Free The Night Guest by Fiona McFarlane Page B

then he was older. His next month was busy, but he would come on a Friday in four weeks’ time.

 
    7
    Ruth telephoned Jeffrey a few days before Richard’s arrival.
    “What’s wrong?” he asked when she announced herself. His midweek voice was poised for action.
    “Nothing,” she said. “I’m going to be busy this weekend, that’s all, so I thought I’d ring you now.”
    “Busy doing what?”
    “I’ve invited a friend to stay,” said Ruth.
    “Good on you, Ma! Anyone I know? Helen Simmonds? Gail? Barb?”
    “No.”
    “Who, then?”
    “An old friend.”
    “If you’re going to be deliberately mysterious, I won’t keep asking you about it,” said Jeffrey. So like Harry it was unearthly, but Ruth supposed this happened all the time with widows and their sons, and it would be maddening to mention. She’d worked hard to maintain her belief in the distinct differences between herself and her own parents.
    “I’m not being mysterious,” she protested. “This is an old friend from Fiji, a man called Richard Porter.”
    There was that same feeling as when she’d told her school friends, “I’m taking the boat to Sydney with Richard Porter.” Then, in 1954, the girls nodded and smiled at one another. Ruth blossomed in the midst of all that gentle insinuation. Her fond heart filled. Now Jeffrey said, “That’s nice.”
    “Do you remember—we used to get Christmas cards from him? And his wife.”
    “Not really.”
    “He knew me when I was a girl. He knew your grandparents. He was quite an extraordinary man. I suppose a sort of activist, you’d call it now.”
    “Find out if he’s got any old photos,” said Jeffrey.
    “I’m sure he will. I remember he had a camera when the Queen visited.”
    Ruth knew that Jeffrey mistook her use of the word girl to mean child; he imagined this Richard as a considerably older man, avuncular, and talked about him that way. He claimed to be pleased she would have company, although she should really ask Helen Simmonds up one of these days; he also worried about the extra work a visitor (who wasn’t Helen Simmonds) would generate. Ruth explained that Frida was helping, for a low fee—he asked how much and approved of the answer—and she expected they would do nothing but watch whales and drink tea, which would create so little “extra work” she was almost ashamed of herself. Frida was washing the dining-room windows as Ruth spoke on the phone; she made a small noise of disgust at this talk of her fee.
    Jeffrey, who was always interested in the transport arrangements of other people and spent a great deal of time planning his own, asked, “How’s this Richard getting to your place?”
    Ruth’s answer was insufficiently detailed. The conversation persisted, and Ruth thought, What can I say that means he won’t go? But when can I go? She always listened for hints that Jeffrey might be ready to finish a call, and when she identified them, she finished it for him, abruptly, as if there weren’t a moment to lose. He didn’t seem at all scandalized that his mother was planning to entertain a male guest, which was a relief and also, thought Ruth, something of a shame. Not that she set out to scandalize her sons. She’d never liked that obvious kind of woman.
    “I hope you’ll have a lovely time,” said Jeffrey.
    Ruth made a face into the phone. A lovely time! I carried you under my ribs for nine months, she thought. I fed you with my body. I’m God. The phrase that occurred to her was son of a bitch . But then she would be the bitch.
    The phone produced a small chime as Ruth replaced it, as if coughing slightly to clear Jeffrey from its throat. She considered the preprogrammed button that was supposed to conjure Phillip.
    “What time is it in Hong Kong?”
    Frida, with knitted brow, consulted her watch and began to count out the hours on her fingers. “It’s too early to call,” she sighed, as if she regretted the result of her calculations but would bear