Waiting for Wednesday

eyes
bright. She pulled naan bread out of a damp brown paper bag and laid it on a plate.
Frieda lit candles and pulled a bottle of wine out of the fridge. She thought how
strange it was that even in front of Sasha she could so successfully conceal her
distress and fear. Her voice sounded steady; her hands as she poured wine were
steady.
    ‘Is Chloë still here?’
    ‘Yes. But she’s seeing her father
tonight so I have the house to myself for once.’
    ‘Do you mind?’
    ‘I don’t think I had a
choice.’
    ‘That wasn’t the
question.’
    ‘Sometimes I come in,’ Frieda
said, ‘and she’s made herself completely at home. Mess everywhere. School
stuff slung every which way. Dirty dishes in the sink. Sometimes her friends are here as
well. Not to mention Josef. There’s noise and chaos and even the smell is
different. And I feel like an intruder in my own home. Nothing belongs to me in the same
way. It’s all I can do not to run away.’
    ‘At least it’ll soon be over.
She’s only here for a week, isn’t she?’
    ‘That was the agreement. This looks
good. Wine?’
    ‘Half a glass. So I can clink it
against yours.’
    They sat at the table facing each other and
Frieda lifted her glass. ‘So, tell me.’
    Sasha didn’t lift hers, just smiled
radiantly. ‘Do you know, Frieda, the world seems sharper and brighter. I can feel
energy pumping through me. Every morning I wake up and the spring outside is inside my
body as well. I know you’re anxious that I’ll let myself get hurt again –
but you’ve met Frank. He’s not like that. And, anyway, isn’t that
partly what falling in love is? Opening yourself up to the possibility of feeling joy
and being hurt? Letting yourself trust? I know I’ve made mistakes in the past. But
this feels different. I’m stronger than I used to be, less pliable.’
    ‘I’m very glad,’ said
Frieda. ‘Really.’
    ‘Good! I know you’ll like each
other. He thinks you’re terrific. But I’m not just here to gush about Frank,
like a teenager. I’ve got something else I need to say. I haven’t told
anyone else but –’
    The doorbell rang.
    ‘Who can that be? It’s too early
for it to be Chloë and, anyway, she has a key.’
    The bell rang once more, and then someone
knocked. Frieda wiped her mouth on the paper napkin, took a gulp of wine and stood up.
‘Whoever it is, I’ll send them away,’ she said.
    Judith Lennox was standing at the door. She
was wearing an oversized man’s jacket and what looked to Frieda like jodhpurs.
Dora was beside her, her long brown hair in a French plait, her face pinched and
pale.
    ‘Hello,’ Judith said, in a small
voice. ‘You said I could come.’
    ‘Judith.’
    ‘I didn’t want to leave Dora
alone. I thought you wouldn’t mind.’
    Frieda looked from one face to the
other.
    ‘My dad’s gone out
drinking,’ said Judith. ‘And I don’t know where Ted is. I can’t
spend any more time in the house with Aunt Louise. There’ll be a second
murder.’
    Dora gave a strangled sob.
    ‘You’d better come in,’
said Frieda. She didn’t know which feeling was stronger – pity for the two girls
on her doorstep or a stifling sense of anger that she had to look after them.
    ‘Sasha, this is Judith and
Dora.’ Sasha looked up, startled. ‘They are friends of
Chloë’s.’
    ‘Not really,’ put in Judith.
‘Ted’s a friend of Chloë’s. I know her a bit. Dora’s never met
her, have you, Dora?’
    ‘No.’ Dora’s voice was a
whisper. She was almost translucent, thought Frieda – blue veins under pale skin, blue
shadows under eyes, neck that seemed almost too thin to hold up her head, bony knees,
skinny legs with a big bruise on one shin. She’d been the one who’d found
her mother dead, she remembered.
    ‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘Have
you had anything to eat?’
    ‘I’m not hungry,’ said
Dora.
    ‘Not since breakfast,’ said
Judith. ‘And you didn’t eat any breakfast, Dora.’
    ‘Here.’ Frieda got out two extra
plates and pushed them in front of the girls. ‘We’ve got plenty to go
round.’ She glanced at Sasha’s bemused face. ‘Judith and Dora’s
mother died very recently.’
    Sasha leaned towards them, her face soft in
the guttering candlelight. ‘I’m so sorry.’
    ‘Someone killed her,’ said
Judith, harshly. ‘In our house.’
    ‘No! That’s dreadful.’
    ‘Ted and I think it was her
lover.’
    ‘Don’t,’ said Dora,
piteously.
    Frieda noticed how in Ted’s