Jacqueline was surprised at Rob pouring himself a chardonnay – she’d assumed men in the country only drank beer or Bundy. She made a mental note to generalise less and looked around the dining room. Noticing none of the other men were drinking wine, she concluded that Rob must be from out of town.
Saturday was a quiet affair with Jacqueline spending the morning nursing a splitting headache and feeling generally doughy as she wandered slowly around her cottage to take her mind off the damage the previous night had inflicted on her brain cells. She only had a vague recollection of the hours after they’d eaten, which had included sculling competitions and playing more pool. Fear gripped her stomach as she fought to remember the details. The evening was a haze. She only vaguely remembered making her way home, walking twice as far thanks to taking a wrong turn somewhere along the way. Jacqueline dropped her head onto the kitchen table and groaned, and vowed to have an alcohol-free week.
By five she was finally up to facing some food and had started a fry-up of bacon, sausage, eggs and tomato – a long-ago discovered hangover cure when one was able to first cope with the odour and then stomach the ingredients – when the phone rang. After groaning again and moving the pan off the heat, she raced to the hallstand to stop the incessant ringing before her newly cleared head started pounding again. Louise’s very chirpy and energetic voice greeted her.
‘Hey Jacque, just checking you’re surviving your first fun-filled weekend. You made quite a hit last night. Everyone was surprised at how well you hacked the pace – for a city chick, that is,’ she added with a chuckle.
‘Great,’ Jacqueline mumbled.
‘You okay?’ Louise asked, suddenly serious.
‘I haven’t had a headache this bad since uni. Nothing bacon and eggs and ten hours more sleep won’t fix.’
‘Anyway,’ Louise said, ignoring Jacqueline’s reply, ‘I was wondering if you want to go wine-tasting tomorrow? Three of us are going and there’s room for one more in the car if you’re interested.’
‘You’ve gotta be joking,’ Jacqueline groaned.
‘Come on, it’ll be fun. You’ll be fine by then.’
‘I don’t know how you could consider it, you must have a cast-iron stomach.’
‘All mind over matter and lots of practice,’ Louise chirped. ‘So, seriously, are you coming?’
‘Sorry, I’m going to have to give it a miss.’
‘Piker.’
‘Next time, I promise,’ Jacqueline said.
‘I’ll hold you to that,’ Louise said.
‘Anyway, I’ve got some patient notes and research to do,’ Jacqueline added.
‘You know what they say about all work and no play?’
‘Yep, I’ll be fine.’
‘All right then, see you Monday. Don’t work too hard.’
Spurred on by the feeling of accomplishment after Sunday’s domestic activity in which she’d done the washing, mopped the kitchen floor, dusted, vacuumed, spent a few hours weeding the front garden and even rearranged the lounge room, Jacqueline was at work at eight on Monday, determined to reorganise her filing system and office furniture. She was surprised to find a folded piece of complementary pharmaceutical company notepaper taped to her door and at once recognised the handwriting to be Doctor Squire’s untidy scrawl. The note, barely legible, told her he wished to see her in his office as soon as she got in. Brief and to the point, the tone was unidentifiable.
She dumped her briefcase and handbag on her chair and bounded towards Doctor Squire’s office halfway along the building’s length, excited at the prospect of being given more clients or receiving her own Medicare machine. Jacqueline was taken aback at the sternness of the voice that replied to her knock on the dark timber door.
‘Come in, Miss Havelock.’
Her heart skipped a beat and she paused slightly before turning the handle and proceeding.
‘Please, take a seat,’ Doctor Squire said, motioning to two chairs on the other side of the desk.
Although Jacqueline had been a reasonably good student and had avoided trouble at school, she now thought she knew what it felt like to be called into the headmaster’s office. She sat in one of the chairs that matched those in the waiting room outside, linked her fingers loosely in her lap and met Doctor Squire’s gaze, a blank expression on her face. She had no idea what was about to be said and she was certainly not going to feel intimidated. She had done nothing wrong.
‘You wanted to see me?’ she said politely.
‘Yes,’ he said, placing his reading glasses upside down on the desk. ‘I’m afraid I must have a word about your behaviour.’
Jacqueline blinked several times and while her pleasant expression remained as if painted on, she searched her memory for what she could possibly have said or done wrong. She played back each consult and came up empty. In each case, and there hadn’t been many, she’d been approachable, compassionate and professional. Now she frowned.
‘I’m sorry?’ she said, in a perplexed tone.
‘It has come to my notice that on Friday night you acted in a, how shall I put it, less than professional manner.’
Jacqueline blinked again and felt her mouth drop open. You’ve got to be joking, she thought, and was about to say something in her defence when Doctor Squire held up a hand to silence her.
‘Now what you choose to do in your own time is your choice, but may I remind you that in a small town such as this you are always under scrutiny. As a professional you are expected to act accordingly – at all times. I will not have my practice undermined by juvenile behaviour. Might I also take this time to remind you that your position here is subject to three months’ probation.’
‘But …’ Jacqueline started, but was again silenced by Doctor Squire’s bony hand.
‘I will not hear another word on the matter. Please just consider what I’ve said. I understand we all need a period of adjustment, but I trust you will heed my advice. Now, if you will please close the door on your way out …’
Shocked and bewildered, and on unsteady legs, Jacqueline silently did as she was told.
By the time she was seated behind her own desk Jacqueline was red-faced and furious and desperately wanting to storm back to Doctor Squire and give him a piece of her mind. How dare he dictate to her how to act outside working hours?
After telling herself to get a grip and breathe slowly, she began to calm down and the anger was again replaced with bewilderment. She was half glad he hadn’t let her speak, because she might have found out what she’d done on Friday night and perhaps it was better that she didn’t know. Plus her Irish heritage would have probably seen her resign on the spot, or worse.
Louise and Cecile were the only ones she could talk to, but she couldn’t now – she was too embarrassed by her behaviour and her subsequent reprimand. Her stomach gnawed and she reluctantly acknowledged the feeling as homesickness, something she very rarely allowed herself to experience. But she was certainly not going to go calling Mummy and Daddy with her problems.
‘Just put it behind me,’ she advised herself, and began a personal counselling session. After twenty minutes of writing about how she felt, she was forced to admit that the really upsetting thing was that not only had she let herself down but that others had noticed. Feeling considerably more level-headed, she confidently concluded she’d just damn well show Doctor Squire how professional she could be.
Deciding to mentally begin the day again, Jacqueline went out to get a coffee and the Adelaide newspaper. At least six people were milling about on the corner by the newsagent’s and as she approached she was sure the voices hushed. Scolding herself for being paranoid, she nodded and murmured, ‘Hello,’ to the group and moved past. When her back was turned a mutter of voices resumed and she was certain she heard her name.
Her face reddened slightly as she made her way back past the group and over to the bakery, the only source of freshly brewed coffee in town. Four of the people in the queue were huddled in a group,
whispering earnestly. As she joined the end of the line, an elderly man looked at her then quickly turned away and the group dispersed and became silent. This time Jacqueline knew it was not her imagination.
She wanted to yell at them to mind their own business, but knew it would only make things worse. Anyway, she’d show more guts by riding it out – however long that would take, she silently groaned. With her eyes focused on the folded newspaper she held in front of her, her ears strained to catch the conversations of those around her. Suddenly a clear voice filled the relatively quiet space.
‘Don’t you people have anything better to talk about than someone else’s business?’
Jacqueline looked up slowly from her paper, at the same time willing the spreading grin to disappear from her face. There was Ethel, her dear neighbour, clutching a brown paper bag, heading away from the counter towards her.
‘Feel like a bun?’ Ethel whispered, as she passed Jacqueline without pausing.
Deciding on instant coffee after all, Jacqueline left the gossipers to their cream buns and custard slices and turned and followed Ethel out. She knew that it would provoke a further tongue-lashing from those inside the bakery but didn’t care. Hurrying after Ethel, she marvelled at what a remarkable pace the woman had for one with such apparently old and bowed legs.
‘Thanks,’ Jacqueline said, as she caught up to Ethel on the nature strip after having to wait for a few cars to pass.
‘Trouble with small towns is people don’t have enough to occupy them,’ Ethel said, shaking her head.
With Ethel seated at her desk unpacking a selection of buns and pastries, Jacqueline went to the meagre staff kitchen to get two cups of coffee. After passing through the waiting area full of people pretending not to stare and having to politely greet and rub shoulders with Doctor Squire, she decided she would get her own kettle and tea things.
Making her way back with the steaming mugs she told herself that no, she was not being petty and childish. Rather, she would be providing a more welcoming environment by being able to offer her patients tea and coffee – even better if she didn’t have to leave the room to do it.
‘So,’ Ethel finally said after half her coffee and bun had been consumed in silence. ‘Word on the street is that you had a fun Friday night.’
Jacqueline knew Ethel was bound to say something, but still she blushed quickly and deeply. Hanging her head she nodded. ‘Apparently so.’
‘That good, eh?’ Ethel chuckled.
Jacqueline allowed herself to laugh as well. ‘Afraid so. Any idea just how good?’
‘Am I detecting memory loss?’
‘Patchy.’
‘Wouldn’t worry about it too much. People were probably just a bit surprised to learn that doctors are capable of letting their hair down.’
‘I’m not exactly a doctor,’ Jacqueline said.
‘Yes, but dear, you work here,’ Ethel explained, ‘and that gives you a certain air of importance. Add to that the good Doctor Squire and the fact he’s probably never stepped foot in the pub and voila, they all probably assumed you were just like him because he hired you. Anyway, I wouldn’t worry, they’ll have found something else to discuss by this afternoon and you’ll be off the hook.’
‘Well I’ve learnt my lesson; I’ll be a good girl from now on.’
‘Don’t let them get to you. Long-term you’ll be better off if you just be yourself.’
‘Don’t know I’ll be here that long,’ Jacqueline said ruefully.
‘Why ever not?’
‘Well my contract’s only twelve months and, please don’t tell anyone this, but I was given a talking to and reminded I’m on three months’ probation.’
‘Thought he might have,’ Ethel said, poking absently at the crumbs on the open paper bag in front of her. ‘As much as I adore the old doc and his wife, he can be such a boring stick-in-the-mud. Anyway, he can’t sack you because of your social life.’
‘No, but there’s more than one way to skin a cat.’ Jacqueline felt her insides become lead-heavy and she allowed her shoulders to slump in response. Covering her face with her hands she groaned, ‘Oh Ethel, I’ve stuffed up big time. What am I going to do?’
‘There, there dear. Everything will be fine,’ Ethel said, leaning forward and patting Jacqueline’s leg. ‘Know what I reckon?’ she asked, after a few moments’ silence.
Jacqueline put her elbows on the desk and rested her chin in her open palms. ‘Any ideas are welcome,’ she said.
‘Well,’ Ethel said thoughtfully, ‘the way I see it, there are two main problems – town gossip and the good doctor. Changing the good doctor’s opinion could be just a matter of being diligent and perhaps having him and his wife over for dinner to show you can be all sweetness and spice when need be. I think your generation calls it sucking up.’
‘Yes,’ Jacqueline laughed, ‘we do. But surely he wouldn’t fall for that?’
‘You’d be surprised. It’s worth a shot, I reckon. And anyway, once we work our magic on the town, he won’t be able to help being impressed. Either way, you win,’ Ethel said enthusiastically, finishing with a clap of her hands.
‘And what, pray tell, is “our magic”?’ Jacqueline asked in a sceptical tone.
‘Well, the backbone to a small community is its organisations – social, sporting, business et cetera. If you can crack some of them, you’ll be set.’
‘You’re sounding like James Bond or the CIA. I’m not following,’ Jacqueline said, her brow furrowed.
Ethel was getting excited. ‘Professional talks, of course. But we’ll have to offer a bit of a feed to get people in.’
‘Yes,’ Jacqueline said slowly, thinking aloud. ‘I could go in and talk about the role of the psychologist and how I could help them – tailor each talk.’
‘Exactly,’ Ethel said clapping her hands again. ‘And,’ she continued animatedly, ‘by getting more clients you’d make the doc happy in the process. Just as I said, everyone wins.’
Jacqueline suddenly leant across the desk, grasped both of Ethel’s hands and squeezed. ‘You’re wonderful! Thank you. How can I ever thank you?’ Slumping back into her chair, she became thoughtful. ‘But there’s nothing in it for you, why would you help me?’ she asked slowly.
‘Put it this way, you’d make an lonely old woman very happy if you let her help and gave her something to keep her occupied.’
‘All right, it’s a deal,’ Jacqueline said, extending her right hand across the desk. Ethel grasped it in both her freckled, wrinkled ones. As Jacqueline smiled warmly at her she thought she saw the makings of a tear in each eye.
‘Come on, you’re the boss, when shall we start?’ Jacqueline asked, as she pulled paper and pens from a desk drawer. ‘Actually, better still,’ she said, putting the things away, ‘why don’t you pop over for an early dinner and we’ll do some planning then? Now I’d better get ready for some patients before I get the sack,’ she added, rolling her eyes.
‘Yes, here I am waffling and keeping you from your work. So sorry. I’ll be off,’ Ethel said, scrambling to grab the remaining buns and her handbag from the desk.
Jacqueline laid a hand gently on her arm. ‘You’ve been wonderful and you are always welcome. Especially when you come bearing custard tarts,’ she added, grinning broadly.
Ethel sighed happily. ‘Thank you dear, I’ll see you tonight.’
‘No Ethel, thank you,’ Jacqueline said, as she held the door open and ushered the elderly lady out.
Chapter Seven
Damien thought going in the side door felt weird, like he was sneaking around. But at least he didn’t have to deal with the reception desk and all the stares from the waiting area. He thought Jacqueline looked a little surprised to see him. He’d surprised himself by getting there too, given his behaviour on Friday night. Now he thought about it, her look was more like relief.
He hated not knowing what to expect and constantly questioning himself about why he was really there. According to hi
s mother, if you accepted an invitation then later wish you hadn’t, the only thing for it was to get there first so you could leave first – you’d have to be at death’s door to cancel. And you never argued with Mum, otherwise you’d be there for days. She was a very stubborn woman, which was not always such a bad thing.
Jacqueline was asking him a question. ‘Sorry, miles away,’ he offered, shrugging. ‘Sheer rudeness,’ he could almost hear his mother saying.
Jacqueline repeated it.
His father? How did he feel about his death? He wanted to ask how she knew, but really, it wasn’t surprising. Country towns were full of people bursting to spill their guts to anyone who’d listen.
Damien shrugged. ‘All right, I suppose.’ He didn’t really understand the question, but was sure as hell not going to tell her that. Did she mean how did he feel now or how did he feel then? But he didn’t need to waste time on it, because she was firing again.
‘What happened to him?’
‘Brain tumour. He was sick for years.’ Damien was annoyed at how offhand he sounded, almost like he didn’t care. He was searching for the right words and tone to have another go, but she got in first. He thought he would really have to stop thinking of her as she.
‘So, how did you feel?’
‘It was a long time ago. Nine years,’ he replied, shrugging again. Did she mean during the eight years of wandering in and out of hospitals and, when his father was home, having to deal with the change in personality from even-tempered, happy-go-lucky to downright nasty? Or how did he feel when his dad died? Damien squirmed in his chair, which made an embarrassing farting sound. He looked around pretending he didn’t hear a thing, which was unnecessary because it was definitely more like an arse across vinyl sound than a fart. Damien stared down at the filthy, dog-eared journal sheets he’d made soggy in his damp, clenched fist.
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