The Night Guest by Fiona McFarlane Read Free Book Online Page B

swelling sea. “I could of been out there for hours.”
    “Could have ,” said Ruth. She produced her coins. “I don’t know how much this amounts to, but I want to spend all of it.”
    He was a fast counter. “Nineteen dollars and forty-five cents,” he said. Harry would have tutted at her for not clearing out the coins before now.
    “What will that buy?”
    The boy looked at the sea and then at Ruth. “Everything.”
    It took ten minutes to load the car with everything. The boy’s chest seemed to expand with every carton; he began to chat about the weather and a shifting sandbar in the bay and finally allowed himself a luxurious scratch of his barely stubbled chin. The backseat was full of avocados, but the pineapple sat by itself in the front; Ruth was tempted to strap it in. The liberated boy waved as she drove away. The pineapple rolled a little into the coastal curves, and something about it—its swollen movement, its heavy golden smell, and the absurdity of its spiked green haircut—made Ruth feel like taking a holiday. It made her feel like driving forever and never coming back. But, she wondered, how do you take a holiday from a holiday? And by the time she wondered this, she was home.
    Ruth hoped Frida might be waiting in front of the house, or at least hovering behind the front door. She wasn’t, so Ruth parked the car in its usual spot. The crushing sensation was gone; the car and the ground both felt solid. She thought of a time when she was young, with young sons, and only ever looked severe while driving: she set her lips thin, her elbows strained at ballet angles from the wheel, and her face took on an expression that used to frighten her children. It couldn’t be a mistake to put all that behind her.
    Ruth called for Frida from the garden and the front hall; she went back and opened the car’s rear doors, looked at the avocado trays, and thought about lifting them. Only then did Frida come out of the house, drying her hands on the hem of her white shirt.
    “Avocados? In winter?”
    “A present,” said Ruth.
    “Not much of a present when I have to carry them myself,” said Frida, but Ruth saw that she was pleased. The quantity was what impressed her; Frida was a natural friend to bulk. She ferried and puffed until the fruit was inside, and then Ruth went to lock the car. There was the pineapple in the front seat. She lifted it out with special care: for her back, but also for the pineapple.
    When Ruth reentered the house, Frida was in the dining room. She stood at the window making strange sounds in her throat: a low throaty coo that might have been a bird noise. Ruth looked, and there were magpies in the garden. Frida watched them and made her gentle throbbing calls; she stopped when Ruth said, “I’ve decided to sell the car.”
    Then Frida turned and smiled. “Yes,” she said. She was lovely when she smiled, with her plump, pretty face. She held out her arms and accepted the pineapple as if she had expected it all along; had placed an order for it. Ruth put the car keys on the table. Her hands, now empty, smelled of coins.
    “It’s really for my own peace of mind,” she said.
    “George can get you a good price,” said Frida, and the next day she introduced a man named Bob, who looked over the car—he insisted on calling it “the vehicle”—and was prepared to buy it for thirteen thousand dollars. The idea of freedom from the car delighted Ruth; so did the idea of selling it without consulting her sons. This satisfaction increased when Bob presented her with a cheque. Ruth noted in passing that along with his other misfortunes—Frida mentioned a traitorous wife and kidney stones—Bob bore the unusual surname of Fretweed. He returned that afternoon with a skinny assistant who maneuvered the vehicle down the drive. Ruth was reminded of the specific sound a familiar car makes, which seemed to her, almost more than any other noise—even more than the sound of Harry’s