Ruth Rendell - Adam And Eve And Pinch Me

Matthew had done some writing for New Scientist and an occasional piece for the Times . Now, because it was the most important thing in his life after her, he settled down to write, in his despair, about what it meant to have his particular kind of anorexia. To hate food. To be made ill by that which was the staff of life. Eating disorders were becoming very fashionable at the time. His article was snapped up. It led to his being asked by a prestigious weekly if he’d contribute a column to be known as “An Anorexic’s Diary.” Matthew, the purist, objected at first and said the word should be “anorectic” but gave in because the money was so good. Michelle often thought how strange it was that though he could barely talk about certain foodstuffs he could write of them, describe his nausea and horror at particular kinds of fat and “slop,” define with a searching precision the items he could just bear to eat and why.

“An Anorexic’s Diary” saved them selling the house and going on benefits. It was immensely popular and inspired a lot of letters. Matthew got a huge postbag from middle-aged women who couldn’t get off diets and starving teenagers and fat men who were addicted to beer and chips. It didn’t make him famous-he and she wouldn’t have liked that-but his name was once mentioned on a TV quiz show and was the answer to a crossword puzzle clue. All this afforded them a little quiet amusement. She hadn’t liked it when Jeff Leigh clapped Matthew on the back and said insinuatingly, “Wouldn’t do for you to gain weight in your position, would it? Mind you keep the rations low, Michelle. I’m sure you can eat for two.”

That had hurt her because it was what you said to pregnant women. She thought of the child she’d never had, the daughter or son who would be sixteen or seventeen by now. Dream children she often dreamed of or saw before her closed eyes when she lay down. When Matthew came back into the room, she was asleep.

THE KNIFE WOULDN’T do. It was too big to carry about easily. Auntie had had quite a lot of knives, carvers and saws and choppers, which was funny because she’d never cooked much. Maybe they’d all been wedding presents. Minty went through them carefully and selected one which was eight inches long with a sharp point and a blade that was nearly two inches wide at the hilt.

She’d never really got rid of Auntie’s stuff, apart from a few clothes she’d taken to the Geranium blind shop. They weren’t as clean as they might have been, and carrying them, even in a plastic sack, made her feel dirty all over. The rest she’d shut up in a cupboard and never opened again. She opened it now. It smelled awful. Just her luck when she was off to work; she’d have to have another bath before she went. The purse on a belt some people called a fanny pack or a bum bag but Auntie wouldn’t, it was too crude, hung by its strap over a hanger on which was a coat that smelled of mothballs. Minty resolved to have a real clean-up and clear-out that evening, take the stuff to Brent Council’s old clothes bank, and wash out the cupboard. The bum bag she brought delicately to her nose. One sniff was enough. She washed it in the bathroom basin, laid it to dry on the edge of the bath, then washed herself all over. When it was dry, it would make a convenient holder for the knife.

As a result of all this, she was a bit late for work, very unusual for her. Josephine, all smiles, said nothing about her lateness but announced that she and Ken were getting married. He’d asked her over the wontons and shrimp toast they’d had last night. Minty wondered what form the proposal had taken since Ken didn’t speak any English.

“I’m starting my Cantonese conversation class next week,” said Josephine.

Minty accepted an invitation to the wedding. As she began the ironing, she asked herself if she would ever meet another man who would want her as Jock had done. If it happened, it mustn’t be while Jock continued to haunt her. It wouldn’t do to be out with a man in the pub or at the pictures and have Jock appear between them, or watching them. Besides, she’d promised him there would never be anyone else. She was his for ever, and ever might be another fifty years. What did he want? Why had he returned? Because he was afraid she’d met a new man?

The shirts smelled of that indefinable clean scent she liked so much, newly washed linen. She savored each one, bringing it to within an inch of her nose when she lifted it from the pile. Minty ironed the shirts not just as they happened to come-picking up the top one first, then the next one and so on-but choosing them according to color. There were always more white ones than colored, about twice as many, so she would do two white, then a pink, two more white, then a blue stripe. It upset her if the sequence went wrong and she found she had four or five white ones left at the end. This morning there were fewer whites than usual and she could see as she progressed that she was going to have the luck to make the ironing of a pink-and-yellow-striped shirt her final task.

It was more than a week since she’d seen Jock and then, just when she thought he’d satisfied himself, found what he was looking for, or simply got tired of the search, he’d appeared again. She’d gone to the pictures with Sonovia and Laf, one of the cinemas in Whiteley’s, and seen Sleepy Hollow , a film people found frightening about a headless horseman-a ghost of course-that kept appearing in this town in America and chopping people’s heads off.

“Never seen anything so ridiculous in all my life,” Sonovia said scornfully, passing her the popcorn. Laf had fallen asleep, snoring softly.

“It’s scary,” Minty whispered, but more out of politeness than truth. Films weren’t real .

But just as the tree split open again and the phantom horseman and his horse leaped out from its roots, Jock’s ghost came into the cinema and sat down in the end seat of their row on the other side of the aisle. The way they were sitting, she three seats in from the end, Sonovia next to her and Laf next to Sonovia, meant she had an uninterrupted view of him. He’d sat down without looking at her, but now, no doubt because he felt her eyes on him, he turned his head and fixed on her a dull, expressionless gaze. She was wearing Auntie’s silver cross on a ribbon round her neck and she put her hand up to it, clasping it tightly. This action, supposed to be a sure specific against visitants from another world, or so Auntie had said, had no effect on Jock. He stared at the screen. Minty touched Sonovia on the arm.

“D’you see that man at the end of the row?”

“What man?”

“On the other side, sitting at the end.”

“There’s no one there, my deah. You’re dreaming.”

It didn’t altogether surprise her that he was invisible to others. Josephine hadn’t been able to see him that time in the shop. What was he made of? Flesh and blood or shadows? She’d promised him that once she’d been with him she’d never go with anyone else. Was it possible he wanted to keep her to her vow and he’d come back to take her away with him ? Minty began to tremble.

“Not cold, are you?” Sonovia whispered.

Minty shook her head.

“Must have been a cat walking over your grave.”

“Don’t say that!” Minty spoke so loudly that a woman behind tapped her on the shoulder and told her to be quiet.

She was silent, shivering. Somewhere in this world was the place where her bones or her ashes would be buried. A cat, going about its nocturnal business, had trodden on that ground and passed on. Jock wanted to take her there, to that grave, and have her ghost with him, wherever that was. She couldn’t watch the film. Reality was more frightening. Jock had only been there ten minutes, but he got up to leave. As he passed her he whispered, “Polo,” and touched her on the shoulder.