Doris Lessing

Sitting by herself in the kitchen with coffee, looking at the golden forsythia, she was aglow with health, energy, accomplishment. If Jasper had been here, she could not have done this, she would have had to adapt her pace to his.... Sometimes, very seldom, the thought came into her head: If I were alone, if I did not have Jasper to worry about... Rarely, and this was one of the times, she knew she was tied to him by what seemed like a tight cord of anxiety that vibrated to his needs, never hers; she knew how she was afflicted by him, how he weighed her down. Supposing she left him? (For he would never leave her!) If she found a place of her own, with other comrades, of course - why, she had moved so often, it was nothing, she could do it easily. Without Jasper. She sat quietly, her freckled girl's hand just encompassing the big brown mug, as though it had alighted there, her eyes held by the blessed, blissful forsythia that filled the whole kitchen with energy, with pleasure. Without Jasper. She began to make uneasy, restless little movements, and her breathing became faster, then slowed to a sigh. How could she live without Jasper? It was true, what people said: they were like brother and sister. But supposing... The thought of another man made her give an incredulous little shake of the head. Not that plenty hadn't come near, to ask, Why Jasper, why not me? Had said, But he doesn't give you anything.

But he did; he did! How could she leave him?

She got up slowly from the table, washed up the mug, and stood for some time absolutely still, staring. She thought: I keep forgetting that time is going on. She was over thirty. Well over thirty, in her mid-thirties... Thirty-six, actually. If she was going to have a child, ever... No, no; real responsible revolutionaries should not have children. (But they did!)

She flung the whole tangle of thought away from her and ran fast up the stairs, as though in the room some delight or pleasure awaited her, not the hard task of painting.

She worked steadily on, until she had finished the first coat. Ceilings and walls were all fresh white where dirt and dinginess had been. Some people would leave it at that, but not Alice: there would be a second coat. She strode through the newspapers all over the floor, some of them with dates from the thirties, even the war. "Second Front!" in big black print slid away under another sheet, and "Attlee Promises..." She was not interested in what Attlee or anyone else had promised. Again in the kitchen, she rested herself, and thought: I'll have finished our room by midday, I could do another. Well, I'd need help for the sitting room. The worst is the girls' room, Faye and Roberta's. I'll just have a quick look now....

She was sure they had not come in, but knocked to make sure.

Silence. She went in and, because her eyes were on ceilings and v. alls, did not realise at once that they were, after all, there, two low huddling mounds under blankets, shawls, and all kinds of bits and pieces of stuffs, mostly flowered. Roberta, disturbed but not knowing why, had stretched up arms to yawn, then sat up, womanly breasts lolling, and she stared with displeasure at Alice. Who said, "Sorry, I thought you were out."

"Well, we are not!" But the look of dislike, which Alice was afraid might be what Roberta did feel for her, was replaced with Roberta's more amiable look, and she sat up, feeling for cigarettes. From the tense look of the bundle that was Faye, Alice knew she was awake. She explained reasonably, "I am painting our room. I'll have finished in a couple of hours. I thought I could do yours today, if you like."

At this Faye sat up, flinging aside covers, in one movement, like a swimmer surfacing, and she glared at Alice as she had at poor Monica.

"No," she said, in a deadly, cold voice. "You will not paint this room, Alice. You will not. You will leave us alone."

"Faye," said Roberta quietly. "It's all right."

"No, it's not all right," shrilled Faye. "You paint your own fucking room, Alice. Just keep your shitty little hands off us, do you hear?"

Alice, well used to such situations, was standing her ground, was not hurt, or offended, or any of the things she knew Faye wanted her to be. She was thinking: Full marks to Roberta. Just imagine, having to cope with Faye all the time.

"It's all right, Faye," said Alice. "Well, of course, I won't if you don't want. But the room is pretty far gone, isn't it?" And she looked with interest at the walls, which, in the strong morning light - the sun was only just leaving one of them - seemed that they might start sprouting mushrooms.

They sat there side by side, Faye and Roberta, staring at Alice, so unlike Mary and Reggie that Alice was even amused - inside, of course, not letting it show. And her heart hurt for the girls. Mary and Reggie - those householders, as Alice contemptuously thought of them - sitting upright in their marriage bed, examining Alice, knew that nothing could ever really threaten them. But Roberta, for all her handsome, dark solidity, her motherliness, and Faye, like a flimsy chick or little bird huddling there behind Roberta's large shoulder, were vulnerable. They knew that anything, even Alice, could advance over them like bulldozers, crush them to bits.

"It's all right," said Alice gently, infinitely pitying. "Don't worry. I'm sorry." And she went out, hearing how Faye's voice shrilled as the door shut, and how Roberta's voice consoled and gentled.

Alice returned to the second coat and her work of balancing on the trestles, and thought for the first time: I'm silly. They like it. Roberta, certainly Faye, like living in filth. She contemplated this idea for some time, steadily laying on a fresh film of white to strengthen the white already there, over her head, one knuckle just touching the ceiling to steady her. They like it. They need it. If they didn't like it, they would have done something about it long ago. It's easy to get things straight and clean, so if they didn't, they wanted it.

She allowed this thought plenty of time and scope. But Jim, no, he didn't like it: Look how pleased he was when I started clearing up. He didn't like all those horrible buckets up there, he just doesn't know how to... Jim, he hasn't got the expertise of the middle class (how often had she heard this at her mother's house); he is helpless, he doesn't know how things work. But Faye and Roberta - well, they aren't middle-class, to put it mildly, but surely they... yes, they would have picked up the know-how, the expertise, so if they didn't get things straight, it's because they didn't want to.

Imagine wanting to live in that room, that awful room, with walls like dung heaps, what has happened in there, what has been done in the room? Well, probably it wasn't Roberta. Faye: anything wrong, anything pitiful and awful, would have to be Faye, never Roberta. Probably when Faye had one of those turns of hers... all kinds of awful things happening, and then Roberta, coping: Darling Faye, it's all right; don't, Faye; please, Faye; relax, darling....

Alice finished the second coat at midday, washed the roller, put lids on the paint tins, took them to a room upstairs. While Philip slept, while Mary and Reggie slept, while Roberta and Faye slept (they had not come out of their room), she had painted a whole room. And done it well, no smears or skimped corners, and the papers were all bundled up ready for the dustbins, which would soon be full again.

Alice cooked herself eggs, drank tea, and washed herself in cold water, standing in the bath. Alice then, all clean and brushed, and in a nice blouse with the small pink flowers and the neat round collar, walked out of the house and went next door, to number 45, as though she had been pla

She was sure that Comrade Andrew would not still be in bed, whoever else was.