Doris Lessing

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 wi

There, she said number 43 Old Mill Road was an agreed tenancy, Mary Williams of Belstrode Road would confirm; electricity was being supplied, Mrs. Whitfield of the Electricity Board would confirm; and her brother, now in Bahrein, would guarantee payments. She had waited until this sympathetic-looking man, elderly, fatherly, was free, and now she pleaded, "Can we have the gas on now, please, it is so cold... no hot water... it's awful...." His concerned, shocked face! This man could not easily imagine life without hot water, at least not for people like himself and Alice.

A deposit?

She laid down twenty pounds and fixed on him girlish, friendly eyes.

He took up the money. Accepted. But he was unhappy about the situation. Like Mrs. Whitfield at the first interview, he was not sure why he was being compelled by Alice.

"We do have to have a guarantor," he remarked, as much to himself, and said, "Very well, you said your brother would be back in a month? Good."

It was done. Alice went off, demurely grateful.

She was going to have to get some money. Had to. Where?

Sobered, she went back home, told Philip that the gas would be on. If they could lay hands on a second-hand boiler, did he know enough to fix it?

They squatted opposite each other on the top floor, on the landing, in the bright April light, which came, slightly dimmed by dirt, through the window on the stairs. He was smiling, pleased with her, with this house, with his place in it; ready to go on working. But, she knew, sorrow and resentment were there, only just subdued; and soon she must find more money for him. For the boiler. For new floorboards in the hall, in a corner where water had dripped from a leaky pipe. For... for... for...

She said, "Philip, I know that if you had taken on this job on a business basis you would have had to charge hundreds. Well, don't worry... but wait a bit. I'll have it."

He nodded, he smiled, he went on with his work, sitting in a tangle of new black cable like some kind of leprechaun among urban roots. Frail - you could blow him away, thought Alice, her heart aching for him.

And where was Jasper? He had not been in court that morning after all? Or he had been, had been silly, was bound over again?

Worry, worry, worry; she felt bruised with it.

She sat in a heap at the kitchen table. She thought, looking at the pleasant room: I'm taking it for granted already!

Forcing herself, she worked for an hour or two on the great heap of stuff purloined from the skips that lay in a corner of the hall; fitting a curtain here, laying a rug there. Everything needed a good scrub! Well, she would take down all these curtains when there was time and get them to the laundrette, but meanwhile... She found a nice solid little stool, thrown away only because a leg was loose. She glued it back in, put the stool in the corner of the kitchen, went out into the garden to the forsythia bush, cut some branches. The old woman was asleep in her chair under the tree. Joan Robbins was only a yard away through the fence. She was glad to see Alice, began talking in a heavy tired voice about how the old woman had her ru