Jasper used to come in quickly, taking his opportunity when Dorothy was not around, and fill himself with whatever she was cooking that day - "her" soup, for instance; cakes, good healthy bread. Or, if she was not cooking, might be at the market, he sneaked to the refrigerator and took anything there he fancied. Alice kept it well supplied with ham and salami and pickles for him. He cut himself great sandwiches and took them up to his room and stayed there, not coming down for hours. Dorothy, at the beginning, had used to ask, uneasy, "What does Jasper do up there all day?"

"He studies," Alice always said, proud and forbidding. She knew that he did nothing at all, sometimes, all day. He might read the Socialist Worker and the Morning Star. Otherwise he listened to pop, through headphones, and sometimes danced to it quietly by himself, all over the room. He was very graceful, Alice knew; he hated to be seen, and this was a pity. He should have danced: done ballet, perhaps?

Then he would come down again, silently, to get more food. He would never willingly come into the kitchen if Dorothy was there. He never sat down to eat with them. When Alice had remonstrated, said her mother did not like it, he had said she did not like him (which was true, as it turned out, though Dorothy certainly had not said so at the start). For his part, he thought her a vulgar tart. This epithet, so far off any sort of mark, only stunned Alice's responses, so she said feebly, "But, Jasper, how can you say that?" At which he made loud rude noises, with his lips.

Of course, when Dorothy had guests, Jasper was not there. He really might just as well not have been in the house, except for that steady pilfering of food from the kitchen. Anyone would think that Dorothy grudged him the food! Alice had cried out often enough to him, and then, when he was merely abusive, to herself.

Now, sitting in this friendly, companionable cafe, where people coming in were likely to greet her; eating more buns, more honey (to fill in time now, not from hunger), Alice was thinking: Well, but she does hate Jasper, always did; people do. And she did grudge him his food, probably - if she hated him. Alice thought, at last, in something like a little panic: What must it have been like for her, never having her own kitchen, not even being able to come into it, for fear of running into Jasper? And then: I was simply doing everything, all the cooking. And she loves cooking....

At half past nine, Alice left the cafe, calling good-bye to Sarah, who had served there for years. Once a refugee from Austria, she was now an elderly woman with photographs of her grown-up grandchildren stuck up on the wall behind the counter. Alice walked up, not too fast, to her mother's house. She stood outside for some time, then thought that any watching neighbour would find this peculiar. She let herself in with the key she had not handed her mother when she had left yesterday forever. Not a sound in the house. Alice stood in the hall, breathing in the house, home; the big, easy-fitting, accommodating house, which smelled of friendship. She went into the kitchen and her heart turned over. On the floor were tea chests full of dishes and plates, and, stacked all over the table, teacups and saucers and glasses, already tucked into newspaper. Oh, of course, now that she and Jasper had left, her mother would be giving the unnecessary china and stuff to jumble. Yes, that must be it. A small child, threatened, eyes wide and frantic, Alice stood looking at the tea chests, then ran upstairs to her own room. It was as she had left it yesterday. She felt better. She went up a floor to the room Jasper had used. On the floor was a rug, Bokhara. Once it had been in the sitting room, but it got frail and found a safe place under a table in this room, which, until Jasper commandeered it, was little used. The rug was beautiful. Alice tenderly rolled it up, and ran down with it to the kitchen. Now she hoped that she would not run into her mother. She looked around for paper and a biro, wrote, "I have taken the rug, Alice," and stood this note among the wrapped glasses. Again she was endangered by the sight of the tea chests. But she made herself forget them, and went out of the house. At the end of the street her mother was coming towards her under a canopy of bright green. She walked slowly, head down. She looked tired and old. Alice ran fast the other way, clutching the heavy rug, until out of sight of her mother, and then walked, increasingly slowly, to Chalk Farm. The carpet shop was only just open. A middle-aged woman sat at a desk, cup of coffee before her, and pushed down dark glasses to look over them at Alice.

"You want to sell?" she enquired. "Pretty!" as Alice unrolled the rug on the floor, breathing hard. Together they stood looking, captivated and quietened by the pool of soft patterned colour on the floor. The woman bent, picked it up, and held it against the light. Alice moved round to stand by her and saw the light prickling through, and in one place glaring. Alice's throat was tight at the back. She thought wildly: "I'll take it to the squat, it's so beautiful..." but waited as the rug was thrown down on the floor again, just anyhow, in folds, and the woman said, "It's badly worn. It would have to be mended. I couldn't give you more than thirty."

"Thirty?" moaned Alice. She didn't know what she had ex- pected. She knew it was, or had been, valuable. "Thirty," she stammered, thinking it had not been worth taking it.

"My advice is, keep it and enjoy it," said the woman, going back to her desk, letting the dark glasses fall back into place, and drinking coffee.

"No, I need the money," said Alice.

She took the three notes and, lingering to look at the rug lying there abandoned by her, went out of the shop.

She bought food for Jasper and went back to the squat. The street had a morning look, no one out, people had gone to work and to school; inside the women would be cleaning or with the kids. She did not expect anyone to be up yet in her house; in squats no one got up early.

But Pat was in the sitting room by herself, drinking coffee from the vacuum flask. She indicated with a gesture that Alice should help herself, but Alice was still full of her good breakfasts, and shook her head. She said, "I've got a bit of money, but not enough."

Pat said nothing. In this strong morning light she looked older, all loosened and used, not cherry-bright. Her hair had not been brushed yet, and she smelled of sex and sweat. Alice thought, Today we'll tackle the bathrooms. There were two.

Pat had still not said anything, but now she lit a cigarette, and smoked it as though she planned to drown in smoke.

Alice had seen that Pat was one of those who needed time to come to in the mornings, and was not going to say anything. She sat quietly and surveyed the state of the room: The curtains were rags, and could not be expected to stand up to dry cleaning. Well, perhaps her mother... The carpet - it would do. A vacuum cleaner?

She knew Pat was looking at her but did not meet the look. She felt Pat an ally, did not want to challenge this feeling.

Pat said, coughing a little from the smoke, "Twenty-four hours. You've been here twenty-four hours!" And laughed. Not unfriendly. But reserving judgement. Fair enough, thought Alice. In politics one had to....

There was a sudden arrival of sound in the street, and the rubbish van stood outside. With an exclamation Alice ran out, and straight up to two men who were shouldering up rubbish bins from the next garden: "Please, please, please..." They stood there, side by side, looking down at her, big men, strong for this job, confronted by this girl who was both stubbornly not to be moved, and frantic. She stammered, "What will you take to clear this garden...? Yes, I know...." Their faces put on identical expressions of disgusted derision as they looked from the sordid mess to her, back to the mess, at her, and then steadily at the mess, assessing it.