The Girl Next Door: A Novel

by Ruth Rendell

  There was a phone number and an email address. Michael wrote the number down on the back of an envelope, the only piece of paper to hand, put it in his pocket, and forgot about it. But he didn’t forget to phone Daphne, and this time she answered.

  JOHN WINWOOD HAD never been prone to worrying. If something to come was unpleasant, he pushed it out of his mind and ceased to think about it. This had not been possible in regard to his married (or unmarried) status. Back in the late 1940s it troubled him, if not all the time, for a few minutes and sometimes longer every day. His wife, Anita, was dead and he told people she had died. He was a widower. That was true and he knew it, none better, but he had no death certificate and never could have.

  He wanted to marry again. He had no one specifically in mind but several he was considering. The war had been a widow-maker. Margaret Lewis’s husband had died in the Egyptian desert; another one called Beryl Nichols, who was left alone when Gary Nichols failed to return from Dunkirk; and a third called Rita, who served in the bar at the Hollybush and took off her wedding ring after Arnhem. Of these three, all of whom Woody more or less courted, only Mrs. Lewis had money—real money, that is.

  He had sold Anderby and rented a small flat over a shop in Leyton. It was not the kind of place to which he could invite a woman. Certainly not Margaret Lewis, who lived in a big house in Chigwell. His money was running out but he stuck to his resolve never to work. His few years of labour in the factory and the abattoir had taught him never to get a job again but to find a way of living without employment. Another lesson he had learned was that a woman’s jealousy will cause her to behave recklessly and do things she would normally never have dreamt of. A man’s too, for all he knew. For all he knew because he had never been jealous. Rita was better-looking than Beryl, and both were better-looking than Margaret. She had lain too long and too often in the sun of Nice and Corsica when her husband was alive, and her face and shoulders were creased up and blotched with the remains of sunburn. She was over forty and putting on weight. But she had money. She had a fine big house and a fine big car and a large income, from what source Woody had been unable to find out until the jealousy began.

  Their relationship had never been what Margaret called “an intimate one,” unlike the situation with both Beryl and Rita. He told Margaret she had driven him to spend nights with these two women because, he said, “a man has certain needs.” Jealousy consumed her. She was foolish enough to stand in front of a mirror, call him over, and point out to him the wrinkles and blotches while asking him if that was what sent him to those other women. Foolish perhaps but not silly enough to have any effect on Woody. He closed his eyes to what the sun had done and Margaret’s silliness and asked her to marry him. There would be no other women if she married him, no looking at other women. Of course she said yes, leaving Woody in a state hitherto unknown to him, anxiety. Suppose the vicar or the registrar asked to see his first wife’s death certificate? He continued worrying throughout his engagement, which, fortunately for him, lasted no more than six weeks. It was a vicar, not a registrar, and he didn’t ask.

  Margaret had always had money, was born to it, and Major Rory Lewis had always had money. Neither of them had ever worked in the sense that Woody thought of work. So Margaret never asked him why he hadn’t a job or a private income. She assumed that everyone in her circle had money. Eventually he told her he had nothing, for the house money and the jewellery money had come to an end. Margaret, still in love, said not to worry as she had plenty for both of them. That was in their early days. She fell out of love and began to ration him. He had the Chigwell house and the Lagonda, and if she gave him ten pounds a week, wasn’t that all he could expect? There was no joint account and he couldn’t touch her private account. He sometimes thought of how he had strangled pretty Anita and sold her rings and necklace, but those days were gone. He was afraid that if he tried something similar with Margaret, the police would suspect him—they always first suspected the husband—and begin to investigate his past. They would ask when and where Anita had died and ask for her death certificate. His old trouble returned. There were no answers. The only thing was to carry on as they were, Margaret calmly happy, he with his ten pounds a week. An idea of taking some of Margaret’s jewellery and selling it flitted across his mind, only to be dismissed as impractical with a wife who was still alive and who had learned from being married to him to be suspicious of almost everything he did.

  He was nearly sixty and she some five years older when she died. It was cancer, in nearly all cases in those days incurable. The surprises started at her funeral. A mystery woman (so called by Woody) turned up and seated herself in the front pew, the one set aside for relatives and close friends. She was about fifty, he thought, and she reminded him of someone. He couldn’t think who. She turned up at the wine-and-sandwiches party Margaret’s friend from Chigwell put on, but since she didn’t introduce herself to Woody, he thought no more about her. Until he awoke in the middle of the night and realised that the someone the mystery woman reminded him of was Margaret. Some niece? Perhaps. He sent himself back to sleep by thinking contentedly about Margaret’s shares, her bank accounts, this house, and the Jaguar which had replaced the Lagonda. Presumably, she had made a will, but it was of no importance. Everything would come to him.

  The will turned up and was a rude and distressing awakening. Woody got the house, that was all right, but nearly all the money (the ten pounds a week continued) and the shares and the car and the furniture went to a woman Margaret hadn’t seen since (the will said) “she was taken from my arms at the age of three months and given to a couple called James and Stella Brotherton for adoption.”

  Another woman who came to the funeral was Sheila Fraser, even richer than Margaret. Woody, no one called him that anymore, did his usual researches and discovered the extent of her wealth. She wasn’t pretty or clever and she was obsessed with natural history. They had almost nothing in common, but she pointed out to him the distressing incidence of hedgehogs among the road kill and made him promise to remember the Hedgehog Trust in his will. He was bound to die first as he was thirty years her senior. But he didn’t, of course. He saw to that. She had a miserable life with him but she never told him so and he never noticed.

  12

  FENELLA GOT COLD FEET. That wasn’t what she told her mother. It wasn’t suitable, she said, for a granddaughter to tell her grandmother such things.

  “But it’s all right for a daughter to tell her mother?”

  “It’s a question of age.”

  “Well, thanks for giving me back my youth.”

  “You know what I mean, Mum,” said Fenella.

  At least Judith wouldn’t have to look after her grandchildren and maybe she wouldn’t tell her mother. Maybe the occasion wouldn’t arise. She would have to wait for a suitable moment, some mention for instance, of how happy Alan and Rosemary’s marriage had been as against that of people who lived together without marriage, a common subject of conversation. But, no, that wouldn’t do. If perhaps her mother were to say that she was worried about her father, suggest he was becoming senile? It would be awkward and perhaps ineffective. She would, she decided, trust to the inspiration of the moment.

  Also to be thought of was what Rosemary would do. Have hysterics, cry, or even be silenced and tell Judith to go away, get out of her house, how dare she say such things about her father? It was a long drive from Chiswick to Loughton, and Judith and Maurice had often grumbled about it, but this time it seemed to her short. The pleasant hills and green folds of the forest were upon her within not much more than half an hour, and she was soon driving up the High Road. Many times had she done this since she had first learned to drive at seventeen; everything was familiar to her—for this part of Loughton hadn’t changed much—the Lopping Hall and the old police station, and turning off down Station Road, St. Mary’s Church ahead. She was suddenly seeing her mission as serious, not the rather
awful joke it had at first appeared to her but a matter so serious that even at this late stage it might break up her parents’ marriage. Her children’s grandparents? Was it possible? She drove past her old school, which she had walked to every day in the days when teenagers thought nothing of walking long distances. Her mother had fetched her in the car when it rained. Sometimes, on the mornings her father went to work later than usual, he and she had walked down together and parted at the school gates, he going on alone to the station. She drove on up Alderton Hill, at the top turning left to her parents’ road, down to her parents’ block of flats that hadn’t been there or even thought of in those days. She parked in the designated slot they hadn’t used since they got rid of their car and looked up to their windows. Her mother had come out and was waving to her from their balcony.

  “Is Fenella all right, darling?” asked Rosemary when she opened the door. “Not that I’m not delighted to see you of course, but I did wonder if Fenella was unwell and was hiding something from me.”

  “Well, I’m not hiding anything from you, Mum.” It was true or soon would be. “Fenella is fine and so are the children.”

  “They’re so sweet and good,” said Rosemary incredibly. “I’ll make the tea straightaway.”

  “Mum, would you mind awfully if I had a drink instead? Just one because I’m driving. But if I could have a glass of wine . . . I’ll fetch it.”

  The possibility had only just occurred to Judith, and once it had occurred, as is often the case when an unprecedented alcoholic drink is in prospect, couldn’t be resisted.

  “Of course, darling. Why on earth not?” Then Rosemary proceeded to say exactly why on earth not. “It’s just that you are driving and it’s better not to drink at all. Anyway, don’t you think it’s a good idea to restrict one’s drinking to certain hours and to stick to it? That old saying about waiting till the sun is over the yardarm isn’t a bad principle.”

  But Judith was already fetching herself a large, full glass of Pinot Grigio. She sat down and gulped down more than a large sip and nearer a swig.

  “My goodness, you were thirsty, if that’s the word.” Rosemary began on the wedding, though they had exchanged their individual opinions of it at least twice since the event. Judith’s verdict on the copper-coloured silk suit was again invited, and Judith again said it was lovely and much admired. She was starting to feel sick and drank some more wine, not the best remedy.

  “Are you all right, Judy?”

  “Mum, I’m fine. Tell me something. Where’s Dad?”

  “Why on earth do you ask?”

  “I’d just like to know where you think he is. Sorry, I’m being a bit clumsy. Would you mind telling me where he is?”

  “Now, Judith, I did try to warn you. I think that wine is going to your head. It’s really affecting you. You’ve drunk half a large glass in two minutes and it can’t be good.”

  Judith thought, I could give this up, I could say I’m a bit drunk, I’m sorry, let’s change the subject. But there was no subject as yet.

  “Mother, listen to me. I am serious, very serious. Do you know where Dad is now?”

  It had reached Rosemary at last. She creased up her eyes, held her mouth open before she finally spoke. “Yes, of course I do. He’s gone to see Michael Winwood up in town somewhere.” Her voice faltered. “You won’t know him, he was a childhood friend. One of those we’ve got to know again over that ghastly hands business.”

  “No, he hasn’t. I’m sure he hasn’t. Phone this Winwood man and find out.”

  “Oh, Judy, I couldn’t check up on your father.”

  Judith decided after another swig of wine that she had better come straight out with it. “Freya and David saw him with a woman in a restaurant in St. John’s Wood. It was about a month ago. They were holding hands. When they left, he had his arm round her. I’m sorry to tell you like this, but I don’t know how else to do it, and I think you have to be told.”

  Rosemary sat quite still, then she began shaking her head. The head-shaking went on so long that it became alarming. When she spoke, her voice, quite unlike her usual tone, was high-pitched, almost squeaky.

  “It must have been someone else. Not your father, it couldn’t be your father.”

  “Tell me this Winwood man’s number.”

  It was doubtful that her mother would obey but she did. She took the directory out of a drawer, lifted the handset off the rest, and handed it to her daughter, mouthing the number silently as if some spy might be listening. Her hands clenching, then twisting in a wringing gesture, Rosemary sat waiting. For someone to answer or perhaps in hopes that no one would?

  “Mr. Winwood? . . . This is Judith Hayland, Norris that was. I believe my father is with you. May I speak to him?”

  Judith was as certain as could be that her father wasn’t there and he wasn’t.

  MICHAEL WINWOOD SOUNDED as surprised as she had guessed he would be, but not suspicious. And after she had put the phone down, he still suspected nothing. Infidelity and its deceit and stratagems didn’t come within his experience but that of his clients. This was an area of innocence for him, and if he wondered a little, it was only to recall that if Daphne had agreed to his visiting her today, he wouldn’t have been at home to receive Judith Hayland’s call. But as the day passed, their brief conversation recurred to him, and later he thought it a little odd that Alan Norris, who had never been to his house, to whom he must have given his phone number but certainly not his address, could have told his daughter that she would find him here. They were not friends, they had met only once—that time in George Batchelor’s house—since Michael’s father threw them out of the tunnels sixty years before. He didn’t want to think of his father, that immortal creature who seemed superhuman in his refusal to die. Michael had still not phoned Urban Grange, though the piece of paper on which he had written the number was still in his pocket, crumpled through frequent handling.

  BEFORE SHE BROKE the dire news to her mother, Judith had given some thought to the possibility of her tears, hysterics, stony silence, or rage, but none to what would happen next. Rosemary might want to run away, come home with her, send for Judith’s brother, Owen, or send for a doctor (was that possible these days?) or more likely a solicitor. But all she said was “What am I going to do?”

  “Well, nothing, Mum. What can you do?”

  “I can’t really believe it, you know. Not your father. It’s going to turn out that this woman is a doctor, some sort of specialist, more women than men are these days. He’s been consulting her about something serious, he went to hear the news of some scan or other he’s had, and the news was so good he took her out to dinner and they celebrated. That will be it.”

  Judith had never known her mother to be so inventive. It was plausible, but it wasn’t true.

  “He didn’t tell me because he knew it would worry me,” Rosemary said.

  Then why didn’t he tell you afterwards? Judith wanted to ask, but knew her mother would only have an alternative explanation to put forward. It made Judith speculate as to what her father would have invented to convince her. He had more imagination than she and might even at this moment be sitting in a train elaborating some fiction. It was getting on for seven. Judith would very much have liked another glass of wine, but if she did, she dared not drive home. Wait, leave the car here and take the tube? But to be here when these two confronted each other? No, absolutely not. She looked at her silent, rigid-faced mother and took note of what she generally ignored or never saw at all: how wrinkled her face was, how sunken her eyes and hooded their lids, her jawline drooping, her upper lip clustered with parallel vertical lines. The first thing you noticed about her hands along with the corrugated nails was the overlay of branched purple veins. Veins too pushed out the thin fabric of her stockings. She was old. Things like this didn’t happen to old people, but evidently they did.

  “When do you
expect Dad home?”

  Her mother seemed to have forgotten all about the mysterious doctor. “Will it make any difference what time I expect him?”

  “Oh, Mum, would you like me to stay?” Judith said it because she knew she ought to. The prospect was awful. “I could phone Maurice. I could leave the car here.”

  Rosemary said suddenly, “What did she look like, this woman?”

  “All Freya said was that she was tall and dark and—well, she said ‘quite old.’ ”

  “I see.” Rosemary looked as if she did see. “Is that supposed to make me feel better, that she’s old? It makes it worse. No, I don’t want you to stay, darling. I’ll see him alone.”

  In the past few minutes Judith’s old mother had not so much grown older, she had grown up. At her age she had at last seen what life was about.

  WHILE HIS DAUGHTER was checking up on him, Alan was in bed with Daphne. They had been there since late morning, apart from a break for lunch at Carluccio’s, but had returned for more love-making and then sleep. He went downstairs in the evening and fetched a bottle of champagne he had put on ice in the afternoon and cut two large slices from the carrot cake he had bought while they were out. They loved carrot cake—it was one of the many things they had in common—and, both thin, never thought about their weight. Too old for that nonsense, said Daphne. The champagne was drunk, the cake was eaten, and at nine Alan said he’d better go. God knew, he didn’t want to but he’d better. Daphne put on a dressing gown and fetched him a key to her front door—three keys rather, as it was always well locked up.