Doris Lessing - The Good Terrorist

‘Yes, I know that sometimes…’ said Mary Williams swiftly. She sighed. Her glance at Alice was a plea not to make a scene. Alice saw it, saw that scenes not infrequently occurred at this desk.

She said, ‘There must be a mistake. Surely they aren’t entitled to destroy a house like this…Have you seen it? It’s a good house. A good place…’

‘I think they mean to put up flats.’

‘Naturally! What else?’

The two young women laughed, their eyes meeting.

‘Wait,’ said Mary Williams, and went off to confer, in her hand the sheet containing the vital statistics of the house. She stood by the desk of a man at the end of the room, and came back to say, ‘There have been a lot of complaints about the state of the houses. The police, for one.’

‘Yes, it’s a disgusting mess,’ agreed Alice. ‘But it’ll be cleared up in no time.’

Here Mary nodded, Proceed! and sat doodling, while Alice talked.

And talked. About the house. Its size, its solidity, its situation. Said that, apart from a few slates, it was structurally sound. Said it needed very little to make it liveable. She talked about the Birmingham squat and the agreed tenancy there; about Manchester, where a slum scheduled for demolition had been reprieved, and became an officially recognized student residence.

‘I’m not saying it couldn’t happen,’ said Mary.

She sat thinking, her biro at work on a structure of cells, like a honeycomb. Yes, Alice knew, Mary was all right, she was on their side. Although Mary was not her style, with her dark little skirt and crisp little blouse, with her bra outlining the modest breast where the whale cavorted, tail in the sky, black on blue sea. All the same, Mary’s soft masses of dark hair that went into curls on her forehead, and her plump white hands, made Alice feel warm and secure. She knew that if Mary had anything to with it, things would go well.

‘Wait a minute,’ Mary said; and again went to confer with her colleague. This man now gave Alice a long inspection, and Alice sat confidently, to be looked at. She knew how she seemed: the pretty daughter of her mother, short curly fair hair nicely brushed, pink and white face lightly freckled, open blue-grey gaze. A middle-class girl with her assurance, her knowledge of the ropes, sat properly in the chair, and if she wore a heavy blue military jacket, under it was a flowered pink and white blouse.

Mary Williams came back and said, ‘The houses are coming up for a decision on Wednesday.’

‘The police gave us four days to clear out.’

‘Well, I don’t see what we can do.’

‘All we need is a statement, in writing, that the case is being considered, to show the police, that’s all.’

Mary Williams did not say anything. From her posture, and her eyes – that did not look at Alice – it was suddenly clear that she was after all, very young, and probably afraid for her job.

There was some sort of conflict there, Alice could see: this was more than just an official who sometimes did not like the work she had to do. Something personal was boiling away in Mary Williams, giving her a stubborn, angry little look. And this again brought her to her feet and took her for the third time to the official whose job it was to say yes and no.

‘You do realize,’ said Mary Williams, talking for her colleague, ‘that this letter would say only that the house is on the agenda for Wednesday?’

Alice said, inspired, ‘Why don’t you come and see it? You and –?’

‘Bob Hood. He’s all right. But he’s the one who…’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Alice. ‘But why don’t you both come and see the house?’

‘The houses, yes – I think Bob did see them, but it was some time ago – yes, perhaps we should.’

Mary was writing the words which would – Alice was sure – save the house. For as long as it was needed by Alice and the others. Save it permanently, why not? The piece of paper was slid into an envelope bearing the name of the Council, and Alice took it.

‘Have you got a telephone in the house?’

‘It was ripped out.’ It was on the tip of Alice’s tongue to describe the state of the house: cement in the lavatories, loose electric cables, the lot; but instinct said no. Although she knew that this girl, Mary, would be as furious, as sick, as anyone could be, that such deliberate damage could be done to a place, the damage had been done by officialdom, and Mary was an official. Nothing should be done to arouse that implacable beast, the bureaucrat.

‘When should I ring you?’ she asked.

‘Thursday.’

That was the day the police said they would be thrown out.

‘Will you be here on Thursday?’

‘If not, Bob over there will take the call.’

But Alice knew that with Bob things would not go so well.

‘It’s routine,’ said Mary Williams. ‘Either they will pull the houses down at once, or they will postpone it. They have already postponed several times.’ Here she offered Alice the smile of their complicity, and added, ‘Good luck.’

‘Thanks. See you.’

Alice left. It was only five o’clock. In one day she had done it. In eight hours.

In the soft spring afternoon everything was in movement, the pastel clouds, new young leaves, the shimmering surfaces of lawns; and when she reached her street it was full of children, cats and gardeners. This scene of suburban affluence and calm provoked in her a rush of violent derision, like a secret threat to everything she saw. At the same time, parallel to this emotion and in no way affecting it, ran another current, of want, of longing.

She stopped on the pavement. From the top of her house a single yellow jet splashed on to the rubbish that filled the garden. Across the hedge from her, in the neighbouring house, a woman stood with a trowel loaded with seedlings, their roots in loose black earth, and she was staring at the shameful house. She said, ‘Disgusting, I’ve rung the Council!’

‘Oh no ,’ cried Alice, ‘no, please…’ But, seeing the woman’s hardened face and eyes, she said, ‘Look, I’ve just been to the Council. It will be all right, we are negotiating.’

‘And how about all that rubbish, then,’ stated, not asked, the woman. She turned her back on Alice, and bent to the fragrant earth of her flower-bed.

Alice arrived at her door in a tumult of passionate identification with the criticized house, anger at whoever was responsible for the errant stream – probably Jasper; and a need to get the work of reconstruction started.

The door would not budge when she pushed it. The red heat of rage enveloped her, and she banged on the door, screaming, ‘How dare you, how dare you lock me out?’ while she saw with her side vision how the woman gardener had straightened and was gazing at this scene over her neat little hedge.

Her anger went as she told herself, You must do something about her, soon, she must be on our side.

She offered the woman a quick little placatory smile and wave of the hand rather like the wagging tail of an apologetic dog, but her neighbour only stared, and turned away.

Suddenly the door opened and Jasper’s fingers were tight around her wrist. His face had a cold grin on it which she knew was fear. Of whom?

As he dragged her in, she said, in a voice like a hushed shout, ‘Let me go. Don’t be stupid.’

‘Where have you been?’

‘Where do you think?’

‘What have you been doing all day?’

‘Oh belt up,’ she said, shaking her wrist to restore it, as he released her on seeing that doors had opened and in the hall were Jim, Pat, Bert, and two young women dressed identically in loose blue dungarees and fluffy white cardigans, standing side by side and looking critical.