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Authors: Ruth Rendell
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was having dinner with her parents, she always hoped Darel Jones
would come to the door to beg a couple of teabags or return a borrowed
book. He never had, though accordingto her mother, they and the
Joneses were always "in and out of each other's houses." She thought of
him next door, watching television with his parents or maybe out
somewhere with another girl. The latter was more likely for a very
handsome and charming young man of twenty-eight. She sighed and
then smiled to stop her parents noticing.
Guilt seldom troubled Gwendolen. To her mind she led, and had always
led, a blameless life of absolute integrity. Entering a tenant's flat in his
absence and exploring it seemed to her a landlord's right and if she
enjoyed it, so much the better. The only drawback was her need to rest
and take deep breaths between flights.
What a lot he drank! An empty gin bottle and one which had contained
vodka and four wine bottles had been put into the recycling box since
she was last up here. It was evident he didn't eat much at home, the
fridge was again nearly empty and smelling of antiseptic. A large leatherbound book lay on the coffee table. Because she could hardly pass a
book without opening it, Gwendolen opened this one. Nothing but
photographs of a black girl in very short skirts or swimming costumes.
Perhaps this was what they meant by pornography; she had never really
known.
A copy of the previous day's Daily Telegraph was beside the book.
Gwendolen rather liked the Telegraph and would have bought it herself if
it hadn't been so ruinously expensive. It puzzled her that Cellini had
bought it. One of those tabloids was surely more his mark, and she
wouldn't have been surprised to learn that he had been given this copy.
Ed had seen an article in it about fitness machines, which especially
singled out Fiterama for mention, and passed it on to Mix.
Just as she couldn't pass a book without opening it, so Gwendolen
found it impossible to see the printed word without reading it. Some of it,
that is. Ignoring the fitness machine article, she read the front page, then
the next page, managing fairly well but wishing she had her magnifying
glass with her. When she reached the births, marriages, and deaths,
she laid the paper down and went to the door to listen. He hardly ever
came back in the middle of the day, but it was as well to be careful. How
tidy everything was! It amused her to think that of the two of them he
with his cleanliness and fussy ways would be called an old woman while
everyone saw her as cultivated and urbane, more like a man really.
She wasn't much interested in marriages and births, she never had
been, but she ran her eye-pushed and strained her eye really-down the
deaths column. People no longer had any stamina and many younger
than herself died every day. Anderson, Arbuthnot, Beresford, Brewster,
Brown, Carstairs--she had once known a Mrs. Carstairs who lived down
the road, but it wasn't her, she was called Diana, not Madeleine. Davis,
Edwards, Egan, Fitch, Graham, Kureishi. There were three Nolans, very
odd that, it wasn't a common name. Palmer, Pritchard, Rawlings, Reeves-Reeves!
How extraordinary and what a coincidence. This was thefirst time she
had looked at the Telegraph for months and what should she find but the
announcement of his wife's death. For it certainly was his wife.
On 15 June, at home, Eileen Margaret, aged 78, beloved wife
of Dr. Stephen Reeves of Woodstock, Oxon. Funeral 21 June
at St. Bede's Church, Woodstock. No flowers. Donations to
cancer research.
This small print was terribly hard to read but there was no doubt about
it. Would he notice if she cut it out of the paper? Possibly, but what
could he do about it if he did? Now to find the scissors. Her own might be
in the bathroom cabinet or the oven--seldom used, it made a useful
cupboard--or somewhere in the bookshelves, but an old woman like him
would keep his in a neatly arranged
would come to the door to beg a couple of teabags or return a borrowed
book. He never had, though accordingto her mother, they and the
Joneses were always "in and out of each other's houses." She thought of
him next door, watching television with his parents or maybe out
somewhere with another girl. The latter was more likely for a very
handsome and charming young man of twenty-eight. She sighed and
then smiled to stop her parents noticing.
Guilt seldom troubled Gwendolen. To her mind she led, and had always
led, a blameless life of absolute integrity. Entering a tenant's flat in his
absence and exploring it seemed to her a landlord's right and if she
enjoyed it, so much the better. The only drawback was her need to rest
and take deep breaths between flights.
What a lot he drank! An empty gin bottle and one which had contained
vodka and four wine bottles had been put into the recycling box since
she was last up here. It was evident he didn't eat much at home, the
fridge was again nearly empty and smelling of antiseptic. A large leatherbound book lay on the coffee table. Because she could hardly pass a
book without opening it, Gwendolen opened this one. Nothing but
photographs of a black girl in very short skirts or swimming costumes.
Perhaps this was what they meant by pornography; she had never really
known.
A copy of the previous day's Daily Telegraph was beside the book.
Gwendolen rather liked the Telegraph and would have bought it herself if
it hadn't been so ruinously expensive. It puzzled her that Cellini had
bought it. One of those tabloids was surely more his mark, and she
wouldn't have been surprised to learn that he had been given this copy.
Ed had seen an article in it about fitness machines, which especially
singled out Fiterama for mention, and passed it on to Mix.
Just as she couldn't pass a book without opening it, so Gwendolen
found it impossible to see the printed word without reading it. Some of it,
that is. Ignoring the fitness machine article, she read the front page, then
the next page, managing fairly well but wishing she had her magnifying
glass with her. When she reached the births, marriages, and deaths,
she laid the paper down and went to the door to listen. He hardly ever
came back in the middle of the day, but it was as well to be careful. How
tidy everything was! It amused her to think that of the two of them he
with his cleanliness and fussy ways would be called an old woman while
everyone saw her as cultivated and urbane, more like a man really.
She wasn't much interested in marriages and births, she never had
been, but she ran her eye-pushed and strained her eye really-down the
deaths column. People no longer had any stamina and many younger
than herself died every day. Anderson, Arbuthnot, Beresford, Brewster,
Brown, Carstairs--she had once known a Mrs. Carstairs who lived down
the road, but it wasn't her, she was called Diana, not Madeleine. Davis,
Edwards, Egan, Fitch, Graham, Kureishi. There were three Nolans, very
odd that, it wasn't a common name. Palmer, Pritchard, Rawlings, Reeves-Reeves!
How extraordinary and what a coincidence. This was thefirst time she
had looked at the Telegraph for months and what should she find but the
announcement of his wife's death. For it certainly was his wife.
On 15 June, at home, Eileen Margaret, aged 78, beloved wife
of Dr. Stephen Reeves of Woodstock, Oxon. Funeral 21 June
at St. Bede's Church, Woodstock. No flowers. Donations to
cancer research.
This small print was terribly hard to read but there was no doubt about
it. Would he notice if she cut it out of the paper? Possibly, but what
could he do about it if he did? Now to find the scissors. Her own might be
in the bathroom cabinet or the oven--seldom used, it made a useful
cupboard--or somewhere in the bookshelves, but an old woman like him
would keep his in a neatly arranged
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