She sat up. Rose was in the driver’s seat. In the front passenger-side window was an L-plate stuck to the glass. Where’s your appointment? asked Rhys. Beth had to think. Heidelberg, she said—I’m seeing Dr Twoomey. We’ll take you, he said, don’t worry. When someone sends you off for a test, Beth, you don’t ignore it. I had a cousin—Rose? remember?—who didn’t get his lump checked. Dead at fifty-three. Rose turned the key in the ignition. Beth’s door was still open, the old couple were still looking in.
Wait, no, she said. I’m okay, thank you, really; I’ll get the bus, the receptionist has given me instructions. The bus? said Rhys, turning around. The bus? She nodded, but too fast, like someone hitting her head on a table. She grabbed her bag and got out. She still felt wonky on her feet. She closed the door; Rhys wound his window down. Go away, he said, there’s nothing here to see. He was talking to the old couple. I’ll tell Lyn I saw you, he said to Beth, and that you’re having some tests. She’s got worried lately that everyone’s not putting in like they should. But we all get sick, Beth, we all need a day off. Don’t worry, I’ll tell her. Are you sure you don’t want a lift? Rosie’s a good driver—she goes for her licence next week.
Beth stepped back onto the footpath. Okay, said Rhys—but before you go, if you don’t mind, can I ask what you think of the new proposal? Beth stammered—was this a test? She put down her bag. Sorry, he said. No, it’s exciting, said Beth. It’s the future, said Rhys. Your dad’s at Croydon, isn’t he? Beth nodded. (Where’s this going? What now?) You ought to move him over, said Rhys, when the new one’s ready. Croydon’s past its use-by date, Beth. Move him over, he’d love it. When Lyn and I went on that study trip to Europe our eyes were opened. You remember the photos? Beth nodded. Rose turned the motor off. A maison de retraite in the south of France with ground-floor doors opening out onto a cottage farm where the residents pat the livestock, gather the eggs, pick the herbs, vegetables and fruit. Is there anything like that at Croydon? Ha! Long wooden dining tables, everyone together, and never a meal without wine. Never a meal without wine, Beth, never a meal without wine. On the slope of a hill overlooking the school so the residents can watch the kids playing, hear the bell ringing, see them going home at the end of the day. Most of the residents went to that school and now, here they are, looking out on a new generation, growing, learning, playing. We need to do things differently, Beth, I don’t think you’d disagree. Look at your father. I might be a company director, but I care, I do, I care.
She picked up her bag. It sounded like he’d finished. She felt like she was going to collapse again. Rose restarted the car. I’m glad you like it, said Rhys, I’m glad you’re on board; it might not all happen the way it’s laid out in the plans but we’ll give it a good crack, won’t we? And don’t worry, I’ll tell Lyn, he said. He wound his window up. Rose put the indicator on and pulled out into the street.
Beth sat for a moment on Dr Yi’s low brick fence. Maybe I should go in, she thought, and tell them what just happened? Rest in the waiting room awhile, gather my strength. She could see the receptionist peering out through the blinds. Has she been watching all along? No, said Beth—partly to the receptionist, partly to herself—it’s okay, I’m going to Heidelberg, don’t worry, I won’t leave it for another day. I’ll go and have my tests. She hitched her bag up over her shoulder and stood. The receptionist closed the blinds.
TO HEIDELBERG / LOREN
On the 291 Beth had only just settled into her seat—put her bag in her lap and the referral on top—when she heard a voice beside her. You’ve got one too, it said. There was a woman with a hand on the headrest, her elbow cocked, peering down through the gap. She had a lined face with too much makeup, a cheap scoop-neck dress, brittle brown hair, gold hoop earrings and, despite an edginess coming off her, soft, forlorn-looking eyes. Her voice was husky, she must have been a smoker. I saw your referral, she said. Are you having a test? Beth fingered her envelope. I’ve already had one, yes, she said, and now I’m going for another. The woman sat next to her. Her perfume was familiar, but Beth couldn’t quite place it. The bus pulled away.
You’re going to Heidelberg? said the woman. To see Dr Durnley? Beth glanced down at her envelope. Dr Twoomey, she said, I’m seeing Dr Twoomey. That seemed momentarily to knock the wind out of the woman’s sails. I’m sorry, she said, I thought we were seeing the same one. Beth held up her envelope. Dr Twoomey, she said. The woman took out her own referral, as if to make sure that she was, indeed, seeing Durnley. She held it up for Beth to see. Dr Durnley, she said. There was an address beneath. Beth checked the map clipped to her envelope and, as if to console the woman, said: But it does look like they’re close. The woman looked at her address and nodded.
I’m Beth, said Beth. Loren, said the woman. Beth asked had she not been feeling well and Loren said yes. Do you have kids? Loren asked. Yes, said Beth. I’ve got four, said Loren. I woke up this morning feeling a bit off-colour; Rob called the doctor and took the kids to school. But he wasn’t my usual doctor—I’ve been seeing Dr Lowe for years. He was a locum, doing house calls, Rob got it off a magnet on the fridge. I’m not saying Dr Lowe would have done things any differently but, anyway, even though I didn’t feel all that unwell—is it the same with you?—and even though I’ve got a job to go to, this locum said I needed to have a test. I had to go to Mooroolbark to see someone called Dr Warne. He went through all the usual stuff and then said I had to come here. To Durnley, I mean. But I really can’t afford to be doing all this. She lowered her voice. In fact, she said, I was just thinking of getting off and going home when I saw you there with your referral. It’s not as if there’s anything that wrong with me. Do they think we can just swan around like this all day taking their tests, waiting for their results? I’ve come from Lilydale, that’s miles away, we live in the estate near the lake, and even if I turned around now and went back I’d still have lost a whole day’s work. Rob’s unemployed, has been since this time last year; he used to be a maintenance worker for the council. He’s only fifty-two. He’s been for a hundred interviews but no-one’s going to take him. So I’m the breadwinner—I do reception at a vet’s—but even then I’m only on casual hours and that means I don’t get holiday or sick pay or anything so how can I afford to go off for a day, flitting around here and there, having tests, paying money I don’t have, while back at home I’ve got an unemployed husband and four kids to feed? The little bit we’ve put away, said Loren, is so we can go to Eildon at Christmas—Rob’s mate Gary’s got a boat up there, we’ve been doing it for years—but it’s Rob’s wage that’s always paid for the holiday in the past. So how am I going to explain in eight months’ time when that money’s gone on lost wages and doctors’ fees and pharmaceuticals and whatever else that there’ll be no Eildon holiday this year? We’ve just replaced the hot-water system. The kids don’t whinge; they’re beautiful kids—I’ve got three boys and a girl—but you feel like you’re working all the time, don’t you, so you don’t deprive them of their childhood, while what you’re really doing is depriving them of you. Rob’s a great dad, don’t get me wrong, but I know being a stay-at-home doesn’t sit well with him. He loves those kids to death, sure. But there’s a sadness about him that nothing but a job will fix. So you try to hold it all together, love your kids, love your husband, go to work, pay the bills, and then something like this comes along to really knock you around. I don’t feel that bad. A bit off-colour, that’s all. And now here I am on a bus to Heidelberg for my second test today.
Loren stopped. She was holding the headrest in front of her, trying to steady her thoughts. Sorry, she said: but boy oh boy, what a day. They looked at each other and smiled.
So how many kids have you got? asked Loren. Two, said Beth: two girls. Lettie’s seven, Gem’s five. And a partner? A husband, David, he’s an accountant; I work in aged care, in a nursing home. I woke up this morning feeling a bit unwell. A locum came, like with you. I’ve already seen one specialist and now I’m off to see another. My
phone’s died; I haven’t spoken to David. He runs his own business, he’s got an office with a secretary in Springvale Road. His secretary’s name is Emily. She’s nice. We work hard but to be honest I’m not sure where it gets us.
Where do you live? asked Loren. Heatherdale, said Beth. I can’t afford to get sick either. The house has always been comfortable—we’ve been there just over ten years now—but lately David’s been making plans to renovate. I don’t know where he thinks the money’s going to come from. Out of the sky? Of course the girls are going to need a room each eventually but that’s easier said than done. He says he can do it himself but he’s all talk; he’s never held a hammer in his life. Leave it, I say, the girls are fine. But what I’m really thinking is: Well, that’s that, then, I’ll be working at the nursing home another ten years at least. And anyway, wouldn’t we be better off selling Heatherdale and buying something bigger further out? But he won’t listen. The school’s close, his office is a fifteen-minute drive, my work’s three stops down the line—what’s the point of selling, he’d say, when we can make what we have here better? And then, the grand plan. When he’s fixed it up he’ll use the house as capital to buy another property, an investment property, he says, an apartment or townhouse or something. I don’t know, I feel stupid thinking it sometimes, but shouldn’t we try harder to be happy with what we’ve got?
Sorry, said Beth. It’s good to speak, said Loren. I should ring David, though, said Beth. Use mine, said Loren. She handed it over. Beth stared at the screen. The number’s in my phone, she said, I don’t know what it is. Nine-five? Nine-five-three? They both kept looking at Loren’s screen, willing David’s number to appear. I can’t remember the office one either, she said. Look it up, said Loren: what’s it called? The bus slowed, the brakes squeaked; they pulled into a stop. A man got on and walked down the aisle; he too was carrying a referral.
The bus moved off again. Beth gave the phone back. I think I’ll leave it for now, she said. They were in Doncaster, on their way to Bulleen. At the next stop two people with referrals got on, one man, one woman; they, like the others, spaced themselves well apart. The bus picked up a dozen passengers before it got to Heidelberg, and of these most carried referrals. Beth was looking out the window now, watching the low-roofed houses and neat front yards of Bulleen pass. Maybe I’ll remember the number later, she thought. But even as she said it she didn’t believe it.
DR TWOOMEY’S
Along a wide main road past tree-lined streets, through parkland, across a bridge, through a cutting, the bus changed lanes, turned right, then left, and groaned its way uphill. The driver put his microphone on: We are now approaching the hospital district. There was a buzz of activity; everyone was fiddling with their referrals, craning their necks to see out. They crawled past a strip of shops and by leaning down and looking up Beth could see the hospital on the hill above. It was made of darker bricks than her mother’s. The bus pulled up below it, beside a railway station, and soon the passengers were out of their seats, crowding the aisle, pushing to the front, waving their referrals, asking the driver for directions. Beth and Loren watched—he did seem to know what he was doing. He’d take a passenger’s referral, glance at the address, then point and tell them which way to go. Is there anyone else for Dr Dalawa?—and those for Dr Dalawa made their way to the front. Anyone else for Durnley?—and Loren jumped out of her seat. She glanced a quick goodbye at Beth and hurried down the aisle. The front of the bus was clearing now, the driver looked up into his mirror; Beth gathered her bag and went to show him her referral.
Twoomey? he said. I just sent one off there now—there he goes. He pointed at the figure turning left down a side street. Follow him, said the driver. Beth stepped down. A small group of patients—are we patients?—were walking away in the opposite direction with Loren at their back. She watched them go, then hurried to the side street where the man she was to follow had disappeared.
It was quiet out here—deathly quiet, she thought—away from the sound of traffic and especially the trucks and buses gearing down to get up the hill. She saw the man in the distance, walking in under the street trees, now in sun, now in shade. There were no doctor signs that she could see. The dizziness had gone, the bus ride had refreshed her. Yes, she thought, my body knows how to walk. She hitched her bag up hard over her shoulder, let her arms swing freely and quickly gained a few metres on him.
Then suddenly he was gone. She hurried ahead and saw him turn into the driveway of a house, indistinguishable from every other she’d passed: white weatherboard with a white tin letterbox, a concrete drive with a strip of grass, a clipped lawn with a curved garden bed and in it a mixture of European and native shrubs. She heard the squeak of a rusty hinge. Did he go around the back? She walked a few metres down. On the tin garage was a small black-on-white plastic sign (the white had yellowed with age) with an arrow pointing at a gate. Consulting Rooms, it said. She could smell cigarette smoke. She took off her walking shoes and put on her heels. She unclicked the gate and went in.
A man was sitting on a bench—he wasn’t the one she had followed. Beside the bench was a kidney-shaped fishpond with flat lilies on the surface and in the middle a miniature Japanese teahouse with water dripping from its roof. The garden behind had been landscaped too, with rocks, bamboo, low shrubs and moss and a narrow path of plastic grass winding through it. At the back was an arbour with another bench seat beneath. The man had his elbows on his knees and was staring at the ground; he brought a cigarette to his lips without raising his head and blew the smoke back down. When he heard Beth he cocked his head briefly sideways, then looked again at his shoes.
Excuse me, she said. The man straightened up. He was about her age, or a bit younger: dark features, a full, round face with a three-day growth. He wore jeans, sneakers and a navy polo shirt. You have to go through there, he said, pointing at the back door. There was a sign screwed to the weatherboards that said Twoomey twice. Are you a patient? she asked. Am I a patient or am I patient? said the man. He took a drag of his cigarette, pursed his lips and blew the smoke up. Go in, he said, get it over with. He looked at the ground again.
Beth crossed to the door and put her hand on the handle and saw that there were, indeed, two Twoomeys. Drs Tim & Helen Twoomey, it said. Go in, go in, said the man. His voice had grown not just insistent but even a little nasty. Another patient came out: a woman, older than Beth; she tried to smile but her face was locked. Beth heard the side gate open and close.
It was odd, coming in through the back way—here was the sign, here the welcome mat, this was the entrance. The first thing that struck her was the smell. Lime and basil? To her left was a door with a toilet sign and halfway down the hall an elegant blackwood hallstand with a splay of spider orchids growing in a bed of fake moss. The walls were very white. There was a black-framed oval mirror and, opposite, a Japanese silk screen with a row of figures holding hands. She could hear piped music: clear notes, separated and sustained, with long silences and the occasional sound of water and bird call between.
In the waiting room at the end of the hall the walls were also white and on one end of the high blackwood counter was a happy Buddha with water cascading from his head. It smelled of fruit and herbs in here too. In a row of tasteful blond-wood chairs along one wall two patients were already waiting: a woman and a man, spaced well apart. On another wall, where Beth guessed you could have fitted four or five more chairs, was an enormous glass tank with tropical fish swimming around in it. A dark-framed clock hung above.
At first Beth couldn’t see the receptionist, either he was too short or the counter too tall, and it was not until she’d crossed the room—avoiding the stares of the others—and leaned against it that she saw the smooth-faced young man with perfect white teeth smiling at her. His hair was cut short-back-and-sides and stuck up on top like a thatch. He wore blue-grey trousers and a long collarless shirt with a dozen small white buttons up the front. It looked like a uniform but it was hard to tell
. He smiled even wider and cocked his head: there were six silver stud earrings in one ear.
I’m here to see Dr Twoomey, said Beth. We have two Twoomeys, said the receptionist, and he pointed with a flat hand at a wooden rack at the far end of the counter with two stacks of business cards in it. Both were jade-coloured and both to Beth’s eye identical. She opened her bag, took out her referral and handed it over; the receptionist ran a finger under the flap. Dr Tim, he said, smiling: you’re here to see Dr Tim. Take a seat. Would you like tea? This took Beth by surprise; she thought he’d said tea but she wasn’t sure. We have jasmine or oolong. Jasmine, thank you, said Beth.
She went over and sat along the wall opposite the tank, keeping an even distance between herself and the others. The woman at the end of the row gave her what she thought was a sad smile but the other patient, a man, presumably the man she’d followed, just kept staring at the fish. They both had a white porcelain cup; the man held his in his lap, the woman had put hers on the floor.
It would be nice, thought Beth, a cup of tea. She listened to the kettle going on in the little room out the back and the receptionist opening and closing the cupboards. It might, she thought, even momentarily suppress my hunger. It was already well after lunch. She stole a glance at the others. The man was fiddling with his cup; the woman was now staring at the fish. On a corner table past the tank was a single oil burner, jade again, and the source, she realised, of the lime and basil smell. There were also two tiny black speakers high up in the corners of the room—when Beth looked at them the rainforest music grew louder, when she looked away, softer. She did this a few times. There were no magazines that she could see.
Some Tests Page 3
