Free The Death of Ruth by Elizabeth Kata Page B

them.
    I know, Ruth, that I have told you on countless occasions how Ralph had said—on that dreadful day—that he admired my courage in facing up to you.
    Courage? Oh, dear God, if only I had had even a
modicum
of courage on that day. If only I had not been so cowardly, so filled with conceits about my reputation—such false, such self-important, ridiculous little conceits.
    Too late now to think how things could have been, but talking things over helps me. Ruth, when Ralph comes home I will take things a bit easier. He will be pleased because I know I have often upset him on those occasions when I have attempted to talk things over with him. He has been very wise, because never acknowledging to one another what happened has made it seem—not to me—but to Ralph, that nothing actually did happen. If he had made it possible for us to talk, I might have broken down. Yes, I could so easily have broken down and …
    Ruth, John has had several letters from Ralph and I find hidden messages between the lines. For instance, when he wrote, ‘I sincerely hope that my tenant is not a troublesome neighbour in any way’ I take that as a message from Ralph to me, warning me to be careful. I am being careful. Dear God, how Ralph would worry and sympathize if he knew that Mr Grey was the tenant.
    Oh, Ruth, I am finding it so difficult to be on guard all the time. It is John’s fault. When he was annoyed with me, andalways unhappy, it was easier, but his recent kindness makes me feel as though I were being beaten, and I have to double my vigilance to prevent myself from breaking down. If I broke down, just think what would happen! No, I will not go into that. It is better not to.
    Life is a series of threats and battles. There are always new threats and battles to fight. The latest threat is my tendency to drop off to sleep. I am always dropping off into little dozes, it is nerve-racking, horrible. I was dozing out here one day last week, and I felt the warmth of the sun lessen—that is how light my little naps are—I opened my eyes to see a pair of men’s shoes on the grass before me. I looked higher, then higher, and Mr Grey was standing over me. He had not heard the interior scream I had given, but he was aware that he had startled me. He smiled and apologized, saying that he had merely come over to make sure that I was all right. ‘I was watching you for some time,’ he said, ‘There is a cold wind blowing. I felt concerned …’
    He is an extremely nice man but his eyes appear to see through things, rather than merely to be looking at them, and that day, I had the impression that he was not only looking at this rock-garden but down—beneath it.
    When I was able to speak, I had queried his remark and he had repeated the same words but in a louder, clearer voice. In reply, I told him that I rise very early every morning, and that sometimes during the day I take little naps.
    â€˜Half your luck,’ he said, and then he told me that he admired my work, that he had never seen a more beautiful garden. ‘Why,’ he asked, ‘don’t you enter it in a garden contest?’
    I told him that I would rather not, and he said, ‘That’s a pity Mrs Blake, but, unless of course there is something in the garden you want to conceal you should allow others to share this beauty.’
    Ruth, I had broken out into a cold sweat. Can you understandthe strain I am living under? I smiled up at him, I kept on smiling as he talked on, saying, ‘You devote so much time to this garden—all day and every day—and especially on this magnificent rock-garden.’ He had laughed, teasingly, saying, ‘Are you
sure
there is no special magic you use to cause its great beauty?’
    I had not broken down. I kept on smiling. Mr Grey put his hand on my shoulder, and I did not shudder, as he smiled again, saying, ‘I’m sure that no hoard of buried