Free The Good Terrorist by Doris Lessing

pick it up tomorrow. Fifteen.”
    She smiled. Then laughed. Then sobbed. “Oh, thanks, thanks,” she snuffled.
    “Be around tomorrow, love,” said Alan, all fatherly, and the three moved off as one to the opposite house and its rubbish bins.
    Alice checked for the safety of the money in her pocket, and went back into the house. Pat was where she had been, in a smoke trance. Jim had come down and was eating the food she had brought for Jasper. She said, “If we get the stuff into bags, they’ll take it tomorrow.”
    “Money,” said Pat.
    “Money money money money,” said Jim, stuffing in bananas.
    “I’ve got the money. If I get the plastic bags …” She stood before them, all appeal.
    “I’m on,” said Jim.
    “Right,” said Pat, “but what about the house next door? We can clear this place up as much as you like, but that place is worse than this.” As Alice stared and stared, her pink mouth slack and doleful, “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice? The house next door?”
    Alice flew out, and looked first into the garden where the woman neighbour had spoken to her. Suburban order. But there was a tall hedge at the other side of this house, and beyond it … She ran into the main road, and along it a short way, and saw, as she had not done before because she had made her little excursions by another route, a house identical to the one she was reclaiming, with broken windows, slipped slates, a look of desertion, and a rubbish-filled garden. It stank.
    She came thoughtfully and bitterly back to the sitting room, and asked, “Is it empty?”
    Pat said, “The police cleared it three months ago, but it is full again now.”
    “That’s not our problem,” said Alice, suspecting it might turn out to be. “I’m going to get the plastic bags.”
    Enough cost her ten pounds.
    Pat looked at the great heap of shining black on the steps and said, “A pretty penny,” but did not offer. She said, “Are we going to do it with our hands?”
    Alice, without a moment’s hesitation, ran into the next garden, rang the bell, conferred with Joan Robbins, and came back with a spade, a shovel, a fork.
    “How do you do it!” said Pat with tired irony, but picked up the fork and a sack and began work.
    They laboured. Much worse than it looked, for the lower layers were pressed down and rotting and loathsome. Black glistening sack after sack received its horrible load and was stood next to another, until the garden was crammed with black sacks, their mouths showing decomposing refuse. The thin cat watched from the hedge, its eyes on Alice. Unable to bear it, she soon went in, filled a saucer with milk, another with scraps of cheese, bread, and cold chips, and brought them out to the cat, which crept on raggedy paws to the food and ate.
    Pat stood resting, looking at Alice. Who was looking at the cat. Jim leaned on a shovel and said, “I had a little cat. It got run over.”
    Pat waited for more, but there was no more to come. She shrugged and said, “It’s a cat’s life.” And went on working.
    But Jim’s eyes had tears in them, and Alice said, “I’m sorry, Jim.”
    “I wouldn’t have another little cat,” he said. “Not after that one,” and went furiously back to work.
    Soon both gardens, back and front, were cleared. Pallid grass was ready to take a new lease on life. A rose, long submerged, had thin whitish shoots.
    “It was a nice garden,” said Jim, pleased.
    “I smell,” said Alice bitterly. “What are we going to do? And I haven’t even thought about hot water yet. If Philip comes, tell him I won’t be a minute.”
    She flew inside; she stood buckets of cold water in the bathroom; she did what she could, inadequately. Hot water, she was thinking, hot water, that’s next.
Money
.
    Philip did not come.
    Bert and Jasper descended together in responsible conversation about some political perspective. They told Alice and Pat they were going to get some breakfast, noticed the cleared garden and