by Robbi Neal
Peter put Theo down and picked up his leather satchel, adjusted his collar and necktie, put on his bowler and kissed Theo on the forehead again. Then he put his arm around Lilly’s waist, pulled her to him and kissed her.
Lilly grabbed the dishcloth and wiped Theo’s hands clean, leaving them damp and sticky and smelling like week-old dishcloth, which Theo didn’t like, and they followed Peter out onto the front verandah and watched him walk down the path. When he got to the gate he turned, smiled and blew them a kiss. Lilly caught the sadness in his eyes and for a fleeting moment she wondered about it and felt afraid, but Theo only saw the smile on his father’s face. Lilly was holding Theo’s hand too tightly and he wriggled free and climbed up onto the verandah rail so he could better watch his father. As Peter disappeared down the street Theo leant over so far to watch him he nearly toppled into the garden. He wasn’t sure what his father did at the bank but his mother had told him that his father was the boss and all that mattered to Theo was that other people knew just how important his father was, because to Theo there was no one in the world more important.
Every afternoon around four o’clock Theo sat on the third verandah step from the bottom and waited for his father to come home from work. It was autumn and the weather was pleasant and Theo scratched a kingdom of castles and moats into the dirt by the stairs with a long stick.
‘It’s too early, Theo, he won’t be home for ages yet,’ said Lilly the first time he’d sat waiting, but Theo had shrugged and sat and waited, so Lilly brought him biscuits to eat and milk to drink while he sat there. She knew she shouldn’t take him food because they would have dinner as soon as Peter got home, sausages and mash and fresh beans from the backyard, and Maud Blackmarsh was forever telling her that she fed Theo way too much. But Maud had no right to be giving child-rearing advice since she and her husband hadn’t had any children yet. And besides, no matter how much Lilly fed Theo, he never seemed to grow any fatter.
The night before, Peter had picked up his crumbed chop, leaned forward and said to Theo, ‘Son, I’m thirty years older than your mother. I don’t know why she married an old codger like me — a beautiful young girl like her could have had anyone. People thought she was mad, they tried to stop her, oh yes they did, but she ran off with me anyway.’
‘Oh, stop filling his head,’ said Lilly.
But Peter ignored her. ‘I was fifty when I found your mother.’
‘And I was barely twenty,’ said Lilly quietly.
‘There was never anyone before her but she was worth waiting for, son. Every minute was worth it. So you wait, son — you wait for the right woman,’ and he waggled the chop and some of the crumbs fell off. ‘Oops,’ he smiled and popped the crumbs into his mouth.
In the mornings Theo and Lilly stood on the verandah and waved Peter off to work, and Peter always stopped at the gate to wave and blow them kisses before he set off down the street. Theo and Lilly would fill their days together with household chores, Lilly cooking and washing or ironing, and sometimes Theo helped and sometimes he played until it was time for him to sit on the third step from the bottom and wait for his father. Sometimes he took paper and pencils with him and drew on paper instead of in the dirt, but the drawings always had lines in them where the pencil got lost in the cracks between the wood. Sometimes he took his teddy bear to talk to and sometimes he took his marbles, but he had to be careful not to lose any of them through the cracks.
Lilly brought him pound cake and milk on a little tray that had a hand-painted windmill on it, just like she always did.
Today Theo waited and waited for his father. His father would normally be home by now and he wasn’t and it was so extraordinary that Theo didn’t know what to think. Lilly came and sat next to him and Theo could see the dark grey clouds in her eyes as they waited together. Then darkness came and Lilly began to cry soft quiet tears and she said to Theo, ‘You be a good boy, you just sit there for a moment.’
Theo nodded and wondered why adults told him to be good when he never considered being anything other than what he was. He watched as Lilly pulled her cardigan tightly over her chest. Then she walked down their path and up Missus Blackmarsh’s path and knocked on their door. Mister Blackmarsh opened the door and Theo could hear the muffled sounds of their conversation. Lilly came back and sat next to him again and she was crying harder and it made Theo feel like crying too. A few minutes later Mister and Missus Blackmarsh stood in front of him looking hard at him and Lilly but not saying anything. After a while George the policeman appeared and said he and Lilly would have a few quiet words alone. Lilly patted Theo’s hand and walked a few feet away from the steps and she and George had their quiet words. Then George walked over and ruffled Theo’s hair, which Theo hated, and said, ‘You look after your mum, hey,’ and Theo nodded solemnly. He knew policemen were serious people and you had to do what they told you. George had a few more words with Lilly and Lilly cried out and collapsed onto Missus Blackmarsh’s shoulder and Theo heard Missus Blackmarsh say, ‘I’m sure there’s another explanation — Peter wouldn’t —’ and she looked at Theo and changed her mind about what she was going to say and added, ‘Besides, in this small town we’d know about it, men can’t hide anything like that.’
That night Lilly let Theo sleep in her big bed where his father normally slept and Theo buried his face in the pillow that smelt just like his father. The next day when he woke up Aunty June and Uncle Cliff were in the kitchen eating huge slices of cake and whispering with his mother. They stopped whenever he walked in and his mother continued to cry.
‘No, no, no,’ said Uncle Cliff, ‘I just don’t buy it. I don’t buy it at all. Not my brother.’
In the afternoon Theo went and sat on the third step from the bottom and waited for his father because surely his father had simply forgotten to come home, or had lost his way, and tonight he would come. Lilly brought him drop scones with jam and cream, and some warm milk. When it got dark, Uncle Cliff came and picked him up.
‘Come on, mate,’ he said. ‘It’s too dark out here.’ He carried Theo to his mother’s bed where Lilly fed him warm soup and Auntie June and Uncle Cliff sat on the end of the bed and watched. When the soup was finished Lilly laid him down and held his hand and Uncle Cliff nodded at her and Lilly said, ‘He’s not coming home tonight, Theo.’ Theo looked at her hand that completely covered his. Her hand was soft and smooth and fine. His dad had said, ‘Look, Theo, look what lovely slender hands you mama has, hey? You’ve got her hands, they’re piano hands, son.’
‘I know,’ said Theo because he thought that’s what Lilly wanted to hear him say. Then he turned over and buried his head in the pillow.
When Theo woke in the morning Aunty June and Uncle Cliff were still there. Uncle Cliff was reading a letter out loud and his mother was crying and Aunty June was holding the teapot in mid-air like a statue. Uncle Cliff stopped reading when Theo walked into the kitchen, so Theo shrugged and wandered off to do all the things he would normally do until the afternoon. Then he went and sat on the step and waited for his father until his mother finally came and took his hand and pulled him up saying, ‘He’s not coming home tonight, Theo.’
The next day Aunty June and Uncle Cliff went back to their house in Humffray Street with lots of ‘Are you sure you’ll be okay? Are you sure you don’t want us to stay longer?’ And Theo mimicked their words to his teddy bear.
That night, lying in the big bed, Theo asked, ‘Where’s he gone, Mum? He’s coming back, isn’t he?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said brushing his hair from his face. ‘I hope so. We just have to wait and see.’
‘Wait and see,’ Theo said to his teddy bear.
Theo thought that if waiting was what he had to do to get his father back, then that was certainly something he could do. Waiting was easy; waiting was sitting on the step each night, no matter how long it took, until his father walked through the front gate.
Peter hadn’t planned to walk away from his home, his j
ob and his young wife in her rosebud dress and her curls that fell across her face even when she tried to pin them back and her laugh that was like sunlight bursting from a raindrop. He hadn’t planned to walk away from his son, a funny skinny little thing who thought the world would only ever bring him kindness and love. But the further away he walked, the more convinced he was that leaving was the right thing to do. He knew there wasn’t much hope for him. He couldn’t burden them with what was to come or sit back and wait until everything good in their lives had been ripped up. He wasn’t going to let Lilly and Theo watch him disintegrate to nothing before their very eyes. He wasn’t going to burden Lilly with his care that could go on for months, or have her doing the most intimate things he would need as though she was not his wife but his mother. He didn’t want his son to remember him as a sick, shrivelling man. He had no choice but to disappear. This was the kinder path. This was something he had to do and pray to God they would one day understand.
Peter had passed by Maud Blackmarsh’s house and as luck would have it the devil herself was collecting her milk. Peter kept his head down and said good morning from under his bowler and made sure to keep walking so she was left with her hand in the air and her voice trailing, ‘Ahhh Peterrrr …’ after him.
‘Morning to you too, Mister Hooley,’ she snapped to the milk bottles and wondered again what an old man like him was doing with such a young wife, and decided he must have money. She saw Theo about to topple over the verandah railing into the wild daisy bushes below and she pointed to him to alert Lilly, who she considered a lax parent at the best of times. She hadn’t seen the tears that stained Peter’s face as he scurried down the street.
Peter was expected at the bank at 8.30 a.m. but instead he walked to the train station where he handed over 13 shillings and twopence for a first class ticket. Then he walked to the end of the platform, away from the café and the newsstand where he might bump into people he knew, and sat on the bench, pulled the bowler down over his head and waited for the morning train to Melbourne, which was due in at eleven. He had the carriage to himself and he sat in the corner, his head against the window, and for the three-and-a-half-hour journey he stared at the passing landscape. When he arrived at Spencer Street Station he walked to Little Bourke Street and booked a room for one night only at Gordon Place. As he threw his bag on the bed he realised what he had done and a moan escaped from deep within him. He sat at the desk and wrote a letter to Lilly begging her forgiveness and explaining where he was, what he was doing and, hardest of all, he explained that he didn’t know if he would be returning. Then he wrote out a cheque and put it in with the letter. The letter would take three days to reach her.
In the morning he walked to Collins Street. Starting at the Spring Street intersection, he began the first of six consultations he would have in Collins Street over the coming week.
He saw Doctor Thistlebaum first, a man so doddery he could barely walk to the other side of his desk, let alone examine his patient. Nonetheless he was considered a specialist on the matter and with much murmuring and clearing of his throat he told Peter the same thing Doctor Appleby had said: ‘Your problem, sir, is failure of the organs. The upside is you can expect a speedy death.’
‘That’s the upside?’ said Peter.
‘Oh yes, it won’t be drawn out — it will be fast, so go home and put your things in order,’ said Doctor Thistlebaum, and he looked at the door and Peter knew the consultation was over. He settled the outrageous bill with Doctor Thistlebaum’s nurse and went on to the next expert, Doctor Fickett, who was slightly younger than Doctor Thistlebaum but three times as wide.
‘Are you going to examine me?’ asked Peter.
But Doctor Fickett didn’t like to get out of his very comfortable chair unnecessarily and to that end he had ensured it was a good swiveller. He said, ‘You’re here for an opinion, aren’t you?’ And he pointed Peter to the chair on the other side of the desk.
‘Yes,’ said Peter.
‘Well, sit down then, I don’t need to examine you to give you my opinion on the matter. I imagine you’ve seen Thistlebaum, he’s the expert, and if he’s confirmed your diagnosis I’d be mad to suggest it was something else.’
‘Well, yes,’ said Peter, though he wasn’t sure at all.
‘Well, in my opinion it’s hereditary.’
‘Hereditary?’ asked Peter.
‘Absolutely, we see it in families all the time. What did your father die of?’
‘I don’t actually know,’ said Peter.
‘Exactly,’ said Doctor Fickett, bored with having to explain medical facts to his patients. ‘I don’t doubt for a second it was the same ailment that you, sir, now suffer from.’ And he looked at the door to indicate it was time for Peter to settle his bill with the nurse sitting starched and straight in her crisp white dress and cap behind the counter outside.
Peter saw Doctor Bigsby next and then Doctor Whitehall and Doctor Simpson, who all said they confirmed Doctor Thistlebaum’s opinion before they even knew what Doctor Thistlebaum’s opinion was.
In addition — and this advice they each gave freely for the good of mankind — he shouldn’t waste his money by seeing Doctor Le Sueur. Well, he’d have to be a foreigner with a name like that and he was a bit of a scallywag, wet behind the ears, a bit too willing to go where no respectable specialist should go. Well, what could you expect from these European types with their new ideas that have no basis in medical fact? No, they told him, don’t waste what little time you have left with the likes of Doctor Le Sueur.
As it happened Peter had made an appointment to see Doctor Le Sueur, who had his room in Little Collins Street, not Collins Street proper. Little Collins Street was small and dark, whereas Collins Street was a wide and regal passageway to Spring Street, where the grand home of federal politics sat. Collins Street was carriages and the tramway and contented women in pale skirts and large hats with arms full of shopping parcels and bellies full of Devonshire tea. Little Collins Street was bustling and shoving and pushing, it was spilled barrels and rubbish brushed up against the paths. Paul walked straight to Doctor Le Sueur’s rooms from Doctor Simpson so he could cancel the appointment without any delay. He got to the building, which sat next door to the Hunt Hotel. The hotel spilled drunken men and whooping and the stench of spilt beer out into the street. Peter walked back and forward for half an hour tossing up between saving his money, which Lilly would need if he was gone, and thinking that one last opinion couldn’t hurt. In the end he decided to sleep on it and in the morning he realised it would be rude to cancel at this late stage and so he went to get the opinion of this doctor who was in all likelihood a quack. He walked into the foyer of the doctor’s building and the board said Doctor Le Sueur — Second Floor. He took the elevator and walked down the narrow dark corridor until he found the glass panelled door with Dr Le Sueur M in large black lettering.
‘Your D is missing,’ said Peter as he walked through the door. He was expecting to see a nurse and a waiting room but the door led straight into the consulting room, and the man he presumed was Doctor Le Sueur sitting inside it. Peter thought he looked more like a farmer than a doctor: he had a ruddy outdoors complexion with boyish freckles and pale blue eyes. Perhaps he wasn’t even a properly trained doctor. Perhaps he was a herbalist or a homeopath or a veterinarian.
‘The D is only missing on the door, I assure you I am indeed a medical doctor. Now, now don’t sit down. I want to examine you before I say anything,’ said Doctor Le Sueur and pointed to his examination gurney that had seen better days. Peter took off his jacket and his shoes and lay down. Doctor Le Sueur tied an operating mask over his mouth and nose, then he took his stethoscope from where it hung on the wall and listened to Peter’s chest for a long time, getting him to sit up and lie back down again, now sit up, now cough lightly, now cough hard, which threw Peter into a fit of uncontrolled coughing and made Doctor Le Sueur stand well back and look at Peter as if that was exactly what he was lookin
g for and now he knew all he needed to know to give his diagnosis. Only when Peter had completely finished coughing did Doctor Le Sueur remove his mask and motion for Peter to sit at the desk.
Peter felt ill in his stomach. He shouldn’t because he already knew what the problem was, there weren’t going to be any surprises, he’d seen enough doctors now to know the original diagnosis from Doctor Appleby was spot on.
‘It’s not good; I can’t pretend it is, so I won’t. No, it’s not good,’ said Doctor Le Sueur and as soon as he said that Peter relaxed.
‘Ridiculous,’ he said, ‘that hearing that should make me feel better.’
‘Well, sir, we feel better when we know what we are dealing with. It’s the unknown that scares the hell out of a man.’ He stood up and went to the corner of the room where a filing cabinet stood next to a table with a washbasin and jug. The doctor poured water into the basin, washed his hands, dried them and then fossicked in the filing cabinet.
‘Ahhh,’ he said finally and pulled several pieces of crumpled paper from the back of the cabinet. He then proceeded to try to smooth out the paper with the flat of his hand on his desk. After several attempts he gave up and the paper stayed crumpled.
‘See here,’ Doctor Le Sueur said, jabbing his finger at the paper. ‘Oh, this is so terribly exciting, see this scientist here, Robert Koch, he injected rabbits with the — well, in layman’s terms with the tuberculosis germ — and he found it’s contagious, terribly contagious. Do you have any family, Mister Hooley? Well, if you do, for their sakes stay away from them. But it’s not all bad news because this other doctor, Doctor Trudeau — and you won’t hear this anywhere else, Mister Hooley, and you may well get advice saying this is utter rubbish, because that’s how the medical profession responds to new information, but let me tell you this — Doctor Trudeau had your complaint himself. His older brother Jim died of consumption and he then caught it himself but — this is the important part,’ Doctor Le Sueur leant forward over his desk and looked clear and straight at Peter so that Peter felt like he was in the headmaster’s study and shuffled a bit and sat up straight so the doctor would know he was giving him his full attention, ‘this Doctor Trudeau cured himself.’ And Doctor Le Sueur threw his hands in the air at the sheer miracle of it.
