The Collected Short Stories

by Jean Rhys

  When she saw it again she stood and stared disbelieving. It crossed the shed in the same unhurried way and she watched, not able to move. A huge rat, there was no doubt about it.

  This time Miss Verney didn’t rush to Tom’s cottage to be reassured. She managed to get to the kitchen, still holding the empty yellow pail, slammed the door and locked it. Then she shut and bolted all the windows. This done, she took off her shoes, lay down, pulled the blankets over her head and listened to her hammering heart.

  I’m the monarch of all I survey.

  My right, there is none to dispute.

  That was the way the rat walked.

  In the close darkness she must have dozed, for suddenly she was sitting at a desk in the sun copying proverbs into a ruled book: ‘Evil communications corrupt good manners. Look before you leap. Patience is a virtue, good temper a blessing’, all the way up to Z. Z would be something to do with zeal or zealous. But how did they manage about X? What about X?

  Thinking this, she slept, then woke, put on the light, took two tuinal tablets and slept again, heavily. When she next opened her eyes it was morning, the unwound bedside clock had stopped, but she guessed the time from the light and hurried into the kitchen waiting for Tom’s car to pass. The room was stuffy and airless but she didn’t dream of opening the window. When she saw the car approaching she ran out into the road and waved it down. It was as if fear had given her wings and once more she moved lightly and quickly.

  ‘Tom. Tom.’

  He stopped.

  ‘Oh Tom, the rat’s still there. I saw it last evening.’

  He got down stiffly. Not a young man, but surely surely, a kind man? ‘I put down enough stuff to kill a dozen rats,’ he said. ‘Let’s ’ave a look.’

  He walked across to the shed. She followed, several yards behind, and watched him rattling the old lawnmower, kicking the sacks, trampling the hay and nettles.

  ‘No rat ’ere,’ he said at last.

  ‘Well there was one,’ she said.

  ‘Not ’ere.’

  ‘It was a huge rat,’ she said.

  Tom had round brown eyes, honest eyes, she’d thought. But now they were sly, mocking, even hostile.

  ‘Are you sure it wasn’t a pink rat?’ he said.

  She knew that the bottles in her dustbin were counted and discussed in the village. But Tom, who she liked so much?

  ‘No,’ she managed to say steadily. ‘An ordinary colour but very large. Don’t they say that some rats don’t care about poison? Super rats.’

  Tom laughed. ‘Nothing of that sort round ’ere.’

  She said: ‘I asked Mr Slade, who cuts the grass, to clear out the shed and he said he would but I think he’s forgotten.’

  ‘Mr Slade is a very busy man,’ said Tom. ‘He can’t clear out the shed just when you tell him. You’ve got to wait. Do you expect him to leave his work and waste his time looking for what’s not there?’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘of course not. But I think it ought to be done.’ (She stopped herself from saying: ‘I can’t because I’m afraid.’)

  ‘Now you go and make yourself a nice cup of tea,’ Tom said, speaking in a more friendly voice. ‘There’s no rat in your shed.’ And he went back to his car.

  Miss Verney slumped heavily into the kitchen armchair. ‘He doesn’t believe me. I can’t stay alone in this place, not with that monster a few yards away. I can’t do it.’ But another cold voice persisted: ‘Where will you go? With what money? Are you really such a coward as all that?’

  After a time Miss Verney got up. She dragged what furniture there was away from the walls so that she would know that nothing lurked in the corners and decided to keep the windows looking onto the shed shut and bolted. The others she opened but only at the top. Then she made a large parcel of all the food that the rat could possibly smell – cheese, bacon, ham, cold meat, practically everything . . . she’d give it to Mrs Randolph, the cleaning woman, later.

  ‘But no more confidences.’ Mrs Randolph would be as sceptical as Tom had been. A nice woman but a gossip, she wouldn’t be able to resist telling her cronies about the giant, almost certainly imaginary, rat terrorizing her employer.

  Next morning Mrs Randolph said that a stray dog had upset the large dustbin. She’d had to pick everything up from the floor of the shed. ‘It wasn’t a dog,’ thought Miss Verney, but she only suggested that two stones on the lid turned the other way up would keep the dog off.

  When she saw the size of the stones she nearly said aloud: ‘I defy any rat to get that lid off.’

  *

  Miss Verney had always been a careless, not a fussy, woman. Now all that changed. She spent hours every day sweeping, dusting, arranging the cupboards and putting fresh paper into the drawers. She pounced on every speck of dust with a dustpan. She tried to convince herself that as long as she kept her house spotlessly clean the rat would keep to the shed, not to wonder what she would do if after all, she encountered it.

  ‘I’d collapse,’ she thought, ‘that’s what I’d do.’

  After this she’d start with fresh energy, again fearfully sweeping under the bed, behind cupboards. Then feeling too tired to eat, she would beat up an egg in cold milk, add a good deal of whisky and sip it slowly. ‘I don’t need a lot of food now.’ But her work in the house grew slower and slower, her daily walks shorter and shorter. Finally the walks stopped. ‘Why should I bother?’ As she never answered letters, letters ceased to arrive, and when Tom knocked at the door one day to ask how she was: ‘Oh I’m quite all right,’ she said and smiled.

  He seemed ill at ease and didn’t speak about rats or clearing the shed out. Nor did she.

  ‘Not seen you about lately,’ he said.

  ‘Oh I go the other way now.’

  When she shut the door after him she thought: ‘And I imagined I liked him. How very strange.’

  ‘No pain?’ the doctor asked.

  ‘It’s just an odd feeling,’ said Miss Verney.

  The doctor said nothing. He waited.

  ‘It’s as if all my blood was running backwards. It’s rather horrible really. And then for a while sometimes I can’t move. I mean if I’m holding a cup I have to drop it because there’s no life in my arm.’

  ‘And how long does this last?’

  ‘Not long. Only a few minutes I suppose. It just seems a long time.’

  ‘Does it happen often?’

  ‘Twice lately.’

  The doctor thought he’d better examine her. Eventually he left the room and came back with a bottle half full of pills. ‘Take these three times a day – don’t forget, it’s important. Long before they’re finished I’ll come and see you. I’m going to give you some injections that may help, but I’ll have to send away for those.’

  As Miss Verney was gathering her things together before leaving the surgery he asked in a casual voice: ‘Are you on the telephone?’

  ‘No,’ said Miss Verney, ‘but I have an arrangement with some people.’

  ‘You told me. But those people are some way off, aren’t they?’

  ‘I’ll get a telephone,’ said Miss Verney making up her mind. ‘I’ll see about it at once.’

  ‘Good. You won’t be so lonely.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Don’t go moving the furniture about, will you? Don’t lift heavy weights. Don’t . . .’ (‘Oh Lord,’ she thought, ‘is he going to say “Don’t drink!” – because that’s impossible!’) . . . ‘Don’t worry,’ he said.

  When Miss Verney left his surgery she felt relieved but tired and she walked very slowly home. It was quite a long walk for she lived in the less prosperous part of the village, near the row of council houses. She had never minded that. She was protected by tall thick hedges and a tree or two. Of course it had taken her some time to get used to the children’s loud shrieking and the women who stood outside their doors to gossip. At first they stared at her with curiosity and some disapproval, she couldn’t help feeling, but they’d soon
found out that she was harmless.

  The child Deena, however, was a different matter.

  Most of the village boys were called Jack, Willie, Stan and so on – the girls’ first names were more elaborate. Deena’s mother had gone one better than anyone else and christened her daughter Undine.

  Deena – as everyone called her – was a tall plump girl of about twelve with a pretty, healthy but rather bovine face. She never joined the shrieking games, she never played football with dustbin lids. She apparently spent all her spare time standing at the gate of her mother’s house silently, unsmilingly, staring at everyone who passed.

  Miss Verney had long ago given up trying to be friendly. So much did the child’s cynical eyes depress her that she would cross over the road to avoid her, and sometimes was guilty of the cowardice of making sure Deena wasn’t there before setting out.

  Now she looked anxiously along the street and was relieved that it was empty. ‘Of course,’ she told herself, ‘it’s getting cold. When winter comes they’ll all stay indoors.’

  Not that Deena seemed to mind cold. Only a few days ago, looking out of the window, Miss Verney had seen her standing outside – oblivious of the bitter wind – staring at the front door as though, if she looked hard enough, she could see through the wood and find out what went on in the silent house – what Miss Verney did with herself all day.

  One morning soon after her visit to the doctor Miss Verney woke feeling very well and very happy. Also she was not at all certain where she was. She lay luxuriating in the feeling of renewed youth, renewed health and slowly recognized the various pieces of furniture.

  ‘Of course,’ she thought when she drew the curtains. ‘What a funny place to end up in.’

  The sky was pale blue. There was no wind. Watching the still trees she sung softly to herself: ‘The day of days.’ She had always sung ‘The day of days’ on her birthday. Poised between two years – last year, next year – she never felt any age at all. Birthdays were a pause, a rest.

  In the midst of slow dressing she remembered the rat for the first time. But that seemed something that had happened long ago. ‘Thank God I didn’t tell anybody else how frightened I was. As soon as they give me a telephone I’ll ask Letty Baker to tea. She’ll know exactly the sensible thing to do.’

  Out of habit she ate, swept and dusted but even more slowly than usual and with long pauses, when leaning on the handle of her tall, old-fashioned, carpet sweeper she stared out at the trees. ‘Good-bye summer. Good-bye good-bye,’ she hummed. But in spite of sad songs she never lost the certainty of health, of youth.

  All at once she noticed, to her surprise, that it was getting dark. ‘And I haven’t emptied the dustbin.’

  She got to the shed carrying the small yellow plastic pail and saw that the big dustbin wasn’t there. For once Mrs Randolph must have slipped up and left it outside the gate. Indeed it was so.

  She first brought in the lid, easy, then turned the heavy bin onto its side and kicked it along. But this was slow. Growing impatient, she picked it up, carried it into the shed and looked for the stones that had defeated the dog, the rat. They too were missing and she realized that Mrs Randolph, a hefty young woman in a hurry, must have taken out the bin, stones and all. They would be in the road where the dustmen had thrown them. She went to look and there they were.

  She picked up the first stone and, astonished at its weight, immediately dropped it. But lifted it again and staggered to the shed, then leaned breathless against the cold wall. After a few minutes she breathed more easily, was less exhausted and the determination to prove to herself that she was quite well again drove her into the road to pick up the second stone.

  After a few steps she felt that she had been walking for a long time, for years, weighed down by an impossible weight, and now her strength was gone and she couldn’t any more. Still, she reached the shed, dropped the stone and said: ‘That’s all now, that’s the lot. Only the yellow plastic pail to tackle.’ She’d fix the stones tomorrow. The yellow pail was light, full of paper, eggshells, stale bread. Miss Verney lifted it . . .

  She was sitting on the ground with her back against the dustbin and her legs stretched out, surrounded by torn paper and eggshells. Her skirt had ridden up and there was a slice of stale bread on her bare knee. She felt very cold and it was nearly dark.

  ‘What happened,’ she thought, ‘did I faint or something? I must go back to the house.’

  She tried to get up but it was as if she were glued to the ground. ‘Wait,’ she thought. ‘Don’t panic. Breathe deeply. Relax.’ But when she tried again she was lead. ‘This has happened before. I’ll be all right soon,’ she told herself. But darkness was coming on very quickly.

  Some women passed on the road and she called to them. At first: ‘Could you please . . . I’m so sorry to trouble you . . .’ but the wind had got up and was blowing against her and no one heard. ‘Help!’ she called. Still no one heard.

  Tightly buttoned up, carrying string bags, heads in headscarves, they passed and the road was empty.

  With her back against the dustbin, shivering with cold, she prayed: ‘God, don’t leave me here. Dear God, let someone come. Let someone come!’

  When she opened her eyes she was not at all surprised to see a figure leaning on her gate.

  ‘Deena! Deena!’ she called, trying to keep the hysterical relief out of her voice.

  Deena advanced cautiously, stood a few yards off and contemplated Miss Verney lying near the dustbin with an expressionless face.

  ‘Listen Deena,’ said Miss Verney. ‘I’m afraid I’m not very well. Will you please ask your mother – your mum – to telephone to the doctor. He’ll come I think. And if only she could help me back into the house. I’m very cold . . .’

  Deena said: ‘It’s no good my asking mum. She doesn’t like you and she doesn’t want to have anything to do with you. She hates stuck up people. Everybody knows that you shut yourself up to get drunk. People can hear you falling about. “She ought to take more water with it,” my mum says. Sleep it off lady,’ said this horrible child, skipping away.

  Miss Verney didn’t try to call her back or argue. She knew that it was useless. A numb weak feeling slowly took possession of her. Stronger than cold. Stronger than fear. It was a great unwillingness to do anything more at all – it was almost resignation. Even if someone else came, would she call again for help. Could she? Fighting the cold numbness she made a last tremendous effort to move, at any rate to jerk the bread off her knee, for now her fear of the rat, forgotten all day, began to torment her.

  It was impossible.

  She strained her eyes to see into the corner where it would certainly appear – the corner with the old chair and carpet, the corner with the bundle of hay. Would it attack at once or would it wait until it was sure that she couldn’t move? Sooner or later it would come. So Miss Verney waited in the darkness for the Super Rat.

  It was the postman who found her. He had a parcel of books for her and he left them as usual in the passage. But he couldn’t help noticing that all the lights were on and all the doors open. Miss Verney was certainly not in the cottage.

  ‘I suppose she’s gone out. But so early and such a cold morning?’

  Uneasy, he looked back at the gate and saw the bundle of clothes near the shed.

  He managed to lift her and got her into the kitchen armchair. There was an open bottle of whisky on the table and he tried to force her to drink some, but her teeth were tightly clenched and the whisky spilled all over her face.

  He remembered that there was a telephone in the house where he was to deliver next. He must hurry.

  In less time than you’d think, considering it was a remote village, the doctor appeared and shortly afterwards the ambulance.

  Miss Verney died that evening in the nearest hospital without recovering consciousness. The doctor said she died of shock and cold. He was treating her for a heart condition he said.

  ‘Very widespread now �
�� a heart condition.’

  I Used to Live Here Once

  She was standing by the river looking at the stepping stones and remembering each one. There was the round unsteady stone, the pointed one, the flat one in the middle – the safe stone where you could stand and look round. The next wasn’t so safe, for when the river was full the water flowed over it and even when it showed dry it was slippery. But after that it was easy and soon she was standing on the other side.

  The road was much wider than it used to be but the work had been done carelessly. The felled trees had not been cleared away and the bushes looked trampled. Yet it was the same road and she walked along feeling extraordinarily happy.

  It was a fine day, a blue day. The only thing was that the sky had a glassy look that she didn’t remember. That was the only word she could think of. Glassy. She turned the corner, saw that what had been the old pavé had been taken up, and there too the road was much wider, but it had the same unfinished look.

  She came to the worn stone steps that led up to the house and her heart began to beat. The screw pine was gone, so was the mock summer house called the ajoupa, but the clove tree was still there and at the top of the steps the rough lawn stretched away, just as she remembered it. She stopped and looked towards the house that had been added to and painted white. It was strange to see a car standing in front of it.

  There were two children under the big mango tree, a boy and a little girl, and she waved to them and called ‘Hello’ but they didn’t answer her or turn their heads. Very fair children, as Europeans born in the West Indies so often are: as if the white blood is asserting itself against all odds.

  The grass was yellow in the hot sunlight as she walked towards them. When she was quite close she called again shyly: ‘Hello.’ Then, ‘I used to live here once,’ she said.

  Still they didn’t answer. When she said for the third time ‘Hello’ she was quite near them. Her arms went out instinctively with the longing to touch them.

  It was the boy who turned. His grey eyes looked straight into hers. His expression didn’t change. He said: ‘Hasn’t it gone cold all of a sudden. D’you notice? Let’s go in.’ ‘Yes let’s,’ said the girl.