The doctors choice

by Wilde, Hilary

  “For one awful moment,” Gillian said, “I thought she might be David’s wife. He is still free, then?”

  Val stood up clumsily and the chair fell over. She stooped to pick it up with Ian’s aid, and her cheeks were red as she turned to go into the house. Gillian looked at Clare with a whimsical smile and a little shrug of her red as she turned to go into the house. Gillian looked at Clare with a whimsical smile and a little shrug of her Clare with a whimsical smile and a little shrug of her shoulders.

  Clare sat very still, unable to move. Was Gillian genuine, or was it all part of an act?

  David brought out the long ice-cold drinks, and Ian, his face distressed, went into the house.

  “Sit next to me, David,” Gillian said, her voice possessive, “and let me look at you.” She leaned sideways, studying David’s face carefully. “Turn your head.”

  Gillian clapped her hands. On anyone else, Clare thought miserably, it would have been a phoney, theat-rical gesture, but on Gillian it was both natural and charming. “Oh, darling, Gillian said, “you’re just as devastatingly handsome as ever. How do you. do it?

  You hair is as thick and there’s not a grey hair to be seen!”

  David laughed. “Give me a chance, Gillian! I’m not thirty-four yet.”

  Ian returned with a silent Val, who sat down, took her drink and looked expectantly at Gillian, who was lifting her glass with a cheerful: “Cheers, everyone.”

  Her face seemed to change as she looked at them, become unsure, almost nervous. “I guess you’re all waiting for an explanation,” she said.

  David moved unhappily as he frowned. “Look, Gillian, we’re not waiting. If you want to tell us, well and good. If not, don’t. I’m sure you had a perfectly good good. If not, don’t. I’m sure you had a perfectly good reason for your behaviour.”

  “Dear David,” Gillian said, covering his hand with hers for a moment. Were those real tears in her eyes?

  Clare wondered. Gillian sat back, folded her hands and looked absurdly–was it endearingly, in David’s eyes? –like a small girl waiting to be scolded.

  “Well,” she said almost defiantly, “I ran away.

  Why? Because I couldn’t bear it any longer. The loneliness – of life without Tony. The worry of a sick child.

  You know how I hate illness. I know I’m a coward, selfish and cruel. I know what you must all have thought of me, but” – she paused, her lovely blue eyes half hidden by the dark curly lashes – “I couldn’t take it. That’s all there is to it.”

  She turned to Ian. “I wouldn’t have left Barry with just anyone. I knew you’d love him, be a father to him until I got – got over it.”

  “But, Gillian,” Val said, “you gave us no idea. If you’d told us—”

  Gillian looked at her. “I was too much of a coward, Val. I knew how you’d despise me.”

  Ian cleared his throat, but Gillian gave him no chance to interrupt as she went on: “I stayed in Sydney after I left you. I had a nervous breakdown. I was in a nursing home. I gave a false name, for I was afraid you might look for me. I didn’t want to see anyone. I just wanted to” – she paused, and the last word was a whisper – “die.”

  Clare stared at her, fascinated, one moment sympathizing, believing every word Gillian said, trying and beginning to understand her – the next, seeing it all as an act, An act to throw a net round David and catch him. She felt sick with shame – for she knew why she hated Gillian. It was because she feared her.

  Gillian went on, twisting the lace-edged handkerchief in her hands as if she was nervous: “People don’t die so easily.” Her voice was wistful. “I got better.

  Then – then I’ll never forget the shock this was, they discovered I had something wrong with my lungs.”

  She shifted her head and looked at them all. “Can you imagine it? I thought I was well. I was coming back here to Barry. I knew this was something I must face up to, but then they told me I must go into a sanatorium. I decided – well, it seemed to me it was best not to let you know anything about it. I had no idea how long I’d be ill.”

  “What sanatorium were you in?” Val asked, her voice flat.

  Gillian smiled. “You don’t believe me, Val. I knew you wouldn’t—” She turned to Ian. “But you do, Ian.

  You know me better than Val does. You always trusted me.”

  Ian looked acutely embarrassed. “Why should you lie?”

  “What sanatorium were you in, Gillian?” David asked quietly.

  Gillian turned to him, laughing. “Et tu, Brute? The Harringay Sanatorium in the Blue Mountains in New South Wales. Lovely if you weren’t ill.” She shivered.

  “I hated it all. The discipline, the needles, the drugs to swallow, the diet. Everything. But I stuck it out. And here I am, dismissed as perfectly well and able to shoulder my responsibilities.”

  Val’s face was drained of colour. “We had hoped to adopt Barry,” she said.

  “Adopt him?” Gillian turned to her, her voice suddenly shrill with anger. “Are you mad?” She turned to Ian, grabbing his arm. “Ian, she can’t mean that. He’s mine!” Her voice was shaky.

  “Gillian, please don’t get upset,” Ian said, in his deep firm voice. “Val merely meant that we both hoped – we thought you’d left him for good.”

  “For good?” Gillian. echoed in a whisper. “You could believe that of me?” Dramatically she buried her face in her hands, and in the same moment the screen door opened with a bang and there were the three children, standing there, startled, in the doorway.

  “Barry,” David said, his voice strained.’ “Come here.”

  Clare clenched her hands in her lap as she watched the small, dark-haired boy come slowly forward, looking at the strange woman whose hands had fallen away from her face and who was staring at him so strangely.

  Barry moved slowly, a small boy in faded jeans and a blue shirt, his dark hair rumpled, his face grubby and wary as he stared at Gillian Hirst. He leant against David, who put his arms loosely round the small boy.

  Barry was staring, as if fascinated, at Gillian. Could he dimly remember her? How much did a small boy remember?

  Gillian was looking at him. Now she held out her arms. “Barry, my baby,” she said huskily, and surely those were real tears in her eyes? “Oh, Barry darling, it’s been so long.”

  Barry looked pale and as if he was going to be sick.

  He leaned against David. “Who is she?” he asked in his shrill voice.

  “Your stepmother, Barry,” David said quietly, dropping his arms so that Barry stood, free and unhampered.

  “Barry, I’m so sorry I couldn’t come back before.

  I’ve been ill. So very ill,” Gillian said softly.

  Barry stared. “Ill — in hospital?” His young voice was uncertain.

  “Yes, Barry, like you. I was in bed for nearly two years. That’s why I had to leave you, Barry, because I was ill.”

  Barry took a step forward. “Auntie Val said you’d be back. It was Zoe said you never would. You didn’t go ‘cos you didn’t want me?”

  “Of course not,” Gillian said indignantly. “I love you, Barry. Would I leave you if I loved you?”

  Barry took another step forward and Gillian caught his arms and pulled him gently towards her, until she had her arms round him and was holding him close to her. “Oh, Barry, my son,” she said huskily.

  Val stood up, her chair scraping, and she walked into the house. Her cheeks each had a bright red patch.

  Clare looked at David as he moved his head slightly towards the door before turning to look at the small boy.

  Clare quietly slipped away. But when she found Val, Val was in her bedroom, the door locked. Clare could hear the sound of desperate crying, and knew there was nothing she could do or say to help.

  She went back to the verandah. Should she take Marge and Zoe away so that Gillian could have Barry to herself? But she found Marge and Barry standing close to Gillian, Zoe sitting on a chair close by, her
face grave and interested, and Gillian, her arm possessively round Barry, was saying:

  “And you both must come and stay with us, mustn’t they, Barry? We’ll have such fun, picnics and… .”

  “I’ve got a pony, Mummy,” Barry said, his voice uncertain. “Can we take him?”

  “Of course, darling. It’ll be your real home. You can have anything you want,” Gillian said warmly. She looked at David. “Oh, David darling, isn’t it wonderful? I’ve waited so long, and at last—”

  There was a radiant smile on Barry’s face as he looked at Gillian, and David was smiling, too. Clare quietly turned and went to her bedroom, turning the key gently in the lock. Like Val, there was only one thing she could do. She flung herself down, holding the pillow close, and let the tears come.

  Gillian was back — so Barry had a mother now, and David— What had David? What he had always wanted? The girl he had always loved?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  LIFE at Noorla Homestead seemed to change overnight. The free-and-easy, comfortably happy way of living vanished. Clare knew why she was unhappy —she was jealous of Gillian. Even though she felt ashamed, she still could not find herself liking Gillian Hirst. Of course, she tried to like her, to find some redeeming feature, for after all, no one was completely bad — and, she had to admit, Gillian was not the boy’s real mother. She was kind to Barry, that was the main thing. She read to him, admired his efforts at painting, patiently watched him on his pony, Sparta. Gillian was friendly with Marge, too, but only distantly polite to Zoe. This Clare could not blame Gillian for doing, because Zoe was often rude, deliberately walking out of the room when Gillian walked in.

  Gillian was charming, too, to Ian; she would listen with apparent interest as he talked about his cattle and horses; every night he taught her to play chess, for she said she had always longed to know the game. How very lovely she was, with her husky voice and those amazing blue eyes; small wonder Ian enjoyed her company, while Clare sat in the sewing-room with Val.

  It was Val who was most obviously changed. Gone was her quick laughter and chatter. She often vanished for hours at a time. She even stopped talking on the galah session, for Gillian always talked on that, having .first talked to David at length, about Barry, the weather, or anything she could think of to keep David longer on the air.

  Was Gillian really in love with David? Or was it the security he could now offer her that she needed? It seemed sad and strange that so beautiful and sophisticated a woman should feel unsure of herself, for Gillian was unsure, despite her apparent poise. Clare knew that because of the way Gillian treated her. When Ian or Mike were present, Gillian was charming — but the instant she was alone with a woman, Gillian changed.

  She still called Clare “Nurse”, though she always apologized, if Ian was near. She was never friendly, always on her guard. When Gillian was annoyed, her creamy skin would flush and her blue eyes grow hard and cold.

  Once she appealed to Clare for sympathy. “It’s hard to have my own cousin behave as Val does,” she said wistfully, “but I can understand, for Val was always jealous.”

  Several times she said: “D’you mind if Barry and I are alone?”

  Was this all for Barry’s good? He had changed, become disobedient, and difficult. Clare was sorry for him, for now he had three “mothers”. Whom should he obey? He compromised by obeying no one. Gillian invariably took his side, in any case. He had lost interest in the clinic since his stepmother told him she did not want him to be a doctor! Nor did he help at the daily hour-long school for the Aborigine children as she was horrified at the mere idea. When Barry wanted something Gillian could not produce, she always consoled him by saying: “Wait until we get to America.”

  It was obvious that America was Gillian’s goal. She planned to take Barry there. Was she hoping David would go as well?

  Baroona Hospital – and no David! Clare tried to imagine it, and couldn’t. Yet what had David said to her at Maggie’s? That no man had the right to demand such a sacrifice from the woman he loved. Would he be prepared to give up his life here in order to make Gillian happy?

  In the evenings, when Ian sat reading the paper, Gillian would always insist on putting Barry to bed, reading him a story. She would come back, her face radiant, telling Ian how very happy she was, and how much she had missed her darling baby. Sometimes, when Gillian spoke like that, Val would rise, scraping her chair noisily, and vanish until dinner was ready.

  Sometimes, though, she would sit silently, gazing out into the dark night, her mouth a thin unhappy line.

  Gillian had annexed the little water-house Val had promised to show Clare when it was “really hot”. To Gillian, every day was too hot. The roof and walls were thatched and lined with spinifex, and by some ingeni-ous system, when you turned a tap, water was sprayed on the roof, running down the walls, to be caught in pipes beneath the little house and taken outside to the flowers so that no water need be wasted.

  “I can only breathe here,” Gillian would say dramatically, stretching herself on the couch, while Barry sat by her side, crayoning or cutting out pictures for his scrap-book.

  “There isn’t a corner sacred any more,” Val said explosively one day to Clare, as she watered her ferns on the verandah. “One day I’ll—” She bit her lip.

  “Clare, d’you think I’m unreasonable and rude? Ian does. Do you see through Gillian, or are you her admir-ing slave as well?”

  •

  Clare hesitated. “I don’t like her, Val, but—” She hesitated, not sure how much she disliked Gillian for herself, or because she constituted a menace, a danger, because she was jealous of her. She must be careful what she said. Val must not be allowed to know that the reason Clare hated Gillian was because she loved David!

  Val’s eyes were filled with tears. “Can’t you see she’s – evil? Look how. Barry has changed. When he’s cheeky, she laughs and says how witty he is. When he sulks, she says he’s acting just like his father ,did, as if it’s clever! He’s quarrelled with Zoe and Marge, never helps us—”

  “I know,” Clare agreed sadly. “He’s changed completely.”

  They heard a door close and glanced down the verandah. Zoe stood there, her face grave.

  “I hate her, too,” Zoe said flatly.

  Clare and Val glanced worriedly at one another, both sharing similar thoughts. How long had Zoe stood there? How much had she heard?

  “Mummy,” Zoe said, “it’s our home. Can’t you make her go?”

  Val sat down suddenly. “Zoe darling, I wish you hadn’t heard. I shouldn’t speak – of Gillian like that, but— Look, Zoe, if I sent her away – which I can’t do –she’d take Barry, you know.”

  Zoe came closer; her plaited dark hair swinging.

  “But would she, Mummy?” she asked earnestly. “I don’t think she really loves Barry.”

  “But, Zoe darling, legally she is his mother– quite as much as if she were his real mother,” Val said wearily.

  “You don’t think she loves Barry?” Clare asked gently. In her eyes, Gillian’s love and kindness for Barry had been her one redeeming feature.

  “I know she doesn’t,” Zoe said scornfully. “She acts like she does when you’re all around, but she pushes him away if his hands are dirty, and she never listens to what he says. She isn’t a real mother – like mine—”

  Zoe turned and hurried away from them as if afraid she had said too much. Val looked at Clare sadly.

  “Out of the mouths of babes,” she said wryly. “Why does Gillian put on such an act?” She smiled unhappily. “And there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  Left alone, Clare stood on the verandah, looking towards the little water-house, where Gillian sat with - Barry by her side. Surely she must love him to spend so much time with him? Or was it to get Barry on her side?

  Was Val merely jealous? Naturally she was bitterly disappointed at the thought of losing Barry, but then she must always have known this could happen. Ian must be feeling jus
t as sad, for he dearly loved small Barry, but he never let it affect his behaviour to Gillian.

  Clare’s hands were gripping the railing tightly. She was jealous of Gillian, too. Were women too emotional to be able to think justly? She hated Gillian because she feared that David loved her. Did that mean Gillian was bad? Evil was the harsh word Val had used. Even Zoe hated Gillian, so did Ma Astor – all of them females.

  Clare went to the kitchen. Mrs. Astor would always produce a cup of tea to cheer her up. Ma Astor was scolding Rachel, the ungainly Aborigine maid.

  “This pot,” Ma said fiercely as she banged the lid of the saucepan down, “he belong down there.” She indicated a shelf. “You, girl, you little bit no good.” She touched her forehead significantly.

  Rachel’s face remained unmoved, but her eyes wide-ned, rolling to show the whites, as she nervously crumpled her apron, gave a shrill giggle, and clapped her hand over her mouth.

  Ma Astor looked at Clare. “Why do I waste my breath? She’ll never learn, but she could be worse. You want a cup of char?”

  “Too right I do!” Clare said, and they laughed together.

  That evening, when Mike joined them after dinner, Ian and Gillian were playing chess. Gillian had very prettily apologized for usurping Ian and had said she felt sure Clare would have little time to play chess, for she was far too young and attractive for such a game.

  Mike sat by Clare, unusually silent, his eyes watching Gillian’s every movement, while Val was writing a letter.

  “By the way, Ian,” Gillian said suddenly, “what’s David doing about these wonderful inventions of his?”

  Clare saw the way Val’s pen halted, the look on her face as she said: “What do you know about David’s inventions?”

  Clare saw Ian’s quick look of distress, but Gillian was smiling. “I read about them in the paper. We got newspapers in the sanatorium, you know. David should make a lot of money out of them.”

  Val coloured. “David didn’t invent them to make money,” she snapped.

  Gillian laughed. “I know. You don’t need to tell me anything about David. All the same, they need world marketing. Look at the lives they could save.”