Kazuo Ishiguro - Never Let Me Go

Unfortunately for Ruth, though, there were registers kept of everything bought at the Sales, along with a record of who’d done the buying. While these registers weren’t easily obtainable—the monitors took them back to Miss Emily’s office after each Sale—they weren’t top secret either. If I hung around a monitor at the next Sale, it wouldn’t be difficult to browse through the pages.

So I had the outlines of a plan, and I think I went on refining it for several days before it occurred to me it wasn’t actually necessary to carry out all the steps. Provided I was right about the pencil case coming from a Sale, all I had to do was bluff.

That was how Ruth and I came to have our conversation under the eaves. There was fog and drizzle that day. The two of us were walking from the dorm huts perhaps towards the pavilion, I’m not sure. Anyway, as we were crossing the courtyard, the rain suddenly got heavier and since we were in no hurry, we tucked ourselves in under the eaves of the main house, a little to one side of the front entrance.

We sheltered there for a while, and every so often a student would come running out of the fog and in through the doors of the house, but the rain didn’t ease. And the longer we continued to stand there, the more tense I grew because I could see this was the opportunity I’d been waiting for. Ruth too, I’m sure, sensed something was coming up. In the end, I decided to come straight out with it.

“At the Sale last Tuesday,” I said. “I was just looking through the book. You know, the register thing.”

“Why were you looking at the register?” Ruth asked quickly. “Why were you doing something like that?”

“Oh, no reason. Christopher C. was one of the monitors, so I was just talking to him. He’s the best Senior boy, definitely. And I was just turning over the pages of the register, just for something to do.”

Ruth’s mind, I could tell, had raced on, and she now knew exactly what this was about. But she said calmly: “Boring sort of thing to look at.”

“No, it was quite interesting really. You can see all the things people have bought.”

I’d said this staring out at the rain. Then I glanced at Ruth and got a real shock. I don’t know what I’d expected; for all my fantasies of the past month, I’d never really considered what it would be like in a real situation like the one unfolding at that moment. Now I saw how upset Ruth was; how for once she was at a complete loss for words, and had turned away on the verge of tears. And suddenly my behaviour seemed to me utterly baffling. All this effort, all this planning, just to upset my dearest friend. So what if she’d fibbed a little about her pencil case? Didn’t we all dream from time to time about one guardian or other bending the rules and doing something special for us? A spontaneous hug, a secret letter, a gift? All Ruth had done was to take one of these harmless daydreams a step further; she hadn’t even mentioned Miss Geraldine by name.

I now felt awful, and I was confused. But as we stood there together staring at the fog and rain, I could think of no way now to repair the damage I’d done. I think I said something pathetic like: “It’s all right, I didn’t see anything much,” which hung stupidly in the air. Then after a few further seconds of silence, Ruth walked off into the rain.

I think I’d have felt better about what had happened if Ruth had held it against me in some obvious way. But this was one instance when she seemed just to cave in. It was like she was too ashamed of the matter—too crushed by it—even to be angry or to want to get me back. The first few times I saw her after the conversation under the eaves, I was ready for at least a bit of huffiness, but no, she was completely civil, if a little flat. It occurred to me she was scared I’d expose her—the pencil case, sure enough, vanished from view—and I wanted to tell her she’d nothing to fear from me. The trouble was, because none of this had actually been talked about in the open, I couldn’t find a way of bringing it all up with her.

I did my best, meanwhile, to take any opportunity to imply to Ruth she had a special place in Miss Geraldine’s heart. There was the time, for example, when a bunch of us were desperate to go out and practise rounders during break, because we’d been challenged by a group from the year above. Our problem was that it was raining, and it looked unlikely we’d be allowed outside. I noticed though that Miss Geraldine was one of the guardians on duty, and so I said:

“If Ruth goes and asks Miss Geraldine, then we’d stand a chance.”

As far as I remember, this suggestion wasn’t taken up; maybe hardly anyone heard it, because a lot of us were talking all at once. But the point is, I said it standing right behind Ruth, and I could see she was pleased.

Then another time a few of us were leaving a classroom with Miss Geraldine, and I happened to find myself about to go out the door right after Miss Geraldine herself. What I did was to slow right down so that Ruth, coming behind me, could instead pass through the door beside Miss Geraldine. I did this without any fuss, as though this were the natural and proper thing and what Miss Geraldine would like—just the way I’d have done if, say, I’d accidentally got myself between two best friends. On that occasion, as far as I remember, Ruth looked puzzled and surprised for a split second, then gave me a quick nod and went past.

Little things like these might well have pleased Ruth, but they were still far removed from what had actually happened between us under the eaves that foggy day, and the sense that I’d never be able to sort things just continued to grow. There’s a particular memory I have of sitting by myself one evening on one of the benches outside the pavilion, trying over and over to think of some way out, while a heavy mix of remorse and frustration brought me virtually to tears. If things had stayed that way, I’m not sure what would have happened. Maybe it would all have got forgotten eventually; or maybe Ruth and I would have drifted apart. As it was, right out of the blue, a chance came along for me to put things right.

We were in the middle of one of Mr. Roger’s art lessons, except for some reason he’d gone out half way. So we were all just drifting about among the easels, chatting and looking at each other’s work. Then at one point a girl called Midge A. came over to where we were and said to Ruth, in a perfectly friendly way:

“Where’s your pencil case? It’s so luscious.”

Ruth tensed and glanced quickly about to see who was present. It was our usual gang with perhaps a couple of outsiders loitering nearby. I hadn’t mentioned to a soul anything about the Sales Register business, but I suppose Ruth wasn’t to know that. Her voice was softer than usual when she replied to Midge:

“I haven’t got it here. I keep it in my collection chest.”

“It’s so luscious. Where did you get it?”

Midge was quizzing her completely innocently, that was now obvious. But almost all of us who’d been in Room 5 the time Ruth had first brought out the pencil case were here now, looking on, and I saw Ruth hesitate. It was only later, when I replayed it all, that I appreciated how perfectly shaped a chance it was for me. At the time I didn’t really think. I just came in before Midge or anyone else had the chance to notice Ruth was in a curious quandary.

“We can’t say where it came from.”

Ruth, Midge, the rest of them, they all looked at me, maybe a little surprised. But I kept my cool and went on, addressing only Midge.

“There are some very good reasons why we can’t tell you where it came from.”

Midge shrugged. “So it’s a mystery.”