Clever Magazine, Vol. 7, #1 "Ruth Rendell has my Pen. www.clevermag.com

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Ruth Rendell Has my Pen

by Martin Green

Note from the editor: we received the following email from Martin Green, who was responding to our Bedside Reading Report...

Hi, Diannek---just took a look at your latest issue & found my piece, Convergencies, in it. Don't know if you'd e-mailed me about it; maybe it got lost in cyberspace. Anyway, glad you liked and printed it. When we were in England several years ago we met another English mystery writer, Ruth Rendell, at a book signing. When you're ready for more English mysteries you might try her, if you haven't already done so.

Ruth Rendall told us that P. D. James lived just a few houses down from the B&B we were staying in, near Holland Park, and if she was in, her cat would be sitting on the doormat. We checked every time we passed but no cat. Best wishes, Martin Green

...so we asked Martin if he would tell us more about Ruth. Here's the story:

After I retired I began writing, human interest stories for our local paper, for which I was paid (not much), and short stories, for which I received mostly rejection slips. So when, on a trip to London, my wife and I saw a notice that the English mystery writer Ruth Rendell was giving a reading at a nearby book store, we made it a point to attend.

When we arrived, Ruth Rendell was reading from her latest book. She was a dark-haired woman with a pleasant face, and she read in a soft voice. After the reading, it was announced that she’d sign copies of her book for those who bought them. We looked at the price and decided it was too high but my wife found a paperback of an earlier book and asked Ruth Rendell to sign it for me.

“He’s a writer, too, you know,” she said.

“Really?”

“Not really,” I said.

“He’s even had a couple of stories published.”

I didn’t think that Ruth Rendell, who turned out one or two books every year, would be terribly impressed. "That’s very nice,” she said. She was a nice woman. We talked a little while more, then Ruth Rendell signed the book. She didn’t have a pen so I gave mine, which I’d bought that day as a souvenir, to my wife, who then passed it on to her. When she handed the book back to me, I saw that she’d written, “Best wishes to a fellow writer, Ruth Rendell.” She was a very nice woman.

When we returned to our hotel, I said, “Maybe I should have tried to be a real writer. By the way, do you have my pen?”

“Oh, I never got it back from Ruth Rendell.”

“So Ruth Rendell has my pen.”

“She must have.”

“Mmmm. I liked that pen.”

“But you have her autograph. Maybe she’ll use your pen to write her next book.”

“She probably uses a computer.”

“But maybe when she got home tonight she made a note for a book with the pen, possibly about an American couple visiting London.”

“I hope she doesn’t make us the victims of one of her crazy killers.”

“Are you sorry you didn’t start writing when you were younger?”

“No, I suppose not. Judging from what I’ve earned so far, we’d have starved to death.”

“So it’s just as well.” My wife is always sensible.

Once in bed, I thought, I could write a mystery. Passions ran high in our retirement community, over an increase in our monthly fees, spending money to renovate our restaurant, running for club office, even a misplayed bridge hand. It shouldn’t be too hard to imagine somebody who deserved killing, with a whole host of suspects. I told my wife my idea.

“You’re right,” she said. “You’d have starved to death.” Always sensible.

In our annual Christmas letter, I said we’d had a good visit to London and mentioned meeting Ruth Rendell. Looking back, I suppose it was a good visit. But I’ve always regretted losing that pen.