by Ruth Rendell
‘You stupid bastard.’ John picked up Marlon’s fallen cigarette packet, brushed the grit off it. ‘D’you have to act like a kid of ten?’
‘Got to get some sort of kick out of this dump,’ Gilly said sulkily. ‘Dead-end hole.’
‘Well, that’s what it is, isn’t it? What d’you expect? A bar? Booze? Bring on the dancing girls?’
Gilly started to laugh again, picked up his muse again. ‘I wouldn’t mind this dancing girl. Don’t reckon they’d miss her, do you? She’d look O.K. in my place. I could stand her on the table.’
‘What for?’
‘People have statues, don’t they? They’ve got them in the town hall. It’d give my place a bit of class.’
‘Come on,’ said John, ‘let’s stick the lot of them in the chapel. The foreman’ll do his nut if he sees you going off with that. She’s too big to go under your jacket.’
So they piled the statues and the urns in the chapel, and Gilly amused himself by shouting insults and obscenities which the lofty walls echoed back at him, black pigeons, white doves flapping from the crannies in fear.
‘What d’you do in that room of yours, John? Must be a real drag all on your own night after night. Fancy coming over to my bird’s place? She’s got a real dishy friend. We could have ourselves a ball, and I don’t mean wining and dining.’
No, thanks, John said, and softened his refusal by saying he had to study which impressed Gilly. It wasn’t that he was a prude so much as that the idea of association with Gilly’s friends offended some snobbish delicacy in his nature, some fastidiousness. Better the speechless company of James Calhoun Stokes and Angelina Bowyer and the historian, better, in the evenings, the dreams of them and the wonderings about their lost lives. Though, in refusing, he thought it likely that brash insensitive Gilly might not take his no for an answer but turn up one night with his girl and that other girl to rout him out. He feared it a little, but not with Marlon’s obsessional dread of threats from another world.
When at last Gilly did come, it was on a cold moonlit night, and he came alone.
‘I’m going to split,’ said Gilly, ‘I’m getting the hell out. All good things come to an end. You can tell the foreman in the morning, O.K.? I’m going south. I’ve got a girl in London, worships the ground I tread on, poor cow. She’ll take me in. But that’s between you and I, right?’
‘But why?’
‘He’s found out, her old man, and I reckon he’ll have his heavies out gunning for me. He’s beat her up – bunch of bloody gangsters that lot are. I’ll miss her.’ The tears stood in his eyes, and John stared, amazed, confounded. ‘Poor cow,’ said Gilly, the epithet an endearment, a caress.
‘D’you want me to come to the station with you?’
‘No need for that. I only come in to tell you to tell the foreman. Anyway, I got something to do first, get that statue, that Clio. The train don’t go till eleven, and I want her.’ He turned half away. ‘For a souvenir like, she’s the dead spitting image.’
‘You’d go into the cemetery tonight, for that?’
‘Like I said, I want her.’ His eyes, glazed, held a pathetic hunger. Of love, in those bare words, he had expressed all he knew how to. On lechery only he was articulate. ‘It’s moonlight,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a torch. I’ll climb the wall.’
‘Goodbye, Gilly,’ said John. ‘Good luck.’
In the morning the sky was coppery, grey above, reddish on the horizon where the sun hung. The Winter Solstice had come.
‘It’s like the end of the world,’ said Marlon.
The foreman came in, rubbing his hands. ‘Going to have snow before the day’s over. Gilly’s late.’ John told him Gilly wasn’t coming in. He didn’t tell him why not, and he expected an outburst. But the foreman only stuck out his lip and put the kettle on and helped himself to one of Marlon’s cigarettes.
‘No loss, that,’ he said. ‘We shan’t miss him. And if I’m not much mistaken we’ll all be laid off by tonight when this dump’s snowed up. You’ll be able to get yourselves dug in nice for Christmas, lads.’
Marlon showed no inclination to leave the stuffy warmth of the hut, where the foreman now had a brazier of coke, for the raw air and yellowed dimness of the cemetery. But the foreman wanted to be rid of them, to be on his own, to be idle and warm in peace. He took down Gilly’s calendar and pushed it among the glowing coke, and the last John saw of it was the glossy tanned body of a naked girl gyrating in the fire. They moved out into the chill of the shortest day, the foreman hurrying them along by cleaning frost off the truck’s windscreen himself.
John expected trouble from the boy, so forbidding was the cemetery in the gloom and under that strange sky. But Marlon, when John had repeated several times that Gilly was not coming, when this had at last sunk in, became more cheerful and more like a normal person than John had ever seen him. He even laughed. He pushed John about in the cab, and when this made the truck swerve, he hooted with laughter.
But when they had come to the centre and were working on clearing the main aisle, he fell silent, though he seemed tranquil enough. All those months John had longed for peace, for a respite from Gilly’s ceaseless bragging and innuendo, but now he had it he felt only uneasy. Being alone up here with Marlon had something to do with it. He despised himself for being afraid of a poor retarded boy, yet he was afraid. The thickening atmosphere was part of it, and the windless cold, and the increasing darkness like an eclipse, and the way Marlon would stand for whole minutes on end, staring vacantly, swinging his spade. But what made him long for the snow to begin and drive them back to the hut was Marlon’s new habit, now Gilly was not here to deride him, of touching the gravestones and seeming to whisper to them. That he did this reverently and cautiously did nothing to ease John’s mind. It was as if he were placating the dead, assuring them that now all would be well. And John had an awareness, growing in intensity as the time slowly passed, that the cemetery had somehow undergone a change. For him it had been just a place to work in, later an abode of sadness and the lost past, never till now macabre. Perhaps much of this feeling was due to the strangeness of the day itself, the permanent twilight, the knowledge that in these hours the earth had turned to its ultimate distance away from the sun.
Yet it was more than that. That might account for the distortions he seemed to see, so that the tombs appeared more closely crowded and the chapel tower taller and darker, but not for his sensation that there had taken place in the cemetery since he had last seen it, some upheaval and some outrage. It was when these fancies grew so strong as to make him imagine some actual physical change, the positions of the slabs and stones altered, that he looked at his watch and told Marlon they could stop now for their midday meal.
The foreman said to bring down one truck-load of rubble from the chapel, and then they could knock off. The sky had lightened a little, becoming uniformly livid, but still they needed the headlights on. The pale misty shafts of light probed the undergrowth and died into blackness. They parked beside the tower.
‘Can you make an effort and come in?’ said John, ‘Or do I have to do it on my own?’
Marlon managed a sheepish, crafty smile. ‘You go first.’
The rubble was heaped against the furthest side of the octagon. He saw Gilly before he got there. Gilly was lying on his back among the muses and the virgins, his head, his face, a mass of black clotted blood to which fragments and crumbs of stone adhered. Clio, memento of love, had rolled from his grasp. His eyes still stared, as if they still saw those meters-out of vengeance.
‘Gilly, Gilly!’ John cried, and the eight walls called back, ‘Gilly, Gilly!’ – calling them to Marlon as he came through the tower and into the nave.
Marlon did not speak Gilly’s name. He gave a great cry.
‘The dead people came out! The dead people judged him! The day has come, the end of the world . . . the Day, the Day, the Day!’
From the eaves, out of the broken roof, the birds came, circling, cawi
ng, a great rush of wings. And the echo roared like a knell. John stumbled out after Marlon, after the flying figure that cried like a prophet in the wilderness, into a whiteness that cleaned the world.
In great shaggy flakes, the snow had begun to fall.
A Glowing Future
‘Six should be enough,’ he said. ‘We’ll say six tea chests, then, and one trunk. If you’ll deliver them tomorrow, I’ll get the stuff all packed and maybe your people could pick them up Wednesday.’ He made a note on a bit of paper. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Round about lunchtime tomorrow.’
She hadn’t moved. She was still sitting in the big oak-armed chair at the far end of the room. He made himself look at her and he managed a kind of grin, pretending all was well.
‘No trouble,’ he said. ‘They’re very efficient.’
‘I couldn’t believe,’ she said, ‘that you’d really do it. Not until I heard you on the phone. I wouldn’t have thought it possible. You’ll really pack up all those things and have them sent off to her.’
They were going to have to go over it all again. Of course they were. It wouldn’t stop until he’d got the things out and himself out, away from London and her for good. And he wasn’t going to argue or make long defensive speeches. He lit a cigarette and waited for her to begin, thinking that the pubs would be opening in an hour’s time and he could go out then and get a drink.
‘I don’t understand why you came here at all,’ she said.
He didn’t answer. He was still holding the cigarette box, and now he closed its lid, feeling the coolness of the onyx on his fingertips.
She had gone white. ‘Just to get your things? Maurice, did you come back just for that?’
‘They are my things,’ he said evenly.
‘You could have sent someone else. Even if you’d written to me and asked me to do it –’
‘I never write letters,’ he said.
She moved then. She made a little fluttering with her hand in front of her mouth. ‘As if I didn’t know!’ She gasped, and making a great effort she steadied her voice. ‘You were in Australia for a year, a whole year, and you never wrote to me once.’
‘I phoned’.
‘Yes, twice. The first time to say you loved me and missed me and were longing to come back to me and would I wait for you and there wasn’t anyone else was there? And the second time, a week ago, to say you’d be here by Saturday and could I – could I put you up. My God, I’d lived with you for two years, we were practically married, and then you phone and ask if I could put you up!’
‘Words,’ he said. ‘How would you have put it?’
‘For one thing, I’d have mentioned Patricia. Oh, yes, I’d have mentioned her. I’d have had the decency, the common humanity, for that. D’you know what I thought when you said you were coming? I ought to know by now how peculiar he is, I thought, how detached, not writing or phoning or anything. But that’s Maurice, that’s the man I love, and he’s coming back to me and we’ll get married and I’m so happy!’
‘I did tell you about Patricia’.
‘Not until after you’d made love to me first.’
He winced. It had been a mistake, that. Of course he hadn’t meant to touch her beyond the requisite greeting kiss. But she was very attractive and he was used to her and she seemed to expect it – and oh, what the hell. Women never could understand about men and sex. And there was only one bed, wasn’t there? A hell of a scene there’d have been that first night if he’d suggested sleeping on the sofa in here.
‘You made love to me,’ she said. ‘You were so passionate, it was just like it used to be, and then the next morning you told me. You’d got a resident’s permit to stay in Australia, you’d got a job all fixed up, you’d met a girl you wanted to marry. Just like that you told me, over breakfast. Have you ever been smashed in the face, Maurice? Have you ever had your dreams trodden on?’
‘Would you rather I’d waited longer? As for being smashed in the face – ‘ he rubbed his cheekbone ‘ – that’s quite a punch you pack.’
She shuddered. She got up and began slowly and stiffly to pace the room. ‘I hardly touched you. I wish I’d killed you!’ By a small table she stopped. There was a china figurine on it, a bronze paperknife, an onyx pen jar that matched the ashtray. ‘All those things,’ she said. ‘I looked after them for you. I treasured them. And now you’re going to have them all shipped out to her. The things we lived with. I used to look at them and think, Maurice bought that when we went to – oh God, I can’t believe it. Sent to her!’
He nodded, staring at her. ‘You can keep the big stuff,’ he said. ‘You’re specially welcome to the sofa. I’ve tried sleeping on it for two nights and I never want to see the bloody thing again.’
She picked up the china figurine and hurled it at him. It didn’t hit him because he ducked and let it smash against the wall, just missing a framed drawing. ‘Mind the Lowry,’ he said laconically, ‘I paid a lot of money for that.’
She flung herself onto the sofa and burst into sobs. She thrashed about, hammering the cushions with her fists. He wasn’t going to be moved by that – he wasn’t going to be moved at all. Once he’d packed those things, he’d be off to spend the next three months touring Europe. A free man, free for the sights and the fun and the girls, for a last fling of wild oats. After that, back to Patricia and a home and a job and responsibility. It was a glowing future which this hysterical woman wasn’t going to mess up.
‘Shut up, Betsy, for God’s sake,’ he said. He shook her roughly by the shoulder, and then he went out because it was now eleven and he could get a drink.
Betsy made herself some coffee and washed her swollen eyes. She walked about, looking at the ornaments and the books, the glasses and vases and lamps, which he would take from her tomorrow. It wasn’t that she much minded losing them, the things themselves, but the barrenness which would be left, and the knowing that they would all be Patricia’s.
In the night she had got up, found his wallet, taken out the photographs of Patricia, and torn them up. But she remembered the face, pretty and hard and greedy, and she thought of those bright eyes widening as Patricia unpacked the tea chests, the predatory hands scrabbling for more treasures in the trunk. Doing it all perhaps before Maurice himself got there, arranging the lamps and the glasses and the ornaments in their home for his delight when at last he came.
He would marry her, of course. I suppose she thinks he’s faithful to her, Betsy thought, the way I once thought he was faithful to me. I know better now. Poor stupid fool, she doesn’t know what he did the first moment he was alone with her, or what he would do in France and Italy. That would be a nice wedding present to give her, wouldn’t it, along with all the pretty bric-a-brac in the trunk?
Well, why not? Why not rock their marriage before it had even begun? A letter. A letter to be concealed in, say, that blue-and-white ginger jar. She sat down to write. Dear Patricia – what a stupid way to begin, the way you had to begin a letter even to your enemy.
Dear Patricia: I don’t know what Maurice has told you about me, but we have been living here as lovers ever since he arrived. To be more explicit, I mean we have made love, have slept together. Maurice is incapable of being faithful to anyone. If you don’t believe me, ask yourself why, if he didn’t want me, he didn’t stay in a hotel. That’s all. Yours – and she signed her name and felt a little better, well enough and steady enough to take a bath and get herself some lunch.
Six tea chests and a trunk arrived on the following day. The chests smelled of tea and had drifts of tea leaves lying in the bottom of them. The trunk was made of silver-coloured metal and had clasps of gold-coloured metal. It was rather a beautiful object, five feet long, three feet high, two feet wide, and the lid fitted so securely it seemed a hermetic sealing.
Maurice began to pack at two o’clock. He used tissue paper and newspapers. He filled the tea chests with kitchen equipment and cups and plates and cutlery, with books, with those clothes of his he ha
d left behind him a year before. Studiously, and with a certain grim pleasure, he avoided everything Betsy might have insisted was hers – the poor cheap things, the stainless steel spoons and forks, the Woolworth pottery, the awful coloured sheets, red and orange and olive, that he had always loathed. He and Patricia would sleep in white linen.
Betsy didn’t help him. She watched, chain-smoking. He nailed the lids on the chests and on each lid he wrote in white paint his address in Australia. But he didn’t paint in the letters of his own name. He painted Patricia’s. This wasn’t done to needle Betsy but he was glad to see it was needling her.
He hadn’t come back to the flat till one that morning, and of course he didn’t have a key. Betsy had refused to let him in, had left him down there in the street, and he had to sit in the car he’d hired till seven. She looked as if she hadn’t slept either. Miss Patricia Gordon, he wrote, painting fast and skilfully.
‘Don’t forget your ginger jar.’ said Betsy. ‘I don’t want it.’
‘That’s for the trunk.’ Miss Patricia Gordon, 23 Burwood Park Avenue, Kew, Victoria, Australia 3101. ‘All the pretty things are going in the trunk. I intend it as a special present for Patricia.’
The Lowry came down and was carefully padded and wrapped. He wrapped the onyx ashtray and the pen jar, the alabaster bowl, the bronze paperknife, the tiny Chinese cups, the tall hock glasses. The china figurine, alas . . . he opened the lid of the trunk.
‘I hope the customs open it!’ Betsy shouted at him. ‘I hope they confiscate things and break things! I’ll pray every night for it to go to the bottom of the sea before it gets there!’
‘The sea,’ he said, ‘is a risk I must take. As for the customs –’ He smiled. ‘Patricia works for them, she’s a customs officer – didn’t I tell you? I very much doubt if they’ll even glance inside.’ He wrote a label and pasted it on the side of the trunk. Miss Patricia Gordon, 23 Burwood Park Avenue, Kew . . .’ And now I’ll have to go out and get a padlock. Keys, please. If you try to keep me out this time, I’ll call the police. I’m still the legal tenant of this flat remember.’
