shone. The heat of the house made a canopy over the hallway, where the moon came in through the fanned glass in the front door. The moonlight lay on the wooden floor like a deck of cards, and Ruth could see that the hall was straight and long and empty of tigers and birds and palm trees. She crossed it with her arms held out because she was afraid of falling (Harry’s mother had fallen in her old age, after a lifetime of robust health, and had never been the same again), and when she opened the door to the lounge room, the light from the windows seemed to jump at her all at once. This room felt comparatively cool and quiet, but it contained an echo of heated noise all the same. It was this noise she was looking for.
Ruth found nothing in the lounge room but the stillness of her furniture, which was either in shadow or patterned by the lace curtains that fell between it and the moon. The moon seemed to be big and full whenever Ruth looked at it, and tonight it was emphatic, as if it had blown itself to a ball in order to assure her that there was nothing unusual in her lounge room. The moon was full on the space in front of the house, but beyond that it was eaten up by the grassy drive. Anything might be lurking in that drive: a tiger or a taxi. Ruth walked through the dining room and looked at the garden. Everything on the sea side of the house was blasted white by the moon. All this emptiness had a carved quality that made Ruth want to swear. She loved the crowded bluster of swearing, the sense of an audience; it was so humanizing. She stood at the half-open back door and said “Fuck,” and wished for the comforting hot ticking singing jungle she had disturbed by getting out of bed. It didn’t really sound like Fiji—at night in Fiji she heard cars on the road, her parents moving about, the telephone ringing in the hallway and her father leaving to see a patient, crepe myrtles rubbing at her windows, and the sound of hot water in the pipes when her mother ran a bath—but it sounded different enough to remind her of Fiji; it was enough to make her think of the room with the night-light and the picture of Sydney Harbour. The sound of the jungle was full, and everything here was empty.
Ruth went back to the lounge room and listened for some time. Every noise she heard was ordinary, and the cool room was stiff and airless. She lay on the sofa, turned her back from the lace of the windows, and waited. It seemed important that something might touch her, and crucial that she not open her eyes to look for whatever that thing might be. A tiger would be perfect, but anything would do; a bird, maybe, but it needn’t be a bird. Just a fly. Just a frond of something, stirring in a yellow wind. Lying on the couch with her eyes closed, Ruth might feel her jungle come back; there might be yellow light, there might be a tiger to bump its broad nose against her back. The water, at least, might hammer in the pipes. Frida woke her the next morning by turning her on the sofa, peering into her face, and saying, “I nearly wet my pants, you idiot. I thought you were dead.”
6
Frida gave the floors a thorough mopping that morning and, a-swim in the alluvial muck, with her bare feet depositing grey tracks no matter how long she left the floors to dry, worked herself into a black mood. She persisted with her mop, and eventually the floors were smooth and softly lit. Then she became generous and hearty. She sat at the dining-room table, gazed magnanimously out to sea, and ate dried apricots. Her hair was coiled in a complicated triple braid, and the floors were, briefly, perfect.
Ruth joined her at the table and said, “Jeffrey thinks I should invite a friend to visit.”
Frida chewed her apricots.
“What he wants,” said Ruth, “is Helen Simmonds, who’s a sensible woman he’s known forever who’ll ring him up and tell him everything.”
Frida clicked at the roof of her mouth with her cheerful tongue.
“So I thought I’d
Ruth found nothing in the lounge room but the stillness of her furniture, which was either in shadow or patterned by the lace curtains that fell between it and the moon. The moon seemed to be big and full whenever Ruth looked at it, and tonight it was emphatic, as if it had blown itself to a ball in order to assure her that there was nothing unusual in her lounge room. The moon was full on the space in front of the house, but beyond that it was eaten up by the grassy drive. Anything might be lurking in that drive: a tiger or a taxi. Ruth walked through the dining room and looked at the garden. Everything on the sea side of the house was blasted white by the moon. All this emptiness had a carved quality that made Ruth want to swear. She loved the crowded bluster of swearing, the sense of an audience; it was so humanizing. She stood at the half-open back door and said “Fuck,” and wished for the comforting hot ticking singing jungle she had disturbed by getting out of bed. It didn’t really sound like Fiji—at night in Fiji she heard cars on the road, her parents moving about, the telephone ringing in the hallway and her father leaving to see a patient, crepe myrtles rubbing at her windows, and the sound of hot water in the pipes when her mother ran a bath—but it sounded different enough to remind her of Fiji; it was enough to make her think of the room with the night-light and the picture of Sydney Harbour. The sound of the jungle was full, and everything here was empty.
Ruth went back to the lounge room and listened for some time. Every noise she heard was ordinary, and the cool room was stiff and airless. She lay on the sofa, turned her back from the lace of the windows, and waited. It seemed important that something might touch her, and crucial that she not open her eyes to look for whatever that thing might be. A tiger would be perfect, but anything would do; a bird, maybe, but it needn’t be a bird. Just a fly. Just a frond of something, stirring in a yellow wind. Lying on the couch with her eyes closed, Ruth might feel her jungle come back; there might be yellow light, there might be a tiger to bump its broad nose against her back. The water, at least, might hammer in the pipes. Frida woke her the next morning by turning her on the sofa, peering into her face, and saying, “I nearly wet my pants, you idiot. I thought you were dead.”
6
Frida gave the floors a thorough mopping that morning and, a-swim in the alluvial muck, with her bare feet depositing grey tracks no matter how long she left the floors to dry, worked herself into a black mood. She persisted with her mop, and eventually the floors were smooth and softly lit. Then she became generous and hearty. She sat at the dining-room table, gazed magnanimously out to sea, and ate dried apricots. Her hair was coiled in a complicated triple braid, and the floors were, briefly, perfect.
Ruth joined her at the table and said, “Jeffrey thinks I should invite a friend to visit.”
Frida chewed her apricots.
“What he wants,” said Ruth, “is Helen Simmonds, who’s a sensible woman he’s known forever who’ll ring him up and tell him everything.”
Frida clicked at the roof of her mouth with her cheerful tongue.
“So I thought I’d
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