Part 16 (1/2)

”We have a cheque?” said Ruth.

Frida exhaled loudly. ”No,” she said.

”Why did you say we did?”

”We need to buy a cheque.”

”I have cheques at home,” said Ruth.

”This is a special cheque. Remember? Expedite. A fast cheque. Don't worry about it, Ruthie. I've got it under control.”

Frida didn't look as if she had it under control. She seemed to be br.i.m.m.i.n.g with a scarcely concealed fury. The line in the bank was long, and the wind that came through the doors was cold for November. Children cried and were shushed and continued to cry, but mutedly. Ruth leaned into Frida to manage standing for all this time. The woman in front of them turned again and said, ”There are chairs by the window,” and both Ruth and Frida looked at her, not smiling, as if she had spoken in an unfamiliar language. ”If you want to rest,” she added, but Ruth only leaned farther into Frida and nodded her head one time. The woman jogged a baby on her hip. She turned away with a shrug, but the baby continued to watch Ruth until Ruth made a face at it. It regarded her with a jaded expression before hiding its round head.

Frida adopted a new vigilance when they reached the front of the queue. She clutched her handbag and watched for a teller to become available, and when the signal finally came-a flas.h.i.+ng gold number and a cheerful chime-she walked with such brisk purpose that Ruth, who was still leaning against her, stumbled to keep upright. So Frida paused and took her arm, not roughly, but without patience. She steered Ruth towards the counter with the pulsing number and presented her to the woman behind it as if she were a piece of evidence.

This woman, also dressed in a red suit, was unlike Jenny Connell. She was older, with broad shoulders, as if she had evolved to move quickly through water, and girlishly cut hair. She wore a wedding ring but bit her fingernails. Her name, according to her badge, was Gail, and then something complicated and Greek.

”Good morning,” Gail said from behind a wall of gla.s.s. Her voice issued from a small microphone, as if it needed great a.s.sistance to travel so far.

”This is Mrs. Field,” said Frida, and she began to produce items from her handbag: Ruth's bankbook, some doc.u.ments, and a piece of paper with numbers written on it.

”Good morning,” said Ruth.

”I'm Mrs. Field's carer, and I'm here to help her write a cheque.”

”I don't have a cheque,” said Ruth conversationally.

”We need to purchase an expedited cheque,” explained Frida.

Gail looked between Ruth and Frida as each one spoke, and her face was calm and dispa.s.sionate.

”That's very fast, isn't it?” asked Ruth. ”An expedited cheque?” She liked the sound of the word expedited. It sounded risky and important.

”It's not immediate,” said Gail. ”But it does clear in one business day.”

”One day, Frida!” said Ruth. ”Usually it's three.”

”The fee is eleven dollars,” said Gail.

Frida produced eleven dollars like a magic trick from her handbag.

”Thank you,” said Gail. What a polite woman! She began to consult Ruth's bankbook and then the computer, typing quickly with her bitten fingers, but the rest of her movements were unhurried. Frida gripped her handbag as if she would have liked to vault the counter and manage everything herself.

”Would you like to fill the cheque in right now, Mrs. Field?” asked Gail.

”Oh, yes,” said Ruth.

Then the cheque seemed to swim up to the gla.s.s as if Gail could only just contain it; it had a life of its own. It flew through the gap between the gla.s.s and the counter, and Gail pushed a pen behind it. Now everyone was looking at Ruth.

”Would you like me to help you with that, Ruthie?” asked Frida.

Ruth peered at the cheque. Her name was printed on it already, and a series of numbers she recognized as belonging to her bank account. Her memory for numbers was good.

”This is for George,” said Ruth.

”For George Young,” said Frida. ”That goes right on this line.” She put her finger on the cheque.

”Young Livery,” said Ruth.

”George Young. You write it just here.” Frida looked at Gail again. ”I'm her carer.”

Gail nodded. ”I believe we have you right here on the account. Technically you could write the cheque yourself.”

”Not for this amount of money.” Frida sounded aggrieved. ”I was told Mrs. Field would need to authorize that herself.”

Ruth wrote George Young on the line. She wondered why Frida's name was on her account.

”Excuse me for one moment,” said Gail. A telephone was ringing-had been ringing for some time, Ruth now realized-and Gail went to answer it. She was taller than Ruth expected.

”Concentrate,” hissed Frida. ”Here.” She took the pen from Ruth, paused for a moment, then wrote seven hundred thousand dollars in an elegant cursive.

”That's beautiful!” said Ruth.

When Frida wrote the amount in numeral form, however, all those 0's crammed into one box reminded Ruth of schoolgirl writing, floaty and skewwiff.

”Now sign,” Frida said. She gave Ruth the pen, and when Ruth hesitated, still looking at the crooked zeros on the crowded cheque, Frida flicked open her bag and produced the book.

”Look! Look!” she said, holding it open to the t.i.tle page; there was writing there, but it was shaking too much for Ruth to read. Why was Frida making such a fuss?

Gail returned to her place behind the gla.s.s. Other golden numbers were flas.h.i.+ng over other counters, and the line grew longer, and Jenny Connell greeted each gusty new arrival.

”Banks are so friendly these days,” said Ruth, and she smiled at Gail, who failed to smile back.

”We're holding people up,” said Frida, sliding the book away.

Ruth signed the cheque. Something seemed to deflate in Frida; she shrank a little, as if she'd been standing on the tips of her toes and holding her breath. Ruth pa.s.sed the cheque under the gla.s.s. She waited to see Gail respond to the amount; she was proud to think she could sign a cheque for so much. But Gail made no acknowledgment of Ruth's generosity. What kind of bank was this, then? Did millionaires wander in every day, pa.s.sing enormous cheques into the care of indifferent Gail?

”Do you have some form of identification, Mrs. Field?” asked Gail, and Frida gave an impatient whinny.

”Let me see.” Ruth began to dig in her purse. ”What kind of identification?”

”A driver's licence, for example.”

Ruth remembered keeping her driver's licence in the glove box of Harry's car. She heard the car, once again, make its final journey down the drive.

”Or a pa.s.sport,” said Gail.