address?” This girl had, of course, not been told of the scandal of the boss’s daughter, and she willingly went to the tall cabinet, found the card, read it to Alice, who memorised it and ran out. She passed Jill, who stared at her, almost pleadingly, as if Alice were a murderer, or thug, who could attack her.

  Alice ran through the stationer’s, where idiots bought magazines about gracious living, romantic or adventure novels, and pretty cards saying “For a Special Friend,” “Love on Your Birthday,” or “I’m Thinking of You.” Or boxes of letter paper with daffodils or roses on them. Or … just shit and rubbish.

  Alice went to a café in Finchley Road, and sat for a long time quietly by herself over strong coffee. She needed to think.

  She decided that the link with Bert was unlikely to hold Jasper back from one of his binges; that she would have to sit it out; that Bert was almost certainly going after Pat; that the best thing she could do was to organise a Congress of the CCU for as soon as possible. The work for this would foment in the house the right kind of feeling, atmosphere, to do away with the nastiness of the last day or so. She had just saved the situation with Jim. But Philip, a gentle and even timid soul, would leave if something were not done.

  When she got home, the door into Jim’s room was open, and all his things gone.

  This really did hit her, hard. She wailed, standing there, looking in at the room that had nothing left of him. Not his musical instruments—drums, guitar, accordion; not his sleeping bag, or his clothes, or his record player … nothing. Jim had been blown out of this room as though he had never been.

  She did not have any addresses of friends, or family.

  She stood at the open door, fists up on either side of her head, banging it, banging it hard, and wailing, “No, no, no, oh no …”

  Feet running down the stairs; Faye stood there, indignant, outraged: “Whatever is the matter?” she called.

  “Jim—he’s gone, he’s gone.”

  “Good riddance,” said Faye, smartly, laughing. “We didn’t want him anyway.”

  Looking up, Alice could see, above Faye, Philip, whose face said that he heard this, as—no doubt—Faye wanted him to. But she saw, too, Roberta, who came swiftly to Faye, and seized her two arms, and pulled her back out of sight. Roberta’s face was grave and shocked—hurt because of Faye.

  Roberta’s low urgent voice; Faye’s tittering, high laugh. A door slammed. Roberta came running down, grasped Alice, stood rocking the sobbing girl: “There, there, there …”

  “It’s my fault,” sobbed Alice. “Mine. I did it. It’s because of me.”

  “There, there, there. Never mind.”

  She took Alice to the sitting room and made her get inside the sleeping bag. She fetched her a tumbler of whisky, bade her drink, sleep, forget it.

  Hysterical Alice, like the so-often hysterical Faye, was being doped into harmlessness.

  She slept until evening. Then she found, in the kitchen, Roberta and Faye, Mary and Reggie. Jasper was not there. Bert had gone to see whether he could persuade Pat to return to him.

  Alice, sitting down, said, “I think we should organise a CCU Congress.”

  “Another democratic decision?” said Faye, laughing.

  “I’m suggesting it,” said Alice. “I’m putting it forward.”

  “And I’m in favour,” said Roberta. “There are all kinds of members we have never met. A new branch, new groups—we should meet.”

  “It sounds a good idea,” said Reggie in a judicial way, one who would always welcome congresses, discussions, any manifestations of the democratic process.

  “Yes, I agree,” said Mary. “I’ve been thinking, it might be just the kind of political party I’ve been looking for. I’ve no time for the big bureaucratic parties, anyway.”

  “When?” said Faye.

  “Soon,” said Alice. “The sooner the better. The party has grown quite fast. We need to consolidate and formulate policies now.”

  General agreement, though Faye came in only because Roberta did.

  Five days, five nights followed, without Jasper. Bert returned, unfulfilled, and with a gaunt bitter look to him that Alice continued to feel as an improvement. Bert asked where Jasper was; Alice, as usual covering up, said that Jasper had decided to visit a brother. Bert, who had after all spent a fair bit of time with Jasper, was surprised that a brother had never been mentioned. Alice said that Jasper did visit his brother, who was his only “viable relative.” This phrase ca
used Bert to look at her oddly, but she said he had a shitty family, and the brother was the only decent person in it. (Jasper’s visits to his brother did in fact happen, if rarely.)

  Bert, Alice was pleased to see, missed Jasper, tended to be at a loose end. But they were in a phase of intense activity, for the Congress was to be the weekend after next, in this house, number 43. Message sending and letter writing went on, and they were always running up to the telephone booths at the station.

  Alice undertook most of this; but Bert visited the branch in South London to make sure everyone would be inspired to come. Number 45 was asked whether people wished to attend, if not as members or potential members, as delegates or observers. Observers, Alice knew, there would certainly be; and was not surprised when goose-girl Muriel said she would attend. Comrade Andrew said he would have liked to be present, only he would be away.

  Both houses could be used as dormitories, if number 43 proved inadequate.

  Alice undertook to provide filling but cheap food. For once some contributions to her funds were assured, since delegates would be charged a small fee for their food and lodging. After discussion, this was set at two pounds a head for the weekend.

  Alice also said it would be a good thing if all the rubbish remaining in number 45 were to be disposed of, for it gave such a bad impression. As nothing was done, she borrowed the car and made several trips, Philip assisting, to the rubbish dumps.

  Philip’s misgivings, his hurt over Jim, were being assuaged by the Congress, and the happy atmosphere that was leading up to it.

  Bert repeatedly visited number 45 during those five days. He was seeing Comrade Andrew, as Alice knew, for she, too, visited Comrade Andrew, who seemed to want to talk about Bert, making no secret of his plan for him, which was that he should follow the path of job, flat, security, and respectability. And “special training,” unspecified but understood. Alice rather wondered at the choice of Bert; why had Andrew changed his mind about him? She herself would not rely much on him. Too easily led, for instance! Was there anything else that Bert discussed with Andrew? Alice was anxious to know, for if the IRA wouldn’t have Bert and Jasper (and, by extension, the rest of them, Alice included), then something else of the kind would certainly make its appearance. They all wanted to be of use, to serve! Alice probed Andrew, but he was either not giving anything away, or was ignorant of Bert and Jasper’s alternative ideas. Alice probed Bert, but it seemed he was waiting for Jasper to “formulate a commitment appropriate to our resources.” Again Alice was thinking, “So much for easy impressions!”—the impression in this case, and she knew that many people thought this way, being that Jasper was Bert’s hanger-on, his disciple.

  Jasper had several times mentioned Muriel, and this could have given Alice a clue, if her dislike of Muriel did not always rise promptly in her, preventing her from hearing what she might have done. Muriel, Jasper had said, was leaving 45. She was going to begin work. “Real work,” he had emphasised, with a proud, but discreet smile, inviting Alice with his eyes and his manner to understand him. But what she had needed to hear from him was that he found Muriel as off-putting as she did: he certainly didn’t like her, Alice knew that. “Comrade Andrew has fixed it all up, you know, the training and everything.” His respect for Andrew clearly made what he felt about Muriel unimportant.

  Alice even tried to find out from Muriel what Jasper’s plans might be, but as soon as Muriel heard Jasper’s name, she said briskly that in her opinion Andrew was “basically” a sound and useful cadre. This seemed to Alice thoroughly off the point. Was it said, she wondered, because of her—Alice’s—occasional doubts over Andrew?

  These doubts, hard to pin down, because reason easily disposed of them all, crystallised around the fact that Comrade Andrew too often smelled of drink; she could not bring herself to criticise him for his partiality to the goose-girl, because she had learned so long ago and so thoroughly simply to switch off in this area. People had to have all this sex, she knew that; they had to have it with surprising people and in sometimes surprising ways. Just because Comrade Andrew was … what he was, did that mean he had taken a vow of celibacy? No! All the same … Bottles of whisky and vodka stood on the mantelpiece of his room, often replaced.

  There was another girl, Caroline, who, it appeared, lived at 45, though she was not much seen. Alice would have liked to talk to her, for she felt drawn to her in some kind of kinship; but Caroline did not feel this, it seemed. At any rate, she remained aloof. She was a short, rather plump woman—or girl, for she was in her early twenties—dark, not unattractive, who gave the impression of smiling a lot. Perhaps it was this easy smile that drew Alice, although her eyes, never off guard, were like hard little brown buttons. Yet the general impression was of good nature, wanting to please. Caroline, said the goose-girl crisply, was not prepared to follow Comrade Andrew’s prescriptions for becoming a really useful cadre, but had (Muriel thought, and therefore Andrew must think) tendencies towards liberal idealism.

  Caroline had a friend called Jocelin who visited number 45, and who it seemed might even decide to live there. She, unlike Caroline, was off-putting. A stocky, even heavy woman, with straight blond hair that was parted in the middle and otherwise unregulated, she padded about with firm, deliberate steps, not looking much at anyone, not smiling easily as Caroline did, only nodding indifferently when Alice caught a glimpse of her through a door or coming efficiently through the hall.

  There were also a couple of young men who lived in 45, who had not actually been seen by Alice. The goose-girl said that Andrew was “working on them”—apparently with success. They were from the North of England, working-class, unemployed—but, it was thought, only temporarily. These four—Caroline, Jocelin, Paul, and Edward—refused to attend the CCU Congress, but would come to the party afterwards, on Saturday night. There would be, in short, a good many observers around that weekend; and, as far as Alice was concerned, why not?

  Jasper came home on the Sunday night. As always after these excursions, he looked ill. He had lost weight, and was more than usually thin. There was a dull spotty look to his creamy skin, his eyes were bloodshot, he had a shredded, weak appearance as though his essential self had been attacked or depleted. He found Alice at once, and she fed him her soup, good bread, and glass after glass of cold milk: milk that she had made certain to have in the refrigerator for him. Nothing was said about the money.

  Told about the Congress, he was at first indifferent, and soon asked for Bert, who joked about his appearance, and said his brother could not have given him anything to eat. Jasper joked that his brother wasn’t, like Alice, a cook. Although it was evident he should be in bed, he insisted on going with Bert up to the top of the house to talk. Some plan or decision had been maturing in him, even while he pursued the excitements of the homosexual scene. He had to talk about it at once.

  When he did decide to go to bed, he went back to the room on the top floor, as Alice had expected.

  As for her, she was again sleeping in the room she had shared with Jasper, next to Bert’s. For one thing, she knew that if Pat came back, then Jasper would be back, too.

  On that Monday, Philip said he had had one serious answer to all his advertising. But he wanted help. The trouble was that time after time he went along to offer his services, and people took one look at him and made excuses. Yet he could do the job perfectly well—as everyone in number 43 could verify. He wanted Bert to go with him as his mate. He could remain silent if he wanted; it was just for the first interview. Once the thing had been agreed, it would not be easy for the clients to turn him, Philip, down, even though he would arrive for work without Bert. This plan caused a lot of good humour around the supper table. Bert agreed, and the plan succeeded. The work in number 43 was deemed finished, even though in the attic were two rotten beams that were spreading their infection through the house. Philip said he would attend to them when he had done this job, for which he would be properly paid. He had refused to start without a
good sum down in advance, and would not complete the work unless paid step by step. It was at a new take-away restaurant half a mile away.

  The first delegates arrived in midweek, Molly and Helen from the Liverpool branch. They were militants in the Women’s Movement, and had written to say they would be prepared to organise a crèche. If there were no crèche, mothers with small children would not be able to come; it was a question of principle. It must be understood, though, that they would cater only for girl children; that, too, was their principle, successfully applied, apparently, in all the crèches they undertook.

  Alice had vaguely supposed that there would be children coming with parents; but now, reminded of the thorns and snags of the thickets of principle and, too, of Faye’s probable reactions, sent off a second batch of messages and letters in all directions to say that children could not come. Molly and Helen had a good deal to say about this when they arrived; and Alice was relieved when they decided to make the most of their stay in the capital, with its amenities, and went off at once for a day with the pickets in Melstead. They spent another day visiting Faye and Roberta’s women’s commune, followed by a late-night porno movie with Faye and Roberta, from which they returned laughing, restless with vitality—much better not ask what kind—and very hungry. Offering their two pounds each, they said they would not go shopping with Alice tomorrow, for they needed to buy clothes, but they would help her cook later.