Ruth Rendell - Adam And Eve And Pinch Me

“It’s wicked to murder people,” Minty said. “Look at the trouble it causes.” She finished the last shirt and went home.

She’d only been in five minutes when Laf came round with the papers. He wanted her to go to the Dome with him and Sonovia and Daniel’s little girl, but Minty said no, thanks, not this time, she’d got too much to do at home. She’d have to have a bath, she couldn’t go out again dirty, and they were off in ten minutes. Besides, there were the papers to read and the dusting to do and the floors to vacuum.

“Not in the afternoon,” said Auntie the moment Laf was gone. “A good housewife gets her work done first thing in the morning. The afternoon’s for sitting down and catching up on the sewing.”

Mrs. Lewis had to put her oar in. “She’ll say she’s got her job. You wouldn’t want her cleaning the place on a Sunday, I’m sure. Sundays are a day of rest or should be. There was some in my day as would get up at the crack of dawn and get the dusting and hoovering done before they went to work, but not anymore.”

“Go away,” said Minty. “I hate you.”

For some reason she thought they wouldn’t follow her out of doors and she was right. Maybe it was too bright for them or too hot or something. Ghosts faded away in sunshine, she’d heard that somewhere. She got out the mower and cut the little lawn, then the long-handled shears to do the edges. Mr. Kroot’s sister came out into the garden next door, dropping lumps of bread with green mold on it to feed the birds. Minty wanted to say it wouldn’t be birds that would come but rats, only she didn’t because she and Auntie had sworn never to speak to Mr. Kroot or the sister or anyone to do with them again.

Auntie spoke to her at last, the minute she came into the kitchen. “I’d have had a bone to pick with you if you’d said a word to Gertrude Pierce.”

That was her name. The dead knew everything. Minty remembered it now, though she hadn’t heard it for a good ten years. She didn’t answer Auntie. The two of them went on muttering somewhere in the background. She’d just have to put up with it until they got tired and went back to wherever they came from. They wouldn’t like her vacuuming, the noise would drown out their voices. Let them grumble all they liked. At least she couldn’t see them.

She always did the dusting first. While Auntie was alive she’d had a lot of opposition from her over that. Auntie vacuumed first, but Minty maintained that if you dusted afterward all the dust went on to the clean carpet and if you were thorough you’d have to vacuum it all over again.

Sure enough, Auntie started as soon as Minty took the clean yellow duster out of the kitchen drawer. “I hope you’re not going to use that before you’ve done the floor. I don’t know how many times I’ve told her, Mrs. Lewis. It goes in one ear and out the other.”

“Might as well talk to a brick wall,” said Mrs. Lewis, for by this time Minty had begun moving all the ornaments on the little table and spraying the surface with liquid wax. “That stuff she’s using just swallows up the dirt and leaves a nasty deposit.”

“My very words. I’d like a five-pound note for every time I’ve said that.”

“It’s not true,” Minty shouted, moving on to the sideboard. “Not if you keep the place clean like I do. And it’s five-pound notes you ought to be giving me .”

“She’s got a nasty temper, Winifred. You say a word to her and she bites your head off.”

“I’d like to bite yours off! I’d like to get a big police dog to come and bite it off.”

“Don’t you speak to Mrs. Lewis like that,” said Auntie.

So they could hear her. Maybe it was only when she got angry. She’d remember that. She cleaned the whole house. Up in the bathroom she plugged her ears so as not to hear, but she still heard their voices through the cotton wool. Only while she had a bath and washed her hair was there silence. Lying in the water, she tried to picture what Mrs. Lewis looked like. She’d be very old. Somehow Minty had got it into her head that Mrs. Lewis had been knocking fifty when Jock was born. Her hair would be white and wispy, so thin that patches of bald pink scalp showed through, her nose a hook and her chin another hook coming up to meet the nose, with a mouth like a crack in a piece of coarse-grained brown wood in between. She looked like a witch, bent and very small because she’d have shrunk, and when she walked she took little stumbling steps.

“I don’t want to see her,” she said aloud. “I don’t want to see her and I don’t want to see Auntie. They don’t need me, they’ve got each other.”

No one answered her.

Clean and in clean clothes, light grey Dockers from the charity shop and a white T-shirt with Auntie’s silver cross on the chain round her neck, Minty sat in the window reading the papers and from time to time looking up at the street outside. It was after five and the Wilsons hadn’t come back. Gertrude Pierce came out of Mr. Kroot’s with a letter in her hand. Her orange hair was quite white at the roots. She had a purple coat on with a fake fur collar, a winter coat on a warm summer afternoon. Minty watched her cross the street and walk down to the postbox on the corner of Laburnam. Now, returning, she was facing this way and Minty saw that she’d covered her face with makeup, coats of it, and scarlet lipstick and black stuff on her eyebrows. It made you shudder to think of wearing all that muck on your skin, and she must have been seventy-five if she was a day.

The ghost voices didn’t comment. They hadn’t spoken for the past couple of hours. Minty made herself a cup of tea in a nice clean white mug and had a Danish pastry with it that she’d personally watched the man, wearing gloves, pick up with stainless-steel tongs from under a cover, on a white plate with a white doily on it. Then, when she’d washed up the mug and the plate and dried them, she put on a clean white cardigan and went across Harrow Road to the cemetery. On the way she passed Laf and Sonovia and the little girl and Daniel’s wife, Lauren, coming home in Laf’s car. They waved to her out of the open windows. Lauren had her long black hair done in what they called corn rows and pictures of flowers on her fingernails, which wasn’t right in a doctor’s wife.

The cemetery was very green and lush, buttercups and daisies growing among the grass and fresh gleaming moss climbing over the old stones. The full gasometer loomed on the far side of the canal. Sometimes, when it was nearly empty, it was just the bones of itself, like the skeletons that lay everywhere here in moldering boxes under the ground. She went along the path between the ilexes and conifers where ivy clambered over mossy fallen angels and lichened mausoleums. Some of the gravestones had stone ivy carved on them with real ivy climbing over it. No one was about. It was just here, where the two paths intersected, that she had seen Jock coming toward her in his black leather jacket. She was sure she’d never see him again. She’d never pray to Auntie again, not after the way she’d been treated, and there’d be no more flowers on the grave.

It was hard because Auntie had been all she’d got, really, until Jock came along. Sonovia had once said Auntie was like God to her, and Laf, who’d been there, was shocked and said not to talk like that, Minty didn’t worship Auntie, she didn’t pray to her. The truth was she did but she couldn’t say so, though when she went home she got down on her knees and prayed. She was muddled, she didn’t know what to do, to thank Auntie for dying and leaving her the house and the bathroom, or to wish her alive again. Well, in a way, that second wish had come true.

The carnations and gypsophila she’d put on the grave a couple of weeks ago were dead now and brown. The water in the vase was brown too and only about an inch of it was left. She pulled out the dead flowers, threw the water on the ground, and put the vase back where she’d found it, on the slab in front of some old man’s tomb. The sun warmed her and she lifted up her face to its gentle evening light. She’d expected Auntie and maybe Mrs. Lewis to say something. Auntie must know by now that she’d meant it when she’d said there’d be no more flowers. Removing the vase would have told her that. The dead knew everything, saw all. But no voices came, they’d gone away somewhere, back to where they’d come from.