"Stay where you are," said Frida. The words heaved out of her. The light disappeared. "Open the door," she said. "Don't look out here."

Ruth opened the door. The wet smell of the tiger was everywhere. Frida came in carrying the broom, but not the knife.

"It's finished," she said, and accepted Ruth into her arms. There was blood on her white robe and on her face; tiger blood.

16.

Ruth rose early the next morning. She crept by Frida's bedroom door as high on the tips of her toes as her back would allow. The house was in disarray. Sand lay in banks and eddies all over the floor. Ruth decided to sweep it, but it seemed to be sticky at the bottom, as if soaked in liquid-each clump had the long, damp foot of a mollusc-and sweeping only thickened the bristles of the broom with mud. Her back hurt. Her chair lay shipwrecked on the sandy floor. Ruth kept walking over hard objects that she worried were teeth and tiger claws but turned out to be miscellaneous grit. Frida's broom, or the tiger's tail, had knocked gla.s.s to the floor, and the lamp tilted drunkenly in the lounge room. But the tiger's body was gone.

Frida had covered the area by the front door with a tarpaulin, and she had weighed this tarpaulin down with buckets of water. The water smelled rusty, and it was a rust colour when Ruth dipped her finger in it. She couldn't lift the buckets to see under the tarpaulin, and when she opened the front door, she could see only that something large had been dragged to the gra.s.s at the edge of the drive. The ground was muddy. Frida had spent hours in the night filling buckets with water and throwing them out over the path she had made with the body of the tiger. She wouldn't allow Ruth to leave her room.

When Frida emerged, fully dressed-in her white uniform, with her hair pulled so tight into a bun she looked more like a beautician than ever-Ruth was dozing in the lounge-room recliner, still wearing her nightgown.

"Come on, lazybones," said Frida. "The bus is due at quarter past ten."

"What bus?" Ruth blinked and squinted.

"To take us to town? To the bank?"

"Isn't George going to drive us?"

"I told you, darling heart, George's run off. Now get a move on, or we'll miss it."

"We're going to the bank?"

Frida flourished a book in front of Ruth's face. The book had writing in it-it said "TRUST FRIDA."

"I know, I know," said Ruth, a little crankily.

"Chop chop!" cried Frida, clapping her hands. She hauled Ruth out of the recliner, marched her into the bedroom, and took charge of dressing her. Ruth sat mute on the end of her bed. Frida's hair was so severe, and her uniform so white, that it would have been impossible to conjure the b.l.o.o.d.y Frida of the night before except that bruises were beginning to bloom on her forearms.

Frida muttered at Ruth's open wardrobe. "Something sensible, something sensible. Try this." She pulled out a neat grey skirt suit.

"It's very formal," said Ruth.

"Just try it. Can you manage?" Frida advanced on Ruth and began tugging at her nightgown.

"I can manage!" The thought of being naked in front of Frida was terrible: proud, firm Frida of the lacquered hair, who had killed the tiger.

Frida threw up her hands. "Then hurry," she said. She turned her back to Ruth, but stayed in the room.

Ruth struggled with the skirt. When had she last worn this suit? Years ago, surely, and it was a little big for her. When she managed to b.u.t.ton the skirt, she was so pleased with herself that she mustered the courage to ask, "Frida, where's the tiger?"

"You don't need to worry about that anymore," said Frida.

"I only want to know where he is. I thought there could be something-some kind of ceremony. A funeral?"

"I killed him for you, and you want a funeral?" Frida used her most incredulous voice. "Now get a wriggle on. It's nine fifty-five."

"I need stockings," said Ruth. Frida turned, appraising. Ruth hated to wear those thick flesh-coloured stockings she saw on other old women. For formal, suit-wearing occasions, she liked thin black ones. "They're in the top drawer."

"You look just fine," said Frida. "Get some shoes. Quick, quick! Or we'll miss the bus."

"We could call a taxi," said Ruth, despairing, but Frida blocked the way to the chest of drawers and tapped her wrist as if she wore a watch there.

"How many times do I have to tell you," said Frida, guiding Ruth to the door now, "George has run off?"

"There are other taxis in the whole wide world."

In the hallway, Frida had a gla.s.s of water and Ruth's pills; Ruth swallowed these expertly. She took her purse from the coat hook it hung on.

"Watch the buckets," said Frida. "Watch your step."

She hurried Ruth into the front garden and towards the drive, where Ruth dawdled looking for evidence of the tiger. By the time she reached the road, Frida was already partway down the hill, waiting for her.

"What do you want me to do, give you a piggyback?" Frida called. Ruth didn't answer. Frida began walking again. She called out, "What you need is a wheelchair."

Ruth wasn't happy at the thought of a wheelchair. She made little, tripping steps to catch up. If only Frida wouldn't walk quite so fast; if only this skirt didn't restrict her movement. How typical of me, she thought-of me and of any old person-not to want a wheelchair. When really, what could be so bad about being pushed around? Right now she would have liked to be piggybacked down the hill. She half hoped Frida might offer again.

"Wheelchairs," Ruth said, "are for people whose legs don't work."

"And backs!" cried Frida. "People with bad backs!"

There was no one at the bus stop. It loomed up before them, unaccountably familiar. The day was that wet, pressed sort on which no one would make an effort to come to this part of the beach. In weather like this, the beach was revealed as both dangerous and dirty. The sea was oppressive, and the sky was bright and colourless and dragged down upon its surface. Frida fretted at the bus stop, as if it might be a trick of some kind; no bus would come, and they would be left waiting forever. She always seemed so angry at the possibility she might have been made a fool of. Ruth sat on the bench, which felt harder than any other hard material she had previously encountered. A car slowed and then moved off again. Ruth didn't like having her back to the sea or the road, so she sat in a nervous silence, as if by being completely still she might ward off a possible ambush. Frida was silent, too. In fact they might never have met; they might have come together by chance at this bus stop, and Frida out of courtesy would allow Ruth to board the bus first, and she might even smile at her, and that would be the extent of their dealings. Then another life would take place, riskier, in which each would never know about the other.

"The bus is coming," said Ruth, although that was perfectly obvious.

Frida boarded first and paid for them both. Ruth recognized the bus driver. He had the thick, high hair of a young man, but it was completely grey. He smiled at her and said, "Out and about again, eh?" The smile pleated his forehead up into his verdant hair.

Frida took Ruth's hand. "Come on now, Ruthie," she said.

Frida's palm felt like a steak wrapped in baking paper.

The bus was emptier today. The few pa.s.sengers sat in studied silence, as if the grim weather wouldn't permit sociability of any kind. Frida walked down the aisle with a maritime stride, and she dragged Ruth along with her.

"Isn't this nice," said Ruth, settling in beside Frida, and a woman of about Ruth's age, two seats down, with her remnant hairs united in a Frau-ish scarf, scowled as if Ruth had spoken in a movie theatre. Frida said nothing. Ruth's back snapped with every shake of the bus. With so little room on the seat, she was forced to hold firmly to the rail in front of her at any suggestion of a left turn for fear of being tipped into the aisle. She adjusted her position until Frida said, in a low voice, "Stop pressing into me, would you?"

Town seemed different today: more grey, and emptier. It hadn't rained, but the houses and gardens huddled in expectation of bad weather. The bus paused at a stop sign, and looking down the side of a house, Ruth saw a woman taking towels off a clothesline with frequent glances at the untrustworthy sky. The line swung in the gathering wind, and the woman's arms became heavier and heavier with towels. She had no Frida to do her laundry for her. Ruth felt a wild disdain for this anxious woman and her cradled laundry. If only the sky would break open at this very moment so Ruth could witness the unfortunate flurry of woman and towels. But the bus moved on, and no drops flattened against the windowpanes.

"Here's our stop," said Frida, and she began to stand, so Ruth stood; the bus lurched as it stopped, and Ruth nearly fell; Frida caught her and sighed aloud, while other pa.s.sengers-all but the severe scarfed woman-half lifted from their seats to help.

"You're making a scene," said Frida, guiding Ruth down the aisle, and then they were on the main street of town with people pushing out of the bus behind them. "Out of the way, out of the way," Frida urged, pulling Ruth to one side of the pavement. Ruth held her purse tight against her hip. Her jacket had skewed a little to the right. Frida was walking, and Ruth, adjusting her suit, followed. "I'll never know," said Frida over her shoulder, "how you managed this on your own."

Men from a construction site crossed the road among the traffic. They had broad, happy faces, and Ruth watched them fearfully because they were courting bad luck. A woman with very red hair stopped and smiled at Ruth, talking; Ruth knew she should recognize her, but didn't.

"We're going to the bank," said Ruth, indicating Frida, who waited under the Sausage King's awning.

"Don't let me keep you!" cried the woman, and moved on.

"Do you know everyone?" snapped Frida, so Ruth kept her head down. When she caught up with Frida under the awning, she turned her face away from the butcher's window. She opened her purse and peered inside: she saw banknotes, and her cards were back in their slots. Perhaps they'd been there yesterday, under the watchful eye of the Sausage King. Frida was fiddling with papers she had drawn from her bag, smoothing them down and looking them over. Her bag hung open, and for some reason that book Ruth had written in was wedged inside.

Ruth was interested to notice that Frida's size diminished when compared to the doors and cars and letterboxes of the world; she was still, however, the most conspicuous thing on the street. What else was there to look at? Her hair shone out in the grey light of the skyless day, and her shoulders were as broad as the construction workers'.

"You ready, Ruthie?" Frida almost held her hand out to Ruth; Ruth almost took it.

"I want to see the tiger," said Ruth. She knew how sulky she sounded.

"You can't," said Frida. "He's in the sea."

"How did you get him down there?" People stepped around them to enter the butcher shop, and the bell chimed sweetly. Ruth crowded closer to Frida.

"I started out dragging him and then I used the wheelbarrow. I made a mess of him, Ruthie. You didn't want to see that."

"How much of a mess?"

On closer inspection, Frida looked exhausted. With her hair off her face, she was older and sadder, and the rings under her eyes were more obviously plum-coloured. She had been awake most of the night taking the tiger to the sea.

"I cut open his stomach," she said. "Do you really want to know? His guts came spilling out. And then, to kill him, I slit his throat. There was a lot of blood."

"I'm all right with blood. I practically grew up in a hospital."

"Didn't we all." Frida zipped up her bag and set her square shoulders. "You ready for the bank?"

"But how did you get him right into the sea?" Ruth insisted. "What if he washes up again?"

"What I did," said Frida tonelessly, "is I crammed him into the wheelbarrow good and tight. His tail, his paws, his head on top."

"Was he heavy?"

"b.l.o.o.d.y heavy. Then I pushed the wheelbarrow down to the water, which was tough going, let me tell you. The tide was out. The sun was just thinking about coming up. And I pushed the wheelbarrow out into the ocean as far as I could go, until he started floating."

"In your dressing gown?"

"I took it off."

So Ruth saw Frida down in the lightening sea, naked, straining at the wheelbarrow; she saw the water lift the tiger and carry him away. He would be smaller and darker while wet and knife-slit, but still a tiger.

Frida put her hand on Ruth's arm and squeezed it. "Are we doing this, Ruthie? Should we go save my house?"

"The house she died in," said Ruth.

The bank was a safe and scrupulous place, although Ruth didn't quite approve of a seaside bank. She had lived by the sea for years, but there was still a holiday air to the sound of the gulls and the palms among the pine trees. A bank in this place should be issuing money for the buying of ice creams and beach towels and surely had no business with the solemnity of mortgages. Harry and Ruth had taken out a mortgage to buy the holiday house. Harry spoke of this mortgage as if it were an aged relative, slowly convalescent but sure to mend. When it was paid, they came out for a weekend-the boys were adults now-and Harry said, "I think we should move here permanently when I retire."

"Oh, no," said Ruth, without thinking. "Really? What would we do all day?"

Harry retired, and they moved, and all day they were Ruth and Harry.

"You go first," said Frida. The automatic doors were opening and closing, a little wildly, with no customers to prompt them, and a few ordinary pavement pieces of paper and plastic were gusting in and out. Frida prodded Ruth a little in the back. "Smile," she said.

Ruth smiled. She would have liked to hold Frida's hand. A woman in a red suit sang, "Good morning!" and Ruth sang back, "Good morning!" It was like being in church. What would the woman say next? What would Ruth reply?

"How can we help you today?" the woman asked. She was pretty and young and held a clipboard; Ruth was unsure how a woman like that could help her, although she was receptive to the idea of being helped.

"We're right, thanks," said Frida, steering Ruth towards the queue, which was made up of more pretty young women, many of them strung with children.

"If you let me know what you're here for, I might be able to speed things up for you," said the woman, following them with high-heeled steps. Her hair was frosted into a surf of blond, and she wore a small name tag: JENNY CONNELL, CUSTOMER SERVICE a.s.sISTANT.

"Your doors are haunted," said Ruth.

"Haunted!" Jenny Connell smiled. "I like that. They always act up on windy days. I'm so sorry." She wasn't sorry at all, which Ruth appreciated. The doors opened, and the paper and plastic blew in, then settled as the doors closed; the doors opened again, and the papers were sucked out. It was tidal.

Frida pressed close at Ruth's back the way Phillip used to as a boy.

"So what can we help you with today?" asked Jenny, but she was looking at Frida now.

"We're here to save the house," said Ruth, and Jenny's smile widened, but she continued to look at Frida.

"We're here to transfer some money," said Frida.

"Wonderful!" cried Jenny, and Ruth was delighted. "Did you know you could do that from the convenience of your own home using Internet banking?"

"It's a lot of money," said Frida.

Jenny nodded appreciatively. "Our daily online limit is five thousand dollars," she said.

"It's more than that," said Frida.

The woman in front of them in the queue turned to look, and Frida shuffled on her white-clad feet.

"Much more," said Ruth.

Jenny continued to nod. "Then you're in the right place," she said. "Our daily transfer limit in the branch is twenty thousand dollars."

"We have a cheque," said Frida.

"So it's not a transfer, then." Jenny seemed relieved. "We have a cheque deposit station right over there." She gestured towards a helpful-looking wall.

"I was asked to have Mrs. Field come in herself to verify the cheque," Frida said, without looking at the wall. She repeated, dully, "It's a lot of money."

The bank doors opened and closed, admitting paper and wind and more customers. Jenny looked at these newcomers, anxious, as if they had tugged on her sleeve. "Just go ahead and wait in line," she said, "and someone will be right with you."

Frida rolled her eyes.