The Death of Ruth (2 page)

If only that body was not lying on that floor … If only …

The thought obsessed me—took over completely. I wanted to cause that body to disappear magically—to hide it away.

I was weeping again, and as I wept I sweated and dug with maniacal strength in John's garden. I dug and fought my way into the yielding earth as I had never imagined a person could dig and fight and when the trench was deep enough I knew that I must continue on because it was not yet long enough.

As I dug and wept a medley of thoughts and visions flitted and flooded in and out of my demented mind.

…A good thing—now—that our two houses were so isolated. Good thing the real estate man had bought and pulled down all the other houses in the vicinity …

…A good thing—now—that I had kept my old shorts and tennis shoes instead of giving them away in a charity
bundle. Wise of me to have worn my old brown cotton gloves when I had gone back to the Moystons' house. Oh—cruel and sad to have uprooted John's three recently purchased and much treasured camellia bushes …

…How strange I felt! So light-headed and yet so strong! More like a robot than a human being … Strange how I had scarcely bothered to glance at Ruth's body as I had run past it and on into her bedroom …

…Again I saw myself pulling and dragging the shabby old travelling case from the top of Ruth's wardrobe. It had been filled with musty books confiscated from her children. I had tipped them, helter-skelter, on to the almost threadbare carpet …

…I had packed as many of Ruth's belongings as was possible into the case. Had I forgotten anything? I had packed her two good dresses, most of her underwear. Her bathrobe needed laundering and it was bulky but she would never have gone off and left it behind. In it had gone, along with her blue velvet jewel case …

…Had I made certain that her string of cultured pearls, her cameo brooch and ugly onyx ring were in the case? Yes. And the framed photograph of Rob and Jodie and the box of unused handkerchiefs with its birthday greeting card attached, which read, ‘To Mother from Rob and Jodie'.

Gloves, shoes, raincoat …

…But—her handbag! I had searched and searched. I would have to find it. Have to search for it once more …

As I wept and dug I thought of Ralph Moyston. Ralph, always so patient, so gentle. I thought of Rob and Jodie. Their lives always so miserable, so unhappy.

As I wept and dug I thought how wonderful it would have been if Ruth had actually kept her word and had really left home, as for years she had been threatening to. ‘I'm clearing out! Leaving you all! Leaving this lousy life! Going off to make a life for myself!' Yes, that had been her oft-repeated threat and if she had actually gone no one
would have been greatly amazed, and surely Ralph, for all his goodness, could have only feelings of relief. ‘Ruth has left home!' he would say.

‘Mother has run away, left home!' Rob and Jodie would say.

‘John,' I would say, ‘Ruth Moyston has actually cleared out—left home!' And John would shrug and say, ‘My goodness! She has? Good
riddance
!'

Yes, if Ruth had, in fact, gone away that is exactly what would have happened.

Twice, during my digging, telephone bells had rung out. The first call had been from my sister, Madge, my invalid sister. Always so fond of long gossips. I had taken a long, steadying breath before explaining, untruthfully, to her that I was in the midst of shampooing my hair.

Some minutes after that call, clambering from the hole I suspended work and waited—spade in hand—listening to the demanding telephone signal shrilling out from the Moystons' house. On and on it went, then, it had ceased. Jumping down into the hole again, I wrenched my ankle. The pain was excruciating, agonizing, but I carried on because time was passing and there were so many urgent and terrible things to be done.

Finally, sweat-soaked, exhausted, and with rank-smelling soil covering me from head to toe, I went hobbling and moaning with pain, to my bathroom. I stripped myself naked and standing beneath the shower I watched the earth-stained water run into the drain.

Without bothering to towel myself, I went into my bedroom and opening a drawer I took up from the lavender-scented sachet, John's last birthday gift to me, a pair of snow-white doe skin gloves. I put them on in place of the now ruined brown cotton gloves I had been wearing, then I snatched up my soiled shorts and shirt and dragged them on.

Ignoring the pain in my ankle, still refusing to recognize
the loathsome nature of my actions and intentions, I crossed over to the Moyston house again. As I swiftly limped my way I realized that I must have stayed beneath the shower for quite a long time. The position of the sun warned me that it was later than I had thought.

Where was the key to the back door? In the pocket of my shorts? Yes. Opening the door I crept into the Moystons' kitchen as a female voice, loud and strident, was proclaiming that she was
more
than pleased with her purchases at a discount furniture shop. Then, crashingly loud, music took over.

The kitchen was empty. Ruth's body no longer lay on the floor.

I stood swaying in the black mist that flooded the room. I wanted to stay in the blackness and the mist, but dragging myself to the sink I picked up a drinking glass that stood on the chipped draining board. It had the remnants of Ruth's stomach mixture in it, she always used it to calm her nerves. Maybe it could help calm me, I needed calming more than ever before in my life.

As I raised the glass to my lips it slipped from my shaking hand and fell on to the tiled floor and the splintering, shattering sound cleared my mind. Common sense told me that Ruth had not died, that the heavy fall had injured, stunned her, and on regaining consciousness she had been able to get up, walk, crawl …

Then—where was she? Somewhere in the house? Hiding, frightened of me? Had she watched, as I had dug that grave?

Had
Ruth
called the police? Was she waiting for them to arrive, to charge me for my attack on her and my peculiar activity in John's garden? For having packed that suitcase?

My heart began to chatter with a new fear. The fear of Ruth Moyston—alive. She would see to it that I suffered for my outrageous actions and she had every right on her side and I would be asked
why
I had dug that hole.

During all the years of my marriage I had not so much as planted a seed. I knew that I must fill that gaping hole in—now—at once, before anyone came.

I felt a great tenderness towards myself, digging that now unnecessary hole must have damaged my heart; it ached, my entire body ached. It was not fair that I should have become so embroiled in my neighbour's problems, not fair at all, and it wasn't fair that from some inner source I must find fresh courage, strength enough to cross the garden, climb the fence, fill the hole in and …

But first, I must find Ruth. Suddenly and for the first time ever, I admitted to myself that I had hated Ruth for years. She had intimidated Jodie and Rob, she had crippled and crushed the spirit of her husband and from now on she would have the power to intimidate me. The realization frightened me, but that was not important. Just thank God, she, Ruth, was not dead, she was alive. All I had to do was find and face up to her, bravely.

Ruth was lying stretched out on her bed. Her head was turbaned in a gaily coloured bath towel. Her hands were folded together and resting on her bosom and her eyes were closed. She looked quite splendid in a strange kind of way and I was certain that she would be out to scare me, to pretend that she was in a bad way and insist that I call a doctor to see her.

‘Ruth …?' I whispered from the doorway, ‘Ruth it's me—Molly!'

She did not answer. She did not move. As I crossed over to the bed I felt that she was play-acting and determining not to let her upset me too much, I spoke, firmly, saying ‘Look at me, Ruth! Come on now …' and I took her hand in mine.

I knew, at once, that she was dead.

She must have regained consciousness, struggled through the house, managed to get to her bed only to die
there. Once more fear and terror assailed my mind. I knew that come what may, I had to call for help and that meant calling the police. Yes. Yes, and I would call them! Right now and at once.

As I turned away from the bed a new terror struck into my heart. Someone had entered the house. Someone had switched the radio off and in the silence I heard footsteps coming towards the bedroom and then a man's voice called, ‘Ruth? Ruth?'

It was Ralph Moyston!

‘Ruth? Ruthie, it's me, dear …' he was calling apologetically.

Clenching my hands into fists I pressed them against my mouth and I remained that way, listening, as Ralph made his way from room to room, calling Ruth's name, his voice tentative, nervous.

Fraught with fear, with uncertainty, I wondered if I could tell him I had just come over and discovered his wife lying on the bed, lifeless. Could I tell him that? Would he believe me?

Ralph's slight figure appeared in the bedroom doorway. Startled, his gaze went from me to the figure on the bed, than back again to me.

‘Molly?' he queried, ‘What has happened? What is going on?'

I stared at Ralph with a passionate interest, he stared back, bewildered, and we stared at one another for a long time—a very long time—then again, like a mechanized puppet, he repeated my name.

Still, I was incapable of speaking, of moving. The silence grew unbearable and as Ralph stepped forward I held up a hand, as though to ward him off and I whispered, ‘Ralph—Ruth is dead.'

With a rapid movement he covered his face with both hands and just as rapidly I sprang towards him pulling his
hands away. His face resembled that of a child, uncomprehending, yet certain of trouble to come as he pushed me aside and moved towards the bed whispering, ‘No, no, oh God,
no
…'

He peered down into Ruth's face, as he held one of her lifeless hands. Then he turned to face me and I saw that tears were squeezing from his eyes and that blood trickled from his lower lip where his teeth had broken the flesh. He reached out and caught my arm in a painful grip. Terrified, I thought, that now
he
, Ralph, was out to injure me, and struggling to free myself I cried out, ‘I didn't mean to hurt her. I didn't mean to kill her …'

He listened—still grasping my arm—with his head moving from side to side as though trying to clear his mind as I gabbled on incoherently, telling how it had been, how I had heard Ruth beating Jodie, how Ruth had been about to attack me, how I had pushed Ruth, how I had meant to call the police, how I had been too cowardly, too terrified.

‘The police?' Ralph's voice broke into my crazed monologue, ‘Why the police? You should have called the
doctor
.'

‘No!' I interrupted, ‘I believed that she was dead. I was sure that she was dead.'

I began to weep bitterly and I wished that Ralph were not so timid and gentle. I wished that he were a man to take command. A man like …

But I did not want to think of John …

I realized that Ralph had let go of my arm and that he was again peering down at Ruth. ‘Molly,' he ground out the words, ‘Molly, you have done what I have so often been tempted to do. I might have done it on purpose, you did it accidentally.'

He began moving about the room, waving his hands, crying out, ‘You stood up to her! My boy and girl have always despised my lack of courage.
You
stood up to her.'

I was beginning to have the eerie feeling that Ruth could
hear, that she was watching us, about to rise up, accusingly, and I cried out, ‘Stop wasting time. Call the police. Help me. I can't do it! I am played out.'

I watched Ralph steadying his befuddled mind. Watched as he lifted the receiver of the extension telephone on the bedside table and a new level of fear rose up in me for he—all at once—became aware that except for the telephone, the usually cluttered table top was bare. His eyes flew about the room, taking in the pile of books on the floor, the open and overflowing suitcase. As his eyes questioned mine, in astonishment, a flood of shame enveloped me, as without unlocking my gaze from his, I said, tremulously, ‘I—Ralph, I packed her belongings! Packed all Ruth's things …' I gestured towards the suitcase.

‘But …' Ralph stammered, ‘But—why?'

‘I lost my reason. I was beside myself with fear, afraid that the police, that John, that you,
everyone
, would think I had meant to kill her. I know I must have been out of my mind because I was going to make it appear as though Ruth had left home. Yes, I have been out of my mind with fear.'

Still holding the telephone receiver, Ralph stood gazing into space as though time was of no consequence. Then, abruptly replacing the receiver back on to its cradle, he folded his arms and stared into space again.

‘Ralph?' I barely breathed his name, but he heard and looked at me, as I said, ‘The
police
?' Again I barely breathed the words, ‘Ralph, aren't you going to …?' I pointed, childishly, towards the telephone.

‘No.' said Ralph, his voice was toneless. ‘No. She is dead. Nothing can change that.' Then, all at once, he became distraught, whispering, ‘Molly, you must help me.'

‘What? I? Help
you
…?'

‘Yes, help lift! Carry …' He gestured to the body on the bed, saying, ‘
You
said that the head is injured? We don't want blood about the place. We will take her to your place, leave her there until we have time to …'

I drew back, horrified, whispering, ‘No, no—not to
my
house.'

Ralph ignored my protest, saying, ‘Yes, your house! John is still away. Tonight you will be alone there. Molly, it will give us time to think, to plan …'

He ran from the room, then he returned carrying a towel, handing it to me saying, ‘I can't! You do it, Molly! Make quite sure that …'