Doris Lessing

Very soon, however, she started weeping. Not the noisy angry weeping that she used when Roberta was there, but the heartbreaking helpless sobs of a child. Alice went in, and sat with her, holding her hand. Faye did not sleep until seven in the morning, and Alice slept sitting there beside her.

Several days passed. Faye was trying hard, and they all knew it, and supported her. When she heard people in the kitchen, she would come down and sit with them, chatting about everything quite amusingly, as she could, doing her little cockney act, but she tended to fall silent suddenly, staring; and then someone would gently try to rouse her and bring her back in with them again.

She offered to show Alice an economical vegetable stew, and it was very nice, and they all enjoyed it. Alice wondered how she could stand - if she was conscious of it - the way everyone was on tenterhooks for her to break out, break down. But she did not break down, or cry. She seemed to be quite normal, even ordinary; and Caroline and Jocelin even said they couldn't see why people went on and on about Faye. She was very pleasant, she was very clever, and what a lot she knew about politics. It turned out that Faye had read a great deal, more than any of them, and was particularly well up on Althusser. She had written part of a thesis on Althusser at university, where, however, she had stayed only two terms before cracking up.

Faye did not go to bed until very late and, when she did, said to Alice that she would be all right by herself.

Alice got up in the night quite often, to listen outside Faye's door. She thought that Faye hardly slept; often she wept, quietly, not wanting to disturb the others. Sometimes Alice could hear her moving about the room, lighting cigarettes, even singing a little to herself.

Roberta had written; they had the address of the hospital. Her mother was slowly dying; Roberta would come back as soon as she could.

A week had gone by. Jasper and Bert should be there. Then arrived a postcard written by Jasper, signed by them both, from Amsterdam, saying, "Wish you were here. Back soon."

Caroline and Alice spent a lot of time together. Alice, drained and tired, needed Caroline's natural vitality, her good spirits. Caroline admired Alice, could not stop talking about how Alice had transformed this house.

Most of the time Jocelin was in her room. She was at the top of the house. She seemed to have little to say to them or, indeed, much to say to anybody. She was a silent, observant - and, thought Alice, frightening - girl. What did she do in her room? Caroline said she was studying handbooks on how to be a good terrorist. She said this laughing, as was her way.

A weekend approached.

On the Friday, Reggie and Mary left for Cumberland after Mary finished work, for another Saturday of demonstrations. Joce-lin departed, saying only, "See you Monday."

Caroline said she was off to spend the weekend with a former boyfriend, who had married someone else, was now separated, and wished still to marry Caroline. Sometimes she thought that she would; more often, that she wouldn't. Still, she liked being with him; they had a good time together, she said. She had invited Alice to come as well. Alice would have gone, but there was Faye. She felt bitter, sitting alone at the kitchen table, Faye having gone up to bed, and Philip upstairs, too.

All things being equal - this meant, without Faye - she would have gone off without leaving an address for Jasper; it didn't matter where. She really must put her foot down, say she'd had enough. She might even leave him.

Repeating to herself how much better off she would be by herself, she felt how her heart chilled and saddened; and she stopped, saying again, "I'm just going to show him, that's all."

But how could she show him anything, if she was obediently waiting here when he got back? Which would almost certainly be in a day or two.

No, this business of Roberta's mother was a disaster, for her as much as for Roberta and for Faye.

So she brooded, drinking coffee, and more coffee, sitting alone.

It was not yet twelve when she went up. Outside Faye's door she stood listening: not a sound. This was unusual. Faye did not sleep, ever, until two or three.

Alice saw herself, standing there, her ear to a door panel on the dark landing, and was angry with herself, with everyone - self-pity raged. She went into her room and decided to go to sleep at once. But she did not. When she was safely in her scarlet Victorian nightdress, she went to the window and stood watching the traffic rushing past. She was remarkably uneasy and restless. Again outside Faye's door, she said to herself: Now, this is enough, go to bed and stop it! But she did nothing of the kind. Gently she opened the door and stood there like a ghost, ready to hear Faye shout at her to go away, to leave her alone, to stop prying.... The light was out, and the room was dark. Faye could just be seen, a bundle in the corner. There was a strong smell. As Alice realised this smell was blood, she switched on the light and screamed. Faye lay on her back, propped slightly up on embroidered and frilled cushions, ghastly pale, her mouth slightly open, and her cut wrists resting on her thighs. Blood soaked everything.

Alice stood screaming.

She had foreseen this, dreaded it, half knew it was bound to happen. She had always known she could not bear blood, would go to pieces if she found herself in this situation. She simply had to stand and scream.

Philip arrived beside her. His shout, hushed and wary, reached her, "Alice, Alice, what is it?"

She stopped screaming. In her scarlet voluminous nightdress she was like a female in a Victorian melodrama. She pointed a finger at the horrid sight, and shuddered.

Philip said, "She has cut her wrists."

He then put his arm round Alice, who, being so much taller and heavier than he was, made him stagger. Together, they lost balance, and found it by clinging to the doorframe.

Alice had got back her common sense, her control.

She was by Faye's side. The blood was still pulsing out in red waves.

"We have to stop it," she said. She looked around for anything that would tie, found a scarf lying on a chair, and tied it round Faye's wrists, like handcuffs. The bleeding stopped.

Philip, also back in control, said, "I'll ring for an ambulance."

"No, no, no," screamed Alice, "you mustn't."

"Why not, she's going to die."

"No, no, no, she won't. Don't you see? She mustn't go to hospital."

"Why not?"

"Roberta would never forgive us, she wouldn't want that. The police, don't you see? The police..."

Philip was staring at Alice as at a madwoman.

"Have we got any elastic bandage in the place?"

"Why should we have any?" he said, distressed.

"I know. Your masking tape. The tape you use for your electrics."

He had already gone to get it. Alice knelt by Faye, who seemed to have become as light and empty as a dead leaf. How can you take the pulse of a woman whose wrists are butchered? Where else is there a pulse, wildly wondered Alice, peering here and there. She held her cheek to Faye's nostrils and felt a slight breath. She wasn't dead. But so much blood lost, so much... Everything was soaked with it. Faye was lying in a thick red pool.

Philip ran in, with a roll of black tape. Alice fitted her hand, like a bracelet, around one wrist, to stop the blood from bubbling and spurting, while Philip strapped up the wound. Then she held the other wrist, and they cut the scarf away.

"She's lost so much blood," said Alice.

"She ought to have a transfusion," said Philip, obstinately. His face was full of criticism of Alice.

"We've got to get liquid into her. No, wait...."

Down ran Alice to the kitchen. She made a mixture of warm water and salt and sugar, glucose not being available. Up she ran with it.