Part 15 (1/2)

”Stay where you are,” said Frida. The words heaved out of her. The light disappeared. ”Open the door,” she said. ”Don't look out here.”

Ruth opened the door. The wet smell of the tiger was everywhere. Frida came in carrying the broom, but not the knife.

”It's finished,” she said, and accepted Ruth into her arms. There was blood on her white robe and on her face; tiger blood.

16.

Ruth rose early the next morning. She crept by Frida's bedroom door as high on the tips of her toes as her back would allow. The house was in disarray. Sand lay in banks and eddies all over the floor. Ruth decided to sweep it, but it seemed to be sticky at the bottom, as if soaked in liquid-each clump had the long, damp foot of a mollusc-and sweeping only thickened the bristles of the broom with mud. Her back hurt. Her chair lay s.h.i.+pwrecked on the sandy floor. Ruth kept walking over hard objects that she worried were teeth and tiger claws but turned out to be miscellaneous grit. Frida's broom, or the tiger's tail, had knocked gla.s.s to the floor, and the lamp tilted drunkenly in the lounge room. But the tiger's body was gone.

Frida had covered the area by the front door with a tarpaulin, and she had weighed this tarpaulin down with buckets of water. The water smelled rusty, and it was a rust colour when Ruth dipped her finger in it. She couldn't lift the buckets to see under the tarpaulin, and when she opened the front door, she could see only that something large had been dragged to the gra.s.s at the edge of the drive. The ground was muddy. Frida had spent hours in the night filling buckets with water and throwing them out over the path she had made with the body of the tiger. She wouldn't allow Ruth to leave her room.

When Frida emerged, fully dressed-in her white uniform, with her hair pulled so tight into a bun she looked more like a beautician than ever-Ruth was dozing in the lounge-room recliner, still wearing her nightgown.

”Come on, lazybones,” said Frida. ”The bus is due at quarter past ten.”

”What bus?” Ruth blinked and squinted.

”To take us to town? To the bank?”

”Isn't George going to drive us?”

”I told you, darling heart, George's run off. Now get a move on, or we'll miss it.”

”We're going to the bank?”

Frida flourished a book in front of Ruth's face. The book had writing in it-it said ”TRUST FRIDA.”

”I know, I know,” said Ruth, a little crankily.

”Chop chop!” cried Frida, clapping her hands. She hauled Ruth out of the recliner, marched her into the bedroom, and took charge of dressing her. Ruth sat mute on the end of her bed. Frida's hair was so severe, and her uniform so white, that it would have been impossible to conjure the b.l.o.o.d.y Frida of the night before except that bruises were beginning to bloom on her forearms.

Frida muttered at Ruth's open wardrobe. ”Something sensible, something sensible. Try this.” She pulled out a neat grey skirt suit.

”It's very formal,” said Ruth.

”Just try it. Can you manage?” Frida advanced on Ruth and began tugging at her nightgown.

”I can manage!” The thought of being naked in front of Frida was terrible: proud, firm Frida of the lacquered hair, who had killed the tiger.

Frida threw up her hands. ”Then hurry,” she said. She turned her back to Ruth, but stayed in the room.

Ruth struggled with the skirt. When had she last worn this suit? Years ago, surely, and it was a little big for her. When she managed to b.u.t.ton the skirt, she was so pleased with herself that she mustered the courage to ask, ”Frida, where's the tiger?”

”You don't need to worry about that anymore,” said Frida.

”I only want to know where he is. I thought there could be something-some kind of ceremony. A funeral?”

”I killed him for you, and you want a funeral?” Frida used her most incredulous voice. ”Now get a wriggle on. It's nine fifty-five.”

”I need stockings,” said Ruth. Frida turned, appraising. Ruth hated to wear those thick flesh-coloured stockings she saw on other old women. For formal, suit-wearing occasions, she liked thin black ones. ”They're in the top drawer.”

”You look just fine,” said Frida. ”Get some shoes. Quick, quick! Or we'll miss the bus.”

”We could call a taxi,” said Ruth, despairing, but Frida blocked the way to the chest of drawers and tapped her wrist as if she wore a watch there.

”How many times do I have to tell you,” said Frida, guiding Ruth to the door now, ”George has run off?”

”There are other taxis in the whole wide world.”

In the hallway, Frida had a gla.s.s of water and Ruth's pills; Ruth swallowed these expertly. She took her purse from the coat hook it hung on.

”Watch the buckets,” said Frida. ”Watch your step.”

She hurried Ruth into the front garden and towards the drive, where Ruth dawdled looking for evidence of the tiger. By the time she reached the road, Frida was already partway down the hill, waiting for her.

”What do you want me to do, give you a piggyback?” Frida called. Ruth didn't answer. Frida began walking again. She called out, ”What you need is a wheelchair.”

Ruth wasn't happy at the thought of a wheelchair. She made little, tripping steps to catch up. If only Frida wouldn't walk quite so fast; if only this skirt didn't restrict her movement. How typical of me, she thought-of me and of any old person-not to want a wheelchair. When really, what could be so bad about being pushed around? Right now she would have liked to be piggybacked down the hill. She half hoped Frida might offer again.

”Wheelchairs,” Ruth said, ”are for people whose legs don't work.”

”And backs!” cried Frida. ”People with bad backs!”

There was no one at the bus stop. It loomed up before them, unaccountably familiar. The day was that wet, pressed sort on which no one would make an effort to come to this part of the beach. In weather like this, the beach was revealed as both dangerous and dirty. The sea was oppressive, and the sky was bright and colourless and dragged down upon its surface. Frida fretted at the bus stop, as if it might be a trick of some kind; no bus would come, and they would be left waiting forever. She always seemed so angry at the possibility she might have been made a fool of. Ruth sat on the bench, which felt harder than any other hard material she had previously encountered. A car slowed and then moved off again. Ruth didn't like having her back to the sea or the road, so she sat in a nervous silence, as if by being completely still she might ward off a possible ambush. Frida was silent, too. In fact they might never have met; they might have come together by chance at this bus stop, and Frida out of courtesy would allow Ruth to board the bus first, and she might even smile at her, and that would be the extent of their dealings. Then another life would take place, riskier, in which each would never know about the other.

”The bus is coming,” said Ruth, although that was perfectly obvious.

Frida boarded first and paid for them both. Ruth recognized the bus driver. He had the thick, high hair of a young man, but it was completely grey. He smiled at her and said, ”Out and about again, eh?” The smile pleated his forehead up into his verdant hair.

Frida took Ruth's hand. ”Come on now, Ruthie,” she said.

Frida's palm felt like a steak wrapped in baking paper.

The bus was emptier today. The few pa.s.sengers sat in studied silence, as if the grim weather wouldn't permit sociability of any kind. Frida walked down the aisle with a maritime stride, and she dragged Ruth along with her.

”Isn't this nice,” said Ruth, settling in beside Frida, and a woman of about Ruth's age, two seats down, with her remnant hairs united in a Frau-ish scarf, scowled as if Ruth had spoken in a movie theatre. Frida said nothing. Ruth's back snapped with every shake of the bus. With so little room on the seat, she was forced to hold firmly to the rail in front of her at any suggestion of a left turn for fear of being tipped into the aisle. She adjusted her position until Frida said, in a low voice, ”Stop pressing into me, would you?”

Town seemed different today: more grey, and emptier. It hadn't rained, but the houses and gardens huddled in expectation of bad weather. The bus paused at a stop sign, and looking down the side of a house, Ruth saw a woman taking towels off a clothesline with frequent glances at the untrustworthy sky. The line swung in the gathering wind, and the woman's arms became heavier and heavier with towels. She had no Frida to do her laundry for her. Ruth felt a wild disdain for this anxious woman and her cradled laundry. If only the sky would break open at this very moment so Ruth could witness the unfortunate flurry of woman and towels. But the bus moved on, and no drops flattened against the windowpanes.

”Here's our stop,” said Frida, and she began to stand, so Ruth stood; the bus lurched as it stopped, and Ruth nearly fell; Frida caught her and sighed aloud, while other pa.s.sengers-all but the severe scarfed woman-half lifted from their seats to help.

”You're making a scene,” said Frida, guiding Ruth down the aisle, and then they were on the main street of town with people pus.h.i.+ng out of the bus behind them. ”Out of the way, out of the way,” Frida urged, pulling Ruth to one side of the pavement. Ruth held her purse tight against her hip. Her jacket had skewed a little to the right. Frida was walking, and Ruth, adjusting her suit, followed. ”I'll never know,” said Frida over her shoulder, ”how you managed this on your own.”

Men from a construction site crossed the road among the traffic. They had broad, happy faces, and Ruth watched them fearfully because they were courting bad luck. A woman with very red hair stopped and smiled at Ruth, talking; Ruth knew she should recognize her, but didn't.

”We're going to the bank,” said Ruth, indicating Frida, who waited under the Sausage King's awning.