Read Online The Night Guest by Fiona McFarlane - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Fiona McFarlane
Ads: Link
said, standing too. “You’ve made me feel very welcome. Thank you.”
He didn’t offer his hand. He stood, holding his cigarettes, and his tea was only half finished; he had no idea of the cost of good tea in Suva. The square of the kitchen window went catastrophically dark.
“I hope you’ll be happy here,” said Ruth. She was moving inside, too quickly. “I’ve finished school. I’m nineteen. Good night.”
She ran up the stairs, thinking, Idiot, idiot.
Now she said to Frida, “I fell in love with him the very first night. What a goose. I didn’t even know him.”
“Usually better not to,” said Frida.
“In some cases, maybe. But Richard was quite a special man.”
“And you didn’t marry him.”
“No,” said Ruth.
“Silly bugger.”
“It wasn’t up to me.”
“I meant him,” said Frida.
“Oh, he did all right. He got married before I did. We sailed back to Sydney together in 1954, and I hoped something might happen. Something definite, I mean. But it turned out he was engaged all that time. Never mentioned it, not even to my father. I went to his wedding and never saw him again.”
“Really? Never again?”
“Never.” Ruth liked the dramatic finality of never , but was compelled to admit there had been Christmas cards.
“If you ask my opinion,” said Frida, who rarely waited for the solicitation of her opinion, “you’re better off. What kind of bloke doesn’t tell anyone he’s engaged?”
“The girl he was marrying was Japanese. He met her in Japan.” Ruth, defensive, saw Frida dismiss this as a reason for secrecy. “It wasn’t all that long after the war. It was a sensitive subject.”
Frida sent out one blind hand for an apricot. She was thoughtful; she understood sensitive subjects. She chewed her apricot before asking, “And what happened in the end?”
As if a life is a period during which things happen. I suppose it is, thought Ruth, and they do, and then at my age, at Richard’s age, they’ve finished happening, and you can ask.
“His wife died about a year or two before Harry. She was older than him—older than Richard.”
Now Frida held a hand to her dark hair and produced a sigh so bitter, so exhausted, and at the same time so sweet that Ruth was tempted to reach out and comfort her. Frida stood up from the table.
“You really want to see him again?” Her mood was shifting; she was already giving a farsighted frown.
“I think I do. Yes,” said Ruth. “I do.”
“It’d be a lot of work,” Frida said, and she sighed and stretched as if that work were already upon her. “I hate to say it, Ruth, but I’m not sure you’re up to it. And how old is this Richard now? Eighty? Ninety?” She said “Eighty? Ninety?” as if there were a negligible difference between those two ages.
“He must be over eighty,” said Ruth. Richard, over eighty! That seemed so unlikely.
“You might call it irresponsible, asking a man like that to travel. Expecting to be able to look after him, at his age.” Frida looked at Ruth in a way that added, “At your age,” and swept the package of apricots up from the table.
“In last year’s Christmas card he said he was in the best of health.”
“The best of health for eighty ,” said Frida with a snort.
Frida believed she had a secret, Ruth saw, and it was this: that Ruth and Richard were innocents, that they were old, older than old, and that while they might still be capable of a sweet, funny romance, any physical possibility was extinguished for them both. Well, probably it was. Ruth wondered. She permitted herself to hope, and at the same time not define the thing she hoped for.
“Jeffrey will agree with you,” said Ruth with a carefully blameless face, and she saw Frida consider this distasteful possibility before proceeding to the kitchen. Ruth sat still with the idea of Richard. She was surprised by how much she wanted to see him, and also by the pleasure of wanting. He would be an arrival—one
He didn’t offer his hand. He stood, holding his cigarettes, and his tea was only half finished; he had no idea of the cost of good tea in Suva. The square of the kitchen window went catastrophically dark.
“I hope you’ll be happy here,” said Ruth. She was moving inside, too quickly. “I’ve finished school. I’m nineteen. Good night.”
She ran up the stairs, thinking, Idiot, idiot.
Now she said to Frida, “I fell in love with him the very first night. What a goose. I didn’t even know him.”
“Usually better not to,” said Frida.
“In some cases, maybe. But Richard was quite a special man.”
“And you didn’t marry him.”
“No,” said Ruth.
“Silly bugger.”
“It wasn’t up to me.”
“I meant him,” said Frida.
“Oh, he did all right. He got married before I did. We sailed back to Sydney together in 1954, and I hoped something might happen. Something definite, I mean. But it turned out he was engaged all that time. Never mentioned it, not even to my father. I went to his wedding and never saw him again.”
“Really? Never again?”
“Never.” Ruth liked the dramatic finality of never , but was compelled to admit there had been Christmas cards.
“If you ask my opinion,” said Frida, who rarely waited for the solicitation of her opinion, “you’re better off. What kind of bloke doesn’t tell anyone he’s engaged?”
“The girl he was marrying was Japanese. He met her in Japan.” Ruth, defensive, saw Frida dismiss this as a reason for secrecy. “It wasn’t all that long after the war. It was a sensitive subject.”
Frida sent out one blind hand for an apricot. She was thoughtful; she understood sensitive subjects. She chewed her apricot before asking, “And what happened in the end?”
As if a life is a period during which things happen. I suppose it is, thought Ruth, and they do, and then at my age, at Richard’s age, they’ve finished happening, and you can ask.
“His wife died about a year or two before Harry. She was older than him—older than Richard.”
Now Frida held a hand to her dark hair and produced a sigh so bitter, so exhausted, and at the same time so sweet that Ruth was tempted to reach out and comfort her. Frida stood up from the table.
“You really want to see him again?” Her mood was shifting; she was already giving a farsighted frown.
“I think I do. Yes,” said Ruth. “I do.”
“It’d be a lot of work,” Frida said, and she sighed and stretched as if that work were already upon her. “I hate to say it, Ruth, but I’m not sure you’re up to it. And how old is this Richard now? Eighty? Ninety?” She said “Eighty? Ninety?” as if there were a negligible difference between those two ages.
“He must be over eighty,” said Ruth. Richard, over eighty! That seemed so unlikely.
“You might call it irresponsible, asking a man like that to travel. Expecting to be able to look after him, at his age.” Frida looked at Ruth in a way that added, “At your age,” and swept the package of apricots up from the table.
“In last year’s Christmas card he said he was in the best of health.”
“The best of health for eighty ,” said Frida with a snort.
Frida believed she had a secret, Ruth saw, and it was this: that Ruth and Richard were innocents, that they were old, older than old, and that while they might still be capable of a sweet, funny romance, any physical possibility was extinguished for them both. Well, probably it was. Ruth wondered. She permitted herself to hope, and at the same time not define the thing she hoped for.
“Jeffrey will agree with you,” said Ruth with a carefully blameless face, and she saw Frida consider this distasteful possibility before proceeding to the kitchen. Ruth sat still with the idea of Richard. She was surprised by how much she wanted to see him, and also by the pleasure of wanting. He would be an arrival—one
Similar Books
