Damien thought she was making a bit of sense, but he still didn’t know what to say. He didn’t even know why he was there. Everyone had bad days and everyone he knew managed to get on okay. Damien didn’t know what he’d been thinking, making an appointment. He was fine; he should leave and stop wasting everyone’s time. But he couldn’t seem to make himself move from the chair. He felt so heavy, like he was tied to the bloody thing.
‘So are there any feelings or emotions you’d like to discuss?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘I’m fine,’ and wondered if he sounded convincing.
The psychologist was getting up. Damien thought she might have finally realised he was wasting her time and she was about to tell him his time was up. He felt a little disappointed. But no, she was going to the filing cabinet. Great arse, he thought, thanks for the view. He looked away from the back of her smooth grey skirt, not because it was the right thing to do but because he didn’t want to get sprung and be given another lecture about practitioner-patient do’s and don’ts.
He decided his lap was the safest place to look and was shocked at how filthy with grease his nails were – almost as bad as if he’d just given the cops his fingerprints. No matter how much he scrubbed they always looked the same – his mum was forever having a go about it. But that was one of the things about country blokes; would rather have permanent ground-in grease and grime than look like a big girl by wearing gloves.
Momentarily distracted, he was startled to find he was being handed sheets of paper and the psychologist was explaining that they were a type of journal with a list of symptoms with rows of boxes next to them for days of the week. She said she wanted him to fill it in with how he felt each day and also what had caused the feeling, if he knew. She also added that if he ran out of space to continue on his own paper. How much was she expecting him to write? Bloody hell, Damien thought, doesn’t half want much. He would take the pages, but with no guarantee he’d do it – far too busy.
Seconds later they said goodbye and Damien was heading back to reception to hand over his Medicare card. Shit, he thought, how had she conned him into booking another appointment next Monday? There wasn’t even anything wrong with him.
As he walked back to the reception desk, which seemed like miles with everyone staring at him, he carefully folded the bits of paper. The last thing he wanted the desk wenches to know was that he had homework and what it was.
Chapter Four
As the door clicked shut behind Damien, Jacqueline leant back in her chair and sighed deeply, a sigh of relief and exhaustion after what had seemed like half an hour of pulling stubborn teeth. Usually appointments were an hour, but she’d cut it short on account of his obvious discomfort. She thought about her prison patients and how they couldn’t wait to get into her office each week and pour their hearts out.
Sometimes they even broke down and cried like babies – the grown men, all of them. But who was she to judge? She’d felt flattered that they liked and trusted her enough to be so open, even if it was only to break the boredom and, more often than not, to show the guards monitoring the security screens how far along the road of rehabilitation they had travelled. Showing remorse was the key to earning early release and parole reviews.
But Damien, he was a different issue altogether, she thought, clasping the end of her biro between her teeth. At least he’d agreed to another appointment. Actually, now she thought about it, she felt a little guilty about that; the request had just rolled off her tongue out of habit. But he had agreed, and pointed out it had to be in the morning because he had stubble to roll in the afternoons when it was hot – whatever that meant; some farm duty, no doubt. He’d probably cancel in a day or two, once he’d worked up the courage to call.
He’d been so reserved, almost innocent. She pictured that dark wavy hair falling loosely to his eyelids, his long, lean legs trying to fold under his chair in an attempt to be less conspicuous. All were classic symptoms of shyness. But then it was bound to take time to get him to open up, especially if he’d never seen a psychologist before. If she could get him to come in for a few weeks she’d be able to break through his shell. It wasn’t like he was being evasive on purpose; he was probably just a bit bewildered.
‘Yes, that’s it,’ she mumbled aloud. She rubbed her hands in determination then looked at the notes she’d made and added the exercise she’d given him. She really hoped he’d give it a go, but had to reluctantly admit to herself that she doubted he would. Well, if he shows up next week, that’ll be a win, she thought. Small steps, one at a time.
Jacqueline was just filing Damien’s notes in the almost empty cabinet drawer she’d allocated to patient files when there was a bold rap on the door.
‘Come in,’ she called, as she straightened herself and pulled her chair close to the desk.
‘Settling in okay?’ Doctor Squire asked as he carefully closed the door behind him.
‘Great, thanks.’
‘Not many patients for you yet, I’m afraid. It’ll take a while for word to get around. And anyway, we have to undertake a bit of an education program to help the district to understand your role – you know, dispel the myths and all that.
‘Anyway, sorry I couldn’t get to you earlier. There was a brawl outside the pub the other night. A few of the lads needed stitching up and bones set. They wait until the alcohol is out of their bloodstream, especially if there are cars involved.
‘Idiots, they are. Tough buggers, though you don’t tell them that. I wouldn’t want to be sitting around with a broken arm for twenty-four hours or so. They do things differently out here, and often not for the general good of their health.’ Noticing Jacqueline’s shocked expression he added, ‘Don’t worry, you’ll soon get used to some of their quirks – it’s not all bad. They’re very self-sufficient and practical, these country folk. I’ve been out here eighteen years and still they never cease to amaze me.
‘Oh, before I forget, here are your keys. This one’s for the external door to the car park out the back and your internal office door, and this one’s for the other outside door just across the way,’ he said, holding each key up in turn.
‘It might be a good idea to have patients use that rather than make them walk through the main waiting area – less confronting. You’d do well to put a sign on it and at reception.
‘Now I’ve ordered another Medicare machine for you – that way you’ll be pretty self-sufficient.’
‘That’s great, thanks very much,’ Jacqueline said, accepting the keys. She’d had the same thoughts as she’d watched Damien leave.
‘Now, I’m wondering if you’ll come and see a patient of mine up at the hospital?’ Doctor Squire asked.
‘Yes, of course. I’ll just get my things. It’ll be good to have a look around the hospital, and I don’t have anyone else booked in. Only the one today,’ Jacqueline said as she gathered up her notebook, pen and handbag.
‘Ah yes, Damien McAllister. Did he turn up?’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘And how did you get on?’
Jacqueline told the doctor about how quiet Damien had been and the positive step of him having made another appointment, and left it at that. They walked through the car park in silence with Jacqueline thinking that if she had her own access, did her own billing, and kept her own confidential files, she should really also be taking her own bookings. That way she’d have more contact with potential patients and could put them at ease during their initial enquiries. For that she would need her own phone number. Was that pushing it too far with Doctor Squire?
As Doctor Squire carefully negotiated his ageing white Mercedes through the town following the blue directional signs marked ‘Hospital’, Jacqueline broached the subject of taking her own bookings. Thankfully Doctor Squire saw the problem without her even mentioning it.
‘Ah, yes, good idea, we’ll organise another number, and get the girls to put an ad in the paper.’
Jacqueline beamed. It was going to be
like having her own practice. When she was busy she could always put the phone back through to the main reception or have a friendly answering machine message saying she was consulting and to leave a message and she would call back. Feeling empowered, she dared to enquire about painting and redecorating her office.
‘Okay with me,’ the doctor said, ‘but you’ll have to put in a submission to Council. They own the building.’
‘Oh,’ Jacqueline said, slightly deflated.
‘Don’t worry, they’re pretty flexible,’ he continued, ‘just not too keen on parting with money. As long as you keep it cheap and cheerful, you’ll more than likely get the nod.’
The hospital appeared as an expanse of milk coffee-coloured render with hazelnut quoins peering out over the town from atop its lofty peak. At the nurse’ station Jacqueline made some hurried notes while Doctor Squire filled her in about the patient she was about to see – a 53-year-old woman who was complaining of a range of symptoms for which he couldn’t find any cause. Hypochondriac, he’d coldly concluded. Jacqueline was disappointed in his attitude. She knew there would be an underlying reason: loneliness, depression, sadness and fear were just a few.
Doctor Squire was preparing to accompany her to the patient, so instead of telling him point blank that her patient confidence would be compromised with him in tow, she tactfully suggested he was a busy man and that she’d be fine if he wanted to get back to the surgery.
‘Louise and Cecile told me how busy you are,’ she added in a kindly tone. He looked relieved as he agreed, thanked her, and turned to leave. Heart attack waiting to happen, Jacqueline thought as she watched him hurry away. She picked up Mrs Warwick’s file and began making her way down the hall looking for room number fifteen.
An hour later, as she walked slowly down the hill towards the medical centre with the afternoon sun hot on her back, she smiled wryly. What a contrast Mrs Warwick was to Damien McAllister. She hadn’t been able to get a word in apart from the occasional, ‘Mm … I see … right …’ while Mrs Warwick, ‘call me Beryl,’ had unloaded a lifetime’s worth of memories, miscarriages and mayhem. Finally she had run out of puff and looked enquiringly at Jacqueline for her diagnosis.
Jacqueline had suggested that Beryl begin a journal to record as many negative emotions and their precipitating events as she could, from her earliest memory. Beryl had looked a little crestfallen, but Jacqueline had assured her it was all part of the therapeutic process, that there’d be things in the journal she could analyse that Beryl probably couldn’t.
She’d used the method numerous times with patients who seemed to have a lot to say but couldn’t focus on one problem. A recurring theme always stood out and gave Jacqueline somewhere to start.
‘Anyway, it’ll give you something to do while you’re stuck in here,’ she’d added cheerily. Before leaving she’d promised to get the staff to organise paper and pen and told Beryl she’d be back at the end of the week to see how she was getting on. Beryl was obviously relieved and, as she said goodbye, Jacqueline marvelled at how uncomplicated some cases were – often all someone needed was to be taken seriously and get things off their chest. It looked like Beryl was one such case.
Jacqueline paused before stepping off the kerb to cross the wide main street divided by a manicured median strip, and was pleased she’d worn sensible shoes – the walk back to the office was further than she’d thought – and vowed to leave her high heels at the back of her wardrobe for special occasions only.
Back at the medical centre Cecile was putting the till away in the safe and Louise was turning out lights. Five on the dot, Jacqueline noted.
‘Hi,’ she called, and, after telling them she’d be entering the building through her own door in future, went back to her office to make a file for Beryl.
That evening, as Jacqueline chopped vegetables for her chicken stir-fry, her mind went back to Damien McAllister. The more she thought about him the more questions arose. Why had Doctor Squire prescribed antidepressants? What are his symptoms? Is he truly disturbed or simply shy by nature? A feeling like she hadn’t had since university days crept into her chest, something that told her she had to know his story. She had to help him. She’d never felt like this about any of the prison inmates – for most of them she was just a source of entertainment. And anyway, it was dangerous to know too much about any of them.
The best piece of advice she’d received during her relatively brief working life of two and a half years was what Tom, the retiring counsellor she took over from at the prison, had given her. She smiled as his words, old-fashioned and coarse, came back to her. ‘Just remember, luv, don’t get too involved. It’s not the place to delve too deep. Trust me, I learnt the hard way.’
He’d gone on to tell her about how his family had become a target because an inmate’s accomplice, still at large, thought he’d blabbed. ‘Word, true or false, gets around real fast out there, so just be wary,’ he’d added.
As a relatively naïve 26-year-old she’d been shocked at the time, but also harboured the feeling of invincibility of being young. They’d kept in touch until his sudden death from a heart attack six months ago. If only she’d heeded all his advice she would never have had that drink with Jacob Bolton that had led to so much trouble.
Jacqueline only realised she had been intently watching the rice going around in the microwave when the phone rang, startling her. Laughing at her silliness, she rushed to the small hallstand by the front door.
This was her first call and although she guessed it would be her mother because as far as she was aware only her parents and Doctor Squire had the number, she still answered in a tentative, questioning voice.
‘Hello, Jacqueline?’ Eileen Havelock’s delicate tone was infused with concern and motherly domination. Once Jacqueline had answered the standard questions about whether there was anything she needed, were the town people friendly and did she have enough blankets, she proceeded to tell Jacqueline about her father’s day.
Surely, after all these years, her mother had given up hoping she would follow in her father’s footsteps and eventually take over the practice? But it was like an ingrown habit with such deep and far-off origins that Eileen was now unable to refrain from the subtle hints.
There had always been an unspoken rule between them that twenty minutes was the minimum amount of time spent per phone call and Jacqueline suspected it was so they could be seen to be showing an interest in her life – nothing more. Like, Jacqueline thought, when people ask you how you are but don’t expect you to answer anything other than the automatic, ‘Fine, and you?’
Jacqueline loved her mum, but not what she was: a stay-at-home housewife. She’d never worked a day in her life and being from a privileged background meant she’d married young, and hadn’t gone on to further study.
To the world she was the quintessential 1950s housewife stuck in a time warp. Washing and ironing done Monday, out to lunch Wednesday while Agnes came in to clean the house, and every night dinner was on the table at six-thirty sharp. If her husband was held up due to an emergency she always kept their meal warm and waited to eat with him, even if it meant waiting until after midnight. Then she’d be up at six, laying his clothes out then cooking his breakfast while he showered. When Jacqueline had gone to university and experienced the rough and tumble of life outside her orderly and now apparently not so normal house, she began on a journey of acquiring a life diametrically opposed to that of her parents.
While her mother gave her news of the family and friends, how well the roses were looking and describing the fabric she was about to have the couch upholstered in, Jacqueline’s mind wandered. Continuing to murmur and answer at the appropriate time, she wondered how long it would take the people of Wattle Creek to warm to her and start making appointments en masse.
Suddenly Jacqueline realised the voice on the phone had changed and her father was greeting her. From the kitchen she heard the beeps of the microwave demanding she remove its contents. He
r father was asking if she had enough money, his standard opening question since she’d left home at nineteen to live in a share house with some university friends. It used to anger her that he thought her incapable of budgeting, until she realised it was his way of saying he loved her. One day, years ago, her mother had explained how he’d begun with very little because his parents hadn’t agreed with his choosing of veterinary science over law, and this was his way of proving himself different from his own father.
Now her father was casually mentioning incidents and minor miracles that had been part of his day at the practice – things the layperson could only marvel at. She knew it was more about habit and small talk than anything else, but rarely allowed herself to admit to her great respect for him. He’d never directly pushed her to pursue veterinary science – he knew better than that – but his hints were hardly going to pass unnoticed. But all the same Jacqueline pretended not to notice – it was a habit that had started in high school when all her friends were defying their parents.
After a few more murmurs appropriately positioned she hung up and was free to rescue her rice and cook her stir-fry. Her heart was slightly heavier as she stood watching the damp warmth of the steam rising from the wok.
Often after their phone conversations she’d run back over what had been said and in what tone. She was always annoyed with herself at how indifferent she must appear to them when they genuinely wanted to find out how she was and what she was up to. As she tossed the cubes of chicken dripping with dark marinade quickly around the sizzling pan she wished she could learn to accept her parents’ questions without feeling suspicion or contention bubbling below the surface.
While she ate her meal in front of the television she thought about colours for her office and decided that during her lunchbreak tomorrow she’d go to the hardware store and pick up some colour chips and brochures. She could hardly wait.
Jacqueline’s second morning’s appointments began with two patients who had walked in off the street, both of whom seemed to want nothing more than to find out some intimate knowledge about the newcomer in order to gain the upper hand on the gossip train. The first was Mary Glossop, who complained briefly about feeling a bit lonely since her husband hadn’t come back from the war – over sixty years ago – before launching on an all-out fact-finding mission on Jacqueline’s private life and marital status.
Wattle Creek Page 4
