The Death of Ruth (5 page)

Jodie threw herself into Ralph's arms and wept noisily. ‘Mummy, Mummy …' she sobbed and I thought of the nagging, harsh treatment Ruth had so often meted out to her daughter and I wondered at the loyalties of family ties and relationships.

‘Mr Grey, my daughter is very upset,' said Ralph. ‘May she go home now?'

‘No.' Grey turned to me, saying, ‘Mr Blake, ask Mrs Blake to come in here, please.'

‘She is asleep,' I protested. ‘Is it really necessary to disturb her? Wouldn't the morning do?'

Grey declared that the morning would not do and so I went to call Molly, who, presumably disturbed and deeply perturbed by Jodie's violent sobbing fit, was standing in the hall, looking so ill that I was sure she was about to faint. I placed an arm about her, saying, ‘There's no bad news, dear! Jodie's just upset! Blast Grey and his overbearing officiousness. It's too bad of him but he insists on seeing you again.' I stood by, admiringly, as she managed to gain control of herself before entering the living room.

Jodie, tear-stained and shaking, rushed to Molly, who held her close, and Grey, slightly abashed, said, ‘Mrs Blake, I am sorry to disturb you again but why—when I questioned you previously—did you not tell me that Mrs Moyston had taken clothing and other things away with her?'

‘I thought you already knew,' said Molly, flatly, ‘I thought that Ralph would have told you.'

‘Mr Moyston did not tell me. I have just discovered the
facts,' said Grey. ‘Now, Mrs Blake, on Monday, didn't
you
think it unusual that Mrs Moyston should have gone out leaving the windows open?'

‘No, for I was not sure that Ruth
had
gone out,' explained Molly. ‘Monday was a difficult day for me, I had injured my ankle, and I was in pain. When I called to Ruth, I suppose I must have noticed that the windows were open, and now I do remember that the bread delivery boy mentioned the fact. I'm sorry, Mr Grey, but I'm afraid I'm rather a coward and pain upsets me.'

She had smiled in a self-deprecating manner and I had sighed with relief, knowing that the pain in her ankle accounted for her out-of-character behaviour. It was true that she could not take pain. A visit to the dentist was, to Molly, like a condemned criminal's walk to the execution chamber.

Grey stayed on for awhile, questioning and writing down the scraps of information we gave him about Ruth, and before taking his leave, he told Ralph that he would be in touch. He admonished us all to do all that we could to assist in the search for Ruth Moyston.

The three Moystons lingered on for some time and I was heartily pleased when they trailed off back to their own home. I was concerned about Molly, and against her wishes I insisted on bathing her cruelly swollen ankle, and then bandaging it tightly. Gradually, she seemed to relax and I smiled, saying, ‘There now! It will soon be better. Poor girl! Poor dear!'

Suddenly her eyes were suffused with tears and taking my hand in hers she whispered, ‘John—John, I am filled with shame—I am such a
coward
, John …'

About to refute her poor opinion of herself I was prevented by Ralph who entered our living room carrying a bottle of Napoleon brandy, saying tentatively, ‘John, I thought a drop of this might be helpful to Molly. Help her to relax, and ease her pain.'

I was just about dead on my feet but Ralph appeared so lost, so woebegone that I replied cheerfully, ‘Very thoughtful of you, Ralph, and not only for Molly, eh …?' Feeling quite bucked up, I brought drinking glasses. There are few things I like more than a tot of good cognac.

During the past three years enquiries have been made, various members of the police have called and questioned us, but so far, to no avail. Ruth Moyston has not returned home, and Ralph has taken it in his stride, quite as though to have one's wife disappear into thin air—so to speak—is not at all very much out of the ordinary. He is certain that she will return home one of these days. Jodie and Rob have left school and have undistinguished jobs. To hear them speak of their mother one must believe that Ruth—quite contrary to fact—had been a tender, caring parent. Rob and Jodie are healthier and certainly more self confident these days.

Although Molly's ankle mended, it has left her with a dragging limp and she has grown vague in some ways, and neglectful of her appearance and of the house. I know she is sensitive about her limp, feeling that it is a disfigurement, which is nonsensical. But nothing I say or do comforts her or changes her mind.

Rather to my astonishment, she has become quite a gardener. All her time, all the money we once used for holiday trips, for visits to theatres, small gifts to relatives and friends at Christmas time, that money has been spent on ‘garden improvement'.

The lawns are emerald green, their borders meticulously straight. Exotic plants and seasonal flowers bloom luxuriantly, profusely, but never is one cut and brought into the house.

When I first noticed Molly's interest in gardening I had been delighted, but then it seemed to develop into what I can only describe as an obsession. At the same time she
became moody, and for the first time in our marriage we had arguments, with me begging her to see a psychiatrist and Molly refusing, saying wearily, ‘Leave me alone, John. Please leave me alone! All I want is to be left alone and left to my gardening. Is
that
asking too much of life?'

‘No, not at all, dear,' I had soothed, ‘By all means, Molly, garden away to your heart's content, but let us share the work and the pleasure. You know how I enjoy gardening, and …'

‘Right!' she exclaimed. ‘John, you take over the front garden. That's fair! You have the front and I'll have the back.'

I laughed, saying that we were not children. That adults—especially a husband and a wife—surely did not have to share out gardens like pieces of candy.

It was no use and for peace at any price I began to care for the small front yard, but my heart had always been in the spacious back garden that I had landscaped, built up from the uncultivated rough land it had been twenty years before. I could not raise any enthusiasm towards the front garden and as time went by, I gave up all interest in gardening
per se
. I also lost interest in the house, and from the street our once immaculate home presents a rather sorry spectacle. Weeds choke the garden beds and the grass grows tall, neglected and scraggy. Paint is needed on the house and the front steps are cracked, a hinge is missing on the gate.

Molly, although extremely reticent, had always responded tentatively, but warmly, to my love-making. Naturally, when she was in pain from her injured ankle I made no advances and then when she complained, saying that she was suffering from insomnia, out of consideration for her I moved myself and my belongings into the spare bedroom. The room that we had shyly and hopefully alluded to as ‘the nursery' during the first five or six years of our marriage.

Along with the years it has become known as the spare
room and in that room I spend many sleepless hours, worrying about the unhappy changes in our home and in our lives. However I am rather relieved to be on my own. Being near Molly distresses me, for I cannot understand her and things that I don't understand upset me.

Several times, no, more than several times, during the night, I have heard Molly crying. The first time, I hurried to her and attempted to comfort her, whispering that I loved and desired her, but she pushed me away just as she pushes me away from every moment in her life.

I knew that my wife needed professional care. I knew that I should do something about it, but I kept putting it off and away from my thoughts, always hoping, always expecting that every evening, when I returned home, I would be greeted by the placid, happy wife I had so respected and admired.

There were times when I quite envied Ralph Moyston his freedom. However, he seemed to spend much of his time searching the city, looking for Ruth. He would return home on Saturdays and Sundays, full of his explorations, and he would come to our home to talk, for Jodie and Rob were usually out on dates.

I was quite pleased to have him call in and I would put down my novel or newspaper, glad of the interruption, ‘No luck, Ralph?' I would ask, politely.

Molly would merely glance up from her beloved seed catalogues, then lose herself in them again.

It was as always—no luck—and after allowing me time to ‘tut tut' and be sympathetic, Ralph would tell me of the places in the city that he had visited that day. He went everywhere, he told me. He went to the zoo, to the botanic gardens, to the museum, to the art galleries, to cinemas—always looking for Ruth.

He frequented small coffee shops, and he got to know the girls who served him and he would tell me stories of these girls' lives, and stories about countless other people that he
sat beside in parks, on bus seats, everywhere and anywhere.

He showed people Ruth's photograph. He carried her photograph in his wallet. ‘One day,' Ralph said with quiet confidence, ‘One day, John, I just know that someone is going to say they have seen Ruth. That they know where she is.'

The fact that Ruth might have gone off to a distant country town, or even abroad, never seemed to enter his mind, and the thought that perhaps Ruth was dead and gone, I felt sure, never entered his mind either.

Truthfully speaking, I seldom thought of Ruth Moyston. I had never liked her, and although I was as mystified as anyone by her disappearance and certainly hoped that she was alive and well, I rather hoped that she would never turn up, for one difficult woman in such close proximity was quite enough for any man.

I settled down to the routine of day following day, believing that the sameness would continue; which it did, until the real estate speculator who owned the adjoining vacant lot, came to call.

At last, he said, he saw his way clear for his company to begin construction of a high-rise apartment building and he wanted to purchase my property and the Moystons' as well.

The price he offered was excellent. New vistas opened up. I would now be able to care properly for Molly, have a really excellent doctor advise us. We would move to a new environment, an apartment, somewhere on the waterfront—no garden—Molly and I would take up fishing, sailing …

Before leaving home this morning John had looked at me with an expression of scorn. He spoke to me harshly and bitterly. ‘Molly,' he said, ‘You have become a destructive woman! Do you realize that? Are you aware that you have developed an unhealthy, a ludicrous power complex?'

It is dreadful to have John despise me. If he knew the truth he would realize how mistaken his opinion of me is, for I am bent only on preservation, and I am not powerful. I resemble a mouse crouching between the claws of a well-fed cat, awaiting the moment that the cat will feel the pangs of hunger.

Last night it was as though the claws of the cat pressed in on me and pricked my skin, drew a little blood.

Ralph Moyston, Jodie, Rob and John, all filled with excitement and with a dozen and varied happy plans for their futures, had gathered together in our living room. Money at last! Quite a lot of money! Our two houses were to be sold, pulled down. Jodie wanted to call Bill—her steady boyfriend—tell him that Ralph had promised her a sizeable amount of money to purchase a piece of land and that they, Jodie and her young man, could be married much earlier than they had planned.

‘Call him now, Jo,' Rob advised, ‘call him now.'

I looked up from my book on
Plants and their Diseases
, and speaking for the first time, I said calmly and coldly, ‘Don't call Bill, Jodie, I am not selling this property and if they can't purchase this one right next door to their land, they
will not want to buy your parents' home. Just forget about it.'

John finally broke the silence that followed my statement, saying, ‘What are you saying, Molly?' He was startled and quite aghast.

‘I think you heard me loud and clear,' I replied without looking up as I firmly underlined a paragraph in my book. ‘I've no intention of selling the house. I have lived here for many years. It's all I want—or need.'

‘She's joking, or out of her mind!' cried Rob. ‘Aunty Molly, you must be kidding! Think of the money! You can have a much nicer house. You—'

‘You wouldn't be so cruel, so selfish,' cried Jodie. ‘No one could!'

Ralph made no comment. I glanced up and saw the regretful expression on his face and I flashed my eyes back to the blur of the printed page of my book.

Never, not once, since that now far-off dreadful day, have Ralph Moyston and I been alone together. Not once have we mentioned that which lies beneath John's camellia bushes.

In many ways I admire Ralph and I depend on him. He is standing up to the stress and strain more courageously than I. It is always easier for me when he is at home … nearby … for Ralph knows everything. Only he and I know why it is impossible for me to leave the house, the garden that I hate with a violence that poisons every moment of my waking hours and that fills with nightmare the few restless periods of sleep I get.

Of course, Ralph could not come out openly on my side, for he is implicated too, quite dangerously so. I could not bear to look at him again, and so, without raising my eyes, I murmured, ‘You don't want to sell, or do you, Ralph?'

Ralph replied gently, ‘For myself—no—not really. It would only be for Jodie and Rob. For myself—one way or the other—I don't mind …'

‘I mind,' John expostulated harshly, ‘This property belongs to me, I bought it with money that I have slaved for over the years. It is the only thing in the world that I own, and now, at last, it is going to pay dividends. What you do, Ralph, depends on you. I am selling. That is definite.'

‘Wow-ee!' Like a gust of wind Jodie rushed over to John and began to hug and kiss him and Rob began to explain to Ralph that, if he could buy a truck—he knew exactly the one he wanted—he would give up his clerking job and go into business for himself.