Doris Lessing - Doris Lessing

Philip was working on the electrical wiring of the top floor with the easy-paced, contemplative manner of a workman. Alice, helpfully squatting by him, thought: This one would never make a boss; he's an employee; he can't work without somebody holding his hand. Philip was being obliging, feeling that yesterday he had not been. He talked of all that remained to be done, of how he would do it all, bit by bit; said that first of all the attic should be examined, for so much rain soaking in must have affected the beams. Alice said she would go up there with him, but first of all she must quickly ring Electricity. And where was Jim? He could help in the attics. Alice was thinking: Jim's so big and strong, Philip isn't; together they'd need half the time. But Philip said he had asked Jim, only that morning. Jim was a moody sort of individual, wasn't he? He hadn't liked being asked. In Philip's opinion there was more to Jim than met the eye. Here Alice and Philip exchanged, with their eyes, feelings about Jim; exactly as people looked, but did not speak, apprehensions over Faye - as if something there was too dangerous for words, or at least volatile, to be set off like a risky electronic device by an injudicious combination of sounds.

"Perhaps I'll have a chat with him," said Alice vaguely, and went downstairs to survey her territory before going to the telephone.

Mary, of course, was at work. Reggie? As she wondered, in he came with more cartons of gear. He looked exultant, as befits a man who has conquered territory, but abashed, too, because of all these evidences of concern for the material. He would have preferred, in short, not to have run into Alice. But now said that although he and Mary were already filling a second room with their bits of furniture and stuff, of course they would move it all out at once if that room were needed by anyone to live in.

"There's the attic," said Alice. "Or there will be. It has to be cleared out." She waited for him to offer to help clear it, but that did not occur to him. He went off at once to fetch another load.

Alice thought she would get the business of ringing Electricity over with. She resented having to run out to the telephone, in the middle of this useful busyness, wasting time over something that was just a routine.

But as soon as she heard Mrs. Whitfield's voice she knew she must pay out more of her time and attention to the situation than she thought. Mrs. Whitfield was, if not hostile, stiff with reproach. She said that in her opinion it would be desirable if Alice came in, as soon as possible. Alice said she would come now, it was only just down the road, in a bright chatty voice that insisted there was no real problem, nothing wrong. And put down the receiver gently, in a way that went with the voice. But she was being attacked by one of her rages. Her father! What had he said? It must have been pretty bad for Mrs. Whitfield to change like this.

She was too angry to run down at once to Electricity, had to calm herself by walking briskly around the streets, postponing thoughts about her father till later. But she would show him, he needn't think she wouldn't.

In the anteroom at Electricity she smiled and waved to Mrs. Whitfield: Here I am, a good girl! But Mrs. Whitfield looked away. Four people went in before Alice. What a waste of time.

She sat in front of the official, in the large light office, and knew that Mrs. Whitfield would not cut off the electricity. At least, she did not want to. It was up to Alice. Who began talking about her father. He was rich, he owned a printing firm. Of course he could easily pay the bills if there was need. But he was, Alice admitted, in a bad phase at the moment.

"He's had a lot of trouble," breathed Alice, on her face the look of one who compassionately contemplates human misery, absolving it from blame. And at that moment, it was what she felt. "The breakup with my mother... then all kinds of problems... his new wife, she's nice, she's a good friend of mine, but she's not a coper, you know what I mean? He's got a lot on his back." She burbled on like this, feeling dismally she was not helping herself, while Mrs. Whitfield sat, eyes lowered, pricking out a pattern with the tip of her ballpoint on the top left-hand corner of Alice's form.

"Your father," she remarked at last, "was quite definite about not being prepared to guarantee payment."

She did not want to look at Alice. Alice was trying to make her raise her eyes, take her in. What could Cedric Mellings have said?

She said, "There are ten of us in the house now. That's a lot of money coming in every week."

"Yes, but is some of it going to come this way?" Mrs. Whitfield was too dry to relent, yet. "Aren't any of you in work?"

"One is." She added, on an inspiration, "But she is a Council employee. She works in Belstrode Road, and she doesn't want to give her address as a squat. She couldn't find a place; she was desperate."

Mrs. Whitfield sighed, said, "Yes, I know how bad things can be." But now she raised her eyes and did look differently at Alice, the housemate of a Council official who worked at the main office for this area. She said, "Well, what are we going to do?"

That was it, she had won! Alice could hardly prevent herself from openly exulting.

She said humbly, "I have a brother. He works for Ace Airways. I'll ask him." Mrs. Whitfield nodded, accepting the brother. "But he's in Bahrein at the moment."

Mrs. Whitfield sighed. Not from irritation, but because she knew it was a lie, and felt sorrowful because of Alice. She had lowered her eyes again. A second tricky little pattern was appearing beside the first on Alice's form.

She enquired mildly, "And your brother would be prepared to guarantee the electricity bills for ten people?"

Alice said, "But he would know he wouldn't have to pay them, wouldn't he?" She hurried on, in case Mrs. Whitfield felt obliged actually to answer the question: "But I am sure he'll say yes."

"When is he coming back from Bahrein?"

"In about a month. But I'll go up and see him about it, talk to him and explain. That's where I went wrong with my father. I should have gone over and explained, instead of just assuming..." Her voice trembled. It sounded pathetic, but hot red waves of murder beat inside her. I'll blow that house of theirs up, she was thinking, I'll kill them.

"Yes, I do think that would be a good idea," said Mrs. Whitfield.

A long pause. Not because she was undecided: the decision had been made. She wanted Alice to say something more that would make the situation better, or seem better. But Alice only sat and waited.

"Well," said Mrs. Whitfield at last, sitting upright inside the corset of her strong, short-sleeved brown dress, with her fat arms and fat brown forearms, fat hands with the little rings twinkling on them, all disposed regularly about her, her feet - no doubt, though Alice could not see them - placed side by side. "Well, I'll give you five weeks. That should be plenty of time to see your brother." She was not looking at Alice. "And I'll need more in the way of a deposit."

Alice took out a ten-pound note - not enough, she knew - and placed it in front of Mrs. Whitfield, who took it up, smoothed it flat, placed it in an old-fashioned cashbox in a drawer, wrote out a receipt. Then she said, "I'll see you in five weeks," and sighed again. "Good-bye," said the kindly, decent woman, her distress at the ways of this wicked world written all over her. Almost certainly in her eyes, too, but she was not looking, would not look, at Alice; only said, "Ask the next one to come in."

Alice said, nonchalantly, so as not to make too much of it, though she was soft with gratitude and relief, "Thanks. 'Bye, then," and went out. Five weeks was a lifetime, anything could have - would have - happened. But she was on a winning streak, a lucky wave; she would nip down to the Gas Board and fix things up.