Alice explained what she was doing; the conventions of commune or squat life ensured that they would commend her for helping a fellow.
They said nothing about coming to help themselves.
Up the stairs they went together, a pair, a unit, welded by all their experiences, about which they had been prepared to say only that the tour wasn't bad, the Soviet Union's trouble was bureaucracy; if the comrades could sort that out, it might even be a pleasure to go there.
And after the Soviet Union? They had left the tour at Moscow, and gone to Holland. It hadn't stopped raining.
Bert went to his sleeping bag on the other side of the wall from Alice. Jasper found his room upstairs occupied by Jocelin's things. Great crashes and bangs from up there: Jasper was heaving out the furniture from the room next to Mary and Reggie's, onto the landing. Alice knew this was happening, could hear from the noise that Jasper was in one of his rages, when he could shift cupboards and packing cases as if he were ten men. She slept, with her internal alarm set for two hours' time.
And woke again, doleful, desperate; there was no way she could see out of helping Philip, yet she could not really help Philip. And she wanted to be with Jasper.
The Greek's premises were done by midnight. Two coats on everything. Even on the plaster, though it was too soon. Everything, too quick, rushed. Done adequately. Done, as far as Alice was concerned, with no pleasure.
At midnight, the three again stood together under the glaring working lights, this time surrounded by primrose-yellow walls, which the Greek stared at, one after another, despising them.
Everything happened as Alice had known it must.
The work was not up to standard; Alice was only an amateur and Philip a crook. He, the Greek, would have to pay someone else to come in and finish the job. (Of course, all three knew that this was a lie; customers would see only a fresh and charming yellow - which would soon, however, begin to flake.) Philip could go to the police if he liked, but not another penny... And so he went on, shouting, putting on theatre, pointing rejecting forefingers at ceilings, at plaster, shrugging shoulders that despaired of the human race, rolling hot bitter little black eyes.
Alice came in with words, cold and hot. They fought. Philip, white as an egg, stutteringly intervened. The end of it was that Philip got two-thirds of what had been contracted.
At one in the morning, Alice and Philip shouldered ladders, trestles out of the shop, knowing that these would be confiscated if they were left. Alice stood guard while little Philip staggered the half mile up the road with a ladder three times his height, and came back with Bert and Jasper, who were helping him because they had to. Bert had been pulled out of his sleeping bag.
Philip's gear was got safely into the downstairs room, Jim's room, and Philip stayed there with it, in a state of angry despair.
Bert went back to bed. Smiling and gentle, like a bride, Alice said to Jasper that it would be nice if he would sit with her while she ate. She had scarcely eaten that day. He said, curtly, yes, there was something he wanted to discuss with her. But tomorrow would do. Off he went upstairs, to sleep.
Without eating, so did Alice; she felt as though she were being dragged over a waterfall, or into an abyss, but did not know why.
Awake early because she was hungry, she was in the kitchen eating when Philip came in. He was red-eyed and beside himself. Mad, Alice judged. Simply not himself.
He probably had not slept but had been awake with thoughts he had been marshalling, ready for presentation the moment he could get her alone.
He sat himself down, but so lightly that he could jump up again on the crest of any wave of the argument. His fists rested side by side before him.
He knew of another job, a shop just opening up. He could get it, but it would have to be within the next day or so. It was no use working by himself. He had to have a partner - Alice could see that for herself, surely? Alice ought to come in with him! They would make a fine team. She was such a good painter, so neat and quick. Between them there was no job they couldn't tackle. After all, Alice wasn't doing anything with her time!
He was shouting at her because he knew she was going to refuse him and the rage of rejection was already in him. He could have been threatening her, instead of suggesting a partnership.
"All you people," he yelled, "never lift a finger, never do any work, parasites, while people like me keep everything going...." It seemed he was going to weep, his voice was so heavy with betrayal. "They talk about all these unemployed everywhere, people wanting work, but where are they? I can't find anyone to work with me. So what about it, Alice?" he demanded, aggressive, accusing.
She, of course, said no.
He then shouted at her that she cared about no one but herself - "just like everybody else." She had got Jim thrown out of his job and had never given a thought to him since. Where was Jim? She didn't know or care. And Monica - oh yes, he knew all about that, he had heard, Monica had been sent off on a wild-goose chase to an empty house - he supposed that was Alice's idea of a joke. Faye could have died, for all the trouble she was prepared to take, wouldn't even call an ambulance. And she didn't care about him, Philip, once she had got all she could out of him, got him working day and night for peanuts, and now she'd got her house, he-Philip - could go to the wall for all she cared about him.
And so he raved on, half weeping, and Alice knew that if she had got up and put her arms about him he would have collapsed into her embrace like a little heap of matchsticks, with, "Alice, I'm sorry, I don't mean it, please come and be my partner."
But she did not, only sat there, thinking that the windows were open, and if Joan Robbins was in the garden she could hear everything.
Philip's fury died into silence, and misery. He sat staring, not at her, at anywhere but her. Then he ran out of the room, and out of the house.
Alice sat waiting for Jasper to wake. It seemed to her a good part of her life had been spent doing this. She thought again: But I'll leave, I'll just go. I must. No, it wouldn't be forever, but I need time by myself.
She found she was on her feet, opening the refrigerator, searching cupboards. She would make one of her soups. But because she had been working with Philip, there was very little in the house. She went down to the shops, bought food, took time over the preparations, sat at the table while her soup evolved. The cat arrived on the window sill, miaowed through the glass; Alice welcomed it in, offered it scraps. But no, the cat was not hungry; probably Joan Robbins or somebody had fed it. The beast wanted company. It would not sit on Alice's lap, but lay on the window sill, and stretched out. The cat looked at Alice with its vagabond's eyes, and let out a little sound, a grunt or miaow of greeting. Alice burst into tears in a passion of gratitude.
The morning went past. When Jasper woke, she would explain it to him: a short break, that was what she needed.
At midday Bert and Jasper came down together, joking about being woken by the smell of Alice's soup. Their mood of rage, or rebellion, or whatever it had been, seemed to have vanished with their exhaustion.
Chatty, companionable, they offered Alice little anecdotes from their trip and praised her soup. She sat listless, watching them. Her mood soon became obvious to them, and they even exchanged "Mummy-is-cross" glances at one point, earning from her a sarcastic smile.
They abandoned attempts at placating her, and Bert said, "We've decided it is time we had a full discussion on policy, Comrade Alice. No, only the real revolutionaries, not the rubbish." He bared all his lovely white teeth and sneered. Alice let it pass. Jasper, too, leaned towards her, smiling, and said, "We thought tonight. Or tomorrow night at the latest. But the point is, where? Mary and Reggie mustn't know. Or Philip!" He, too, sneered.