Doris Lessing - Doris Lessing

Jocelin went on, "And I said to them, 'Are you coming back, then?' They said: 'And indeed we shall. Tomorrow morning, and that's a fact.' " In her ordinary voice, Jocelin said, and as if all this had nothing to do with her, "So I suppose they will."

"Then I shan't be here," said Alice, sounding calm, yet feeling sick with panic. She had thought that their trip out to drop those packages had been the end of it all.

"And the other thing was, Felicity came in. She said they have found Philip's sister, and the funeral is on Wednesday."

"Then we can't do what we planned on Wednesday." They had decided that Wednesday was the best day for their feat of arms.

Jocelin said, sounding critical, "First things first."

"But somebody must be at his funeral."

"You go. You aren't essential for the plan."

"But I want to be there!"

Jocelin shrugged. She lifted her mug, stood up, said "Good night," and went upstairs. Probably to perfect the four explosive devices.

Alice was going to bed when Mary and Reggie came in to say that they were moving out on Wednesday; they would hire a remover's van.

Alice was ready to laugh at the remover's van, but remembered that two rooms and part of the attic and most of their bedroom were piled with furniture, and simply said, "Right. Will you need help?"

"Won't say no," said Reggie, and off the two went upstairs. So it can't be on Wednesday, said Alice to herself. She, too, went to bed. She woke early and left a note on the table saying that if the Irishmen turned up, they must be told that she, Alice, was away, and that no one knew where the packages were on the rubbish tip; they had probably been covered over long ago under new rubbish. She went out, thinking that presumably that Russian had told them to come. Well, she had sent him packing, hadn't she? They would soon all get tired of coming; it was simply a question of sticking it out. She pushed her anxiety down and out of sight.

It was a pleasant morning, sunny, not cold. She walked around the streets, found it was only ten, sat for a long time in a little restaurant, eating a breakfast she did not really want. Eleven-thirty. She thought of dropping in to see her mother again, actually got to the door, and then, realising she would see that meagre little sitting room and her mother boxed into it, with the two shabby, once-splendid armchairs, lost heart and went off across London to visit a squat where lived a girl she had known in Birmingham. The girl had been at the CCU Congress. They talked about having another one, perhaps next month. The house was perfect for a Congress. Alice thought, her heart cold, that in a month they would all be gone from that house: it had been taken for granted everyone would scatter. Who knew where they would all be?

She got back at five. Jasper and Bert and Caroline were in the kitchen, eating take-away. One glance was enough to tell Alice that she had been right: Bert and Caroline could now be considered a couple. But Alice decided not to care.

The Irishmen, she was told, had not been again.

Faye and Roberta had come in, and the six - Jasper, Bert, Caroline, with Jocelin - had decided that the job was to go ahead as planned, on Wednesday afternoon. In the morning they would help Mary and Reggie with loading the removal van. Alice could go to the funeral.

"But I don't know if the funeral is morning or afternoon," said Alice.

No one answered. It was not important. Alice thought it would be just like that if she left the squat: she would never be mentioned, would be forgotten, like Jim, like Pat. Like Philip. No, Jasper would be after her, she knew that; the others might forget her, but Jasper could not.

On Tuesday they all went down to the scene of the crime - their joke - and walked around and about the great hotel, part of the crowds. Of course, they took trouble to dress the part. Jocelin, it seemed, did possess more than her jeans and sweater. She wore a dress of pinkish linen that looked as if it had been bought in Knightsbridge. Caroline, similarly, acquired the protective colouring of a beige well-cut skirt and a yellow shirt. Roberta, out of principle, refused to change, but looked unremarkable in her dark-blue boiler suit. Faye had on a fluffy white blouse and jeans, and was noticeable not only because she was so pretty, but because she was aflame with secret triumph, which made her chatter and display herself. She was the essence of her cockney self, witty and outrageous, but while they laughed, they kept saying to her, "Calm down, be quiet," and so on, while Roberta was anxiously in attendance on her. Jasper, too, had a look of elation which made him, thought Alice, rather beautiful. He seemed serenely above the scene of thronging shoppers and tourists, superior to everything; was in a daze of imaginings about how - and so soon - they would prove themselves here, in this shameless, luxurious scene. After their successful reconnaissance, they all went in to have tea.

Then they took a taxi to Hammersmith, where they saw Diva, a film some of them had seen already more than once. They had supper together in their Indian restaurant near home, agreeing they must go to bed early. They told Reggie and Mary it was because of all the hard work they meant to do tomorrow hefting furniture - this, they could see, seemed reasonable to the couple, for whom the business of moving their furniture, reinstalling their furniture, arranging their furniture was the only thing worthy to occupy their minds. Though Mary did remark, almost absent-mindedly, that this house was on the agenda for next week, and there was a recommendation from Bob Hood that "matters should be expedited." It was a shame, remarked Mary, that these lovely houses were not being used.

Alice became suddenly so angry that she was hardly able to bring out, "What a pity that the Council was prepared to leave them empty for six years."

Mary could have flared up, as Alice had done. She went red, while the official and the human being fought inside her, and then she said, with a laugh that was both apologetic and offended, "Yes, I know, it was awful letting things slide for so long."

"But it will be all right now," said Alice, not at all mollified. "There will be some people living in them."

Mary hesitated, then went out of the kitchen, followed by Reggie. Written all over him was, Thank God, I'll be out of here tomorrow!

Philip's funeral was at ten o'clock on Wednesday. At nine, leaving the others boisterously loading furniture into a van that seemed to fill the street, Alice went to Felicity's, where she found two other people who had liked Philip when he lived there. The four went to the crematorium, in Felicity's car. Philip's sister was there with her husband. They had come down, it seemed, from Aberdeen. Philip was Scottish, a fact that till this moment had not emerged.

The sister was a pale thin little thing, with a dogged look to her, like Philip: determined not to be blown away by the hostile winds of life. Her husband was a small, pale young man with weak blue eyes and a straggly moustache. They both had strong Scottish accents. This couple seemed anxious to avoid Philip's four friends, or at least spoke as little as possible, then, politeness satisfied, went to sit by themselves in the "chapel." It was a proper religious service. Neither Felicity nor Alice, nor the other two, a young man and a girl who had once helped Philip paint out a living room, knew whether Philip had been religious. Perhaps this was only bureaucracy taking its course. And the sister and her husband did not enlighten them. The coffin, large, brown, and shiny, which had to make anyone who had known Philip think of how his frail little body must be lying, like a dead moth, within it, stood full in their view, while a Church of England clergyman did his best to give life to these words that he intoned so often.