The Good Terrorist

‘But you have all those rich friends.’ Another silence. Alice then, in a full, maternal, kindly, lecturing voice, began, ‘Mum, why aren’t you like us? We share what we have. We help each other out when we’re in trouble. Don’t you see that your world is finished? The day of the rich selfish bourgeoisie is over. You are doomed…’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Alice’s mother, and Alice warmed into the purest affection again, for the familiar comforting note of irony was back in her mother’s voice, the awful deadness and emptiness gone. ‘But you have at some point to understand that your father is not prepared any longer to share his ill-gotten gains with Jasper and all his friends.’

‘Well, at least he is prepared to see they are ill-gotten,’ said Alice earnestly.

A sigh. ‘Go away, Alice,’ said Alice’s mother. ‘Just go away. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to hear from you. Try to understand that you can’t say the things to people you said to me this morning and then just turn up, as if nothing had happened, with a bright smile, for another hand-out.’

The line went dead.

Alice stood, in a dazzle of shock. Her head was full of dizzying shadow and light. Someone behind her in the queue said, ‘If you’ve finished…’, pushed in front of her, and began to dial.

Alice drifted off on to the pavement and wandered aimlessly around the perimeter of that area, now fenced off with high, corrugated iron, where so recently there had been a market, full of people buying and selling. She had had a pitch there herself last summer, and first she sold cakes and biscuits and sweets, and then hot soup, and sandwiches. Proper food, all wholemeal flour and brown sugar, and vegetables grown without insecticides. She cooked all this in her mother’s kitchen. Then the Council closed the place down. To build another of their shitty great enormous buildings, their dead bloody white elephants that wouldn’t be wanted by anyone but the people who made a profit out of building them. Corruption. Corruption everywhere. Alice, weeping out loud, blubbering, went stumbling about outside the enormous iron fence, like a fence around a concentration camp, thinking that last summer…

A whistle shrieked. Some factory or other…one o’clock. She hadn’t done anything yet…Standing on the long shallow steps that led to the Public Library, she wiped her face, and made her eyes look out instead of in. It was a nice day. The sun was shining. The sky was full of racing white clouds, and the blue seemed to dazzle and promise.

She went back to the telephones in the Underground and rang her father’s office on the private number.

He answered at once.

‘This is Alice.’

‘The answer is no.’

‘You don’t know what I was going to say.’

‘Say it.’

‘I want you to guarantee our expenses, electricity and gas, for a squat.’

‘No.’

She hung up, the burning anger back. Its energy took her to the pavement, and walked her up the avenue to a large building which was set back a bit, with steps. She raced up them and pressed a bell, holding it down until a woman’s voice, not the one she expected, said, ‘¿Sí?’

‘Oh, fucking Christ, the maid,’ said Alice, aloud. And, ‘Where’s Theresa?’

‘She at work.’

‘Let me in. Let me come in.’

Alice pushed open the door on the buzzer, almost fell into the hall, and thumped up four flights of heavily carpeted stairs to a door, where a short dumpy dark woman stood, looking out for her.

‘Just let me in,’ said Alice, fiercely pushing her aside, and the Spanish woman said nothing, but stood looking at her, trying to find the right words to say.

Alice went into the sitting-room where she had so often been with her friend Theresa, her friend ever since she, Alice, had been born, kind and lovely Theresa. A large calm ordered room, with great windows, and beyond them gardens…She stood panting. I’ll tear down those pictures, she was thinking, I’ll sell them, I’ll take those little netsukes, what are they worth? I’ll smash the place up…

She tore to the telephone, and rang the office. But Theresa was in conference.

‘Get her,’ she commanded. ‘Get her at once. It is an emergency. Tell her it’s Alice.’

She had no doubt that Theresa would come, and she did.

‘What is it, Alice, what’s wrong, what is the matter?’

‘I want you to guarantee expenses. For a squat. No, no, you won’t have to pay anything, ever, just your signature.’

‘Alice, I’m in the middle of a conference.’

‘I don’t care about your shitty conference. I want you to guarantee our electricity and gas.’

‘You and Jasper?’

‘Yes. And others.’

‘I’m sorry, my dear. No.’

‘What’s the matter with Jasper? Why are you like this? Why? He’s just as good as you are.’

Theresa said, calm and humorous, as always, ‘No, Alice, he is not as good as I am. Far from it. Anyway, that’s it. No, but I’ll give you fifty pounds if you come round.’

‘I am around. I am in your flat. But I don’t want your shitty fifty pounds.’

‘Well, then, I’m sorry, my dear.’

‘You spend fifty pounds on a dress. On a meal.’

‘You shared the meal, didn’t you? This is silly. I’m sorry, I’m busy. All the buyers are here from everywhere.’

‘It’s not silly. When have you seen me spend fifty pounds on a meal? If my mother wants to spend fifty pounds on food for all her shitty rich friends, and I cook it, that doesn’t mean…’

‘Listen, Alice, if you want to come round and have a talk tonight, you are welcome. But it will have to be late, because I will be working until eleven, at least.’

‘You…you…are a lot of rich shits,’ said Alice, suddenly listless.

She put down the receiver, and was about to leave when she remembered, and went to the bathroom, where she emptied herself, again carefully washed her face, and brushed her hair. She was hungry. She went to the kitchen and cut herself a lavish sandwich. Lisa followed her and stood at the door to watch, her hands folded around the handle of a feather duster, as if in prayer. A dark patient tired face. She supported her family in Valencia, so said Theresa. She stood watching Alice eating her salami and her pâté on thick bread. Then watched while Alice peered into every corner of the refrigerator, and brought out some leftover spiced rice, which she ate with a spoon, standing up.

Then she said, ‘Ciao,’ and heard as she left, ‘Buenos días, señorita.’ There was something in that voice, a criticism, that again lit the anger, and she ran down all the stairs again and out on to the pavement.

It was after two.

Her thoughts whirled about. Jasper, why did they hate him so? It was because they were afraid of him. Afraid of his truth…She realized that she had walked herself to a bus-stop, and the bus would take her to the Council. She got on, suddenly cold, concentrated, and careful.

She was rehearsing in her mind her previous successful negotiations. A great deal would depend, she knew, on whom she saw…luck…Well, she had been lucky before. And besides, what she was suggesting was reasonable, in the best interests of everybody, the ratepayers, the public.

In the great room filled with desks and people and telephones, she sat opposite a girl, younger than she, and knew at once that she was lucky. On Mary Williams’s left breast was a ‘Save the Whales!’ button, and the sprightly shape of the animal made Alice feel soft and protective. Mary Williams was a good person, like herself, like Jasper, like all their friends. She cared.

Alice gave the address of her house confidently, stated her case and waited until the official turned to press a button or two, and the information arrived, to be set on the desk between them.

‘Scheduled for demolition,’ said Mary Williams, and sat smiling, nothing more to be said.

This Alice had not expected. She could not speak. It was grief that filled her, transmuting, but slowly, to rage. The face that Mary Williams saw swelled and shone, and caused her to say uncomfortably, even stammering, ‘Why, why, what is the matter?’

‘It can’t be demolished, it can’t,’ stated Alice, in a toneless empty voice. Then, rage exploding, ‘It’s a marvellous house, perfect! How can you demolish it? It’s a bloody scandal.’

‘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.

Chapter 2

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.

‘We always try to keep this door locked and barred because of the police,’ said Bert, in a hurried, placating way, and Alice thought, Well, there’s no need to bother much with him, as she said, ‘It wasn’t locked this morning when we came. And the police don’t come at this time, do they?’ She said this because she had to say something; she knew her fit of rage outside the door was unfortunate.

The five were all staring at her, their faces shadowed by the dull light from the hurricane lamp, and she said, in her ordinary mild voice, ‘I’ve seen the Council, and it’s all right.’

‘What do you mean, it’s all right?’ demanded Bert, asserting himself.

Alice said, ‘Everyone’s here, I want to discuss it. Why not now?’

‘Anyone against?’ said Jasper jocularly, but he was shielding Alice, as she saw with gratitude. The seven filed into the sitting-room, which was still in full daylight.

Alice’s eyes were anxiously at work on the two unknown girls. As if unable or unwilling to give much time to this affair, they perched on the two arms of a shabby old chair. They were sharing a cigarette. One was a soft-faced fair girl, with her hair in a ponytail, and little curls and tendrils all around her face. The other was a bulky girl, no, a woman, with short black curls that had a gleam of silver in them. Her face was strong, her eyes direct, and she looked steadily at Alice, reserving judgment. She said, ‘This is Faye, I am Roberta.’

She was saying, too, that they were a couple, but Alice had seen this already.

‘Alice. Alice Mellings.’

‘Well, Comrade Alice, you don’t let the grass grow. I, for one, would have liked to discuss it all first.’

‘That’s right,’ said Faye, ‘that goes for me, too. I like to know what’s being said in my name.’ She spoke in a cockney voice, all pert and pretty, and Alice knew at once that she affected it, had adopted it, as so many others did. A pretty little cockney girl sat presenting herself, smiling, to everyone, and Alice was staring at her, trying to see what was really there.

This acute, judging inspection made Faye shift about and pout a little, and Roberta came in quickly with, ‘What are we being committed to, Comrade Alice?’

‘Oh I see,’ said Alice. ‘You’re lying low.’

Roberta let out an amused snort that acknowledged Alice’s acuity, and said, ‘You’re right. I want to keep a low profile for a bit.’

‘Me too,’ said Faye. ‘We are drawing Security over in Clapham, but better not ask how. Least said soonest mended,’ she ended, prettily, tossing her head.

‘And what you don’t know won’t hurt you,’ said Roberta.

‘Ask no questions and get told no lies,’ quipped Faye.

‘But truth is stranger than fiction,’ said Roberta.

‘You can say that again,’ said Faye.

This nice little act of theirs made everyone laugh appreciatively. As good as a music-hall turn: Faye the cockney lass and her feed. Roberta was not speaking cockney, but had a comfortable, accommodating homely voice with the sound of the North in it. Her own voice? No, it was a made-up one. Modelled on Coronation Street, probably.

‘That’s another reason we don’t want the police crashing in all the time,’ said Bert. ‘I am pleased Comrade Alice is trying to get this regularized. Go on with your report, Comrade Alice.’

Bert had also modified his voice. Alice could hear in it at moments the posh tones of some public school, but it was roughened with the intention of sounding working-class. Bad luck, he gave himself away.

Alice talked. (Her own voice dated from the days of her girls’ school in North London, basic BBC correct, flavourless. She had been tempted to reclaim her father’s Northern tones, but had judged this dishonest.) She did not say that she had rung her mother and her father, but said she could get fifty pounds at short notice. Then she summed up her visit to the Council, scrutinizing what she saw in her mind’s eye: the expressions on the face of Mary Williams, which told Alice the house would be theirs; and because of some personal problem or attitude of Mary’s. But all Alice said about this, the nub of the interview with Mary, was ‘She’s all right. She’s on our side. She’s a good person.’

‘You mean, you’ve got something to show the police?’ said Jim, and when Alice handed over the yellow envelope he took out what was in it and pored over it. He was one whose fate, Alice could see, had always been determined by means of papers, reports, official letters. Jim’s voice was genuine cockney, the real thing.

She asked suddenly, ‘Are you bound over?’

Jim’s look at her was startled, then defensive, then bitter. His soft, open boyish face closed up and he said, ‘What about it?’

‘Nothing,’ said Alice. Meanwhile a glance at Faye and Roberta had told her that both of them were bound over. Or worse. Yes, probably worse. Yes, certainly worse. On the run?

‘Didn’t know you were,’ said Bert. ‘I was until recently.’

‘So was I,’ claimed Jasper at once, not wanting to be left out. Jasper’s tones were almost those of his origins. He was the son of a solicitor in a Midlands town, who had gone bankrupt when Jasper was half-way through his schooling at a grammar school. He had finished his education on a scholarship. Jasper was very clever; but he had seen the scholarship as charity. He was full of hatred for his father, who had been stupid enough to go in for dubious investments. His middle-class voice, like Bert’s, had been roughened. With working-class comrades he could sound like them, and did, at emotional moments.

Pat remarked, ‘It’s getting dark,’ and she stood up, struck a match, and lit two candles that stood on the mantelpiece in rather fine brass candlesticks. But they were dull with grease. The daylight shrank back beyond the windows, and the seven were in a pool of soft yellow light that lay in the depths of a tall shadowed room.

Now Pat leaned her elbow on the mantelpiece, taking command of the scene. In the romantic light, with her dark military clothes, her black strong boots, she looked – as she must certainly know – like a guerrilla, or a female soldier in somebody’s army. Yet the light accentuated the delicate modelling of her face, her hands, and in fact she was more like the idealized picture of a soldier on a recruiting poster. An Israeli girl soldier, perhaps, a book in one hand, a rifle in the other.

‘Money,’ said Pat. ‘We have to talk about money.’ Her voice was standard middle-class, but Alice knew this was not how Pat had started off. She was working too hard at it.

‘That’s right,’ said Jim. ‘I agree.’

The only other person in this room, apart from Alice, with his own voice, unmodified, was Jim, the genuine cockney.

‘It’s going to cost more,’ said Bert, ‘but we will buy peace and quiet.’

‘It needn’t cost all that much more,’ said Alice. ‘For one thing, food will be half as much, or less. I know, I’ve done it.’

‘Right,’ said Pat. ‘So have I. Take-away and eating out costs the earth.’

‘Alice is good at feeding people cheap,’ said Jasper.

It was noticeable that while these five outlined their positions, they all, perhaps without knowing it, eyed Roberta and Faye. Or, more exactly, Faye, who sat there not looking at them, but anywhere: the ceiling, her feet, Roberta’s feet, the floor, while she puffed smoke from the cigarette held between her lips. Her hand, on her knee, trembled. She gave the impression of trembling slightly all over. Yet she smiled. It was not the best of smiles.

‘Just a minute, comrades,’ said she. ‘Suppose I like take-away? I like take-away, see? Suppose I like eating out, when the fancy takes me? How about that, then?’

She laughed and tossed her head, presenting – as if her life depended on it – this cheeky cockney as seen in a thousand films.

‘They have a point, Faye,’ said Roberta, sounding neutral, so as not to provoke her friend. She was keeping an eye on Faye, unable to prevent herself giving her quick nervous glances.

‘Oh fuck it,’ said Faye, really laying on the cockney bit, because, as they could see, she was afraid of her own anger. ‘Yesterday, as far as hi wuz concerned, everythink was going along just perfeck, and today, that’s it. I don’t like being organized, see what I mean?’

‘And she did it her way,’ said Bert, in cold upper-class, smiling, as if in joke. He did not like Faye, and apparently did not care if he showed it.

Pat quickly covered up with humour. ‘Well, if you don’t want to join in, then don’t, have it on us!’ This was said without rancour. Pat even laughed, hoping Faye would; but Faye tossed her head, her face seemed to crumple up out of its prettiness, and her lips went white as she pressed them together. The cigarette in her hand trembled violently, ash scattered about.

‘Wait a minute,’ said Roberta. ‘Just hold your horses.’ This was addressed, apparently, to the five who were all looking at Faye. Faye knew it was meant for her. She made herself smile.

‘Was anything said about how we were to pay?’ asked Roberta.

‘No, but I know of various ways they can do it,’ said Alice. ‘For instance, in Birmingham there was a flat sum assessed for the whole house, to cover rates. And we paid electricity and gas separately.’

‘Electricity,’ said Faye. ‘Who wants to pay electricity?’

‘You don’t pay at all, or you just pay the first instalment,’ said Jasper. ‘Alice is good at that.’

‘We can all see what Alice is good at,’ said Faye.

‘Look,’ said Pat, ‘why don’t we postpone this discussion till we know? If they make an assessment for rent and rates and put it on all our Social on an individual basis, then that would suit some and not others. It would suit me, for instance.’

‘It wouldn’t suit me, see?’ said Faye, sweet but violent.

‘And it wouldn’t suit me,’ said Roberta. ‘I don’t want to become an official resident of this house. Nor does Faye.’

‘No, Faye certainly does not,’ said Faye. ‘Yesterday I was free as a bird, coming and going. I didn’t live here, I came and went, and now suddenly…’

‘All right,’ said Bert, exasperated. ‘You don’t want to be counted in, all right.’

‘Are you telling me to leave?’ said Faye, with a shrill laugh, and her face again seemed to crumple up out of its self, suggesting some other Faye, a pale, awful, violent Faye, the unwilling prisoner of the pretty cockney.

Jim laughed sullenly and said, ‘I’ve been told to leave. Why not Faye and Roberta if it comes to that.’

Faye turned the force of her pale awfulness on Jim, and Roberta came in quickly with, ‘No one is leaving. No one.’ She looked full at Jim. ‘But we have all to be clear about what we will or will not do. We have to be clear now. If a lump sum is assessed for this house, then we can discuss who is going to contribute what. If we are assessed individually, and our Social Security is adjusted individually, then no. No. No.’ This was kept amiable, but only just.

‘I’m not going to contribute,’ said Faye. ‘Why should I? I like things the way they were.’

‘How could you like them the way they were?’ said Bert. ‘Putting up with them, is one thing.’

And suddenly they all knew why it was Faye they had been eyeing so nervously, Faye who had dominated everything.

She sat straight up, straddling the chair-arm, and glared, and trembled, and in a voice that in no way related to the pretty cockney, said, ‘You filthy bloody cuntish ‘Itlers, you fascist scum, who are you telling what to do? Who are you ordering about?’ This voice came out of Faye’s lower depths, some dreadful deprivation. It was raw, raucous, labouring, as though words themselves had been a hard accomplishment, and now could only be shovelled out, with difficulty, past God knew what obstacles of mind and tongue. What accent was that? Where from? They stared, they were all silenced by her. And Roberta, putting her arm swiftly around her friend’s shaking shoulders, said softly, ‘Faye, Faye darling, Faye, Faye,’ until the girl suddenly shuddered and seemed to go limp, and collapsed into her arms.

A silence.

‘What’s the problem?’ asked Bert, who was refusing to see that he was the cause of this outburst from Faye’s other self. Or selves? ‘If Faye doesn’t want to contribute, that’s fine. They always set the assessment very low, for squats anyway. And there’ll be other people coming in, of course, to replace the comrades who left yesterday. We’ll have to be sure they understand the arrangement we make with the Council.’

Faye, half-hidden in Roberta’s arms, seemed to heave and struggle, but went quiet.

Alice said, ‘If we don’t get this place cleared up, we’d have to leave anyway. We can clear it up, easy enough, but to keep it clean, we need the Council. There’s been all the complaints. The woman next door said she complained…’

‘Joan Robbins,’ said Faye. ‘That filthy fascist cow. I’ll kill her.’ But it was in her cockney, not her other, true, voice, that she spoke. She sat up, freed herself from solicitous Roberta, and lit another cigarette. She did not look at the others.

‘No, you won’t,’ said Roberta, softly. She reasserted her rights to Faye by putting her arm around her. Faye submitted, with her pert little toss of the head and a smile.

‘Well, it is disgusting,’ said Alice.

‘It was all right till you came,’ said Jim. This was not a complaint or an accusation, more of a question. He was really saying: How is it so easy for you, and so impossible for me?

‘Don’t worry,’ said Alice, smiling at him. ‘When we’ve got the place cleaned up, we will be just like everyone else in the street and after a bit no one will notice us. You’ll see.’

‘If you want to waste your money,’ said Faye.

‘We do have to pay at least the first instalment of electricity and gas. If we can persuade them to supply us,’ said Bert.

‘Of course we can,’ said Alice, and Pat said, ‘The meters are still here.’

‘Yes, they forgot to take them away,’ said Jim.

‘And what are we going to pay with?’ asked Faye. ‘We are all on Unemployment, aren’t we?’