university or teaching or nursing (could she be a nurse, like her mother? Would she really go back to Fiji as a teacher? She vacillated on this point daily). And the trip passed, and on a September morning she stood next to Richard on the boat’s deck where schoolgirls played paddle tennis. She looked out at the heads of Sydney Harbour and said, “Apparently I’m going to have to be something.”
“It’s terrible, isn’t it,” said Richard, “this having to be something.”
And Ruth was astonished that a man so obviously something —a doctor, a soldier, the saviour of Indian women—could sound so sad about it. But he had held her hand twice on the boat, once to steady her in a rough sea and once for three minutes because she’d been stupid enough to cry a little about leaving Fiji. He had sought her out with drinks and, as the weather grew colder the farther they sailed from the equator, brought rugs for her knees. They were sitting on the sundeck, and because she wore gloves, which might hide a ring, a man had smiled at them and assumed—Ruth was sure—they were married. And Richard had kissed her at the ball for the Queen, although she wondered sometimes if she had imagined that. None of it was enough, but it was the beginning—it was the passage over, and then Sydney waited, this city Ruth belonged in without knowing anything about it. Richard would show her Sydney, and she would love him, and he would love her back.
The boat entered the Harbour. The wide, bright city crowded up against the water, but drew back from its very edge; Ruth saw green parklands full of trees, with white flocks of parrots bursting out of them. The parrots surprised Ruth, who had expected Sydney to be much more like England than Fiji. And then Richard leaned forward against the railing of the deck and spoke so that she couldn’t see his face, but the wind still carried every word he said, and what he said was that he was engaged to be married.
“To whom?” asked Ruth, and Richard had to turn and ask her to repeat herself.
“Her name is Kyoko,” he said, which sounded to Ruth like Coco , and she pictured a bright blond girl with the kind of brilliant, beautiful face that produces its own light (Ruth’s own face only reflected light, like the moon), and she was more surprised—at first—that Richard could love a girl called Coco than she was by the fact that Richard loved anyone at all. There was a strong gagging pulse in her throat.
“Congratulations,” she said, with a stiff smile; she didn’t trust herself to ask questions. They were surrounded now by the schoolgirls, waving landwards with their paddles; Ruth felt much older than all of them.
The wind was making Richard’s nose run. “I met Kyoko in Japan,” he said. “She’s a widow. She’s Japanese.”
“That’s nice,” said Ruth, tight-lipped but dignified, she thought, which mattered most. She thought.
“She’s Japanese,” he said. “Which is why I didn’t talk about it. I wasn’t sure—well—what you’d think. All of you.”
Ruth pretended not to have heard him. She shook against the railing but had no intention of crying. The main thing was to extricate herself without revealing the extent of her agony.
Now Richard turned to look at her—to properly look. He cleared his throat and squinted. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Oh, whatever for?” cried Ruth, smiling too much and taking a step away from him because she thought he was going to touch her arm. “Maybe I should go and—” She couldn’t think what she should go and do; she had told him a number of times how much she was looking forward to the passage through the Harbour.
“She’s going to meet the boat,” said Richard. “I’d like to introduce you.”
So he and Kyoko had exchanged letters with plans and arrangements: I’ll be on this boat, I can’t wait to see you, there’ll be a child with me, a silly girl who hates opera, I’m afraid you’ll have to meet her.
“It’s terrible, isn’t it,” said Richard, “this having to be something.”
And Ruth was astonished that a man so obviously something —a doctor, a soldier, the saviour of Indian women—could sound so sad about it. But he had held her hand twice on the boat, once to steady her in a rough sea and once for three minutes because she’d been stupid enough to cry a little about leaving Fiji. He had sought her out with drinks and, as the weather grew colder the farther they sailed from the equator, brought rugs for her knees. They were sitting on the sundeck, and because she wore gloves, which might hide a ring, a man had smiled at them and assumed—Ruth was sure—they were married. And Richard had kissed her at the ball for the Queen, although she wondered sometimes if she had imagined that. None of it was enough, but it was the beginning—it was the passage over, and then Sydney waited, this city Ruth belonged in without knowing anything about it. Richard would show her Sydney, and she would love him, and he would love her back.
The boat entered the Harbour. The wide, bright city crowded up against the water, but drew back from its very edge; Ruth saw green parklands full of trees, with white flocks of parrots bursting out of them. The parrots surprised Ruth, who had expected Sydney to be much more like England than Fiji. And then Richard leaned forward against the railing of the deck and spoke so that she couldn’t see his face, but the wind still carried every word he said, and what he said was that he was engaged to be married.
“To whom?” asked Ruth, and Richard had to turn and ask her to repeat herself.
“Her name is Kyoko,” he said, which sounded to Ruth like Coco , and she pictured a bright blond girl with the kind of brilliant, beautiful face that produces its own light (Ruth’s own face only reflected light, like the moon), and she was more surprised—at first—that Richard could love a girl called Coco than she was by the fact that Richard loved anyone at all. There was a strong gagging pulse in her throat.
“Congratulations,” she said, with a stiff smile; she didn’t trust herself to ask questions. They were surrounded now by the schoolgirls, waving landwards with their paddles; Ruth felt much older than all of them.
The wind was making Richard’s nose run. “I met Kyoko in Japan,” he said. “She’s a widow. She’s Japanese.”
“That’s nice,” said Ruth, tight-lipped but dignified, she thought, which mattered most. She thought.
“She’s Japanese,” he said. “Which is why I didn’t talk about it. I wasn’t sure—well—what you’d think. All of you.”
Ruth pretended not to have heard him. She shook against the railing but had no intention of crying. The main thing was to extricate herself without revealing the extent of her agony.
Now Richard turned to look at her—to properly look. He cleared his throat and squinted. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“Oh, whatever for?” cried Ruth, smiling too much and taking a step away from him because she thought he was going to touch her arm. “Maybe I should go and—” She couldn’t think what she should go and do; she had told him a number of times how much she was looking forward to the passage through the Harbour.
“She’s going to meet the boat,” said Richard. “I’d like to introduce you.”
So he and Kyoko had exchanged letters with plans and arrangements: I’ll be on this boat, I can’t wait to see you, there’ll be a child with me, a silly girl who hates opera, I’m afraid you’ll have to meet her.
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