Ruth Rendell - A Sleeping Life

‘I think we’d better have a drink,’ said her father, ‘and you calm down a bit and tell me just what your grievances against Neil are. Who knows? I may be able to be your intermediary.’

Thus he found himself, a couple of hours later, closeted with his son-in-law in the house which he had, in former times, delighted to visit because it was noisy and warm and filled, it had seemed to him, with love. Now it was dusty, chilly and silent. Neil said he had had his dinner but, from the evidence, Wexford thought it had taken a liquid and spirituous form.

‘Of course I want her back, Reg, and my kids. I love her, you know that. But I can’t meet her conditions. I won’t. I’m to have some wretched au pair here which’ll mean the boys moving in together, pay her a salary I can ill afford, just so that Syl can go off and train for some profession that’s already overcrowded. She’s a damn good wife and mother, or she was. I don’t see any reason to employ someone to do the things she does so well while she trains for something she may not do well at all. Have a drink?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘Well, I will, and you needn’t tell me I’ve had too much already. I know it. The point is, why can’t she go on doing her job while I do mine? I don’t say hers is less important than mine. I don’t say she’s inferior and when she says others say so I think that’s all in her head. But I’m not paying her a wage for doing what other women have done since time immemorial for love. Right? I’m not going to jeopardize my career by cancelling trips abroad, or exhaust myself cleaning the place and bathing the kids when I get home after a long day. I’ll dry the dishes, OK, I’ll see she gets any laboursaving equipment she wants, but I’d like to know just who needs the liberation if I’m to work all day and all night while she footles around at some college for God knows how many years. I wish I was a woman, I can tell you, no money worries, no real responsibility, no slogging off to an office day in and day out for forty years,’

‘You don’t wish that, you know.’

‘I almost have done this week.’ Neil threw out a despairing hand at the chaos surrounding him. ‘I don’t know how to do housework. I can’t cook, but I can earn a decent living. Why the hell can’t she do the one and I do the other like we used to? I could wring those damned Women’s Libbers’ necks. I love her, Reg. There’s never been anyone else for either of us. We row, of course we do, that’s healthy in a marriage, but we love each other and we’ve got two super kids. Doesn’t it seem crazy that a sort of political thing, an impersonal thing, could split up two people like us?’

‘It’s not impersonal to her,’ said Wexford sadly. ‘Couldn’t you compromise, Neil? Couldn’t you get a woman in just for a year till Ben goes to school?’

‘Couldn’t she wait just for a year till Ben goes to school? OK, so marriage is supposed to be give and take. It seems to me I do all the giving and she does all the taking.’

‘And she says it’s the other way about. I’ll go now, Neil.’ Wexford laid his hand on his son-in-law’s arm. ‘Don’t drink too much. It’s not the answer.’

‘Isn’t it? Sorry, Reg, but I’ve every intention tonight of getting smashed out of my mind.’

Wexford said nothing to his daughter when he got home, and she asked him no questions. She was sitting by the still open trench window, cuddling close to her Ben who had awakened and cried, and reading with mutinous concentration a book called Woman and the Sexist Plot.

Ben passed a fractious night and awoke at seven with a sore throat, Sylvia and her mother were discussing whether to send for Dr Crocker or take Ben to the surgery when Wexford had to leave for work. The last thing he expected was that he himself would be spending the morning in a doctor’s surgery, for he saw the day ahead as a repetition of the day before, to be passed in fretful inertia behind drawn blinds. He was a little late getting in. Burden was waiting for him, impatiently pacing the office.

‘We’ve had some luck. A doctor’s just phoned in. He’s got a practice in London and he says Rhoda Comfrey was on his list, she was one of his patients.’

‘My God. At last. Why didn’t he call us sooner?’

‘Like so many of them, he was away on holiday. In the South of France, oddly enough. Didn’t know a thing about it till he got back last night and saw one of last week’s newspapers.’

‘I suppose you said we’d want to see him?’

Burden nodded. ‘He expects to have seen the last of his surgery patients by eleven and he’ll wait in for us. I said I thought we could be there soon after that.’ He referred to the notes he had taken. ‘He’s a Dr Christopher Lomond and he’s in practice at a place called Midsomer Road, Parish Oak, London, W19.’

‘Never heard of it,’ said Wexford. ‘But come to that, I’ve only just about heard of Stroud Green and Nunhead and Earlsfield. All those lost villages swallowed up in… What are you grinning at?’

‘I know where it is. I looked it up. It may be W19 but it’s still part of your favourite beauty spot, the London Borough of Kenbourne.’

‘Back again,’ said Wexford. ‘I might have known it. And what’s more, Stevens has gone down with the flu – flu in August! – so unless you feel like playing dodgem cars, it’s train for us.’

Though unlikely to be anyone’s favourite beauty spot, the district in which they found themselves was undoubtedly the best part of Kenbourne. It lay some couple of miles to the north of Elm Green and Kenbourne High Street and the library, and it was one of those ‘nice’ suburbs which sprang up to cover open country between the two world wars. The tube station was called Parish Oak, and from there they were directed to catch a bus which took them up a long hilly avenue, flanked by substantial houses whose front gardens had been docked for road-widening. Directly from it, at the top, debouched Midsomer Road, a street of comfortable looking semi-detached houses, not unlike Wexford’s own, where cars were tucked away into garages, doorsteps held neat little plastic containers for milk bottles, and dogs were confined behind wrought-iron gates. Dr Lomond’s surgery was in a flat-roofed annexe attached to the side of number sixty-one. They were shown in immediately by a receptionist, and the doctor was waiting for them, a short youngish man with a cheerful pink face.

‘I didn’t recognize Miss Comfrey from that newspaper photograph,’ he said, ‘but I thought I remembered the name and when I looked at the photo again I saw a sort of resemblance. So I checked with my records. Rhoda Agnes Comfrey, 6 Princevale Road, Parish Oak.’

‘So she hadn’t often come to you, Doctor?’ said Wexford.

‘Only came to me once. That was last September. It’s often the way, you know. They don’t bother to register with a doctor till they think they’ve got something wrong with them. She had herself put on my list and she came straight in.’

Burden said tentatively, ‘Would you object to telling us what was wrong with her?’

The doctor laughed breezily. ‘I don’t think so. The poor woman’s dead, after all. She thought she’d got appendicitis because she’d got pains on the right side of the abdomen. I examined her, but she didn’t react to the tests and she hadn’t any other symptoms, so I thought it was more likely to be indigestion and I told her to keep off alcohol and fried foods. If it persisted she was to come back and I’d give her a letter to the hospital. But she was very much against the idea of hospital and I wasn’t surprised when she didn’t come back. Look, I’ve got a sort of dossier thing here on her. I have one for all my patients.’