by Judy Nunn
He considered the matter carefully. ‘Yes, I like Marilyn Monroe,’ he replied in all seriousness, ‘but Violetta is more pretty, I think.’
Pietro was a greater source of worry than Violet, Maureen thought, sipping her tea.
‘My friend Lucky say you are a wise woman.’ Pietro’s coffee sat forgotten – it was far more important to tell Maureen that she had Lucky’s seal of approval.
‘Oh?’ The non-sequitur baffled her.
‘You say I must “bide my time”. Lucky, he agree. He say you are wise.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘So I do what you say.’ Pietro nodded. ‘I wait until “the time is right”. You will tell me when this is, yes?’
Dear God, why had she said that? She’d simply been buying time, and now the boy was pinning his hopes on her. She smiled, trying to think of a reply, but Pietro’s attention was distracted. He was looking over her shoulder and waving. She turned to see Lucky at the canteen door.
‘Lucky,’ Pietro said, as he crossed to their table. ‘I just speak of you. This is Maureen. Scusa,’ he added apologetically, ‘Mrs Miller.’
‘Maureen’s fine,’ she said. ‘Hello, Lucky.’ She offered her hand.
‘I tell Maureen you say she is wise,’ Pietro said as the two shook.
‘And she is. Most wise.’ Lucky gave Maureen a meaningful nod. ‘Sound advice, in my opinion. Very sound.’
‘Thank you.’ So this was the German Peggy Minchin was seeing. Good-looking bloke, Maureen thought, though she wondered what had happened to his eye. ‘Will you join us, Lucky? Cup of tea? Coffee?’
‘I would love to,’ Lucky replied apologetically, ‘but I’m afraid there is no time. Pietro and I have an appointment.’
‘Yes. I am sorry.’ Pietro sprang dutifully to his feet and, when the men had said their goodbyes, Maureen was left staring vacantly at the untouched coffee and sipping her tea while her mind dwelled, yet again, on the dilemma of Violet and Pietro. Lucky obviously shared her reservations: he, too, believed that Pietro should not be so eager to declare his intentions. But why? she wondered. Was it because Lucky feared her brother’s reaction? Perhaps he saw through Cam’s facade of bonhomie and ‘all men are brothers’. Or was it because he sensed Violet’s frivolous nature? Maureen was more concerned about the latter herself.
Maureen Miller had come to the conclusion that she really didn’t understand young women like Violet. She’d tried to, but she had no grounds for identification. Perhaps if she’d had a daughter of her own, she sometimes thought … But then she hadn’t, had she? As an eighteen-year-old herself, she had never been addicted to the cinema, nor had she devoured magazines about film stars nor lived in a world of romantic make-believe. She’d known exactly what she wanted to do with her life at the age of twelve when a nursing career had beckoned, and for the following six years she’d simply marked time until she could follow her path. Young women like Violet were beyond her comprehension, and she worried about the ramifications of such a rose-coloured view of the world. Was Violet unwittingly toying with Pietro?
‘He looks like Gilbert Roland, only even more handsome,’ Violet had raved when Pietro had started coming into the shop. ‘No, he looks like Rossano Brazzi,’ she’d corrected herself, ‘only much younger.’ Maureen had laughed; she’d found it amusing then. She didn’t any more. Not since things had taken a serious turn.
‘I’m in love, Auntie Maureen,’ Violet said these days. Pietro was no longer a carbon copy of her Hollywood idols; but she now cast herself in the role of female lead. ‘When he kisses me, I feel like I’m Joan Crawford. Truly!’ she insisted emphatically, as if expecting her aunt to laugh, although Maureen didn’t. ‘He makes me feel like I’m the most beautiful woman in the world.’
Maureen loved her niece. She valued the fact that Violet spoke freely to her, the way she never would to her mother, and she was careful not to be too dismissive of the girl’s romantic notions, frivolous though she found them. What right did she have to be dismissive anyway, she thought, she with her childless, failed marriage? Perhaps Violet really was experiencing true love. Although she doubted it. Violet was a child. But she was a child in a woman’s body. She’d blossomed overnight from a tomboy with an obsession for horses to a young woman with an obsession for romance. It was a lethal transformation, and the one most likely to pay the price was not Violet herself, but young Pietro. Would he last the distance in her affections, or would she tire of this particular romantic illusion and choose another hero?
In buying time with her advice, Maureen had sought to protect Pietro, but it was now evident that, with the endorsement of his good friend Lucky, the boy was relying entirely upon her. Dear God, she’d even told him that she’d approach her brother when the time was right.
Well, in the unlikely event that it should come to that, she would do so, Maureen thought, draining the last of her tea. She would stand up to Cam; they’d had their run-ins before. In the meantime, it was unlikely he’d hear of his daughter’s liaison. He purchased his supplies at Adaminaby and wouldn’t make another trip to Cooma until well into the spring. By that time Violet’s infatuation might be a thing of the past. Why risk the wrath of Cam Campbell unnecessarily?
Maureen looked at the clock on the canteen wall; she wasn’t officially on duty for another whole hour. It was true she’d driven the Holden in because she was working the night shift and the weather was threatening, but that wasn’t why she was early. With Violet at the store, the house was empty and Maureen preferred the hospital. Indeed, her life seemed purposeless elsewhere. It had for some time now, ever since Andy left. A whole three years.
She rinsed the cups in the corner sink and left them to drain. Early or not, there was much to be done – they were shockingly understaffed. She’d catch up on some paperwork before it was time to start on her rounds.
‘You are in excellent health, Pietro.’
Doctor Vanpoucke had completed his general examination and now leaned back in his leather armchair, crossed his legs, tapped his fingertips together and, beaming through horn-rimmed spectacles, gave Pietro an encouraging smile.
‘So, tell me about yourself.’
He was well spoken, with a slightly stilted accent that was as much Australian as it was Dutch; having arrived in the area before the flow of migrant workers, Maarten Vanpoucke occasionally joked that he was a ‘true Aussie’. He had chosen the quiet township of Cooma for what he termed his ‘semi-retirement’, away from the big hospitals in which he’d practised. Here he could work at his leisure and enjoy the best of both worlds, he said: the Australian summers and the snowy winters which were so reminiscent of Europe. ‘So much for leaving behind the hustle and bustle, though,’ he’d remarked to Lucky. ‘It now seems that half of Europe has come to Cooma.’
Pietro didn’t know where to begin. He was in awe of Doctor Vanpoucke and he wished Lucky was with him, but Lucky was sitting alone in the waiting room outside. There were no other patients, and the doctor’s receptionist had gone for the day. ‘A quick check-up first, and a bit of a chat,’ the doctor had said, ‘then I would like you to join us, Lucky.’
Maarten Vanpoucke was an impressive-looking man in his early forties. Elegantly grey-haired, with a body tending to the fleshy, he bore the appearance of one who enjoyed the finer things in life, and his house in Vale Street attested to the fact. It was a two-storey building built of local stone, with a large bay window on the ground floor and an upstairs balcony with iron lacework railings. It was most imposing, and even the downstairs rooms from which he conducted his medical practice were elegantly furnished.
Pietro sat carefully on the edge of his chair, frightened his boots might scuff the glossy polish of its carved wooden legs. The doctor gave him another avuncular smile.
‘Where I should start?’ Pietro asked.
‘You must start from wherever you remember,’ the doctor said. ‘That would be the convent, would it not? Lucky has told me that you have no memory of your early l
ife, is this so?’
‘Yes. Is so. Is the Convent of the Sacred Heart in Milano I remember.’
Doctor Vanpoucke was very attentive as Pietro told his story, and gradually the boy relaxed. He told the Dutchman all about the convent, and about Sister Anna Maria and how she had found him having one of his fits, and how she had called in the doctor.
‘The doctor ask Sister Anna Maria what happen,’ he said. ‘He ask her many things. Then he say to her is epilepsy.’
‘I see. And you had experienced these fits before?’
‘Oh yes, many time. In the shed of the convent garden. Is my secret.’ Pietro told the doctor about the signs, the tic in his left eye, the pounding in his temple. ‘I know before it happen,’ he said, ‘and I hide. I put the leather in my mouth …’ He ferreted beneath his shirt for the twine; he was enjoying talking to the doctor now. ‘Is here. See?’
‘Ah yes,’ the doctor said. Lucky had told him about the strip of leather and how the boy had placed it between his teeth. ‘It is most wise of you, Pietro.’ He examined the scarred leather. ‘This has seen much wear,’ he said sympathetically. ‘Did Sister Anna Maria give this to you?’
‘No.’ Pietro shook his head. ‘I do not know who give this to me. I have this when I come to the Convent of the Sacred Heart. Sister Anna Maria, she say it is …’ he searched for the word in English, but gave up, ‘…pratico, and she say for me to keep it.’
The doctor laughed. ‘It is indeed practical, Pietro, and I suggest you hang on to it, but I hope you will never need to use it again. Shall we ask Lucky to come in?’
Pietro was no longer inhibited by the doctor and his fine house and his chairs, but he was more in awe of the man than ever. Was it possible the doctor could cure his fits?
‘Yes. Please,’ he said.
While Lucky answered the doctor’s questions, Pietro remained silent. During the recounting of the accident in the tunnel, he nodded verification, but when it came to the fit and what Lucky had seen, Pietro stared at the floor, squirming with embarrassment. When Sister Anna Maria had talked to the doctor at the convent, he had been taken aside; now Pietro was hearing every sordid detail.
‘Forgive me, Pietro,’ the doctor said, recognising the boy’s discomfort, ‘but I need to know exactly what happens during your fits for a correct diagnosis. A witness is essential.’
Finally, Maarten Vanpoucke leaned back in his chair, legs once again crossed, fingertips once again tapping and, over his spectacle rims, he addressed himself to Lucky.
‘Pietro has told me that he has warnings of his attacks, a tic in his left eye, a throbbing in his temple … perhaps a pain in the stomach?’ he suggested, turning to the boy. ‘Would this be correct, Pietro?’
Pietro was dumbfounded. Yes, sometimes he did have a pain in the stomach. How did the doctor know this? He nodded.
‘These are not warnings as such,’ Doctor Vanpoucke said to Lucky. ‘Pietro is already experiencing a simple partial seizure on the right side of the brain. It is not something he is able to control, but it gives him time to escape, a time when he is still lucid, before the grand mal strikes. Now Lucky, you told me you believe something triggered this particular attack you witnessed.’
‘Yes,’ Lucky replied. ‘Pietro told me himself. He said something made it happen. Do you remember, Pietro?’
Pietro didn’t. Both men turned to him, but he had no answers.
‘The accident,’ Doctor Vanpoucke said, ‘carrying the man from the tunnel was very stressful, it’s understandable. We must try to avoid such triggers whenever possible.’ Maarten Vanpoucke always used the royal medical ‘we’ when it came to advice, people found it comforting. ‘But we have something even more “practical” to hand.’ He smiled at Pietro as he emphasised the word, then leaned forward and, taking his favourite fountain pen from its niche, he opened his prescription pad. ‘Your illness can be controlled with medication, Pietro,’ he said as he scribbled. ‘I am writing you a script for Dilantin.’ He tore off the page and slid it across the highly polished desk. ‘You will take this to the chemist, and he will give you some pills. You will take one of these pills every morning and every night.’ The eyes behind the horn-rimmed spectacles stared solemnly at Pietro. ‘You will do this for the rest of your life. Do you understand me, Pietro?’
Pietro’s own eyes were wide with amazement, he scarcely dared believe it possible. Was it really this simple? He looked at Lucky, seeking affirmation, and Lucky nodded.
‘You will visit me regularly for the next six months and if all is going well, as I’m sure it will, then you will need to come and see me only when you require a new prescription.’ Maarten Vanpoucke stood, signalling the end of the consultation.
‘You mean I have no more fits?’ Pietro remained glued to his chair, looking from the doctor to Lucky in disbelief.
‘If you take your medication, I see no reason why you should have any further seizures. Now, Lucky,’ Maarten suggested with a smile, ‘shall we adjourn upstairs? It is surely my turn to win.’
At the door, Maarten took Pietro’s hand in both of his and shook it. ‘Good luck to you, Pietro, although you will not need it. We will monitor your progress and keep a check on your medication and, between the two of us, you and I, we will conquer your illness.’
Pietro stammered his thanks and left. He stepped out into Vale Street where the biting winter wind ripped at his clothes and people walked bent double, chins tucked against chests. But Pietro didn’t notice the wind. He was euphoric, in a daze. His life had changed, just like that.
‘I would like to keep a close eye on the boy,’ Maarten said in the upstairs lounge room as he poured their drinks and Lucky set up the chess board. ‘At least for a while – his amnesia is worrying. He’s said nothing to you of any memory prior to the convent?’
‘He told me once that he came from the mountains.’
‘Oh really?’ Maarten wondered why the boy had said nothing to him of the mountains. Then he remembered that it had been he himself who had opened their conversation with queries about the convent, so it was hardly surprising. ‘A memory prior to the convent,’ he said, handing Lucky his glass of beer. ‘Most interesting. What did he recall?’
‘Nothing really, just the mountains. And the goats, he said he could remember the goats. Nothing more. He couldn’t remember his early days in Milan either. Evidently he was found wandering the streets, and that’s when he was taken to the orphans’ home.’
Scotch in hand, Maarten sat opposite Lucky. ‘Proost,’ he said in Dutch.
‘Prosit,’ Lucky responded in German. They smiled, clinked glasses and took a swig of their drinks. ‘I never brought up the subject again,’ he continued thoughtfully. ‘I sensed fear in him, and I felt guilty that I’d asked him about his past. Of course I didn’t know about the epilepsy then. If I had …’ he tailed off apologetically.
‘How could you possibly have known,’ Maarten assured him. ‘But the boy has certainly been traumatised, and it may well be some subconscious memory that triggers his attacks. I am of the opinion, like you, that Pietro should avoid reminders of his past life whenever possible. But of course,’ he shrugged, ‘there may be others who differ. Modern psychiatric opinion might suggest that the boy confront his demons – there are such therapies practised these days. I could refer him to a Sydney psychiatrist perhaps? If that’s what you wish?’
Lucky was startled. Why was Maarten seeking his permission? Why should he have any say in the matter?
‘The boy obviously sees you as a father figure,’ Maarten explained, noting Lucky’s reaction. ‘He will do whatever you say …’
‘No, no.’ Lucky shook his head emphatically, he wanted no part of it. ‘You’re the doctor, and he’ll do what you say.’ Fond as he was of Pietro, Lucky was tired of being a father figure. Besides, he agreed wholeheartedly with Maarten. If Pietro’s mind was mercifully blocking out some hideous past, then why open the doors and let it back in? Lucky only wished there were doors to
his own past which he could close forever. ‘No psychiatrists,’ he said.
‘As you wish.’ Maarten nodded. ‘We’ll let sleeping dogs lie. All for the best, I think.’ He placed the glass of Scotch on his coaster beside the chess board. ‘Now I take it I can’t tempt you to stay for dinner? Mrs Hodgeman is cooking roast beef.’
Maarten’s housekeeper lived with her son, who served as a gardener and handyman, in the self-contained flat downstairs, behind the consulting rooms. Each time the men played chess Maarten extended the invitation for Lucky to join him in whatever meal Mrs Hodgeman was preparing that night, and each time Lucky declined. They both knew why, although neither of them ever mentioned Peggy.
‘Thank you, Maarten, it’s most kind, but no.’
‘Then let us begin.’
Maarten was bemused, as he always was. The schoolteacher was beckoning Lucky, though he couldn’t for the life of him understand what a lusty man like Lucky saw in Peggy Minchin. A worthy woman, of course; Maarten knew her socially. He treated a number of her pupils, who adored her, and a number of their parents, who respected her: Peggy Minchin was a fine teacher and an asset to the community. But as a woman? As a lover? Maarten was mystified. He was a lusty man himself, and he found any association between eroticism and the neat little schoolteacher not only ludicrous, but faintly obscene.
‘I believe it’s your turn to open play,’ he said. Lucky appeared a little distracted.
‘Oh. Yes.’ Lucky moved his pawn to bishop four. He hoped the game wouldn’t take too long, his heart wasn’t really in it.
He’d told her that he might be late. He was meeting Pietro at the hospital and then playing chess with Maarten, he’d said. ‘The game might drag on, you should eat without me.’
‘I’ll wait.’
‘But we didn’t have lunch – you’ll be starving.’
‘Who needs food?’ she laughed. And as he kissed her, feeling her naked body against him in the warmth of the bed, he started to make love to her again. She aroused him so quickly and easily when she was like this, shameless and abandoned.
