Collected Short Stories

by Ruth Rendell

  Daphne quivered and shook her head. Her whole body shook and her hand flapped against her mouth. Quite whom Merle began to talk to then she didn’t know, to herself or to Daphne, but she knew that what she said was true.

  ‘You were so jealous! You’d had nothing, but I’d had success and happiness and love.’ Her voice went up and the scarf with it. ‘How you hated me, hated, hated . . . !’ Merle screamed. ‘Hate, hate, poisonous jealous hate!’ Huge and red and frondy, she descended on Daphne, engulfing her with musky orange petals, twisting the scarf round the frail insect neck, devouring the fly until the fly quivered into stillness.

  An elderly man in a black homburg hat crossed the forecourt and went up the steps, a bunch of flowers in his hand. The boy in the leather jacket took no notice of him. He brushed earth and bits of leaf off his hands and said to the girl with the long hair, ‘Revenge is sweet.’ Then he tossed the scarlet handbag into the back of his car and he and the girl and the dog got in and drove away.

  The Clinging Woman

  The girl was hanging by her hands from the railings of a balcony. The balcony was on the twelfth floor of the high-rise block next to his. His flat was on the ninth floor and he had to look up to see her. It was half-past six in the morning. He had been awakened by the sound of an aircraft flying dangerously low overhead, and had got out of bed to look. His sleepy gaze, descending from the blue sky which was empty of clouds, empty of anything but the bright vanishing arrow of the aircraft, alighted – at first with disbelief – on the hanging figure.

  He really thought he must be dreaming, for this sunrise time was the hour for dreams. Then, when he knew he wasn’t, he decided it must be a stunt. This was to be a scene in a film. There were cameramen down there, a whole film unit, and all the correct safety precautions had been taken. Probably the girl wasn’t even a real girl, but a dummy. He opened the window and looked down. The car park, paved courts, grass spaces between the blocks, all were deserted. On the balcony rail one of the dummy’s hands moved, clutching its anchorage more tightly, more desperately. He had to believe then what was obviously happening – unbelievable only because melodrama, though a frequent constituent of real life, always is. The girl was trying to kill herself. She had lost her nerve and now was trying to stay alive. All these thoughts and conclusions of his occupied about thirty seconds. Then he acted. He picked up the phone and dialled the emergency number for the police.

  The arrival of the police cars and the ultimate rescue of the girl became the focus of gossip and speculation for the tenants of the two blocks. Someone found out that it was he who had alerted the police and he became an unwilling hero. He was a modest, quiet young man, and, disliking this limelight, was relieved when the talk began to die away, when the novelty of it wore off, and he was able to enter and leave his flat without being pointed at as a kind of St George and sometimes even congratulated.

  About a fortnight after that morning of melodrama, he was getting ready to go to the theatre, just putting on his overcoat, when the doorbell rang. He didn’t recognize the girl who stood outside. He had never seen her face.

  She said, ‘I’m Lydia Simpson. You saved my life. I’ve come to thank you.’

  His embarrassment was acute. ‘You shouldn’t have,’ he said with a nervous smile. ‘You really shouldn’t. That’s not necessary. I only did what anyone would have done.’

  She was calm and tranquil, not at all his idea of a failed suicide. ‘But no one else did,’ she said.

  ‘Won’t you come in? Have a drink or something?’

  ‘Oh, no, I couldn’t think of it. I can see you’re just going out. I only wanted to say thank you very, very much.’

  ‘It was nothing.’

  ‘Nothing to save someone’s life? I’ll always be grateful to you.’

  He wished she would either come in or go away. If this went on much longer the people in the other two flats on his floor would hear, would come out, and another of those bravest-deeds-of-the-year committee meetings would be convened. ‘Nothing at all,’ he said desperately. ‘Really, I’ve almost forgotten it.’

  ‘I shall never forget, never.’

  Her manner, calm yet intense, made him feel uncomfortable and he watched her retreat into the lift – smiling pensively – with profound relief. Luckily, they weren’t likely to meet again. The curious thing was that they did, the next morning at the bus stop. She didn’t refer again to his saving of her life, but talked instead about her new job, the reason for her being at this bus stop, at this hour. It appeared that her employers had offices in the City street next to his own and were clients of his own firm. They travelled to work together. He left her with very different feelings from those of the evening before. It was hard to believe she was thirty – his neighbours had given him this information – for she looked much younger, small and fragile as she was, her skin very white and her hair very fair.

  They got into the habit of travelling on that bus together in the mornings, and sometimes she waved to him from her balcony. One evening they met by chance outside her office. She was carrying an armful of files to work on at home and confessed she wouldn’t have brought them if she had known how heavy they were. Of course he carried them for her all the way up to her flat and stayed for a drink. She said she was going to cook dinner and would he stay for that too? He stayed. While she was out in the kitchen he took his drink out on to the balcony. It gave him a strange feeling, imagining her coming out here in her despair at dawn, lowering herself from those railings, then losing her nerve, beneath her a great space with death at the bottom of it. When she came back into the room, he noticed afresh how slight and frail she was, how in need of protection.

  The flat was neat and spotlessly clean. Most of the girls he knew lived in semi-squalor. Liberated, independent creatures, holding down men’s jobs, they scorned womanly skills as debasing. He had been carefully brought up by a houseproud mother and he liked a clean home. Lydia’s furniture was beautifully polished. He thought that if he were ever asked again he would remember to bring her flowers to go in those sparkling glass vases.

  After dinner, an excellent, even elaborate meal, he said suddenly, the food and drink lowering his inhibitions:

  ‘Why did you do it?’

  ‘Try to kill myself?’ She spoke softly and evenly, as serenely as if he had asked why she changed her job. ‘I was engaged and he left me for someone else. There didn’t seem much to live for.’

  ‘Are you over that now?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’m glad I didn’t succced. Or – should I say? – that you didn’t let me succeed.’

  ‘Don’t ever try that again, will you?’

  ‘No, why should I? What a question!’

  He felt strangely happy that she had promised never to try that again. ‘You must come and have a meal with me,’ he said as he was leaving. ‘Let’s see. Not Monday. How about . . . ?’

  ‘We don’t have to arrange it now, do we? We’ll see each other in the morning.’

  She had a very sweet smile. He didn’t like aggressive, self-reliant women. Lydia never wore trousers or mini-dresses, but long flowing skirts, flower-patterned. When he put his hand under her elbow to shepherd her across the street, she clutched his arm and kept hold of it.

  ‘You choose for me’, she said when the menu was given to her in the restaurant.

  She didn’t smoke or drink anything stronger than sweet white wine. She couldn’t drive a car. He wondered sometimes how she managed to hold down an exacting job, pay her rent, live alone. She was so exquisitely feminine, clinging and gentle. And he was flattered when because of the firm’s business he was unable to see her one night, tears appeared in her large grey eyes. That was the first night they hadn’t met for three weeks and he missed her so much he knew he must be in love with her.

  She accepted his proposal, made formally and accompanied by a huge bunch of red roses. ‘Of course I’ll marry you. My life has been yours ever since you saved it. I’ve always felt I belonged to
you.’

  They were married very quietly. Lydia didn’t like the idea of a big wedding. He and she were ideally suited, they had so many tastes in common: a love of quietness and order, rather old-fashioned ways, steadiness, regular habits. They had the same aims: a house in a north-western suburb, two children. But for the time being she would continue to work.

  It amazed and delighted him that she managed to keep the new house so well, to provide him every morning with freshly laundered underwear and shirt, every night with a perfectly cooked meal. He hadn’t been so well looked after since he had left his mother’s house. That, he thought, was how a woman should be, unobtrusively efficient, gentle yet expert, feminine and sweet, yet accomplished. The house was run as smoothly as if a couple of silent invisible maids were at work in it all day.

  To perform these chores, she got up each morning at six. He suggested they get a cleaner but she wouldn’t have one, resisting him without defiance but in a way which was bound to appeal to him.

  ‘I couldn’t bear to let any other woman look after your things, darling.’

  She was quite perfect.

  They went to work together, lunched together, came home together, ate together, watched television or listened to music or read in companionable silence together, slept together. At the weekends they were together all the time. Both had decided their home must be fully equipped with washers and driers and freezers and mixers and cleaners and polishers, beautifully furnished with the brand-new or the extreme antique, so on Saturdays they shopped together.

  He adored it. This was what marriage should be, this was what the church service meant – one flesh, forsaking all other. He had, in fact, forsaken most of the people he had once known. Lydia wasn’t a very sociable woman and had no women friends. He asked her why not.

  ‘Women,’ she said, ‘only want to know other women to gossip about their men. I haven’t any complaints against my man, darling.’

  His own friends seemed a little over-awed by the grandeur and pomp with which she entertained them, by the finger bowls and fruit knives. Or perhaps they were put off by her long silences and the way she kept glancing at her watch. It was only natural, of course, that she didn’t want people staying half the night. She wanted to be alone with him. They might have understood that and made allowances. His clients and their wives weren’t over-awed. They must have been gratified. Where else, in a private house with no help, would they have been given a five-course dinner, exquisitely cooked and served? Naturally, Lydia had to spend all the pre-dinner time in the kitchen and, naturally too, she was exhausted after dinner, a little snappy with the man who spilt coffee on their new carpet, and the other one, a pleasant if tactless stockbroker, who tried to persuade him to go away on a stag, golfing weekend.

  ‘Why did they get married,’ she asked, with some reason, ‘if all they want to do is get away from their wives?’

  By this time, at the age of thirty-four, he ought to have had promotion at work. He’d been with the firm five years and expected to be made director. Neither he nor Lydia could understand why this directorship was so slow in coming.

  ‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘if it’s because I don’t hang around in the office drinking after work?’

  ‘Surely they understand a married man wants to be with his wife?’

  ‘God knows. Maybe I ought to have gone on that river-boat party, only wives weren’t invited, if you remember. I could tell you were unhappy at the idea of my going alone.’

  In any case, he’d probably been quite wrong about the reason for his lack of promotion because, just as he was growing really worried about it, he got his directorship. An increase in salary, an office and a secretary of his own. He was a little concerned about other perquisites of the job, particularly about the possibility of foreign trips. But there was no need to mention these to Lydia yet. Instead he mentioned the secretary he must engage.

  ‘That’s marvellous, darling.’ They were dining out, tête-à-tête, to celebrate. Lydia hadn’t cared for his idea of a party. ‘I’ll have to give a fortnight’s notice, but you can wait a fortnight, can’t you? It’ll be lovely being together all day long.’

  ‘I don’t quite follow,’ he said, though he did.

  ‘Darling, you are slow tonight. Where could you find a better secretary than me?’

  They had been married for four years. ‘You’re going to give up work and have a baby.’

  She took his hand, smiling into his face. ‘That can wait. We don’t need children to bring us together. You’re my husband and my child and my friend all in one, and that’s enough for me.’

  He had to tell her why it wouldn’t do for her to be his secretary. It was all true, that stuff about office politics and favouritism and the awkwardness of his position if his wife worked for him, but he made a poor show of explaining.

  She said in her small, soft voice, ‘Please can we go? Could you ask them for the bill? I’d like to leave now.’

  As soon as they were in the house she began to cry. He advanced afresh his explanation. She cried. He said she could ask other people. Everyone would tell her the same. A director of a small firm like his couldn’t have his wife working for him. She could phone his chairman if she didn’t believe him.

  She didn’t raise her voice. She was never wild or hysterical. ‘You don’t want me,’ she said like a rejected child.

  ‘I do want you. I love you. But – can’t you see? – this is for work, this is different.’ He knew, before he said it, that he shouldn’t have gone on. ‘You don’t like my friends and I’ve given them up. I don’t have my clients here any more. I’m only away from you about six hours out of every day. Isn’t all that enough for you?’

  There was no argument. She simply reiterated that he didn’t want her. She cried for most of the night and in the morning she was too tired to go to work. During the day he phoned her twice. She sounded tearful but calm, apparently resigned now. The first thing he noticed when he let himself in at his front door at six was the stench of gas.

  She was lying on the kitchen floor, a cushion at the edge of the open oven to support her delicate blonde head. Her face was flushed a warm pink.

  He flung open the window and carried her to it, holding her head in the fresh air. She was alive, she would be all right. As her pulse steadied and she began to breathe more evenly, he found himself kissing her passionately, begging her aloud not to die, to live for him. When he thought it was safe to leave her for a moment, he laid her on the sofa and dialled the emergency number for an ambulance.

  They kept her in hospital for a few days and there was talk of mental treatment. She refused to undergo it.

  ‘I’ve never done it except when I’ve known I’m not loved,’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean, “never”, darling?’

  ‘When I was seventeen I took an overdose of pills because a boy let me down.’

  ‘You never told me,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t want to upset you. I’d rather die than make you unhappy. My life belongs to you and I only want to make yours happy.’

  Suppose he hadn’t got there in time? He shuddered when he thought of that possibility. The house was horrible without her. He missed her painfully, and he resolved to devote more of his time and his attention to her in future.

  She didn’t like going away on holiday. Because they never took holidays and seldom entertained and had no children, they had been able to save. They sold the house and bought a bigger, newer one. His firm wanted him to go to Canada for three weeks and he didn’t hesitate. He refused immediately.

  An up-and-coming junior got the Canada trip. It irritated him when he learned of a rumour that was going about the office to the effect that his wife was some sort of invalid, just because she had given up work since they bought the new house. Lydia, an invalid? She was happier than she had ever been, filling the house with new things, redecorating rooms herself, having the garden landscaped. If either of them was sick, it was he. He hadn’t
been sleeping well lately and he became subject to fits of depression. The doctor gave him pills for the sleeplessness and advised a change of air. Perhaps he was working too hard. Couldn’t he manage to do some of his work at home?

  ‘I took it upon myself,’ Lydia said gently, ‘to phone the doctor and suggest that. You could have two or three days a week at home and I’d do the secretarial work for you.’

  His chairman agreed to it. There was a hint of scorn in the man’s smile, he thought. But he was allowed to work at home and sometimes, for four or five days at a stretch, although he talked to people on the phone, he saw no one at all but his wife. She was, he found, as perfect a secretary as a wife. There was scarcely anything for him to do. She composed his press releases for him, wrote his letters without his having to dictate them, answered the phone with efficiency and charm, arranged his appointments. And she waited on him unflaggingly when work was done. No meals on trays for them. Every lunchtime and every evening the dining table was exquisitely laid, and if it occurred to him that in the past two years only six other people had handled this glass, this cutlery, these luxurious appointments, he didn’t say so.

  His depression wouldn’t go away, even though he had tranquillizers now as well as sleeping pills. They never spoke of her suicide attempts, but he often thought of them and wondered if he had somehow been infected by this tendency of hers. When, before settling down for the night, he dropped one pill from the bottle into the palm of his hand, the temptation to let them all trickle out, to swallow them all down with a draught of fresh cold water, was sometimes great. He didn’t know why, for he had everything a man could want, a perfect marriage, a beautiful house, a good job, excellent physical health and no ties or restrictions.

  As Lydia had pointed out, ‘Children would have been such a tie, darling,’ or, when he suggested they might buy a dog, ‘Pets are an awful tie, and they ruin one’s home.’ He agreed that this home and these comforts were what he had always wanted. Yet, as he approached forty, he began having bad dreams, and the dreams were of prisons.