by Lilian Darcy
‘He’s a violinist with the Sydney Symphony Orchestra,’ Joan went on. ‘And he’s got an adventurous spirit. We’re going to East Africa for our honeymoon. Will we need any vaccinations?’
‘Yes, I’m sure you will, but I’ll have to check the most up-to-date information,’ he told her. ‘Why don’t you make an appointment for next week? I’ll make sure I have what you need in stock. Meanwhile…’
He gave her a thorough check-up, including a pap smear and a good listen to her chest and heart. In a minute, Aimee would take some blood to be tested for lipids, and he finished his own part of the check-up with, ‘How long since you had a mammogram—do you remember?’
She made a face. ‘I was afraid you’d say that.’
‘I can easily check it in your file.’
‘No, I know perfectly well I’m due for one.’
‘The mammography screening unit at Southshore Health Centre would be the easiest place to go.’
‘Will I have to wait? I’d really like to have it over with before the wedding.’
‘That shouldn’t be a problem. But do you really hate it so much? It doesn’t hurt very badly, does it?’
‘Spoken like a man,’ she teased. ‘Yes, it does hurt a fair bit, especially if you have largish breasts, on top of which it’s not remotely dignified. Oh, I’ll be glad I’ve done it, but it’s not exactly something to look forward to.’
‘I suppose not,’ he agreed on a laugh. ‘Rest assured, though, we males of the species have our own unique and painful medical indignities to endure!’
‘True,’ she conceded.
The rest of the afternoon’s patients were routine, with some more interesting than others. After over twenty years in general practice, Marshall was used to the rhythm and flow of the work. If he’d been a composer, he could have written a piece of music to express it.
Intertwining pastoral melodies for all those rather benign things like children’s ear infections, annual flu shots, blood-pressure measurements. The interest lay in the way he got to know his patients year by year as he watched the wheels of their lives slowly turn. Patients he’d known as children were now grown up and married with families of their own. Patients he’d first seen in their fifties were now making decisions about retirement homes.
Then there would be plodding underbeat for the cases that few doctors could find interesting. Patients who came once to have a cut stitched or an ear syringed and were never seen again. People who needed a medical examination for work or insurance purposes and had phoned this practice purely because it was on a list of approved ones in the area.
There would be a burst of joyful song for wanted pregnancies, good test results, serious illnesses cured. And, finally, there’d be the keening of violins for the patients that broke your heart.
Like Hilde Deutschkron. He’d spoken to her surgeon on Tuesday morning. Today was Thursday, and she’d been discharged from the hospital this morning as planned.
After his last office appointment for the day, Marshall drove to her small house several streets back from the beach at Bondi and knocked at the front door.
Mrs Deutschkron’s daughter, Marianne, answered. She was an attractive dark-haired woman of about thirty-eight, and Marshall had seen her a few times years ago for minor illnesses when she’d still been living at home. Since then, she’d led an interesting life as a journalist, with several stints of living and working overseas. She wasn’t married, and he was pleased to find that she’d taken time off work to help her mother convalesce. Mrs Deutschkron’s two sons lived in Melbourne and he knew she got lonely at times.
‘How are you, Marianne?’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose you remember me…’
‘Of course I do, Dr Irwin!’ she said with a confident smile. ‘How could I forget the man who came at me with a cauterising thingy that time I had that strange lump on my little finger that kept bleeding if I bumped it?’
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘I’d forgotten all about that. We never really decided what it was, did we? The cauterising didn’t work, I remember, and it came back. You had to have it cut out under local anaesthetic at Southshore Hospital.’
‘I’m amazed you remember!’
‘Only because it stumped me, and the doctors at Southshore, too. Did it ever come back after the surgery?’
‘No, but I still have the scar.’ She stuck her little finger up in the air, then lowered her voice and said, ‘Come through. Mum’s on the couch, though I think she should really be in bed. She’s not feeling very good, and she’s anxious to hear your report. Do you have all the results or whatever everyone was waiting for?’
‘Yes, I do,’ he said, following her down the rather dark corridor. ‘Uh, would it be too much trouble to ask for some tea?’
‘Of course not. Straight away?’
‘If you don’t mind.’
Marianne nodded, and he saw that she understood. There was a brief flare of well-schooled alarm in her eyes. Marshall didn’t really need tea, but he wanted to break the news to Mrs Deutschkron alone. He had no doubt she’d need her daughter later, but for those first few moments…
‘Hello, Mrs Deutschkron!’ he said, coming into the thickly decorated sitting-room. There was a floral lounge suite, photos and knick-knacks everywhere, two shelves of books, vases of silk flowers, and all of it immaculately dust-free. ‘Marianne says you’re not feeling too good?’
‘Would you be?’ she retorted weakly. She’d lost weight since he’d last seen her, just before the surgery, and it was starting to show in the loose fit of her clothing, though there had been a time, long before he’d known her, when she had been far, far thinner than this.
‘You have some news for me, don’t you?’ It came out abruptly, coloured by the accent she hadn’t lost even after more than fifty years away from her native Germany.
‘Yes, I do.’ He sat down in the armchair at right angles to the couch where she lay, her legs and torso covered in a mohair blanket. ‘And not good news, I’m afraid.’
He knew she wouldn’t appreciate prevarication. Even his tiny pause now was pounced on.
‘Don’t keep me in suspense, then!’
‘There was cancer throughout your liver, and the surgeon was unable to locate the primary tumour. That means the cancer didn’t originate in the liver. It has metastasised from a primary tumour elsewhere. Chemotherapy is an option for you, but it won’t be a cure. It’ll give you several more months, that’s all. I’m sorry, Hilde, there’s no easy way to say this.’
She’d taken a sharp in-breath as she’d understood the truth, and now she was nodding slowly. ‘I’m dying, then.’
‘Yes. It was a surprise. Had you been feeling more discomfort and pain than you told me about?’
‘Ach! Pain!’ she said dismissively. ‘It’s relative, isn’t it? Where’s Marianne? You sent her off to the kitchen, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Thank you…’
They could both hear the rattle of bone china teacups on their matching saucers, and the sound of cupboard doors opening and shutting. ‘Shall I call her in?’ Marshall asked.
‘No, let her wait for the kettle. I’ll just…digest this.’
She sat in silence, thinking, and he waited, wondering whether to reach out and touch her hand. He decided after a moment that she wouldn’t appreciate it, and stayed where he was.
Then she looked up. ‘So, may I articulate this situation more precisely?’
‘Of course, Hilde. Any questions, anything at all…’
‘I’m seventy-two years old. I am dying from a cancer that has spread throughout my body. I can choose to let death come soon…How soon?’
‘A few months,’ he offered. ‘Three or four, perhaps. It’s very hard to say.’
‘Or, by having a course of chemotherapy, I can live longer. Again, how much longer?’
‘Three or four months more. I’m sorry, it’s so hard to be specific. Everyone is different.’
‘Th
e chemotherapy will make me sick.’
‘Probably.’
‘And I’ll lose my hair.’ She touched the grey knot on top of her head.
‘No, actually, you won’t with this particular treatment.’
‘Ah, a plus! Not that my hair is so magnificent!’
They both smiled a little. In the kitchen, the kettle began to sing. Mrs Deutschkron was silent.
‘I’ve fought death before, you know,’ she said suddenly. ‘In Berlin, in the war, and in a place in Poland which I won’t name!’
‘I know you have.’ He nodded. Of her entire extended family, she had been the only survivor of those nightmare years in Europe, and had come to Australia in 1947, aged twenty.
‘But do I wish to fight it now? That is what I have to decide.’
Marianne came in with teacups, cosy-covered pot, milk, sugar and a plate of biscuits on a tray.
‘What is it you have to decide, Mum?’ she said.
When she heard, she burst into tears.
‘She’s urging her mother to have the treatment, but I’m not sure if that’s best,’ Marshall told Aimee. ‘As you know, a lot of people react very badly to it. I hope Mrs Deutschkron feels able to make her own decision.’
‘Her daughter cares about her?’
‘Oh, very much. Which can make people selfish sometimes.’
‘And the reverse. It can make people sacrifice their own desires and needs.’
‘I have a sense that Mrs Deutschkron is going to think about it all very carefully before she makes up her mind. I’ve told her there’s no rush. She needs to be healed from the surgery first. I’ll wait a few weeks before I press her for a decision.’
‘Yes, it’s not something to rush, is it?’
They stood in silence for a moment, and Aimee felt the sleeve of Marshall’s shirt warm against her bare arm. Although it was only the end of July, this Friday afternoon was sunny and mild, and she’d taken off her light jacket to reveal a black-and-white-striped knit shirt beneath. Zebra stripes. Appropriate for a visit to the zoo.
She hadn’t understood, at first, when Marshall had suggested the idea. ‘Since we’re both off work on Friday afternoon, can I extend the dinner plan we’ve already made to include something else?’ he’d said to her the previous day, catching her during a quiet moment in the corridor at the practice.
‘That would be lovely,’ she’d answered, having had to conceal just how much her heart had jumped with pleasure at the thought of spending more time with him. Quite shamelessly, she hadn’t cared a bit what it was! An invitation to help him fill out his tax return? Delightful! A trip to the local garage to get the spare tyre fixed? A dream come true!
‘I’d like to introduce you to Felix, you see.’
‘Felix…’ she’d echoed blankly. Who was that? Not his son, she knew. A brother? Evidently someone important…
But he’d grinned. ‘Can’t quite call him a friend. More of a protégée.’
‘Ah.’ She’d nodded seriously. A young medical student from a disadvantaged background, perhaps? But that didn’t seem…
‘I sponsor him. The name’s not official, by the way. He’s a black-necked stork at the Taronga Park Zoo. I’ve told him all about you and he’s dying to look you over.’
‘Oh, Marshall!’
Another grin, quite shameless.
‘You really had me going there!’
‘I know, but I’m very fond of the zoo. I’m a “zoo friend”, and a diamond sponsor member. There’s a collared peccary at the Western Plains Zoo with whom I have a special relationship as well.’
‘And what’s his name?’ Aimee had asked, entering into the spirit of the thing.
‘Hers. Calliope.’
‘Felix and Calliope,’ she said. ‘The sort of names one considers calling one’s children, and then doesn’t dare, in suburban Australia, in case they’re teased at school.’
‘Exactly. Will you come?’
‘I’d love to!’
So here they were, watching Felix and the other birds disporting themselves in the still, greenish, dust-covered water of this pond from their viewpoint on the boardwalk bridge that crossed over it. Felix certainly was a handsome fellow, with his long, salmon-pink legs, lethally curved black bill and green and purple iridescent neck and head. He had a white breast with a black back and belly, and when he spread his wings the big white feathers spread like fingers.
Taronga Park had to be one of the world’s most beautiful zoos. Situated on land that sloped down towards the harbour, amidst a jungle of semi-tropical greenery, it had magnificent views from numerous vantage points, taking in the blue-green water and the constant plying to and fro of sailboats and ferries and ships, the black fretwork of the Harbour Bridge in the distance, and that other landmark which could have been a clipper ship in full rig but was, in fact, the Opera House.
‘Almost criminal to leave the place to tourists,’ Marshall commented as they crossed the boardwalk bridge and set off in the direction of the reptiles.
‘It is, isn’t it?’ Aimee agreed. ‘I haven’t been here since the children were preteens, and that’s too long. Why are locals, in every part of the world, so blasé about the treats that their home town has to offer?’
‘Inertia?’ he suggested. ‘Our senses and our imaginations get dulled by the daily routine. It’s something I decided to teach myself after Joy’s death…Oh, it’s trite when you say it, but true on a level I didn’t understand before I’d felt that grief. To strive to live each day, not merely exist. I brought some cousins from England here several years ago, and that’s when I decided to get involved with the place.’
‘Zoos need people like you,’ she told him. ‘I’m afraid I…do coast a bit perhaps. I have my garden, the children and now my work. But nothing else that I’m really energetic about, or committed to.’
‘Nonsense, Aimee!’ he said. ‘You seem like one of the most alive people I know, not openly passionate about things like my daughter is, bless her, but game for whatever comes your way—like the skiing on the weekend. And you’re thoughtful, perceptive—’
‘Stop!’ she protested. ‘I wasn’t fishing for that.’
‘I know you weren’t,’ he said, a little gruffly, ‘but I wanted to say it all the same.’
He looked across at her, a fresh sea breeze ruffling his hair for a moment before they passed into the interior display of reptiles, and she couldn’t miss the heat in his expression. It made her insides dissolve like melting chocolate to realise that he was happy to show what he felt this way.
She let her own gaze linger on features that were starting to be so familiar and important. His blue eyes with the laugh lines at their corners. A straight line of a mouth that could curve to express so many subtle nuances of humour and opinion—quizzical interest, amused irony, studious patience.
And then he slipped his hand into hers and all she could think about was that, the smooth touch of his palm engulfing her fingers, his shoulder nudging hers as they walked and the dry, pleasant timbre of his English voice.
They stayed at the zoo for nearly three hours, then he dropped her home to change, picking her up again an hour and a half later to take her to dinner. They’d arranged this meal at one of Sydney’s most exclusive harbour-side restaurants more than three weeks ago, before Marshall had even suggested the skiing trip that had taken place last weekend.
Thinking back to the cautious way Marshall had explained, back at the beginning of the month, that the booking for the restaurant needed to be made well in advance for a Friday night, Aimee marvelled at how far their connection to each other had advanced in so short a time.
Then he hadn’t been certain that they’d both still want an intimate dinner like this three weeks into the future. Now she felt a rich wash of pleasure just at being with him like this, loving the way he shared his feelings about the working week…and even the way he brazenly stole one of her oysters fifteen minutes later when their appetisers arrived. He would n
ever have done that—and he wouldn’t have grinned like a little boy as he’d done it—if they hadn’t felt so right in each other’s company.
It was a magic, sophisticated evening after the frivolity of their trip to the zoo. He wore grey—a dark grey suit, with a steel-grey shirt and tie, simply cut but with a quiet distinction of style that could only have come from one of Sydney’s best men’s outfitters.
She loved dressing up for him, matching his subtle elegance, wearing clingy, simply cut black, with her pale, silvery hair folded and pinned high on her head. She’d had to ransack her jewellery box for things she hadn’t needed—or bothered…to wear for years. A necklace of silver and garnets which had belonged to her grandmother. Matching earrings. A bracelet engraved with a subtle, filigree design.
Over dessert and the last of the white wine, Marsh started playing with the bracelet, rolling it around her wrist with his finger so that she could feel the warmth of his skin against hers. It made her want more—more of his touch and his company, more of his conversation, which had all the seasoning of a mature man’s knowledge and experience, yet none of the rigidity and complacency that some of her women friends complained of in their husbands and which Alan had started to display when he’d reached his late fifties.
Perhaps it was because Marshall had been widowed while still in his thirties. His two children had been his closest companions, closest to his heart, and he’d retained their vigour and freshness of outlook. He’d said something about that time in his life that afternoon—that it had been Joy’s death which had taught him how to live.
His own thoughts had been travelling along a sober path as well.
‘I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier today, at the zoo, about sacrifice,’ he said, as their dessert plates were taken away, and she was pleased that he’d remembered their conversation so clearly and had thought it important enough to mull over.
‘Yes?’
‘You’re right,’ he told her. ‘Looking back on my experience, sacrifice is more common when there’s a change or a crisis involving people who care about each other. Knowing how her daughter feels, I wonder if Mrs Deutschkron will do what she thinks is best for herself, or what she thinks is best for Marianne.’
