thought, She threw him out.
‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘I’ll manage. I’ll get cleaned up and I’m going to the Electricity Board. So be careful, in case they switch it on.’
‘You think you can get them to do that?’
‘I’ve managed it before, haven’t I?’ At the thought of this and other victories, her depression lifted and she was popping with energy again.
In the hall, the two desperadoes were just about to go out into the world of the streets, gardens, neighbours, cats, cars and sparrows.
They looked just like everybody, thought Alice, seeing them turn round, the pretty fair Faye, delicate inside the almost tangible protective ambience of swarthy Roberta, as strong as a tank – as strong as I am, thought Alice, standing there, looking, she knew, like a clown who has just been showered with flour.
‘Well,’ said Faye, humorous, and Roberta commented, ‘Well,’ and the two women laughed, and went out of the door as though all this hard work had nothing to do with them.
‘No good expecting anything,’ said Alice to herself, stoically, after so much experience of those who did and those who wouldn’t. Again she went up to the bathroom and stood naked in desolation, while the bath filled with cold water to the level of the grime mark that showed where she had done all this earlier that day. And again she stood in cold water endeavouring to rid herself of the dirt, her mother’s daughter, thinking viciously of the four years she had lived inside her mother’s house, where hot water came obediently at a touch. They don’t know what it costs, she was muttering, furiously. It all comes from the workers, from us…
She did her best; she put on a nice neat skirt, which she had purloined from her mother, with a joke that it suited her better: she needed a skirt sometimes for respectability, some types of people were reassured by it. She put on another of the little neat-collared shirts, in blue cotton this time, that made her feel herself. She did her best with her hair, which felt greasy and gritty, although she had stood with it held down in a bucket of the unyielding cold water. Then she went into the sitting-room. Pat, relaxed in a big armchair, was asleep. Alice went quietly up and stared down at this unknown woman, who was her ally. She was thinking: She won’t leave yet. She doesn’t want to. She doesn’t think much of Bert, she’s going to stay because of all that love.
Pat lay sprawling all over the chair as if she had dropped down off the ceiling. Her head was back, her face lifted and exposed. Eyes, lips trembled on the verge of opening. Alice expected her to wake, and smile. But Pat stayed asleep, vulnerable under Alice’s meticulous inspection of her. Alice continued to stand there, looking. She felt that she possessed Pat, in this look – her life, what she was and would be. Alice could never have allowed herself to sleep like that, open to anyone to come in and look at. It was careless, foolish, like walking about the streets with money held loose in a hand. Alice came closer and bent right down over Pat, to stare at that innocent face with its lightly-shuttered eyes behind which an inhabitant had gone off into that unknown country. Alice felt curious. What was she dreaming about, looking like a baby that has just napped off after a bottle? Alice began to feel protective, wanting Pat to wake up in case the others should come in and see her, defenceless. Then Alice thought, Well, it will probably be Bert, won’t it? Sleeping Beauty! Now it was scorn that she felt, because of Pat’s need. If she’s got to have it, she’s got to have it, said Alice judiciously to herself, making necessary allowances. And stepped lightly out of the sitting-room, through the hall, and into the outside world. It was about three o’clock on a fresh and lively spring afternoon. She took the bus to Electricity, with confidence.
Electricity was a large modern building, set well back from the main road where seethed, in cars and on foot, the lively polyglot needy people whose lives it supported with light, boiling kettles, energetic vacuum cleaners…power. The building looked conscious of its role: nearly a million people depended on it. It stood solid and dependable. Its windows flashed. The cars of its functionaries stood in biddable lines, gleaming.
Alice ran lightly up the steps and, knowing her way from having been in so many similar buildings, went straight to the first floor where she knew she was in the right place, because there was a room where ten or so people waited. Unpaid bills, new accounts, threats of disconnection: a patient little crowd of petitioners. From this room opened two doors, and Alice sat herself so as to be able to see into both rooms. As the doors opened to emit one customer, and admit another, Alice examined the faces of these new arbiters, sitting behind their respective desks. Women. One she knew, after a single glance, she must avoid. The letter-of-the-law, that woman, judged Alice, seeing a certain self-satisfaction in competence. A thin face and lips, neatly waved fair hair, a smile Alice had no intention of earning. But the other woman, yes, she would do, although at first glance…She was large, and her thick tight dress held her solid and secure, performing the function of a corset, but from this fortress of a dress emerged a large soft rather girlish face and large soft hands. Alice adjusted her seat, and in due course found herself sitting in front of this motherly lady who, Alice knew, several times a day stretched things a little because she was sorry for people.
Alice told her story, and described – knowing exactly what she was doing – the large solid house which inexplicably was going to be pulled down so that yet another nasty block of flats could be built. Then she produced her official-looking Council envelope, with the letter inside.
This official, Mrs Whitfield, only glanced at the letter, and said, ‘Yes, but the house is on the agenda, that’s all, it hasn’t been decided.’ She turned up a card in the cabinet beside her, and said, ‘No. 43? I know it. 43 and 45. I walk past them every day to the Underground. They make me feel sick.’ She looked, embarrassed, at Alice and even blushed.
‘We have already begun to clean 43 up. And the dustmen are coming tomorrow to take it all away.’
‘You want me to get the power switched on now before knowing what the Council decides?’
‘I’m sure it’s going to be all right,’ said Alice, smiling. She was sure. Mrs Whitfield saw this, felt it, and nodded.
‘Who is going to guarantee payment? Are you? Are you in work?’
‘No,’ said Alice, ‘not at the moment.’ She began to talk in a calm, serious way about the houses in Manchester, in Halifax, in Birmingham, which had been rescued, where electricity had flowed obediently through wires, after long abstinence. Mrs Whitfield listened, sitting solid in her chair, while her white large hand held a biro poised above a form: Yes. No.
She said, ‘If I order the power to be switched on, first I must have a guarantor.’
‘But do you know that it is only in this borough – well, one or two others. In Lampton, for instance, you’d have to supply electricity to us. If people demand it, then it must be supplied.’
‘Well,’ said Mrs Whitfield mildly, ‘you seem to know the situation as well as I do! I do not make policy. I implement it. The policy in this borough is that there has to be a guarantor.’
But her eyes, large, soft and blue, were direct on Alice’s face and not combative or hostile, far from it; she seemed to be appealing for Alice to come up with something.
‘My father will guarantee payment,’ said Alice. ‘I am sure of that.’
Mrs Whitfield had already started to fill in the form. ‘Then that’s all right,’ she said. ‘His name? His address? His telephone number? And we have to have a deposit.’
Alice took out ten pounds and
