The Death of Ruth (7 page)

I kissed Molly that night, for the first time. She had responded, shyly, gladly, and I am sure she considered herself engaged to be married. I know that I felt manly, capable of anything, and one year later we were married. I admired my wife and relied on her. I liked everything about her. I believed that she felt as I did, in every way, and I fully believed that she always would.

As the chaos of building increases on the land adjoining our home I am relaxing a little, not fretting so much about her refusal to sell our property. Molly, I believe, will change her views of her own accord, for the noise, the action, the dust, make a continuous pandemonium.

‘Molly won't be able to take it much longer,' I told Ralph, and he said he supposed that I was right and that it should be just a matter of time.

‘Yes,' Ralph had agreed with me, ‘It is much worse for Molly than for any of us. We are never here during the week days. She is the only one actually suffering because of the noise. Yes, John, be patient, time will do the trick.'

Three months have passed by and the huge building project has become a grotesque steel skeleton, dwarfing our small houses. The workmen now start very early every morning and to escape the noise I leave home an hour earlier than is necessary and I have taken to walking the three miles to the city and my health and my appetite are improving. This morning, however, I awoke with a headache, and feeling off colour I decided to wait and catch the bus. Preparing my breakfast of boiled eggs, toast and coffee, I groaned aloud at each metallic clang, at the screech of metal on metal, and at the general buzz and ear-shattering medley of construction going on. Looking out of the grimy kitchen window, I watched Molly, who stood, as though lost in a dream, with her arms folded, staring down at the really beautiful rock-garden
she has recently been working on again, and as I watched, sounds of shocking confusion came from the building project, beginning with the high, terrified scream of a man and ending with the deafening crash of a steel girder as it fell from a height on to a pile of other girders lying on the ground.

There was an ugly beat of silence, then sounds of panic—men's voices yelling—and mixed in with all of that, work had started up again, the work of more than thirty men, many of them armed with electrical tools.

Later on, I found out that a workman had fallen, as well as the girder, and that he had been seriously injured.

When the chaos had quietened down, I placed my untouched cup of coffee on to the table, and going out into the garden, I called to Molly. Molly, during the entire period, had not moved. She had remained lost in contemplation of her much-loved rock-garden and even the sound of her own name, called close by, made no impression on her. When I touched her shoulder, she turned, gazing at me with startled, fear-filled eyes. With some shock I realized that Molly has become hard of hearing.

My first reaction was—Hell! Now I can't rely on the noise to change her mind. She doesn't even hear it, it means
nothing
to her, then I was immediately ashamed of that thought and strangely enough, my anger and impatience faded.

I have decided for the time being, to give up asking Molly to reconsider selling the property. I will leave her in peace. I could weep for the pathetic person she has become. I will not worry her further but try to fall into her way of living and thinking. Try to make her life as pleasant as possible.

For some years now I have been buying the provisions and food that cannot be delivered to the house. I had done it carelessly, with bad grace, but now I am shopping with more thought to food that Molly might fancy. Recently,
with some embarrassment, I realized that my wife has not bought herself one new article of clothing for years. I noticed her patched, worn underwear that hung on the laundry line, and I noted that Molly never wore stockings and that her shoes were worn out. For years she had gone every ten days or so to have her hair shampooed and set, but these days her hair is neglected; it grows wispily, and it is almost completely white.

I blamed myself for not having noticed such things before. It was because, I suppose, like her deafness, these things have come about so gradually.

I went shopping and purchased underwear, a pleated skirt, two blouses, shoes. I left the packages on Molly's bed, and later on, I watched as she placed the underwear in a drawer, hung the skirt and blouses carefully on hangers. She had smoothed the material with her garden-rough hands and I was pleased that I had also bought hand lotion, complexion cream, a lipstick, other small feminine necessities, and although Molly appeared to be pleased, she continues to wear her worn clothing, and her hands remain uncared for. The lipstick—never used—stands perched on her dressing table resembling a shiny cartridge.

Young Jodie, now eighteen, has married her Bill. There had been an unpleasant evening when she had come running to our house, crying hysterically, announcing that she was ‘going to have a baby' and that she and Bill just ‘had to get married' and that they had no chance of getting a decent place to live. She had broken down and wept, pleading with Molly to change her mind and sell our property.

‘You and Bill will manage,' Molly had said, quietly. ‘It's not good for young people to rely on help from their elders. You get married, Jodie, and you'll see, everything will be all right.'

Molly speaks in the strangely hollow voice of a deaf person. I know of course that she is not absolutely deaf. She
hears quite well when one speaks directly to her and if there are no conflicting sounds in the nearby vicinity.

Young Rob has gone off to live with Jodie and Bill. Before leaving home he had said to me, ‘Uncle John, ever since Jodie left home, Dad has been like a lost soul. Of course, she had always been his special pet, Mum always resented that. I never have. I feel selfish leaving Dad, but it is so damned dreary living with him. Do you think I am being selfish?'

‘Not at all,' I had replied and Rob had looked relieved, he had grinned happily, then frowning, he had glanced across the room at Molly, murmuring, ‘Uncle John, Aunty Molly is going quite crazy. She could be put away—I mean—she needs treatment of some kind, she has become a bit of a freak.'

I reprimanded him, reminding him of Molly's past kindness to him, to his sister, and he had the grace to look ashamed, and that evening, after Rob left, I asked Molly, carefully, clearly, whether she had heard Rob's remarks. When she said that she had not, I was relieved and I told her that Rob was leaving home, going off to live with Jodie.

‘Ralph'll be lonely,' was her only comment, but a few nights later she had awakened me and I sat up in my dark bedroom, startled, for she never came to my room at night.

‘What is it?' I asked. ‘Molly, are you ill?'

‘No,' she replied flatly, ‘John, you would never try to have me put away, would you?'

‘Ye gods, of course not, Molly! Don't you worry about such things.'

In the same flat voice she told me that she was not at all worried, it was just that she would dislike the trouble and embarrassment that would come about in our peaceful life if I did attempt any such foolish thing.

I spent a sleepless night, worrying about her and about the life we led that she called peaceful. I also wondered whether Molly had been truthful in saying that she had not overheard Rob's harsh remarks. I decided to be more than
ever kind and gentle towards her, but also, more watchful in the future.

Soon after his son's departure from home, Ralph went off on a vacation. His firm has given him three months' long service leave, and Ralph told me that he was going to spend his time searching for Ruth in various country towns.

The morning he left his home, I had watched Ralph dodging Molly, who had seemed determined to have words with him. Ralph, just as determinedly, was intent on not letting himself in for a farewell scene.

Whilst Molly stood at the Moystons' back door, knocking and calling, Ralph had hustled from the front door and coming over to me, he had said, ‘John, here's an extra front door key. I am renting the house whilst I'm away. Will you give the key to the agent when he calls for it?' He handed the key to me.

I was surprised, but said I would. ‘Also, Ralph, you had better leave a forwarding address, just in case,' I said.

‘No, no I won't do that, John. I can't really, I have no idea where I'll be. I'll keep in touch. I shall write to you every so often, let you know how I'm doing,' his voice quavered, ‘John, I have the strongest intuition! I know—just know—that I'm going to find Ruth.'

‘I hope so, Ralph. It's been a long, worrying time for you. You've taken it bravely; I admire you.'

He was pleased with my praise and I asked him—because I felt that it might be true—whether or not he was acting not on intuition alone, but on some information that Ruth actually had been seen by someone in the district he was about to travel to. He replied, saying he would prefer not to tell me more than he already had, for he felt the virtue would go out of his plans if he talked too much about them.

‘But,' he repeated, ‘I'll keep in touch, John.' Then he had smiled whimsically, saying, ‘I have never liked goodbyes. Say goodbye to Molly for me?'

‘Yes, of course, and good luck!' I called after him as he walked away. He certainly deserved a holiday, I thought, even if he was going a strange way about it. A vision of Ruth Moyston flashed through my mind. Ruth, so overbearing, so loud mouthed. I wondered about her. Has she also changed very much? As much, say, as poor Molly?

I went over to the Moystons' to tell Molly that it was useless knocking on the door or calling out any more, because Ralph had already departed, and later on, I asked her why she had wanted to speak so urgently to Ralph.

She had replied wearily, saying, ‘Urgently? I merely wished to say goodbye to Ralph, and, oh yes, there was a matter I had wanted to discuss with him …' After a short pause she continued on, saying, ‘He might never come back to his lonely life here.'

Her voice was gentle and wistful. We were standing by the rock-garden and she seemed to be addressing her words to it, rather than to me.

‘Ralph! Never come back?' I laughed, ‘Why should you think that, Molly? Of course Ralph will come back, he has only got three months' leave.'

‘Yes, of course!' she murmured. ‘Only three months.'

Molly wandered off to the tool-shed and I returned to the house. It was Sunday. The neighbourhood was quiet and I intended to spend the day cleaning and polishing.

I got to work with the noisy, outmoded vacuum cleaner and I remembered that I had not asked Molly what it was that she had wished to discuss with Ralph. I wasn't especially interested but I decided to ask her later on that evening. However, certain events prevented me from doing so.

During the afternoon, the house agent that Ralph had spoken of came to pick up the key. He was accompanied by another man, a possible tenant, I presumed. His face was vaguely familiar. I looked at him more closely, then I exclaimed, ‘Of course! Mr Grey! I remember you! You made those enquiries into the disappearance of our
neighbour, Mrs Ruth Moyston! What a coincidence! I mean a coincidence if you rent their house!' And I added, ‘She is still missing! Did you know?'

‘Yes,' he said with a grin, ‘I never lose interest in a case I have been involved in, especially if it remains unsolved.' He told me that if the Moyston house was suitable he would rent it. Then he said thank you, and goodbye, and went off to view the shabby, run-down dwelling.

I went back to my house cleaning and I kept at it until I heard Molly, who was in the bathroom, retching as though she were about to die.

Against her wishes, I called a doctor, who, after examining her, said that the only explanation he had for her condition was extreme nervous tension. He left some sleeping tablets and I was surprised when she more than obeyed his orders and swallowed not one tablet, but two.

Ruth, another letter has arrived from the real estate company offering an even higher price for our property. Oh, how lovely—how splendid—it would be if we were able to sell, to move away, leave this hated tract of cultivated garden; to move, live, high up in an apartment, never again to smell soil and grass, the rankness of weeds and the sickly-sweet perfume of flowers. How lovely—how splendid it would be.

Ruth, I hid the letter away along with others that have come before it. There are five in all. I have never let John know about these letters. It would only hurt him all over again. My heart aches for John but I envy him too, because his life—compared to mine—is clear and straightforward. No sword is held to his head. He awakes each day, I suppose, to frustrations and disappointments and dissatisfactions, but I awake to terrors that John could not even imagine.

Ruth, I think that I am losing my reason, because although I am chained here—to you—I feel that I am adrift, that I am floating and I am desolate and frightened of my floating state.

It is useless talking to you like this, Ruth. I know that, I know that it is as useless as describing the pain caused by a bee sting to someone that has never felt a bee sting. I know that it is foolish to do so much of my work here, by the rock-garden, but I get a sense of comfort from being near you, for you alone—now that Ralph has gone—know what I have done and how I have feared and schemed, and only you know how frightened I am of Mr Grey.

I am frightened of dying too, frightened of God. It is my fear of God that prevents me from taking my life. Ruth, before you went, death held no fears at all, apart from the usual fears of the actual pain of it happening. I imagined heaven as a place beneath another sky—higher, bluer—I thought of heaven as a place where John and I would laugh more often, where we would meet with fresh, never before known and happy experiences, and where it would be forever summer. Now, guilts and lies have made me unfit for heaven. When I die I shall be cast out! Cast out into outer darkness! Doesn't that sound fearsome? It is! It
is
fearsome.