Ruth saw the soft, admiring faces of all those girls to whom she had boasted about sailing to Sydney with Richard Porter. At that moment, those faces seemed worse than Richard’s. The green and grey city tilted at the end of the boat.
“That would be lovely,” lied Ruth.
She felt like stepping off the boat and walking back to Suva across the bottom of the sea. But she planned to be kind and unshakeable, an emissary from her parents, a testament to the marvellous work Richard had done among the Indian women of Fiji; she wouldn’t have him think she disapproved of his marrying a Japanese widow, or that she cared about his kissing her at the ball when all the time he was engaged. Perhaps it might be possible, however, in the crowded rush to leave the boat, to meet her flustered uncle and collect her luggage, surely it might be possible to lose Richard, to look only halfheartedly for him—where could he have got to?—and not to meet Kyoko after all. And that turned out to be true. Richard was almost too easy to lose, as if he dreaded the meeting himself. Ruth stumbled among her luggage and in the arms of her sentimental aunt, and she was almost sure she didn’t see Kyoko. There was a dark-haired woman waiting in a yellow dress, but she didn’t look definitely Japanese. Ruth went home with her relatives to a street lined with heavy mauve jacarandas, to a borrowed bedroom warming in the mild sun, and cried into a pillow that smelled of someone else’s hair.
That was a painful hour, and in the midst of it she was self-possessed enough to hope it had taught her humility. Really, her heart had been broken in the most inconspicuous way. She had never risked it (she knew this later and had moments of regret). That no one knew she was suffering was both her triumph and, in part, the cause of her torment. After a terrible week or two, it was a very governed torment. In some ways, she passed with relief from the shadow of Richard’s opinions, his disapproval and his industry. She was never quite sure how he had made her a less interesting person. Was it nerves? Or did he bore her? She attended his wedding four months later with a tight heart. His imminent wife had dark hair arranged around an oblong forehead. How would it feel to walk down the aisle towards his opening face? She refused all his attempts to see her, citing busyness; and she was busy, working as a secretary for her parents’ missionary society, moving into a flat with some other girls, making resolutions to be like them, to wear the shoes they did and read their magazines, to be just like every other girl in wide, clean, temperate Sydney. She suspected, at times, that Richard would disapprove, and so she made an effort to think about him less, until eventually it was no effort at all. Ruth used to overhear her mother counseling the brokenhearted nurses. “There are plenty of fish in the sea,” she would say, and from her biblical mouth it sounded like wisdom literature. Now Ruth said fondly to herself, “There are bigger fish in the sea than me.”
For six months she wore the right shoes and read the right magazines and went out with the right men. Then she met Harry during a work event at which she was guardian of the sandwiches. He had come with his parents, who were missionaries in the Solomons. He seemed to have a great appetite for sandwiches; he ate at least four before asking if he could see her again. And he was kind, and handsome, and effortless. It was as if they had both been raised in the same country—Missionary Childhood—and were now finding their way together in the real world. Harry liked to say, “Isn’t it amazing how normal we are?”—which prompted a happy spasm in Ruth’s grateful heart. She liked to be reassured. They kissed and courted, and Richard receded; they married, and Richard wasn’t invited. Although their parents were missionaries, religion was, for both of them, a private matter; in comparison to their parents’
“That would be lovely,” lied Ruth.
She felt like stepping off the boat and walking back to Suva across the bottom of the sea. But she planned to be kind and unshakeable, an emissary from her parents, a testament to the marvellous work Richard had done among the Indian women of Fiji; she wouldn’t have him think she disapproved of his marrying a Japanese widow, or that she cared about his kissing her at the ball when all the time he was engaged. Perhaps it might be possible, however, in the crowded rush to leave the boat, to meet her flustered uncle and collect her luggage, surely it might be possible to lose Richard, to look only halfheartedly for him—where could he have got to?—and not to meet Kyoko after all. And that turned out to be true. Richard was almost too easy to lose, as if he dreaded the meeting himself. Ruth stumbled among her luggage and in the arms of her sentimental aunt, and she was almost sure she didn’t see Kyoko. There was a dark-haired woman waiting in a yellow dress, but she didn’t look definitely Japanese. Ruth went home with her relatives to a street lined with heavy mauve jacarandas, to a borrowed bedroom warming in the mild sun, and cried into a pillow that smelled of someone else’s hair.
That was a painful hour, and in the midst of it she was self-possessed enough to hope it had taught her humility. Really, her heart had been broken in the most inconspicuous way. She had never risked it (she knew this later and had moments of regret). That no one knew she was suffering was both her triumph and, in part, the cause of her torment. After a terrible week or two, it was a very governed torment. In some ways, she passed with relief from the shadow of Richard’s opinions, his disapproval and his industry. She was never quite sure how he had made her a less interesting person. Was it nerves? Or did he bore her? She attended his wedding four months later with a tight heart. His imminent wife had dark hair arranged around an oblong forehead. How would it feel to walk down the aisle towards his opening face? She refused all his attempts to see her, citing busyness; and she was busy, working as a secretary for her parents’ missionary society, moving into a flat with some other girls, making resolutions to be like them, to wear the shoes they did and read their magazines, to be just like every other girl in wide, clean, temperate Sydney. She suspected, at times, that Richard would disapprove, and so she made an effort to think about him less, until eventually it was no effort at all. Ruth used to overhear her mother counseling the brokenhearted nurses. “There are plenty of fish in the sea,” she would say, and from her biblical mouth it sounded like wisdom literature. Now Ruth said fondly to herself, “There are bigger fish in the sea than me.”
For six months she wore the right shoes and read the right magazines and went out with the right men. Then she met Harry during a work event at which she was guardian of the sandwiches. He had come with his parents, who were missionaries in the Solomons. He seemed to have a great appetite for sandwiches; he ate at least four before asking if he could see her again. And he was kind, and handsome, and effortless. It was as if they had both been raised in the same country—Missionary Childhood—and were now finding their way together in the real world. Harry liked to say, “Isn’t it amazing how normal we are?”—which prompted a happy spasm in Ruth’s grateful heart. She liked to be reassured. They kissed and courted, and Richard receded; they married, and Richard wasn’t invited. Although their parents were missionaries, religion was, for both of them, a private matter; in comparison to their parents’
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