Doris Lessing - Doris Lessing

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?"

Alice spelled it out: "You people were around - a raid, three nights ago. You had not understood that it was an agreed tenancy - with the Council. I explained the situation. Now I've come to confirm it. It was agreed at the regular meeting of the Council, today."

"What's the address."

"Number forty-three Old Mill Road."

A little flicker of something showed on the policewoman's face. "Wait a minute," she said and disappeared. Alice listened to voices, male and female.

The policewoman came back, with a man; Alice recognised him as one of those from the other night. She was disappointed it was not the one who had kicked in the door.

"Ah, good evening," she addressed him kindly. "You remember, you were in forty-three Old Mill Road, the other night."

"Yes, I remember," he said. Over his face quivered shades of the sniggers he had just been enjoying with his kind. "You were the people who had buried... who dug a pit...."

"Yes. We buried the faeces that the previous people had left upstairs. In buckets."

She studied the disgusted, prim, angry faces opposite her. Male and female. Two of a kind.

She said, "I really cannot imagine why you should react like this. People have been burying their excrement in pits for thousands of years. They do now, over most of the world...." As this did not seem adequately to reach them, "In this country, we have only generally had waterborne sewage for a hundred years or so. Much less in some areas."

"Yes, well, we have it now," said the policewoman smartly.

"That's right," said the policeman.

"It seems to me we did the responsible and the hygienic thing. Nature will take care of it soon enough."

"Well, don't do it again," said the policeman.

"We won't have any need to, will we?" said Alice sweetly. "What I came to say was, if you check with the Council, you will have confirmation: number forty-three is now an agreed squat. An agreed short-term tenancy."

The policewoman reached for a form. Her colleague went back to join his mates. Soon there was a burst of loud scandalised laughter. Then another. The policewoman, diligently filling in her form, tightened her lips; Alice could not make out whether in criticism or not.

"Small things amuse small minds," said Alice.

The policewoman shot her a look that said it was not for her to say so, even if she, herself, had been thinking it.

Alice smiled at her, woman to woman. "And so," she said, "that's it. Number forty-three is now legal, and in order. Any more raids and you'll be stepping well over the line."

"That's for us to say, I think," said the policewoman, with a tight little smile.

"No," said Alice. "As it happens, no. I think not. There will certainly be no further complaints from the neighbours."

"Well, we'll have to hope not," and the policewoman retreated to join her own in the back room.

Alice, satisfied, went out, and home, directing herself to pass 45. No one in the garden now. But in the deep shade in the angle of the two hedges she could just make out that a pit had been dug. She could not resist. For the second time that night, she slid silently in at a garden gate. Forty-five looked deserted; all the windows were dark. The pit was about four feet deep. There was a strong sweet earthy smell from the slopes of soil around its edges. The bottom looked very flat - water? She bent to make sure. A case, or carton, something like that, had been placed at the bottom. She swiftly straightened, looked around. Consciously enjoying her condition, the sense of danger, of threat, she thought: They will be watching from those curtains or upstairs - I would be, in their position. What a risky thing to do, though; she turned to examine the strategy of the operation. No, perhaps it was all right. Whereas the digging of their own pit on the other side of the fence could have been observed by the occupants of three houses and by anyone about in Joan Robbins's house, here two sides were tall fence and hedge, the third the house. Between here and the gate were shrubs and bushes. Joan Robbins's upper windows were dark. Over the road, set back in its own garden, a house; and certainly anyone could see what they liked from the upstairs windows. Which were still dark; the people had not yet gone upstairs to bed. She had seen what she needed to see. She would have liked to stay, the sweet earthy smells and the impetus of risk firing her blood, but she moved, swift as a shadow, to the front door and knocked, gently. It was opened at once. By Andrew.

"I knew you must be watching," she said. "But I've come to say that I told the police station forty-three is an agreed squat. So they will be quite prepared to accept it when you say you are."

Her pulse was beating, her heart racing, every cell dancing and alert. She was smiling, she knew; oh, this was the opposite of "her look," when she felt like this, as if she'd drunk an extra-fine distilled essence of danger, and could have stepped out among the stars or run thirty miles.

She saw the short, powerful figure come out of the dark of the hall, to where she could see his face in the light from the street lamps. It was serious, set in purpose, and the sight of it gave her an agreeable feeling of submission to higher powers.

"I've buried something - an emergency," he said. "It will be gone in a day or two. You understand."

"Perfectly," smiled Alice.

He hesitated. Came out farther. She felt powerful hands on her upper arms. Did she smell spirits? Vodka? Whisky.

"I am asking you to keep it to yourself."

She nodded. "Of course."

"I mean, no one else." She nodded, thinking that if only one person was to know in 43, nevertheless in this house surely several must?

He said, "I am going to trust you completely, Alice." He allowed her his brief tight smile. "Because I have to. No one in this house knows but myself. They have all gone out. I took the opportunity to... make use of a very convenient cache. A temporary cache. I was going to fill in another layer of earth, and then put in some rubbish."

Alice stood smiling, disappointed in him, if not in her own state; she was still floating. She thought that what he had said was likely to be either partly or totally untrue, but it was not her concern. He still gripped her by her upper arms, which, however, were on the point of rejecting this persistent, warning, masculine pressure. He seemed to sense this, for his hands dropped.

"I have to say that I have a different opinion of you than of some of the others from your house. I trust you."

Alice did not say anything. She simply nodded.

He went indoors, nodding at her, but did not smile.