Tim (16 page)

She shook her head, inching away from his hand. "No, I'm all right now, Tim, really I am. It passed off." One hand on the rock for leverage, she tried to get to her feet but could not, cramped and defeated. "Oh, Tim, I'm so old and tired," she whispered. "I'm so old and tired."

He stood up and stared at her anxiously, fidgeting nervously. "Mum was sick once and I remember Pop made me carry her to bed. I'll carry you to bed, Mary."

He bent and gathered her up effortlessly, shifting her weight within his arms until one was crooked under her knees and the other cradled her back. Too exhausted to protest, she let him carry her up the path, but when he stepped onto the veranda she turned her face into his shoulder, not wanting him to see it. He paused, blinking in the light, and put his cheek against her head lovingly.

"You're so small, Mary," he said, rubbing his face back and forth across her hair. "You're all soft and warm, like a kitten." Then he sighed and crossed the living room.

He could not find the light switch in her bedroom, and when he would have groped for it she stopped him, her hand pressing gently at his throat.

"Don't worry about the light, Tim, you can see to put me on the bed. I just want to lie down in the dark for a while, then I'll be fine."

He laid her on the bed carefully, looming above her in the darkness, and she sensed his worried indecision.

"Tim, you know I wouldn't tell you a lie, don't you?"

He nodded. "Yes, I know that."

"Then you'll believe me when I tell you that there's no need to worry about me, that I'm all right now. Haven't you ever felt a bit sick after you've eaten something that didn't agree with you?"

"Yes. I did once, after I'd eaten some candied fruit," he answered gravely.

"Then you understand how I felt, don't you? Now I want you to stop worrying about me and go to bed, and sleep, sleep! I feel much better and all I need is to sleep, too, but I can't sleep if I think you're upset or worried. Now promise me that you'll go straight to bed and be happy."

"I will, Mary." He sounded relieved.

"Goodnight, Tim, and thank you very much for helping me like that. It's so nice to be looked after, and you look after me very well. I don't ever need to worry about myself while I've got you, do I?"

"I'll always look after you, Mary." He stooped and kissed her forehead, the way she sometimes did with him when he was in bed. "Night-night, Mary."

Eighteen

When Esme Melville let herself in the back door after her Thursday afternoon tennis match it was all she could do to walk the few yards more to the living room and a comfortable chair. Her legs were shaking; it had been a tremendous strain to get home without letting anyone see how distressed she was. She felt so nauseated that after a few moments in the chair she got up and went to the bathroom. Even kneeling with her head over the lavatory bowl didn't relieve the sickness; somehow she could not vomit, the pain under her left shoulder blade made the effort ofretching unbearable. She hung there for several minutes panting, then dragged herself by stages to her feet, gasping at the bathroom cupboard and the shower door. It shocked her to realize that the frightened face in the wall mirror was her own, all muddy gray and beaded with sweat. The sight of it terrified her more than anything ever had, and she took her eyes away from the mirror immediately. She managed to stagger back to the living room and flopped into the chair, gasping, her hands flapping about helplessly.

Then the pain took her and tore at her like some huge, maddened beast; she leaned forward, her arms folded across her chest, their fists digging into her armpits. Small, moaning whimpers escaped her each time the knife-like agony worked itself up to a crescendo, and she could think no further than the pain. After an eternity it lessened; she leaned back in the chair, spent and shaking in every limb. Something seemed to be sitting on her chest, forcing all the air out of her lungs and making it impossible to suck in more. She was wet everywhere; the white tennis dress was soaked with sweat, her face with tears, the chair seat with urine she had voided during the worst of her rigors. Sobbing and choking through purpled lips, she sat there praying that Ron would think to come home before going to the Seaside. The phone in the hall was light-years away, absolutely beyond her.

It was seven that evening before Ron and Tim let themselves in the back door of the house in Surf Street. All was oddly quiet and undisturbed; no places had been laid on the dining room table, and there was no friendly smell of food.

"Hullo, where's Mum?" Ron asked cheerily as he and Tim stepped into the kitchen. "Es, love, where are youse?" he called, then shrugged. "Must have decided on a couple of extra sets at the Hit and Giggle Club," he said.

Tim went on into the living room while Ron switched on the kitchen and dining room lights. There was a terrified scream from the interior of the house; Ron dropped the kettle he was holding and dashed with a pounding heart to the living room. Tim was standing wringing his hands together and weeping, staring at Esme as she lay in the chair, curiously still, her arms folded and her hands knotted into fists in her sides.

"Oh, God!"

The tears sprang to Ron's eyes as he went to the chair and bent over his wife, reaching out a shaking hand to touch her skin. It was warm; hardly able to believe it, he discovered that her chest was rising and falling slowly. He got to his feet at once.

"Now, Tim, don't cry," he said through chattering teeth. "I'm going to ring Dr. Perkins and Dawnie, then I'll come right back. You stay here, and if Mum does anything, you yell. All right, mate?"

Dr. Perkins was at home, eating supper; he told Ron that he would call an ambulance and meet them at Prince of Wales Hospital casualty room. Wiping away the tears with the back of his hand, Ron dialed Dawnie's number.

Mick answered, his voice betraying his impatience; it was their dinner hour, and he hated to be disturbed then.

"Listen, Mick, it's Ron here," Ron said, enunciating carefully. "Now don't go frightening Dawnie, but it's her Mum. I think she's had a heart attack, only I'm not sure. We're getting her to Prince of Wales casualty immediately, so there's no point in coming here. It would be best for you and Dawnie to meet us at the hospital as soon as you possibly can.

"I'm terribly sorry, Ron," Mick mumbled. "Of course Dawn and I will come immediately. Try not to worry."

When Ron came back to the living room, Tim was still standing watching his mother and weeping desolately; she had not moved. Ron put his arm around his son's shoulders and hugged him, not knowing what else to do.

"Jeez, don't cry, Tim me boy," he muttered. "Mum's all right, the ambulance is coming and we're going to get her to the hospital. They'll fix her up in no time. You've got to be a good bloke and be calm, for Mum's sake. She won't like it if she wakes up and sees you standing there howling like a great big booby, will she?"

Snuffling and hiccoughing, Tim tried to stop crying while his father approached Esme's chair and knelt down, taking her doubled fists in his hands and forcing them into her lap.

"Es!" he called, his face old and lined. "Es, love, can you hear me? It's Ron, love, it's Ron!"

She was gray in the face and shrunken, but her eyes opened. They flooded with light as they saw him kneeling there, and she returned his clasp gratefully.

"Ron. . . . Jeez, I'm glad you come home. . . . Where's Tim?"

"He's here, love. Don't worry about Tim, now, and don't go getting all upset. The ambulance is coming and we're going to get you into POW right away. How do you feel?"

"Like something the ... cat dragged in. . . . Oh, Christ, Ron . . . the pain . . . it's awful. ... I wet meself. . . . The chair's sopping. ..."

"Don't worry about the bloody furniture, Es, it'll dry out. What's the odd leak between friends, eh?" He tried to smile, but his face twisted. For all
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his control, he began to weep. "Oh, Es, don't let nothing happen to youse, love! Oh, God, what will I do without youse? Hang on, Es, hang on until we get you to hospital!"

"I'll . . . hang on. . . . Can't . . . leave Tim . . . all alone now. . . . Can't . . . leave Tim . . . alone. . . ."

Five minutes after Ron called Dr. Perkins the ambulance was outside. Ron directed the ambulance men around to the back door, for there were twenty steps up to the front door and none to the back. They were big, quietly cheerful men, highly trained professionals in the field of emergency medicine; as aware of their skill as other Sydney-siders, Ron felt no qualms over Dr. Perkins' decision to meet them at the hospital. They checked Es's condition swiftly and lifted her onto the stretcher. Ron and Tim followed their navy blue uniforms out the back door, feeling useless and unwanted.

Ron put Tim in the front with one of the ambulance men and rode in the back with the other. They seemed to know immediately that Tim was not the full quid, for the one who was driving settled Tim in the adjoining seat with a cheery word that seemed to have more effect on him than anything Ron could have said.

They did not put the siren on; the one traveling in the back with Ron slipped a plastic airway into Es's mouth and connected her to his oxygen supply, then draped himself along the stretcher with his hand on her pulse.

"Why don't you put the siren on?" Ron asked, looking about wildly, the oxygen and airway frightening him.

Wide, reassuringly steady eyes gazed back at him; the ambulance man patted him on the back. "Now take it easy, mate," he said calmly. "We only put the siren on going to an emergency case, very rarely when there's someone inside. It terrifies the patient, does more harm than good, you know. She's okay, and at this time of night we'll get there just as soon without a siren. Only a couple of miles."

The ambulance threaded its way deftly through the thin traffic, drawing in to the brilliantly lit casualty room at the Prince of Wales Hospital five minutes after leaving Surf Street. Just as the sleek big car came to a halt, Es opened her eyes and coughed out the airway. The ambulance man assessed her rapidly, then decided to leave it out unless she went into another spasm. Maybe she wanted to say something, and that was important; it was better to let a patient find her own level, less distressing. "Ron . . ."

"I'm here, love. You're at the hospital, we'll soon have you fixed up now."

"I dunno . . . Ron . . ."

"Yes, love?" The tears were running down his face again.

"It's Tim. . . . What we . . . always worried about. . . . What's . . . going ... to happen to . . . Tim . . . when I'm not . . . here? . . . Ron ..."

"I'm here, love."

"Look after . . . Tim. ... Do the . . . right . . .
thing . . . for . . . Tim. . . . Poor Tim. . . . Poor . . .
Tim ….."

It was the last thing she ever said. While Ron and Tim were still milling futilely around casualty entrance, the emergency staff had whisked the stretcher away out of sight. The Melville men stood watching the white doors flap to a stop, then were directed firmly but gently to the waiting area. Someone came not long afterward and brought them tea with some sweet biscuits, smilingly refusing to give them any news.

Dawnie and her husband arrived half an hour later. Dawnie was beginning to be very pregnant, her husband plainly anxious for her. She waddled to her father's side and sat between him and Tim on the bench, weeping.

"Now, now, love, don't cry," Ron comforted. "The old girl will be all right, we got her here okay. They've taken her off somewhere, and when there's any news they'll tell us. You just sit down and stop crying. Think of the baby, love, you mustn't get into a taking at this stage."

"What happened?" Mick asked, lighting a cigarette and trying not to stare at Tim.

"I dunno. When Tim and I come home she was lying unconscious in a chair in the living room. I dunno how long she'd been there. Christ, why didn't I go straight home from work, why did I go to the Seaside? I could of gone home for once!"

Dawnie blew her nose. "Pop, don't blame yourself. You know you always come home at the same time during the week, how were you to know today she'd need you? You know she didn't mind your habits! She liked to see you enjoy your little drop after work, and besides, it gave her the chance to lead her own life. Many's the time I've heard her say it was such a break for her knowing you wouldn't be home from the Seaside before seven, because she could play her tennis until six and still have a meal ready for you and Tim when you came in."

"I oughta knowed she was getting on and not too well, I oughta seen it for meself."

"Pop, there's no point in recrimination! What's done is done. Mum wouldn't have wanted her life or yours any other way, and you know it. Don't waste time fretting over things you can't undo, love, think of her and Tim instead."

"Oh, Christ, I am!" His tone was despairing.

They turned to look at Tim, sitting quietly on the seat with his hands clenched together, his shoulders hunched in the withdrawn pose he always assumed when grief-stricken. He had stopped weeping, his eyes fixed on something they could not see. Dawnie wriggled closer to her brother.

"Tim!" she said softly, her small square hand stroking his arm.

He flinched, then seemed to become aware of her. The blue eyes transferred their gaze from infinity to her face, and he stared at her sadly.

"Dawnie!" he said, as if wondering what she was doing there.

"I'm here, Tim. Now don't worry about Mum, she's going to be all right, I promise."

He shook his head. "Mary says you should never make promises you can't keep."

Dawnie's face stiffened dangerously, and she turned her attention back to Ron, ignoring Tim completely.

The night was very old when Dr. Perkins came into the waiting room, his face drawn and fatigued. They all rose at once, like condemned men as the judge pulls on his cap.

"Ron, may I see you outside?" he asked quietly.

The corridor was deserted, the spotlights dotted down the center of the high ceiling flooding the tiled floor crudely. Dr. Perkins put his arm about Ron's shoulders.