The Death of Ruth (10 page)

‘Anything,' I agreed, ‘Anything that will help her.'

Before leaving, the doctor said that he would call again in a few days' time and he reminded me to be sure that Molly had her milk drinks and the sedatives.

Grey stayed on for a while but we were both in silent
moods, and when I remarked that it was time for Molly's sedative and milk, he said, ‘I'll be off.' Then he hesitated for a moment as though making up his mind to tell me something, but evidently thinking better of it, he said, ‘I'll be on my way. Give my best to your wife, John.'

Having to stay in bed has been a strain but at least I have been able to sleep. Sleep is such a blessing. For years I have spent restless, wakeful nights and now that insomnia has—in the most miraculous way—left me, I feel relaxed and I could lie here for ever if that were possible, but it is not possible and I must fight against this feeling of lassitude, not only of my body but of my mind.

Jodie came to visit with me this morning. I should think John must have asked her to call, because I know she dislikes me. She brought some grapes and she brought flowers. Flowers—to me …

Glass has now been placed in the huge windows of the apartment building. The windows glare down at me, and soon, curious eyes will look from those windows. Children will come to live in the apartments. They will have bats and balls and the balls will come over the fence into my garden and I will have less privacy than ever. I shall become surrounded and by people I will never know. People who will never know me. It is lonely, terrible to live in the world without one person you can be open and frank with.

There has been Ruth! I have been frank with her—but from today—I will never talk to Ruth again. This morning, I had begun telling her about Jodie coming over, about the baby and about how weak I have been.

‘Ruth,' I had begun.

I had been talking to myself, just standing in my garden, looking at the ground—talking to myself, just as all these years I have known that, but I have kept on, making believe that Ruth could hear me.

I wish that Ralph would hurry home. I am impatient for his return because I am going to talk to him and I do not know how he will take what I have to say. But no matter what he feels, I am going to confess, give myself up! Confess everything! Confess that I accidentally killed Ruth Moyston.

I will not bother about the garden any more. The garden may go to rack and ruin. From force of habit, as I stood there this morning, I plucked a delicate green weed from the rock-garden, and I whispered, tentatively, ‘Ruth …? Ruth …?'

Then, I ceased calling to her. I stood there, thinking to myself, instead of talking to a corpse—I have made a decision, I thought, and the decision has killed the cowardly panic in me. Soon—very soon—I will be free to do the thing I long to do. To confess!

Yes, I am going to confess that Ruth is not missing. That she has been in this secret grave for almost four long years and after the confession I will be free. Free to pray, and after I have prayed, maybe death will become my friend in place of the monster I have dreaded for so long.

I want to act now, today, but I must wait for Ralph to come home. He and I must talk together. He must not be implicated. There is no need for Ralph to be implicated. Although he was wrong—in every way—first, because he believed he had been protecting Jodie; then his protection of me. He was wrong even though he acted from the gentleness of his heart.

His three months' vacation will soon be over and when he returns I will tell him what I am going to do, and we can make plans to keep him completely out of the affair.

I am now glad that Mr Grey lives close by. It will save me the trouble, the embarrassment of having to go to the police. I shall go direct to Mr Grey and Mr Grey might well be embarrassed himself, when he learns that the woman the police have been searching for lies in this very garden,
and that Mr Grey has, many times stood both on and beside her grave. He will be shocked. Many people will be shocked, and I—who have lived through so many shocks—I am sorry for them all.

I cannot fully understand why this wondrous calm has come so suddenly to my storm-tossed mind. I am less distracted. Even my thoughts have become precise. I am able to sleep at night. Every night—since I have been ill—ever since that evening when John came home and found me lying unconscious in the garden, I have fallen into deep and restful sleep. Perhaps it is a sign that my inner suffering, that my terrible punishment, is coming to an end and that God is showing His grace to me.

When I come out with the awful truth, I hope that Mr Grey will understand I am confessing because I want to—of my own accord—and not because I am suspicious of his suspicions. He has his suspicions, I am convinced of that. I am certain that Mr Grey suspects that Ruth should no longer be just a name on the Missing Persons list.

It is imperative that I speak to Ralph before I speak to Mr Grey. It is desperately important, for if Ralph is caught unaware he could give away more than is necessary and that could do him irreparable harm.

Yes. Yes, the glass has been fixed into the windows of the new apartment building. People—men, women and children—will soon move in and make their homes there.

I am glad that this ugly business will be over before the people arrive. It would not be a good omen for the new tenants' future happiness if they looked from their windows, down upon the garden, to see, to witness …

I will not think of what is going to happen. I shall wait quietly for Ralph to return, and for today—because I do not think that he will return today—I will not even think any more, but return to my bed and maybe fall into one of those little dozes that I used to be so scared of.

I had been unable to doze off because of the noise in the
street. The Council men are going full steam ahead laying the new sewerage and drain pipes in our front garden and right along the street.

They make a great deal of noise—the noise is unendurable—and I can no longer control the volume of sound I hear. I wonder if my hearing is actually beginning to play up, in fact, after the years of pretence? Not with a loss of hearing but hearing too loudly.

It would be so comforting, so wonderful, to have someone to talk to, someone who could perhaps feel even a modicum of pity for me, for my plight.

Today, I saw—as though for the first time—the garden I have created, the garden I have hated and have slaved over, and I recognized its beauty. The garden is beautiful.

I noticed the camellia bushes, so gleaming, so green! Soon, small buds will show, hard and tight with the promise of blossoms to come. I shall leave those buds to blossom as they will. I wonder if John will notice the camellia flowers? He has changed so much. He looks so healthy, so handsome. I love him so much, so deeply.

In comparison to John, I am so elderly, so weary and so lonely. What has happened to my life? Where has it gone? What has happened to John and me?

I know that I am foolish to pretend that I do not know why things are as they are. I know that, but this morning, when I saw my white hair in the mirror, saw and realized how lined and how sharp my face has become, it almost broke my heart, but all that does not really matter, because as though a miracle has occurred, my mind has become like a still pool in the centre of a whirlpool. I have not only stopped running, my direction has changed. I know where I am going. I have confidence. My goal will not recede as I walk, I hope, unlimpingly towards it.

The laying of the new sewerage pipes is making our street hazardous and chaotic. When the Council men knock off from work every day, they leave red-light lanterns to warn of the path's pitfalls.

Yesterday evening returning home from work, just as I was about to enter my gate, Grey beckoned to me from the Moystons' front door, calling, ‘John, spare me a moment, or two?'

‘What's on your mind?' I asked and he told me that he was almost certain he had seen Ralph Moyston in the city. ‘Ralph?' I had exclaimed. ‘So he's back in town! Well, actually he is only a few days earlier than expected.'

Grey said, ‘John, if it were Moyston I saw, he has been back for some time, probably has never been away.'

I laughed that suggestion off, saying that I was sure he was mistaken, but Grey went on to say that he, and a colleague of his, had been in one of the dockside pubs, the old Castle Hill. He explained, ‘You know what a dump that pub is.'

‘No,' I said, ‘I don't know. Pubs have never played much of a part in my life.' I was not impressed with Grey's story because I know that Ralph—like myself—never frequents hotels of any description, let alone second-rate pubs. ‘Grey,' I said, ‘Even if it were Ralph that you saw, is there any reason why he shouldn't have been in the Castle Hill pub? I mean, you were there too.' I added.

He grinned, saying, ‘Yes, but I'm a bit of a boozer!' and he continued on, speaking seriously, saying, ‘John, I was there on a job. I noticed this fellow standing at the bar and I at
once thought it was Moyston. I caught the fellow's eye and raised my hand in recognition, but I received a blank—absolutely blank—look in return. The man left the pub and I went to the bar and asked the barmaid, Maisie, if she knew him. Maisie is an old pal of mine and I know that I can rely on her word, she told me that the man in question was a Mr Gorman, a nice chap, who came in every evening for a drink or two, and Maisie had laughed, saying, “Now, Mr Grey, don't tell me
that
nice gentleman has been up to any mischief?”

‘For a moment, I accepted the fact that I had been mistaken, then, John, I felt that I had not. “Maisie,” I said, “Has he ever shown you a photograph of his wife? Does Gorman ever mention his wife?”

‘“He hasn't got a wife,” she said. Maisie was becoming impatient and she continued on looking over her shoulder at me, saying, “I know that for a fact, Mr Grey. I also know that Mr Gorman is thinking of getting married—to a real nice lady at that. She comes in here with him quite often. They're real fond of each other. It's very nice to see!” she finished up, primly. You see, John, Maisie is a stickler for the proprieties, she likes to see people happy—and married. Still, I was not satisfied. I asked her where Gorman worked, and she said, “Somewhere about! I think he drives an elevator, in one of the warehouses. Look, Mr Grey, I'm sorry, but this is my busy time.”'

Grey had gone on to say, ‘It was also my busy time, and so I put Moyston out of my thoughts, but …'

‘But what?' I prodded. ‘Grey, as sure as I am not Napoleon Bonaparte, that Gorman chap is not Ralph Moyston. I know Ralph almost as well as I know myself, and just the thought of Ralph frequenting a low pub, and having a “lady friend” tells me that you are mistaken. Also,' I reminded Grey, ‘I have had several letters from Ralph—all from up north-country way.'

I stood up, saying that I had neglected to pick up Molly's
sedative mixture and that if I were to get it before closing time I would have to hurry. The doctor had been firm about not neglecting the sedative and I had given her the last dose in the bottle.

‘OK, but hold it, John,' Grey's voice was serious and he looked a bit embarrassed too, ‘There is something else I must tell you.'

‘Well—go ahead!' I encouraged, and as I listened to what Grey had to say I began to feel extremely uneasy and later on that night, lying in bed, I thought over everything that he, Grey, had told me.

He had begun by saying, ‘John, it was pure coincidence when I rented Moyston's house. I had accepted the idea that Ruth Moyston had sickened of housework, of family life, and taken off into the nowhere. It's not unusual, many women do it, and searching for them is like looking for needles in haystacks. They usually turn up sooner or later. I was quite pleased to be so near my new apartment, and by the way—I'll be moving in, very soon now.'

‘That'll be nice,' I said, impatiently, wanting to be on my way. ‘Very nice!'

‘Yes, very nice!' he agreed, then he said, ‘I am reluctant to tell you this, but I believe Ruth Moyston's daughter was correct in surmising that her mother is dead, and furthermore, I believe that Moyston was—'

I broke into his spiel, ‘You're out of your mind, Grey. That is, if you are implying that Moyston—that Ralph was involved in foul play. In …?'

‘Hold it! Quieten down! I'm sorry, John, maybe I am being too abrupt.'

I began to breathe evenly again, as he continued on, saying, ‘Let me start afresh where I should have begun—with something factual. John, the first time my suspicions were aroused was on the night I drove young Jodie home from your house. She is a great chatterbox, as you know, and that night she talked her pretty head off. I pay little
attention to the pleasing picture she gives of her mother. It's only natural that she now sees her mother as a kindly, delightful person. Very few people speak ill of the dead—the missing either, in most cases. Well, that evening, I asked Jodie to go back over the day of her mother's disappearance, see if she had overlooked anything—even the smallest detail—I had encouraged her, not because I was actually interested, but because my mind was on quite another matter and her rapid-fire empty talk was annoying me. I knew that if I got her on to the subject of her mother I need only nod and occasionally say, “Yes, yes, go on …”'

‘Well, I had been correct and once off she rattled away like a machine gun. I paid little or no attention to the well-worn story—that was, until I heard mention of a spending spree that Moyston had taken her—Jodie—on.

‘“What was that you were saying, Jodie?” I asked. “Sorry, I was concentrating on my driving! What was that about a shopping spree?”

‘“Oh—that!” She continued on telling me that about a month after her mother had taken off into the blue, her father—Moyston—said it was time she had some nice clothes to wear.