The Collected Short Stories

by Jean Rhys

  She must have said ‘Judy’ aloud, because Mrs Hudson remarked ‘You worry too much about Judy. She’s all right – she’s tough.’

  ‘She’s not tough,’ thought Mrs Trant. ‘She’s the very reverse of tough, you sterile old fool.’

  She moved her chair so that she could not see the rose beds and said ‘Well, if you told Ricky about these hallucinations, I don’t wonder there was a row.’

  ‘I never told him.’

  ‘Well, why was there all this trouble? Did she seem crazy? Did she look crazy?’

  ‘No, not exactly. Only a very strained expression. I don’t know why they made such a dead-set at her. Her gift for making enemies, I suppose.’

  ‘Fluting?’

  ‘Not only Fluting. She was so careless.’

  – Careless! Leaving the wretched book lying about, and that daily woman I had spread a rumour that she was trying to pass information on to the enemy. She got on the wrong side of everybody – everybody –

  ‘You know old Mr Roberts next door – well, she quarrelled with him. You can’t imagine why. Because his dog is called Brontë, and he kicks it – well, pretends to kick it. “Here’s Emily Brontë or my pet aversion,” he says, and then he pretends to kick it. It’s only a joke. But Ricky’s right; she has no sense of humour. One day they had a shouting match over the fence. “Really, Laura,” I told her, “You’re making a fool of yourself. What have you got against him? He’s a dear old man.” She gave me such a strange look. “I don’t know how you can breathe after a lifetime of this,” she said . . .

  ‘Well, things did go very wrong, and after the anonymous letters came, Ricky said I must get rid of her. “When is she going?” he would say, and I would tell him “One day next week.” But the next week came and she didn’t go, and the week after that, and she didn’t go . . .’

  – I should have insisted on her leaving, I see that now. But somehow I couldn’t. And it wasn’t the three guineas a week she paid. I said two, but she said it wasn’t enough. Three she gave me, and goodness knows it’s nice to have a little money in your pocket without asking for it. Mind you, I wouldn’t say that Ricky is a mean man, but he likes you to ask; and at my age I oughtn’t to have to ask for every shilling I spend, I do think. But it wasn’t that. It went right against the grain to turn her out when she was looking so ill. Seven stone ten she weighed when she left. Even the assistant in the chemist’s shop looked surprised.

  Then the day when I was going to give her another hint, she said ‘I’ve started packing.’ And all her things were piled on the floor. Such a lot of junk to travel about the world with – books and photographs and old dresses, scarves and all that, and reels of coloured cotton.

  A cork with a face drawn on it, a postcard of the Miraculous Virgin in the church of St Julien-le-Pauvre, a china inkstand patterned with violets, a quill pen never used, a ginger jar, a box full of old letters, a fox fur with the lining gone, silk scarves each with a history – the red, the blue, the brown, the purple – the green box I call my jewel case, a small gold key that fits the case (I’m going to lock my heart and throw away the key), the bracelet bought in Florence because it looked like a stained glass window, the ring he gave me, the old flowered workbox with coloured reels of cotton and silk and my really sharp scissors, the leather cigarette case with a photograph inside it . . . Last of all, the blue envelope on which he wrote ‘Listen, listen’, in red chalk . . .

  ‘When I told Ricky “She’s going, she’s packing her things”, he said “Thank God. That’s the best news I’ve heard for a long while.” But it was the next night that it happened. We were down in the kitchen. The worst raid we’ve had – and no Laura. I said “Do you think she’s asleep?” “How could anybody sleep through this? She’ll come when she’s ready. I expect the zip in her ruddy siren suit’s got stuck,” Ricky said, and I had to laugh . . . You know, he really was horrid to her. “What’s the old girl want to clutter up the bathroom for?” he’d say, and I’d say “Well be fair, Ricky, she must wash, whatever her age is. If she didn’t it would only be another grievance against her . . .” She had some good clothes when she first came and she used to make the best of herself. “These refugees!” he’d say, “all dressed up and nowhere to go.” Then she got that she didn’t seem to care a damn what she looked like and he grumbled about that. She aged a lot too. “Ricky,” I said, “if you do your best to get people down you can’t blame them when they look down, can you?” Sometimes I wonder if she wasn’t a bit right – if there isn’t a very nasty spirit about.’

  ‘But there always has been,’ Mrs Trant said.

  ‘Yes, but it’s worse now, much worse . . . Well, when the lull came I rushed upstairs. She was smoking and playing the gramophone she’d bought, and as I came in the record stopped and she started it again. “Laura,” I said, “is this the moment to fool about with music? And your black-out’s awful.” While I was fixing it I heard the warden banging at the door and shouting that we were showing lights. “I thought so,” she said. “The Universal Robots have arrived”, and something about R.U.R. Then she went to the head of the stairs and called out to the warden “The law? The law! What about the prophets? Why do you always forget them?” In the midst of this the All Clear went. Ricky said to me “That’s enough now. She’s as mad as a hatter and I won’t stand for it a day longer. She must get out.” I decided not to go to bed at all, but to do my shopping early for once, and as soon as I was in the butcher’s I knew it had got round already – I knew it by the way people looked at me. One woman – I couldn’t see who – said “That horrible creature ought to be shot.” And somebody else said “Yes, and the ones who back her up ought to be shot too; it’s a shame. Shooting’s too good for them.” I didn’t give them any satisfaction, I can tell you. I stood there with my head up, as if I hadn’t heard a word. But when I got back here the police were in the house. They’d been waiting for a pretext – not a doubt of that. They said it was about the lights, but they had a warrant and they searched her room. They took the book and all her letters. And at lunch-time Fluting telephoned Ricky and said there was so much strong feeling in the town that something must be done to get her away at once . . . I don’t know how I kept so calm. But I look older too, don’t you think? Do you wonder? . . . After the police left she went upstairs and locked herself into her room and there she stayed. I knocked and called, but not a sound from her. When Fluting telephoned Ricky wanted to break the door down. I’ve never seen him in such a state – my dear, green with rage. I said No, we’d get Dr Pratt, he’d know what to do.’

  ‘And did Dr Pratt say she was insane? What a terrible thing!’

  ‘No, he didn’t, not exactly. She opened the door to him at once and when he came downstairs Ricky talked about getting her certified. “I’ll do nothing of the sort,” Pratt said. “There’s too much of that going on and I don’t like it.”’

  ‘Pratt’s an old-fashioned man, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, and obstinate as the devil. Try to rush him and he’ll go bang the other way. And I got a strong impression that somebody else has been on at him – Fluting, probably. “She’s been treated badly,” he said, “from all I can hear.” “Well,” Ricky said, “why can’t she go somewhere where she’ll be treated better? I don’t want her here.” Pratt said he knew that the police weren’t going to press any charge. “They hadn’t any charge to press,” I said, “except the light – and goodness knows it was the merest glimmer.” And he smiled at me. But he told us it was advisable for Laura to leave the town. Wasn’t there any friend she could go and stay with, because it would be better for her not to be alone? We said we didn’t think there was – I remembered what you told me about Tom – and we all went up to her room. Pratt asked her if she was willing to go to a sanatorium for a rest and she said “Why not?” Ricky shouted at her “You get off to your sanatorium pronto. You ought to have been there long ago.” “You’re being inhuman,” Pratt said. Ricky said “Well, will the bloody old fool k
eep quiet?” Pratt told him he’d guarantee that.’

  ‘Inhuman,’ said Mrs Trant. ‘That’s the word that keeps coming into my head all the time now – inhuman, inhuman.’

  Her sister went on ‘And she was perfectly all right until the last moment. The taxi was waiting and she didn’t come down, so I thought we’d better go and fetch her. “Come along, old girl,” Ricky said. “It’s moving day.” He put his hand on her arm and gave her a tug. That was a mistake – he shouldn’t have done that. It was when he touched her that she started to scream at the top of her voice. And swear – oh my dear, it was awful. He got nasty, too. He dragged her along and she clung to the banisters and shrieked and cursed. He hit her, and kicked her, and she kept on cursing – oh, I’ve never heard such curses. And I wanted to say “Don’t you dare behave like that, either of you”, but instead I found I was laughing. And when I looked at his face and her face and heard myself laughing I thought “Something has gone terribly wrong. I believe we’re all possessed by the Devil . . .” As soon as we got into the garden Ricky let go of her, a bit ashamed of himself, I will say. She stood quietly, looking around, and then – d’you know what? – she started talking about the roses and in quite a natural voice “How exquisite they are!” “Aren’t they?” I said, though I was shaking all over. “They weren’t here,” she said, “last time I went for a walk.” I said “They come out so quickly, so unexpectedly. Have one for your buttonhole.” “No, let them live,” she said. “One forgets the roses – always a mistake.” She stood there staring at them as if she had never seen roses before and talking away – something about how they couldn’t do it, that it wouldn’t happen. “Not while there are roses,” she said two or three times. Quite crazy, you see, poor Laura, whatever Pratt’s opinion was. “The taxi’s waiting, dear,” I said, and she got in without any fuss at all.’

  ‘Is this the place?’ Mrs Trant said.

  There was a photograph on the cover of a prospectus showing a large, ugly house with small windows, those on the top two floors barred. The grounds were as forbidding as the house and surrounded by a high wall.

  ‘I don’t like this place.’

  ‘What was I to do, my dear? The sanatorium Pratt suggested was far too expensive. She’s got hardly any money left, you know. I had no idea how little she had. What will happen when it’s all gone I daren’t think. Then Ricky got on to this place near Newcastle. I showed her the prospectus. I asked her if she minded going and she said “No.” “You do realize you need a rest, don’t you?” I said. “Yes,” she said, “I realize that.” She can come away if she wants to.’

  ‘Can she, do you think?’

  ‘Well, I suppose she can. I must say the doctor there doesn’t seem – I know I ought to go and see her, but I dread it so. I keep on putting it off. Of course, there’s a golf links there. Not much of a garden, but a golf links. They can play golf as soon as they’re getting better.’

  ‘But does she play golf?’ said Mrs Trant.

  ‘Let’s hope,’ said Mrs Hudson, ‘let’s hope . . .’

  Temps Perdi

  ‘Rolvenden’ is a square, red-brick house, and it stands with two others on the farthest outskirts of a good-sized village on the east coast. It belongs to one of the masters of a small public school which has moved to Gloucestershire for safety’s sake. There is nothing in the house that you can say is ugly; on the other hand there is nothing that you can say is beautiful, impulsive, impetuous or generous. All is sparse, subdued, quiet and negative, or so you would think – a lawn, a large vegetable garden, an empty garage and, when I first came, a few last sad flowers. Outside the front door a gravel path, once bordered with lavender, leads to a green gate.

  The two other houses have been taken over by the Army. The one opposite has large grounds and I never hear a sound from it. But from the one on the side there is often the clatter of men washing up ill-temperedly. How they chuck the things about! This is the time of smash and grab. Some poor devil – or rich devil or stupid devil – had tried hard with that house. There are four bathrooms – pink, black, green and blue. But there is venom in the way those men wash up, and there won’t be much left of the pink, black, green and blue bathrooms when the military have got out.

  But why be glad? Above all, why be sad? Death brings its own anaesthetic, or so they say . . .

  Behind the garden wall there is land and a row of cottages. Never a sound from them either. At first I thought there wasn’t a living soul there, but I learnt better later.

  In justice to ‘Rolvenden’ I must say that it has changed a great deal since I have lived in it, and in fairness to myself I must add that I knew at once that we shouldn’t get on and argued that I did not want to live there alone – especially in October, November, December and January. But there are times when one is helpless. However, only the helpless know this – and why preach to the converted?

  A few days ago, or a week ago – I have forgotten – it began to snow. Since then I have been quite happy. Yes, since the snow started falling I have been much happier, though I don’t trouble to look at it. Why look at it when I remember so well the first time I saw it? It was better then – it was a marvel, the only thing in England that hadn’t disappointed me. (Remembering when I used to have to touch and taste it every time it fell . . .)

  Now, on my way to the garage in the morning to bring in coal, I see the black trunks of the trees in the garden and the thin, pointing branches, then hurry in to light the fire and make my bacon sandwich and cup of coffee essence. After that I can lie for a long time watching the neutral sitting-room and the rows of extraordinary books without being angry or afraid or hoping. Now I am almost as wary of books as I am of people. They also are capable of hurting you, pushing you into the limbo of the forgotten. They can tell lies – and vulgar, trivial lies – and when there are so many all saying the same thing they can shout you down and make you doubt, not only your memory, but your senses. However, I have discovered one or two of the opposition. Listen: ‘. . . to conduct the transposition of the souls of the dead to the White Island, in the manner just described. The White Island is occasionally also called Brea, or Britannia. Does this perhaps refer to White Albion, to the chalky cliffs of the English coast? It would be a very humorous idea if England was designated as the land of the dead . . . as hell. In such a form, in truth, England has appeared to many a stranger.’ (To many a stranger . . .)

  Also I have discovered how to keep warm. You drape a blanket over the door, which stops the draught from the keyhole and the cracks, and a bolster finishes it off. And now I know how to pile the cushions so that I can sit on the floor in front of the fire without slipping backwards. The solid, uncomfortable chairs help. I am learning how to make use of you, my enemy.

  The piano is out of tune. It gives a cracked, shattered and ghostly sound, it complains like a hurt animal when I play ‘Mama, I want to make rhythm, I want to make music’ and ‘Time on my hands’, then backwards to ‘Si j’avais su – évidemment’, backwards again to the waltz of Nina Rodriguez, never forgotten, heard so long ago.

  Said to be twelve, Nina was probably sixteen or seventeen. She was a performer in a Havana circus which was touring the smaller Caribbean islands. It was the first theatrical performance I had ever seen. The circus tent was as huge as a cathedral to me, and the trapeze impossibly high and frail. It was lighted by glaring acetylene lamps.

  The Rodriguez family were the stars. Mr Rodriguez, burly and sinister, always wore light-blue tights; Madame Rodriguez, pale, sad and mournful under her make-up, wore pink or red, and lovely Nina – the Only Girl Who Works Without a Net – wore black. Black tights to match her black eyes. And her golden curls were hanging down her back, too. We craned our necks to watch her, a black and gold butterfly caught in a web, weaving in and out of the web, miraculously escaping, miraculously coming to earth again, giving the two little stylized hops, smiling, kissing her hands to us.

  Pale Madame Rodriguez worked on a higher trapez
e. The net was brought in with much ceremony and there was a big roll of drums for the dangerous bit, but it wasn’t the same thing and I don’t remember a note of her waltz.

  I was in the kitchen making a bacon sandwich when the coal arrived. It had been worrying me – there was so little left in the garage and all the coal in the bin outside the kitchen had disappeared. The people from the cottages in the lane took most of it – at first surreptitiously when I was out; after they had sized me up, openly.

  The clatter of coal on zinc. Then a man’s voice said, ‘That’s the bathroom.’

  ‘Well what about it? Why are you looking at it? Is there a woman in the ditch?’ said a second voice.

  ‘Why d’you think I’d look at her if there was?’ the first voice said, very offended. ‘Why should you think I’d look at a blank, blank cow in a blank, blank, blank ditch?’

  I walked out of the kitchen and scowled at them. These people are altogether too much . . . They jeered back at me.

  ‘You shouldn’t have put the coal in that bin,’ I said in an old shrew’s voice. ‘You should have asked me. You should have put it in the garage. Every lump of it will get stolen there. It was full when I came and it’s all gone now because there are a lot of thieves round here, and mean thieves too. There are meaner thieves here than anywhere I’ve ever been in my life.’

  ‘A-ah?’ said one of them.

  ‘It ought to have a padlock on it,’ the second one said, helpfully. ‘What can you expect if it hasn’t got a padlock on it?’

  They both wear the local mask – beige in colour as usual.

  ‘Go to hell,’ I said.

  The first man answered gently. ‘Yes, it’s very cold today, isn’t it, Miss?’