Part 7 (1/2)

9.

Ruth woke late the next morning. The day was so clear that, when she went into the kitchen, she could see the town lighthouse from the dining-room windows. Ruth called for Frida, and Richard answered. He came from the lounge room looking like Spencer Tracy: all that bright hair and good humour, only taller.

”Frida's gone out for the morning,” he said.

”Gone where?”

”She had some shopping to do. Her brother came in his taxi.”

”How did she seem?”

”Fine,” said Richard. He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her cheek good morning; she was far too distracted to enjoy it.

”She's just gone to do some shopping,” said Ruth. Sufficient, she thought; a little world. ”It was all just a misunderstanding.” She resisted the temptation to run to Phillip's room-Frida's room-to see if it was empty of Frida's possessions.

”These things happen,” said Richard.

He made her a cup of tea and sat on the window seat close to her chair while she drank it. He touched her arm and her hair as they talked about the weather and the day's activities: Ruth's back was fine, the weather was fine, and they could walk on the beach with binoculars and look for whales. They might even make it as far as the northern headland. George wasn't coming for Richard until the afternoon: they had hours yet. They talked about these plans, but made no effort to execute them. Ruth couldn't help thinking about Frida.

”Just a misunderstanding,” she said again. ”My memory's not what it used to be.”

”Your memory is fine. Think what you remember about Fiji, all those years ago.”

”But that's what they say about being old, isn't it? That you'll remember things from years and years ago, and not what you ate for breakfast. And sometimes I do-you know-imagine things.”

”You're not old,” said Richard. ”You're a girl in Fiji coming to meet the new doctor.”

It was a silly and untrue thing to say, but Ruth ignored that; she inclined her head towards the pleasure of it. He was looking at her now in exactly the way she'd wanted him to when she was that girl. Time and age were a great waste laid out before her; they had also brought her here, so quickly, to Richard. But she was embarra.s.sed by her pleasure, despite herself.

”Look at the birds,” she said, and finally Richard looked away from her and out the window. White and black seabirds gathered in particular places on the bay; they seemed all at once to throw themselves at the water and then rise again. ”The whales are there where the birds are-that's one way to spot them. Can you see anything? A spout? A tail?”

”No,” said Richard. ”But the birds are beautiful.”

”Look at everyone on the beach,” said Ruth. Weekend whale watchers stood motionless on the sh.o.r.e, and every now and then an arm would point, or someone would jump up and down. ”Should we go down?”

”I predict rain,” said Richard. ”Rain, rain, and more rain. Best to stay indoors.”

Ruth gave a small laugh and wouldn't look at him. Instead she watched the people on the beach, and when they turned and pointed in one direction, she looked there, hoping to see a whale, but only saw the slap of travelling waves. It was odd to watch this from the window without going out or taking the binoculars down. Harry would disapprove. But then Harry wasn't here. Richard leaned closer and kissed her, on the side of her face at first, and then, when she turned towards him, on her mouth. He was so exact, his hands were so dry, and he gave out such a lonely heat. With the sea and the window and the birds over the water, it was like-but at the same time not at all like-daydreams Ruth had nourished in Fiji; it was as if her youthful tending of those dreams had been so timid that only now could they bear fruit. And of course her body had been through a great deal since then-s.e.x, and childbirth, and the effort of fifty years-and its response to Richard bore little resemblance to that girlish pulse. A dry warmth came up to meet his. And stop thinking these things, she told herself; you are being kissed. Richard is kissing you; isn't this what you invited him for? You are a chaste and vain and sentimental old woman. She faltered and Richard drew away, but she pulled him back again by catching one hand on his shoulder.

”Frida?” he said.

”We'll hear the car.”

So she knew that she meant to do more kiss him. What confidence she had! In him, and in herself. She stood and said, ”Come with me.”

Richard took her hand and it felt as if she had lifted him from the window seat with her strength. They walked to her bedroom. Ruth didn't like seeing their reflections in the mirror, but she scolded herself: she knew it was ridiculous to be shocked by this kind of sensible s.e.x. There was no one to ask, Can I have this? Is this allowed? It felt like swearing: something small and private she could pit against the orthodoxy of her life. But she didn't mean to sound ungrateful. She had refused a little of this, a little of that, until she found there was nothing much left to agree to; now she could agree to this.

They were both prepared to be practical. Ruth arranged the pillows on the bed the way she knew from experience would be best for her back, and Richard drew the curtains. Then, in the false twilight, they approached each other. There was no rush, and as a result no fumbling; she let him unb.u.t.ton her s.h.i.+rt, but removed her bra herself. It was the st.u.r.dy, flesh-coloured kind that left ridges on her shoulders and torso, and her loosened b.r.e.a.s.t.s were powdery and white. He ran his hands over the crepe of her skin, as if he had grown old with it and knew every stage of its buckling. Then, still wearing her skirt, Ruth removed his gla.s.ses and helped him pull his s.h.i.+rt over his head, where it caught for a moment and submerged his face. She kissed his mouth through the cotton. Richard had a sweet, monkeyish, fluffy chest, and his b.r.e.a.s.t.s and stomach were puckered. It seemed important that they both be naked. They finished undressing and Richard stood as if holding his hands in his pockets while Ruth settled herself on the bed. Then he lay over her.

There was no sense of Harry in the room or in the bed; there was no sense of anything besides Ruth and Richard. There were noises, but Ruth didn't speak. Richard was tender and obliging and prudent. He would probably have been the same fifty years ago, but now there was an additional care, a familiarity, and a relief in not loving him except retrospectively. She had observed something similar about s.e.x with Harry as they grew older: that nothing depended on it, not in the way it used to. Richard was so calm, and he was so graceful, although his frame was thin and his breath sc.r.a.ped over her face. He was good-humoured, too, and patient; they both were. They attempted little, so as not to be disappointed, and also because less was required, but Ruth bit the inside of her mouth because she felt more pleasure than she expected to. This made Richard kiss her on the shoulder. Richard! The cats might have been here or anywhere, and Frida might have come down the drive and walked in on them; but she didn't.

Afterwards, Richard helped her dress. They sat on the edge of her bed. He was still s.h.i.+rtless, and she saw moles on his lower back she'd never known were there.

”I wish I could stay,” he said.

”Why don't you?”

Richard pulled on his s.h.i.+rt and laughed, and she shook her head in order to say, Of course not.

”It's my granddaughter's birthday tomorrow,” he said. He held her hand and kissed it. ”I'm not going to ask you to marry me. I think it would be unfair to our children to muddy the whole question of inheritances. I mean, at our age. Do you mind my being practical?”

Ruth said, ”Not at all.” And she didn't.

Then he lay his head in her lap. She brushed back his hair so she could see the upturned dish of his ear.

”How would you feel about coming to live with me?” he asked.

Ruth saw herself sitting by Richard's bed. She watched him dying. Frida had once said of Harry, ”At least he spared you a sickbed,” and Ruth had been appalled. Now the weight of Richard's head in her lap was both heavy and dear. She pressed the hair above his flat ear and might have bent to kiss his forehead, but he sat up and said, apologetic, ”Sorry. I'm rus.h.i.+ng things.” Then he was b.u.t.toning his s.h.i.+rt, and she saw how thick his fingernails had become, and how his hands shook. ”But you'll think about it?”

”Yes,” said Ruth. She stood up, aware of her calm, her lack of surprise, and her feeling not of great luck or pleasure but of amus.e.m.e.nt, as if someone had told her a slightly sad joke. None of this seemed urgent. They had waited half a century, so why were they talking like teenagers, as if they couldn't bear to be apart? But she would think about it.

They were both dressed now, and they brushed each other down, laughing, the way their mothers might once have done. Together they walked through the house discussing possibilities. Ruth could come to Sydney in a few weeks. Richard could visit again. They could talk on the phone and write to each other. There might have been a conquering armada of whales in the bay, and they would never have noticed. In fact they avoided the sea and sat in the lounge room, where the white light of midafternoon flooded through the curtains, and Richard placed his right hand on Ruth's left knee and said, ”Please think about it.” They heard George's taxi in the drive, which surprised them both; he wasn't due for half an hour.

Frida had been gone long enough to do more than shopping, and Ruth was afraid for a moment that George was only here to pick Richard up; that this was his last act of service before he and his sister disappeared from Ruth's life altogether. But there was a bustle in the garden, and then at the front door, of plastic bags and exaggerated breath, and then Frida announcing that George had a fare and would be back for Richard at the appointed time.

”So what's news with you two?” She wore her grey coat and looked unusually jubilant.

Ruth and Richard smiled and shrugged.

Frida, distracted, was giddily confidential among her shopping bags. ”Well, I have news. Big news. Shark attack at the beach.”

Richard and Ruth, still dazed, struggled up out of their privacy.

Richard managed, ”A shark!”

”Oh, dear,” said Ruth. And she made Frida tell every detail-it was years since the last attack, and the news would be in all the papers: not a local boy (not the pineapple boy, thought Ruth), but a surfer who came regularly from the city; he wasn't dead, not yet, but things were bad, loss of blood, and a leg that would most likely have to come off.

”He'll either wake up dead or one-legged,” said Frida, with a small grimacing laugh.

So the visit came to an end in the commotion of this disaster. They all went out into the garden and saw a helicopter flying low over the bay.

”They're tracking him,” said Frida.

”The boy?” asked Ruth.

”The shark.”