The Heaven I Swallowed (18 page)

13

For the next few weeks, the rhythm of my life became quite different. Every night, Fred came to lie beside me, slipping under the covers with the same quietness, and every morning I awoke alone.

At work, Mr Anderson enquired about my health when I arrived in the mornings. I tried hard to make my tired face presentable—my sleep came in the small hours of the night when I was finally sure Fred was not going to move toward me—and was rarely able to muster the energy to arrange my hair properly, wearing it loose more often than not. Though I tried to inject as much enthusiasm as possible into my replies to Mr Anderson, it did not prevent him from sticking his head into my office throughout the day to check if I needed anything. He was obviously afraid my weary appearance was a sign of some discontent, and he might lose one of his best ‘drones'—as he referred to me—labouring the image of the hospital as a thriving beehive where we all made the ‘honey of health and well-being'.

I would wait as patiently as I could for the beginning of my lunch hour. In general there were no appearances in the courtyard until noon, but the comings and going could continue past two o'clock. There was no possibility of watching closely that long so I dedicated only the middle hour—from half past twelve to half past one—to standing at the window, carefully hidden by a bank of curtains, checking the nurses' faces for the telltale shade of skin. I was no longer able to sneer at the love dances of the couples being played out below. I felt as trapped in my office as I did lying in bed next to Fred and I could not bring myself to go for another walk in the wards, Mr Anderson watching too closely.

†

One afternoon, perhaps three weeks after Fred's return, I stared down at the file of a typhoid patient lying open on my desk. A succession of doctors' hands had written notes beside dates from the last month, until the final entry: ‘Died 9.47 pm'. It wasn't necessary for me to read the clinical list of the man's final days. I knew where the file needed to go, knew where the end lay, for his record, at least. Nevertheless, I found myself reading over the scrawls of symptoms and attempted treatment, over the timetable of decline, chronicling his fever and pain, the rose-like spots on his chest, the green soup of his excrement. One entry, ‘A turn for the worse', seemed the grossest understatement while some of the entries were indecipherable, as if the doctor had barely had time to catch up with Death.

How quick it seemed on the page, just a few scrawled strokes—ink in a different pattern from the characters on the envelope that came to me from Japan but holding the same power to change lives—and yet how many hours had it been for the dying man? How he would have clung, even in his pain, to those vanishing minutes. I wished, more than anything, Fred would reach for me across the bed.

I declared my intention of going for a walk to Mr Anderson and he watched me depart. I planned to return to South Wing, to check on the young yellow boy, to confirm my vision had been an aberration, the arrival of Fred into my life having simply created associations.
Their
Nurse Mary could not be
my
Mary. It was too much to hope for—or dread.

The corridor was busy, two nurses re-organising a trolley of supplies and an elderly couple—had I seen them someplace before?—hovering, perhaps waiting for their patient to be presentable. The woman, dressed in a long tweed overcoat, clung to a brown-paper bag full of grapes and, as I passed, she whispered something to her husband.

I walked on with the growing sense I was shrinking, becoming smaller each step I travelled away from the entrance. I glanced into the wards as I passed, afraid of—and praying for—a glimpse of black skin. Would I rush to her? Could I stop myself from turning away as I had done before? It had only been surprise, surely, that pushed me away? This time I would confront her, spectre or not.

I came to the final entrance and saw that the last bed, the home of the young man, was empty. The sheets were turned back but the mattress still contained the imprint of a body. I moved to the bed and felt the hammer of panic combining with the smell of my sweat. Where had the boy gone? On the bedside cabinet sat a glass and a large jug of water.
Oliver Twist
was lying facedown, its spine bent open to hold the place.

‘Can I help you?'

I turned to see her. She had an arm around the boy and was helping him to sit onto the bed.

‘Hello,' I said.

The girl's eyes were fixed on her charge. Moving around the other side of the bed, she let him lean the weight of his back onto her hands and slowly lifted his legs. I waited as he gently tilted back into the pillows, a suspension bridge ­controlled by her hands. The boy sighed.

‘Thank you,' he said.

The nurse straightened and, with the bed and the young man's pain between us, directed honey-brown eyes at me.

‘Yes?' she asked.

I couldn't hold her gaze. I glanced down at the patient.

‘You came back,' the boy said, and smiled.

‘You're a relative of Luke's?' I shook my head, unable to speak. ‘A friend?'

I nodded.

‘It's lovely of you to visit,' she said.

She spoke simply, without a trace of surprise in her voice, and I was warmed to think I was still incapable of disconcerting her. She continued to scan down the other beds, as if poised to attend to a patient.

‘Luke is doing well,' she reported. Leaning down, she smoothed out his blanket. ‘He's told you about it?'

I did not know how to explain I had no connection to the sallow boy. He had closed his eyes, removing himself from us.

‘Maybe we should go for a walk?' she suggested, perhaps worried that we might be keeping him from sleep. ‘I can explain it all to you.'

I tried hard to keep myself composed even as I itched to put my hand on her, to claim some possession of this extraordinary being. She led the way down the corridor and I followed her thin legs, so neatly planted inside brown leather shoes. The afternoon was almost over, the last of the light falling on the grass around the flame tree. She did not hesitate to stand in it, rubbing at her arms to rid them of goose pimples. I felt too hot and remained in the shade.

‘Luke is past the worst of it, now we have the dysentery under control,' she said. ‘The doctors say the jaundice is only a result of that, so they should be able to get him back to his normal colour soon.'

Normal? I resisted looking at her skin.

‘You're doing a good job, I'm sure,' I said, a statement of fact that could not be misinterpreted.

‘I hope so.' She interlaced her fingers, hanging her hands below her waist. Her shoulders dropped, as if, out here, she could let go of her vigilance.

‘A wonderful thing,' I added.

‘Thank you.'

She looked past me, over my shoulder, perhaps to a younger me, the one she had known.

‘You work here?' she asked.

‘Yes, as a clerk.'

‘Under the dreaded Mr Anderson?'

‘Under the dreaded Mr Anderson.'

We laughed. I felt a pang of guilt that I was willing to collude in this assessment of Mr Anderson, never having been on the end of his rages. I had heard his storms against the incompetence of the medical staff, knew of the gulf between the administration and those ‘on the ground'. I wondered what he would be thinking, seeing me down here, in plain view, talking to the enemy.

I could find no direction in the discussion that might make us at ease with one another. We stood in silence.

‘I should probably get back,' she said and now her looking past me was a longing to return to that place beyond me, to her future.

‘Can I see … Luke again?' I asked without meaning to, finding myself saying, as I had always done with her, things I could not control. Asking if I could see her again would have sounded too desperate, too sad.

‘Yes.' This time she did sound surprised and she stared at me, a small crease between her eyebrows. ‘He will be here still, for quite some time.'

She smiled a polite smile. Her fingers unlaced and for a moment I thought she would reach out and place her hand on my shoulder. Instead, her hands dropped to her side and she walked past me, arms softly swaying, a confident take-leave without a hint of looking back.

†

I lingered in my office, constantly at the window hoping to catch sight of her. Mr Anderson was also working late, possibly delaying his descent into domestic chaos, and our movements sounded out of the quietening building. Across the way, the dimmed wards still showed signs of life, darkness not resting there.

Eventually, Mr Anderson came in to tell me he was locking up. Although I had a set of keys, I did not trust myself as final gatekeeper and followed him out through the large oak door.

Once we had said good night, I pretended to walk with a purpose towards my car though, in honesty, I could not stand the thought of driving it. To be enclosed inside my head was enough, let alone behind my father-in-law's greasy steering wheel.

I kept walking, returning my keys to my handbag and plunging on into the back streets. I was not wearing the best shoes for such an undertaking—an old pair of T-strap sandals too small for me—and I soon felt an ache in my ankles and cracked soles. I walked, alone and untethered. From behind the fence of Centennial Park, hidden among the oleanders and thistles, came murmurs and laughter; men who had forgotten their names, women who never thought to ask. They seemed to be the only people out, if you could truly call it that. It was too late now for the evening strollers with dogs and prams, all had retreated into their living rooms. Street lamps beamed their light into the sky, and I hated having to walk through the black patches of pavement, always afraid of the dark, scared even of making my way to the outhouse.

I headed to Oxford Street, a street without a hint of England. How ineptly labelled this city was, as if no one had put thought into it, forgetting the importance of names.
Auntie Iris. Auntie Grace. Mr John Roper. Peter Benjamin, Rock of the Church. Frederick Smith, Private. Mary, Mother of God.

On Oxford Street were the people who did not have living-room barricades with which to protect themselves. Cancers of men outside bars, reeling in the aftermath of their inebriation; prostitutes leaning against doorways, barely able to keep themselves upright; children sitting in the gutter staring at their blue feet. I lowered my head, the brim of my hat a shield to catch no one's eye, to raise no one's ire. I moved through the glow, imagining the church crowd gasping in horror to see me here, flinching at the catcalls and jeers. The slope made the journey easier and, though my ankles throbbed, there was still enough left in me for the final destination.

The rustles in Hyde Park told me of more dirty liaisons in the bushes, the figs held sleeping ibis whose wings shifted in the moonlight, the fountain in the distance trickled on. At the reflection pool I stood and looked up at the edifice I had not visited since chasing Mary here. A single fruit bat flew down and skimmed the surface of the pond, drinking.

This was the night-time Mary had experienced when she ran away. Had she lain on the grass near the cold water, or been drawn, like I was, toward the Memorial's steps, stone still warm from the day's sun? A bat swooped behind me. I tried to picture a dog taking its fill, not wanting to think of the bat's leathery wings and the pig-like face Fred had once drawn my attention to.

At the top of the stairs, the Memorial stood open, its metal doors pulled back on either side. In the week leading up to ANZAC Day, the building remained accessible for all, in honour of that first vigil at the cenotaph in Martin Place, a widow kept company by a group of veterans stumbling home after sharing a drink.

The Hall of Memory appeared empty. It was too dark to make out the stars in the dome above, only the light cast by the eternal flame flickering in various corners. The firelight did not touch the hole in the centre of the floor and I hesitated to approach the circle of blackness. I trembled. I tried to think of waking up next to Fred and the heat I had felt from having him near. Shivering, I wrapped my arms around myself, walked to the carved balustrade, and lowered my head to stare into the Well of Contemplation, expecting only shadows, listening for the hiss.

The bronze sun surrounding the statue was alight. For a moment I thought there were people down there, Mary's people, burning torches at every side. I blinked and saw it was the full moon hitting the polished gold with all its force, the light a trail that ran, I realised, along the reflection pool and up to this point, dropping down into the Well like a waterfall, a quirk that happened every month. For once, I was in the right place. In the cradle of this beauty the emaciated soldier was a burnt, magnificent skeleton.

The sobs came; I heard them, as if from far away, explode into the silence. I folded my arms, struggling to control the weeping, but it was no use. I cried and cried. I had not let myself do this since … No, I could not remember a time when I had let myself do this.

†

‘Where have you been?' Fred asked. The flat smelt of lamb and rosemary.

There was a ready lie on my lips, one I had thought of during the drive home. I hadn't walked all the way back to the hospital, preferring to hail a cab, the driver of which assumed I was visiting a sick friend and was silently respectful. My red eyes and sniffles hinted at something terminal.

I removed my hat and gloves without answering Fred, sat down and, for the first time, took off my shoes and stockings in front of him. The buckles of the sandal straps were stiff and, as I rolled the nylon down over my ankles, I saw they had imprinted an ugly red cross into my skin. My toes were swollen and pulsing. I sat up to find Fred staring, his hands in his pockets, his upper body swaying slightly as if caught in a breeze.

‘You look beat,' he said. ‘Let me run you a bath.'

I nodded in agreement and he left me. I went into the kitchen and took out the faintly charred lamb from the oven. Fred had already eaten his share. I cut a slice and placed it on a plate, then moved out to the balcony to sit at the wrought-iron table. It was past ten o'clock, later than I had ever had a meal in my life. The chewing felt unnatural, the echo of the sea an unlikely dinner partner.