The Death of Ruth (8 page)

Ruth, the day Mr Grey came back here was almost as dreadful as that other day—I mean, the day I dug the hole you lie in. When he arrived, I was here, by you. John was in the house and I saw a man in your garden. For a flash, I had thought it was Ralph come back then I realized that the man was taller, broader and younger than Ralph.

He, the man, walked about, looking the place over. He glanced in my direction, and called to me, saying, ‘How are you, Mrs Blake?'

I ignored him and went on pruning the crepe myrtle tree, but he came right up to the dividing fence and I recognized him. I was terribly brave, Ruth, I smiled, pointed to my ears and he seemed to understand what I meant, and he went down the path and rang at our front door.

Something broke—in my mind. I will never be the same again. Damage has been done to my mind. How could it be otherwise? No human being could suffer such an unexpected shock, and recover completely.

I steadied down after a while and although I felt certain that Ralph had contacted Mr Grey and told the truth to him, I was overcome by a great feeling of relief.

I had gone into the house with relief in my heart, because I knew that the end was coming for me. The thing I had dreaded for so long became a welcome thing, and when I
heard Mr Grey and John talking together, all I wanted to do was to hurry, to be with John when he heard what Mr Grey had to tell him.

Ruth, it is not all over at all! You are still just missing and Mr Grey says that he has not come here about your disappearance. He has come, so he says, because he has sold his own house and has bought one of the apartments they are building next door and decided that it would be simpler to live nearby until his apartment is completed. He told John that he had asked an estate agent to find him a place, and the agent told him that Ralph was looking for a short-term tenant.

Mr Grey is delighted, so he says, to be near his new home-to-be, and he and John have taken to playing chess together in our living room. John likes him, and if it were any other man in the world but Mr Grey, I would be delighted, for John's sake; but it is Mr Grey, and, Ruth, it is all too much of a coincidence for me to rest easy under. Do you agree? Do you think, as I do, that Mr Grey is here for other reasons?

Ruth, Jodie now has her baby. It is a boy. She brings the little thing here to see John. You remember how he likes children? The baby is called after John, and he is proud of that. Seeing John with the baby brings back my regret in not having been able to give him a child of his own.

He was born to be a father. He is still extremely kind to Jodie and Rob, always ignoring Rob's worsening stutter and patiently advising Jodie about her sudden outbursts of uncalled for hysteria, sympathizing with her because she still bites her finger nails down to the quick. Yes, both your children retain the nervous tics your cruelty induced into them just as they both have certain scars on various parts of their bodies.

Nevertheless, I have to admit that I have taken a dislike to Jodie. She is becoming a thoughtless, an unkind person in many ways. When they all sit together in my living room,
petting and admiring the baby, they all, especially Jodie go on as though I were not in the room, as though I were invisible. On one occasion, they all trooped out to admire this rock-garden, leaving the baby in the living room with me. Then, Jodie had yelled out—just as you used to yell—ordering Bill to return to the house, screaming wildly, ‘Hurry, I don't want Johnny left with that mad woman.'

Mad woman! Ruth, you know that all during her childhood, I was the one Jodie came to for comfort and solace and that I never failed her.

As for Rob, poor lad, he is also unthoughtful and unkind towards me. Not so long ago he went so far as to encourage John to have me put away. I gather that he meant I belonged in a lunatic asylum. Yes, they would like that because then, of course, these two fall-down houses could be sold. I don't want to think about that.

I would like to tell those children of yours, Ruth, that if it had not been for your child-bashing tactics, your sadism, I would be a different person indeed from the wreck I have become; and instead of not selling the property, we would have sold it—yes, if we go deeply into the matter, it is your fault alone that things are the way they are, and that
you
are where you are.

Ruth, it is frustrating to me having Jodie speak of you as though you had been the tenderest of mothers to her. ‘Oh …' she gurgles, ‘If only Mum could see you, Johnny. Poor Johnny, your Nana would have loved you so much.'

Ruth, you know as well as I that the only motherly tenderness Jodie knew in her youth came from me. You were too hard, Ruth. I am repeating myself I know, but you were too cruel and it appears to me to be a great injustice that you are now revered and loved by Jodie and Rob, whilst I am despised, scorned and disliked. Yes, you are the blame for so much, so much. It was those years that Ralph spent under your domination that made him into a man who could cover up a crime rather than have the person
who had committed it suffer punishment. He was weary of the perpetual chastisement that went on in his home.

Ralph's outrageous behaviour on that dreadful day was the result of the behaviour pattern he had been forced into by your domination, your viciousnesss towards his children. It could not have been otherwise, and you, Ruth, know, even better than I, how Ralph loved Jodie, and Rob, how tender and patient a father he was—and still is. He knew that if he had stood up against you, you would only have made things worse for them.

I know, Ruth, that I have told you on countless occasions how Ralph had said—on that dreadful day—that he admired my courage in facing up to you.

Courage? Oh, dear God, if only I had had even a
modicum
of courage on that day. If only I had not been so cowardly, so filled with conceits about my reputation—such false, such self-important, ridiculous little conceits.

Too late now to think how things could have been, but talking things over helps me. Ruth, when Ralph comes home I will take things a bit easier. He will be pleased because I know I have often upset him on those occasions when I have attempted to talk things over with him. He has been very wise, because never acknowledging to one another what happened has made it seem—not to me—but to Ralph, that nothing actually did happen. If he had made it possible for us to talk, I might have broken down. Yes, I could so easily have broken down and …

Ruth, John has had several letters from Ralph and I find hidden messages between the lines. For instance, when he wrote, ‘I sincerely hope that my tenant is not a troublesome neighbour in any way' I take that as a message from Ralph to me, warning me to be careful. I am being careful. Dear God, how Ralph would worry and sympathize if he knew that Mr Grey was the tenant.

Oh, Ruth, I am finding it so difficult to be on guard all the time. It is John's fault. When he was annoyed with me, and
always unhappy, it was easier, but his recent kindness makes me feel as though I were being beaten, and I have to double my vigilance to prevent myself from breaking down. If I broke down, just think what would happen! No, I will not go into that. It is better not to.

Life is a series of threats and battles. There are always new threats and battles to fight. The latest threat is my tendency to drop off to sleep. I am always dropping off into little dozes, it is nerve-racking, horrible. I was dozing out here one day last week, and I felt the warmth of the sun lessen—that is how light my little naps are—I opened my eyes to see a pair of men's shoes on the grass before me. I looked higher, then higher, and Mr Grey was standing over me. He had not heard the interior scream I had given, but he was aware that he had startled me. He smiled and apologized, saying that he had merely come over to make sure that I was all right. ‘I was watching you for some time,' he said, ‘There is a cold wind blowing. I felt concerned …'

He is an extremely nice man but his eyes appear to see through things, rather than merely to be looking at them, and that day, I had the impression that he was not only looking at this rock-garden but down—beneath it.

When I was able to speak, I had queried his remark and he had repeated the same words but in a louder, clearer voice. In reply, I told him that I rise very early every morning, and that sometimes during the day I take little naps.

‘Half your luck,' he said, and then he told me that he admired my work, that he had never seen a more beautiful garden. ‘Why,' he asked, ‘don't you enter it in a garden contest?'

I told him that I would rather not, and he said, ‘That's a pity Mrs Blake, but, unless of course there is something in the garden you want to conceal you should allow others to share this beauty.'

Ruth, I had broken out into a cold sweat. Can you understand
the strain I am living under? I smiled up at him, I kept on smiling as he talked on, saying, ‘You devote so much time to this garden—all day and every day—and especially on this magnificent rock-garden.' He had laughed, teasingly, saying, ‘Are you
sure
there is no special magic you use to cause its great beauty?'

I had not broken down. I kept on smiling. Mr Grey put his hand on my shoulder, and I did not shudder, as he smiled again, saying, ‘I'm sure that no hoard of buried treasure could be lovelier than the flowers you grow.'

He had gone back to his own house and I went inside. I was sick again, retching, as I had retched the day when he first arrived to live here.

Ruth, I have no privacy! Mr Grey and John are becoming as thick as thieves. He, Mr Grey, is in our house nearly every evening, and because the apartment building is nearing completion, I have to bear the burden of being looked over nearly all the time.

Ruth, you know how I used to have those weeps of mine out here, and how sometimes I would cry out loudly, and how I used to feel a little easier after I had let go—I cannot do that any more.

I know that you cannot see me, Ruth, but if you could, you would see that even when I talk to you these days, I never move my lips and this is because I heard two of the men from the building site discussing me. They are a rough gang of men. I have no time for any of them, especially, I dislike the one who called out, ‘Hey, take a gander at the old duck, Mac! She's as mad as a meat axe. No, it's OK, she can't hear; she's deaf as a post! Go on—take a look—she's talking away—to herself. Thinks she's got a mate with her. Real old rag-bag, eh?'

He has never heard me speak aloud again.

Restraint! Yes, I am becoming exhausted having to restrain myself so much, and all the time.

That man's expression—rag-bag—gave me a nasty jolt,
and for the past week or so I have been wearing the clothes that John bought for me. John was pleased to see me wearing them, but it made me sad to see him happy for so deluded a reason. I am dressing up for the workmen and especially for Mr Grey—not for John.

But am I making an error? Should I begin to change my ways? I do not know what to do, I am so scared, so …

Seeing Molly wearing her new clothes and with her hair neatly groomed, is the best thing that has happened for some time. My hopes rise about her and about the matter of selling the property.

The real estate company is still interested in purchasing—still want to buy our property. Recently, during one of my house clean-ups, I came upon some letters hidden away beneath the rug in Molly's bedroom. Molly—unknown to herself—has the makings of a good business woman. The purchase price offer has been more than doubled.

A hope is rising in me that perhaps Molly and I do have some chance of a reasonable life ahead, for when I arrived home from work one evening, there was Molly dressed in her new blue blouse, pleated skirt and wearing the palest trace of lipstick. The table was set for dinner. That was more than enough to encourage me, but when I heard Molly's laugh coming from the kitchen, tears actually came to my eyes, and I paused for a moment before calling, as I had not done for years, ‘Molly—I'm home!'

She did not answer me, for of course she could not hear, but when I went into the kitchen, she smiled, saying, ‘You're home, John!'

‘Yes,' I said and kissed her cheek and if Grey had not been in the room I would have broken down just for the wonder of it all.

‘Hullo, Blake,' Grey smiled, saying, ‘Your wife has taken pity on me and has invited me to dinner.'

I felt let down when Molly did not sit at the table with us,
but I realize that if she is recovering, it will be a slow process and I must not expect too much, too soon. It seems as though her hearing is also improving. She still speaks only when spoken to, but it is in a more natural manner, not as though she has a pain getting her words out and if these improvements continue I am going to do my utmost to have the doctor examine her leg, for her limp is as pronounced as ever.

That evening, when dinner was over, Grey and I had a tussle over the chess board; he was the victor as usual. After the match we sat for a while and chatted.

Molly sat by the window, plaiting the bright red raffia that she uses to bind about her potted plants and I must have been looking at her with some tenderness because Grey caught my eye and smiled, saying, ‘She's a nice person, that wife of yours. She lives in a dream world of her own, doesn't she?'

‘Yes,' I replied, ‘and having you as our neighbour is doing a lot for her.'

‘Nonsense,' he smiled. ‘But I do notice quite a difference both in her appearance and in her manner. If I were you, John, I would take her away for a vacation. Away from the monotony and the routine of …'

‘I don't think that Molly would agree to that—yet,' I interrupted, and I noticed that Molly had begun plaiting again. Her hands had become motionless during Grey's speech, ‘There is a time for everything, isn't there!' I finished off, and Grey gave an understanding nod.

Knowing Grey has made quite a difference in my life too. We have a great deal in common. Until I met up with him again, I had not realized what a well-read man I have become. For the past few years I have read myself ragged. I had begun with light novels, often getting through one in an evening, and sometimes picking up another book and beginning it, but eventually, I had tired of such trivial works, and I had asked the librarian to advise me on my
choice of books, and she—glad I suppose to have someone interested—produced wonders for me.