Alice, familiar with this situation from somewhere in her well-stocked past, knew there was little that could be done; in fact, it would get worse. She asked whether Mrs. Robbins knew about the services available for the old. Yes, but she didn't like the idea of all these people in and out all day; who were they? She'd have no check on them.

She went on and on, digging viciously into the soil of her border. For years the house had been civilised and orderly; she and her husband downstairs, with the garden; Mrs. Jackson, a widow, keeping herself to herself in the flat above. But now she might just as well be living with Mrs. Jackson! You'd think she was her daughter! The old woman certainly seemed to think so.

Alice, with all the time in the world and nothing better to do, stood with the branches of forsythia blazing yellow in her arms, listening and advising. Surely it would be better to have Home Helps, Meals on Wheels, all that, and a social worker to advise and take on responsibility, than have to do it all yourself?

Joan Robbins agreed that perhaps it might, she would think.... With a smile at Alice of real gratitude, neighbourliness, she said that she was glad Alice was there, glad that decent people were in poor Number 43 at last.

Alice went in, stacked the forsythia in a jug on the stool in the corner of the kitchen, sat down.

Where was Jasper?

This was the night they were going spray-painting. She had the paint - two cans, in scarlet and black - ready in the corner of the hall.

At the kitchen table, she pencilled slogans on an envelope.

What was the message they wanted to convey? The full message, exact - that was where she must start.

The Use of Supergrasses Unmasks the True Nature of British Democracy. One Law for England, Another for Northern Ireland, England's Colony.

That was it. Possibly they'd find a good space, like a bridge, or a long low wall, to get all that in.

She must work out something shorter.

Supergrasses Threaten Democracy!

No, too abstract.

Supergrasses - Unfair!

Supergrasses a Shameful Blot on Britain!

Supergrasses - Shame on Us!

She sat still, with the blaze of the forsythia in her eyes. She shut her eyes, and the yellow blurred and danced on black. She was smiling, remembering the last time she and Jasper had gone out together. Only two weeks ago. In scarlet and black they had written "Support the Women of Greenham Common" on the dull grey-green paint of a bridge two hundred yards from a police station. She had sprayed; Jasper kept watch, from the other side of the station. She had finished when she heard his signal, a yell he had perfected to sound like a car hooting. She had thrust the spray paint in her carrier bag. Not looking back, she strolled along the pavement, thinking that Jasper was sauntering past the police station. Between him and her, probably two policemen. But the footsteps that came up beside her were Jasper's - light and urgent. That meant the police had gone up the other way - but could see them by turning. Jasper and she stood looking into each other's faces, alive and tingling and delighted, knowing that anyone looking at them could guess, simply from the waves of energy that danced from them. Jasper's eyes said, Let's...

She raced back to the smooth green paint that was evenly lit by a street lamp ten yards away. The policeman and a woman sedately progressed away from them. Jasper waited where he was. She took out the red spray and, in letters a foot high, began "Greenham Common Women..."

She kept her attention half on what she did, half on Jasper, who suddenly raised his arms. Without looking round she sped toward him, hearing the heavy feet running behind her. Now she was spitting: Filthy beasts, fascists, pigs, pigs, pigs.... She had come up to Jasper, who caught her wrist in his bony grip, and they ran together up towards the Underground. But before they reached it, they turned into a side street and then, they hoped before the police reached that street, into another. They knew someone living in a house there. But their blood was racing, they were inspired, and she was not surprised that Jasper panted, "Let's chance it...." They tore down that street and into a main road that was crowded with people - fish-and-chip shops, take-aways, a disco, a supermarket, still open. Again, they could have gone into the supermarket, but they thought the police had had a good look at them, so they sprinted through the crowds, who took as little notice as they expected, and across the street just after the lights had changed, so that the traffic, beginning to move, hooted.

Down they went into the Underground. They had not looked to see whether the police had come into the main road in time to see. Again, Jasper's eyes demanded they chance it; they walked smartly up out of the Underground on the other side, and saw two policemen - different ones - coming towards them. Cool and indifferent, Alice and Jasper walked past. Then down again into the Underground. They went two stops, to where Alice had seen a long low bridge along a main road over railway lines. By then it was ten, and raining a little. Here the police station was a good way off. On the other hand, cars were passing regularly. On the bridge was already written, in white letters that had run and streaked, "Women Are Angry."

They stood arm in arm, backs to the traffic, as though looking over the railway lines, and Alice, holding the spray low down, wrote, "We Are All...," which is as far as she could go without having to move. They moved on a few steps, again stood together, and wrote, "Angry. Angry About..." Another move. "Ireland. About Sexism. About..." They moved. Then they heard - their ears alert for the slightest changes in the grind of the traffic - a car slowing down just behind them. They both shot looks over their shoulders: not a police car. But two men sat side by side in the front seat, staring.

"... Trident" - Alice finished. And they walked on, slowly, very close, knowing the car crawled behind. The intoxication of it, the elation: pleasure. There was nothing like it!

Now, remembering, Alice craved and longed. Oh, she did so hope that Jasper would not be late, would not be tired, would want to go out. He had promised....

... They had walked, perhaps 150 yards. Luck! A one-way street! The car, of course, did not follow. At the end of that street, they went back to the bus stop and to Kilburn, where they had worked before.

"No to Cruise! No to Trident!"

No one had so much as noticed them there.

Let down, their elation leaking away, they had decided to give up, and taken a taxi back to Alice's mother's house, where Alice made them both coffee and scrambled eggs.

Now it was six-thirty.

Mary came in, sat briefly with Alice, said she and Reggie were going to the pictures. She had had a word about this girl, Monica; there was really nothing, nothing at all. She had done her best, Alice must understand.

"Never mind," said Alice, "I've thought of something."

Mary saw the scribbled-over envelope, smiled, and said, "Reggie and I are going to the Greenpeace demo tomorrow."

"Good for you," said Alice.

"But it's shocking, it's terrible, the despoliation of our countryside...."

"I know," said Alice. "I've been on some of their demos."

"You have!" Mary was relieved, Alice could see, that they shared this; but Reggie "hahV'ed from the hall, and, with a smile, Mary went.

Where were Roberta and Faye? Probably at their women's-commune place. Where Philip? He might have been thrown out by his girlfriend, but he was going round there still for meals and baths, so Bert had said. Jim? Now, that was a serious question, where was he? The smiling face, the jokey mellow voice - but what was going on, really?

Apart from having his home, his place taken over like this.