The light outside had changed, the sky was a darker blue. Starlings chattered in the trees. Beth followed Geoff’s directions down the main street where the shops and businesses were closing for the day—display stands were being dragged inside, shutters lowered, glass doors closed and bolted. She felt clear and purposeful, and if the price was to spill a few tears on Geoff’s table, well, so be it. She had her tote bag over her shoulder, his tucker bag in her hand. She’d forgotten to thank him—she hadn’t even paid for the meal. Later, she thought. Tomorrow. Soon enough.
At the bus stop at the bottom of the hill half-a-dozen people were waiting: Beth recognised two from the 291. Everyone stood well apart. When the 513 pulled up she made her way to the back and set her tote in her lap with Geoff’s brown paper bag on top. The streets were sparser here and greener than before. The bus stopped along the way to pick up new passengers—some held referrals, some didn’t—and the empty seats slowly filled.
When they arrived at the terminus in Greensborough, she realised she’d been dozing. The other passengers were already filing down the steps. The sky was dark, except for a murky orange low down in the west and some slate-grey, salmon-tinted clouds. Outside, other buses were pulling in and out, passengers were getting on or off, some standing waiting in under the shelters. The driver was helping those up front with directions, turning and occasionally calling out over the heads of those still queuing in the aisle. If there’s anyone here to see Dr Pingayut, he would say, that’s the medical centre back there, right, then right again; if you’re travelling on to Yarrambat, South Morang or Epping you will need the 901, opposite the station at the bottom of the hill. Beth craned her neck to see. The queue kept moving forward; she attached herself to the back.
There were only a few people for the medical centre, she could count four at most, but not all the others were for the 901 either. As she got closer she could hear the driver asking roughly every one in five: Bundoora? Kingsbury? Preston?—and then pointing to a different stop. Move through, please, he said, move through; if you don’t know where you’re going, have your referral ready. If you’ve had enough and want to go home, assemble over there.
She was the last one out; those for the medical centre had already gone. The 901 group was gathered on the footpath and, following the driver’s instructions, they now started walking down the hill. They were out on the edge of the country now: the air was fresh, the cars fewer. Night was coming down. In a cutting at the bottom of the hill was a brightly lit railway station with a bus stop opposite; Beth stood at the edge of the group and turned her ear to the chatter.
They were talking mostly about where they’d come from and where they were going next; most seemed to have started in the east, like her—Burwood, Scoresby, Olinda in the hills. Each said they’d woken up not feeling right and been sent off for some tests. None appeared particularly bothered by this: all seemed to think it most likely a passing thing. Some asked which specialist the others had been referred to this time and, although a whole host of names was mentioned, Beth did not hear Dr Kolm among them. One man said he’d already seen four; another, six. One woman told how she’d seen three yesterday and two today and had slept overnight in the last one’s surgery with only a cup of tea and a biscuit before bed. Those other patients with money, said another, they’re all staying in five-star hotels, ordering meals up to their rooms. There was a lot of head-shaking then, and more comparisons of referrals. Again Beth heard no mention of Kolm.
Eventually the 901 pulled up and everyone piled on. There were a few people who didn’t look like patients—an old woman with a shopping trolley seemed confused and even offended by all this talk of referrals and tests—but they were heavily outnumbered. As with the 513, they all sat well apart, except for the small group that had broken the ice at the bus stop and who now hung together up the front. Beth found a seat halfway back and watched the houses of Greensborough thin out into bush.
They stopped at a streetlight to set down a woman and her child, then after that the elderly woman with the trolley. The bush gave way to scruffy paddocks. The sky was a dark dirty blue but over in the east a bright moon had risen. They were a long way from the suburbs now. They passed a golf course, a pony club, a shire depot, a paddock full of rusted cars; sometimes Beth caught a glimpse of a new housing estate in the distance, scars of dirt and rudimentary roads. Then, in what looked like the middle of nowhere, the bus stopped at a streetlight and two passengers with referrals got out. Anyone else for Dr Trieger? the driver called.
They crossed a creek and groaned up a hill until they were again among clean streets, wide footpaths and houses with the lights on inside. The bus slowed to a halt, a few passengers stirred. Dr Tayo! called the driver, and three patients made their way to the front. Beth watched them get down. The bus drove on. She pulled her jacket tight. They passed factory outlets, a homemaker centre, a hardware barn, a row of shops. She couldn’t remember a time she wasn’t there for the girls—to look at the drawings they’d done, take their hands, thank Sandra, walk them home. Of course David would remember, he’d have got her message and he’d be worried, but that wouldn’t make him forget. He needed to remember Gem’s library book, though, in the calico bag on the hook. I should have told him that. She’s got behind, she has to mark it off every night on her chart. Lettie’s okay, you can’t compare, she’s happy tucked up in bed reading but Gem’s got ants in her pants. You’ve got ants in your pants, Gemma Own. But he knows that. He’s just got to check if she’s got the book and, if she hasn’t, to go back and ask Sandra if they can get it from the hook—but he has to check her pack first, don’t ask Sandra if she’s already got it, that’s another one of her things. And he needs to not let Gemma talk him out of it. And make sure she ticks it off. Lettie’s fine, it’s Gem you’ve got to watch—she might have only just started prep but she’ll get away with murder if you let her.
She looked at her watch. They’d already be home; he’d be getting the dinner ready. Three chicken breasts on a plate in the fridge and a packet of sauce in the cupboard. Did Sandi the kitchen hand tell Lyn she saw me at the station? Did Rhys reassure her I was having some tests? And David, he’d have given her a decent story, wouldn’t he? But then, she thought, suddenly panicked, hopefully not so much of a story that it came across as a story. He didn’t give her a story, did he? Or worse, rattled off some vague something-or-other about her feeling a bit flat and needing a day off. That’s what husbands do, don’t they? They think they’re doing the right thing when patently they’re not. Did he puff out his chest, put on a voice, go all manly on her? My wife needs a day off and that’s all there is to it.
No, that’s unfair. And anyway, it doesn’t matter what he said or if Sandi said or if Rhys said or what Lyn thought—I’m sick. He would have at least made it sound serious. She has a headache and a fever, is woozy in the head and can’t stand up or properly raise her arms. Her arms are heavy. Something like that. If they think I’m faking it, then let them be the ones to cast the first stone. How many days has Georgia had off this year alone? Two Fridays and a Monday—and it’s only April. She says she’s catching up on work—the steering committee for the new home in Boronia—but I know because she told me that on at least one of those long weekends she was at a spa retreat with Rick. Three days off in three and a half months. I’m just saying. But Lyn will be forgiving, we all know that, and mostly because Georgia threw up her hand that day to join the steering committee while we just stood there mutely thinking and missed our chance. I’m afraid we only have room for one staff representative and first-in-best-dressed is Georgia.
They stopped beside a train station—suddenly, out of nowhere, with a floodlit car park outside—to drop off more passengers and pick up others. Then they drove on. Beth went back over the morning: the locum standing above, the bird warbling in the tree. Yes, she thought, between that apparently innocent moment and this something has definitely gone awry. She leaned her forehead on the window and looked out
—power poles, powerlines, paddocks—then let her head fall into the gap between the headrest and the sill, and tried to go to sleep. There might not be another chance, she thought.
But she didn’t sleep, or only half-slept. Pictures of the day kept coming to her; other pictures too. A huge white moon, bigger than the Earth, blinding her with its glow. A lemonade stand on a long straight road where a doctor with a stethoscope stood waiting and two queues of patients snaked back into the dark beyond. All the people looked the same, as if they had been cookie-cut or cloned. Beth joined one queue, then another. Then she switched again. The doctor motioned her forward, asked her name, date of birth, what she was in for, when she last ate or drank, did she have any allergies, was she wearing jewellery, were they all her own teeth? Beth answered each question in turn. The doctor asked her to open her hand and he put a small diamond in it. Don’t lose it, he said. She tried to look into his eyes, see properly his features—she thought he looked like someone on TV—but the huge white moon behind him was too bright.
Beth woke when the bus turned sharply—again they were setting down and picking up. There were fewer people than before. When they swung back out onto the road this time she heard one of the new passengers say Epping. Epping. She changed from trainers to heels, adjusted her top, buttoned her jacket, gathered her things into her lap. The driver glanced in the rear-view mirror but gave nothing away. Past the intersection in the distance she could see a well-lit shopping plaza in a sea of parked cars. Opposite the plaza, Geoff had said. She sat up straight and ready.
The bus pulled up beside a shelter in the plaza car park and waited with its motor idling. No-one except Beth got down—those left on the bus, ordinary citizens, looked out the windows at her. That way, said the driver, pointing towards the main road: cross at the lights, past the showrooms, then go straight and it’s second on the left. He waited a moment longer, until he’d set himself against his timetable, then he closed the doors and drove away.
Beth opened the paper bag Geoff had given her and in quick succession ate the muesli bar, the apple and the pear. In the bottom was a twenty-dollar note; she put it in her purse. Beyond the lights of the car park the sky was blue-black dark, but on the far side of the road the driver had mentioned Beth could see the lit façades and signage of a row of showrooms. She hurried to the traffic lights, hit the button and ran across.
DR KOLM’S
Do you want the doctor? said a man in dirty overalls and a hi-vis jacket. He had a thermos in one hand and was pointing down the road with the other. Next one past the smash repairs, he said. Beth could see a small cluster of lights and factory roofs way down there in what were otherwise empty paddocks. That’s it, said the worker. And where have you come from today? Beth was still catching her breath. Heatherdale, she said. Where’s that? asked the man. Between Mitcham and Ringwood, she said. That’s a fair way, he said. And how are you feeling? A bit flustered, actually, said Beth. The worker smiled. There are all these questions I keep meaning to ask, but it’s like someone’s stitched up my lips. They’re the experts, said the worker. True, said Beth. Can I ask you, though, she said, digging in her bag: if you don’t mind, is there somewhere around here I might still get a rebate? She showed him the map Twoomey’s receptionist had given her. There’s one in the plaza, said the worker, but they’ll definitely be closed by now. And don’t worry about tonight—John, Dr Kolm, will look after you. Beth thanked him, and put the map back in her bag. People have been helpful, she said, I seem to have gone from carer to cared-for in what looks like the blink of an eye. The worker smiled. I might see you tomorrow, he said. Look out for falling cranes!
Dull streetlights and a waxing gibbous moon lit the way as Beth walked down Miller Road towards the smash repairs. After that, to the factories, it was mostly vacant land full of rocks and weeds and a footpath so overgrown there was only a thin strip left down the middle to walk on. When she finally got to Dream Haven Court and looked down it she figured they must have given it that name as a joke. Big factories, concrete yards, stacks of pallets, metal cages, rubbish skips, parked machinery—but nothing that looked like a doctor’s surgery. Was the worker pulling her leg? She checked her referral again. There was an odour in the air of warm concrete, metal and dust. Maybe she should at least walk down for a look? The sound of her heels echoed in the yards. She was about to turn around—Turn back, she thought, go home!—when she saw the warm glow of a single light bulb falling onto the footpath ahead.
And there it was. Tucked in between two factories, with a small car park in front: squat, brown-brick, with a bare bulb above a rusted security screen door. There were screens on the front windows too. Screwed to the bricks was a sign, Doctor, and beneath that a smaller sign, After Hours Press Buzzer—with an arrow pointing left. Once called we go, Geoff had said. She reached out and pushed the button. There was a buzz, but a faint, faulty buzz. Then a click. The security door unlocked itself. She pulled the handle: it opened. She turned the knob on the main door and it opened too. She took two steps inside; the screen door squeaked and closed.
The hallway was dim, with a small night-light down on the skirting board. There was a musty smell, a faint whiff of antiseptic, and a low hum coming from the fuse box on the wall. She pulled the main door closed behind her. A few metres along the hallway was a sign, Reception. She stopped to look in. It too had a night-light, a high counter with a donation box, chairs along the walls, one low table with magazines and another, lower table with children’s books and handmade toys. A poster on the wall said: Have You Had Your Check-up Lately? She heard a noise: a tap turning on, then off, then a hand-dryer, on and off. Down the far end of the hall a light came on and a man appeared. Ah! he said: Come in. Beth walked towards him; there was a buzz and click as the security door locked itself behind her.
Dr Kolm was waiting at the door to his room: short, thick set, mostly bald, with big steel-rimmed glasses. His face was pale, his lips pinkish-blue, his clothes cheap and synthetic. There was a whiff of body odour—not unpleasant, almost sweet. He held out a hand—Come in, take a seat, he said—and closed the door behind them. So you found the place all right? Sit down, sit down. It’s late, as you can see—he was pointing at the clock on his desk—but I always allow a little more time for people to find us. And in cases like these, he said, I prefer not to leave it till the following day.
Beth took the vacant chair and put her bag on the floor. I live close by, said Dr Kolm, just over there in Duffy Street; my wife will have dinner waiting. I’ll throw it in the microwave if it’s cold. We bought the house at the same time as the surgery, twenty-five years ago next month. He shuffled some papers. Originally the hospital was going to be on this side of Cooper Street, on those paddocks you passed on the way, but then at the last minute they decided to buy eight hectares next to the plaza. Urban planning, it’s a mystery to me. And by then it was too late to go back. But you make a virtue of necessity, don’t you? And it wouldn’t matter where I was, really, people still come from all over. I’ve grown my customer base by specialising, Beth, which is what you need to do these days. And ironically—and I won’t say I don’t take pleasure in this—even the hospital these past few years has started referring their more difficult cases to me. Dr Kolm smiled; the lines around his eyes, nose and mouth were long and deep. All right, he said, sitting forward, could I have a quick look at your referral?
Beth was still not quite there, so to speak, in the room, with the doctor. She took a moment to register what he had said, then an even longer moment to dig around in her bag. The envelope was already creased and worn; Dr Kolm started reading. The nap on the bus had been nowhere near enough. She smoothed down her skirt and discreetly adjusted a bra strap—she should have fixed her makeup too, she could have done that on the bus.
While Dr Kolm was reading, Beth looked around the room. On the far wall was a high bed with a set of steps up to it and stuffed beneath it four big clear plastic tubs on rollers, like the ones under Lettie’s an
d Gem’s. Each was full of manila folders. On the bed itself was another tub and beside that the doctor’s open briefcase. There were more boxes and tubs under his desk, with just enough room in the middle for his feet, and on the desk itself so many files and loose papers it was hard to see where among it all was the keyboard. The monitor stood above all this on two fat books laid one on top of the other, each with the word MIMS on the spine. Next to the desk was a bookcase with, aside from books, more files and papers, a framed certificate with the words This Is To Certify and, on a separate shelf, a child’s drawing of a stick-figure girl floating up to heaven while the long arm of a doctor held her hand from below. In the top corner of this drawing, again in a child’s hand, was a blue arrow and an N for north.
Dr Twoomey, he said, putting the referral aside, you’ve come from Dr Twoomey? Beth, taken by surprise, turned and nodded. Dr Kolm shook his head, and a little tch-tch escaped from his mouth. And who referred you to him? Dr Yi, said Beth. Dr Kolm rolled his eyes. Have you claimed any rebates yet? Beth shook her head. Okay, said Dr Kolm, we’ll sort that out later. He reached into the piles of papers on his desk, took out a manila folder with Beth’s name and date of birth printed on a sticker in the top corner, and put the referral letter in it. And were there any more? he asked. Just the locum, she said, but I don’t know his name. Dr Kolm cleared some of the debris away and hit the keyboard. The monitor came alive. He hunched over and began to type while Beth sat with her hands in her lap and let her eye drift again to the picture of the little girl going up to heaven. She wore a red dress, had yellow hair and was holding a bunch of flowers. Beth read the spines on a couple of books, then took in the rest of the room. In her mind she was comparing it to the clean and ordered rooms of doctors Yi and Twoomey. But something in her trusted Dr Kolm. Even now, she thought, the way he sat. He was considering. Maybe he was the specialist to get to the bottom of things? Had he, in fact, already made a diagnosis? Was he, even now, she wondered, making plans to write out a prescription, close the file and send her home?
Some Tests Page 6
