Oh.
The last word uttered appeared tinged of sadness which was unlike Judy.
Why? What’s the matter? Is there something you’re not telling me?
Judy looked around in all directions. For somewhere to place the bedpan? For somewhere to hide? I couldn’t tell.
I shouldn’t. Umm… You really should speak with your mother’s doctor.
Judy! Come on; you’re talking to me.
I could tell Judy was struggling with her inner-voice. The nurse’s aide who wanted to maintain her professionalism in an arm wrestle with the sweet young woman who’d become a close friend.
Okay. Let me get rid of this…
She raised the bedpan in my direction.
… I’ll meet you outside in the parking lot. I’m due a break anyway.
A cool breeze rustled the limbs of the red-gum trees overhead. Traffic was light on Studley Park Road, just the occasional whoosh of a passing car filtered through to break the silence.
I leant against the rear tailgate of the Beast, hands thrust deep in pockets, wondering what Judy was reluctant to tell. Breathing deeply of the fresh air helped to clear my nasal passages of the hospice’s cloying smell. And to keep my anxieties to a manageable level.
I don’t have very long.
While gazing above at the stars filtering through the branches and trying to keep the worst of my fears at bay, Judy crossed the parking lot and stood a few metres to my side.
So, how bad is it?
Well, you know I do everything I can for your mother.
Judy. Just tell me, okay. You don’t have to sugar-coat it. I know the end can’t be too far away. At this point…
At this point, what? Was I ready to give up on my only surviving family member? After more than three years of a struggle destined to only get progressively worse, the only possible outcome death, was I ready for that?
At this point… I don’t know what’s best for her anymore.
Hey, don’t talk like that. Not while she’s still fighting. But, Craig, she is getting weaker. It should be Doctor Jacobs telling you this, but we needed to up the level of her medication.
I breathed a sigh of relief. The change in treatment wasn’t a new development, I’d become accustomed to these over the past six months. Diagnosed with a rare vascular dementia, the medication prescribed helped to prevent blood clotting and promote blood flow, particularly to the brain. The restriction in blood flow being the cause of her first symptoms of forgetfulness.
Okay, well, that’s not great, but they’ve made adjustments for her previously.
Yes… But, Craig. She’s now at the limit of both dosage and frequency.
Meaning what?
Judy stepped closer, I could smell the lemon scent of her perfume she used liberally to mask the odour of the hospice. She steeled herself before speaking by focusing on my shoes, then let it all out in one quick burst.
A stronger dosage would only do more harm than good. Then as her dementia progresses the blood clots will worsen, and her mind will suffer even more due to the reduced blood flow. And then she’ll be at an even greater risk of a stroke, and we’ll be powerless to stop it.
Judy fell silent, looked skyward and breathed deeply of the fresh air; well aware I knew the implications.
So how much longer? A year? Months?
Doctor Jacobs thinks it’ll be more like… A month, at most, I’m so sorry.
Judy moved forward, closing the remaining distance between us, put her arms around my waist and rested her head on my shoulder. I would have cried, but after years of overuse I’d lost the ability. For three years I’d re-lived the same scene. My mother tied to the tracks in a bad 1920s film, with no hope of escape, no hope of rescue. And the oncoming train steaming forever closer in agonisingly slow-motion.
Thank you for telling me, Judy. It… It somehow feels comforting in a way to know her ordeal will soon be over.
Judy disentangled herself from our embrace and was wiping tears from her eyes.
You sure you’re okay?
No, but yes, if that makes sense. It’s not like I didn’t know this day would come. It’s comforting to know she has such caring people here – you – looking after her.
I dug deep and worked up a smile. I hoped it looked more natural than it felt.
Thanks. So… umm… I know this is really horrible timing, but, we are still on for Friday night, aren’t we?
The way she asked so sheepishly, couldn’t help but broaden my smile.
Of course, we are.
Good. I’m really looking forward to it. And it’ll be good for you too. To get away from… You know… Things.
I managed to keep the smile on my face through the small peck on the cheek and until she hurried back inside the hospice.
Driving home, I slipped into the disc player a CD by The Whitlams, and the wistful vocals of Tim Friedman bemoaning the loss of a close friend. Whenever I played the song, I associated it with my father. It brought back memories both bitter and sweet, but memories nonetheless. Tonight, his memory was bumped aside for someone closer. Someone who’s ordeal would soon be over.
The end of a life. The end of my family. With three years to prepare for this impending moment, you’d think I’d be ready.
But I wasn’t even close.
Calais, France
October 25, 2014
Eamonn sipped his café au lait while glancing at the front page of the Daily Telegraph. He’d already read it from front to back on the short train ride from Folkestone, under the English Channel, to Calais. He perused it again in the taxi to the Calais ferry terminal and admired, in particular, the page one headline one more time sitting here, at the Le Calais Douvres restaurant, across from the Europcar rental office.
Daring Irish Bank Heists screamed the page one banner. Five branches in Dublin hit simultaneously. The Gardaí surmised the robberies were linked, but no further details had yet been released. Estimates placed the total haul, informally, at €1.4 million. Eamonn knew, unequivocally, they were – give or take a few bills – €265,000 short of the mark.
Just a short walk from his table at the restaurant, the third member of his team collected their rental from the Enterprise office, while the fourth parked his Peugeot and entered the Europcar office. The fifth and remaining agent, according to the locator application on his phone, passed through border control moments earlier and would arrive shortly. Eamonn’s instructions informed each which departure of the Eurotunnel shuttle to catch, and all five – being the experienced soldiers they were – followed orders to the letter.
Eamonn ordered another coffee from the surly waitress and once again ran through yesterday’s events. He searched for the tiniest of imperfections within his plan he may have overlooked. But try as he may, not even the minutest of errors was apparent to his well-trained eye. He thought the security checkpoints may have caused a problem, but at both Holyhead and Calais the checks were cursory at best. All five vehicles waved through with nary a glance.
Just as Eamonn envisioned, his group were moving against the flow and into the oncoming tide of humanity. Border guards, more concerned with stopping the flow of refugees into Great Britain, paid those travelling east little attention. When searching for illegal aliens or terrorist threats, white, middle-aged, couples were the least of their concerns. The image brought a smile to his face, it was not so long ago his people were the terrorist du jour.
By now, Eamonn assumed, his five agents would’ve seen a television newscast, heard reports on the radio, or read a newspaper. Therefore, each knew their robbery was not a solitary act. But they were professionals, and he expected them to act as such. Though doubts did creep into the corners of his mind with regards to their wives, and the five accomplices. Wives he could control. However, he was less sure about the accomplices. He made a mental note to call his associates and have the accomplices shadowed for the next few weeks. The payment of two thousand euros for five hour’s work should ensure
each kept their mouths shut, especially knowing betrayal meant a swift execution, but you couldn’t be too careful. Eamonn planned on this being the gift that kept on giving.
A battered Ford Cortina entered the parking lot to his right, cruised slowly up and back through three rows of cars before finding an open space. The last of his agents, with wife and luggage in tow, made his way slowly along the pedestrian walkway and through the sliding glass doors of the Europcar office.
Eamonn shook his head from side to side and whistled softly.
Jaysus, how did that piece of shite make it all the way from Dublin to here?
The change of vehicles in Calais, just another small part within his elaborate plan. Not only would a left-hand drive vehicle attract less attention, but reliability also needed to be considered. Though it couldn’t entirely be ruled out, he could little afford to have one of the vehicles break down somewhere out in the Continent’s countryside.
Under a bright blue sky, the last of the five agents packed his luggage into the new mid-size Citroen sedan while his wife made herself comfortable in the passenger seat. Two full days of driving faced each couple before reaching their final destination. For Eamonn, a Ryanair flight from Brussels later in the afternoon awaited, getting him to the final meeting point well ahead of time. His cut from this first operation came to almost €40,000, more money than he’d ever earned in a year, let alone in a single day. And the blueprint established for further operations.
Eamonn stood, folded the paper under his arm and slipped on his Red Sox baseball cap. Digging in his pocket, he found a few coins lurking and tossed them on the table. He then remembered what an irritating pain in the arse the young waitress was, so retrieved three of the five and put them back in his pocket.
Old habits die hard, he mused, as he sauntered off to hail a taxi.
Melbourne, Australia
February 19, 2016
The large, circular, neon sign extending out from the Yarra Hotel’s 160-year-old sandstone façade vividly illuminated the front entrance. The reddish glow of the Carlton Draught sign above the door hung like a harvest moon in the evening’s gathering dusk. I held open the door for Judy, and we slipped inside to the warmth and comfort of the main bar. The weather turned unseasonably cool earlier in the day, but once inside Judy slipped off the woollen shawl draped over her shoulders.
We found Dayne leaning against the bar chatting with the bartender and nursing a beer. As we approached, he turned in our direction and performed a quick beer glass salute.
Craiggo, glad you could make it, mate. And don’t look now, but there is an adorable bird following closely behind you.
Judy grinned, blushed ever so slightly, and held out her hand to shake Dayne’s. I performed the introductions and ordered a beer for myself and a Sauvignon Blanc for Judy.
For Dayne and me, frequenting the Yarra begun more like a pilgrimage than merely being our preferred watering hole. One of the co-owners being the famed singer-songwriter, Mick Thomas, a local legend in the Melbourne – if not Australia’s – music scene. Mick shot to fame with his first band, Weddings, Parties, Anything, before Dayne and I were born. His songs resonate with simple tales of the common man, of ordinary lives, whilst also weaving a musical tapestry recounting Australia’s rough and ready history. Although actual sightings of Mick are rare, with both our homes in close proximity, the Yarra remains a natural meeting point.
Turning from the bartender, I asked:
When does your set start?
Dayne drained the last of his beer before answering.
Now. I hope I have enough of these in me…
He held up the empty glass.
To get through it.
What are you playing?
I grabbed an empty bar stool for Judy and positioned it next to Dayne. He turned in Judy’s direction before answering.
Some Neil Young, Springsteen, a little Paul Kelly of course.
I’ve heard of those blokes; my dad has some of their CDs.
Dayne and I faced one another, smiled and shook our heads. True, he and I did have musical tastes beyond our years. It was one of the few things bonding our friendship at a young age. While kids our age were jumping from one musical fad to the next, we absorbed the rock, folk, and blues classics as if through an intravenous drip until they coursed through our veins and became a part of our soul.
Okay. Wish me luck.
The front room of the Yarra was close to capacity. The melodic sound of Dayne fine-tuning his guitar almost lost in the buzz from a dozen different conversations around the room. Many were here for the night’s main act, Ulysses Wulf, others to meet friends and kick off their weekend. Most likely only Judy and I gave a toss about seeing Dayne perform.
From our seats at the bar, Dayne was only visible from the waist up. He turned to face the crowd and began strumming the opening chords to Neil Young’s, Sugar Mountain. It was the perfect choice for an opening song. His voice, with a tinge of nerves and never robust at the best of times, filled the room with a shaky falsetto sounding eerily like the original.
Polite applause rippled out from different pockets of the room as the final chord faded. Dayne took a long swig from a bottle of beer by his feet and launched into a rollicking version of Springsteen’s, Johnny 99; he followed with another selection from one of Bruce’s solo albums, Maria’s Bed.
More than half the crowd were now engaged and turned to watch Dayne perform. As he began the poignant Heart of Gold by Neil Young, I turned my attention to Judy.
Dressed casually in blue jeans and a crimson sleeveless top, she wore just enough makeup to accentuate her delicate features. When I picked her up earlier in the evening outside her parent’s home in Heidelberg, she appeared nervous and fretted over her choice of outfits. Gone was the confident young woman from the hospice. The change only served to make her seem more endearing. I told her she looked beautiful and meant it. Under the soft back light from the bar her tanned skin glowed, and when she tilted her head in my direction, her brown eyes sparkled with innocent delight.
She returned my smile, tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and turned back to the stage. I was the happiest I could remember being in months and wondered how best to capture the moment and to make it last. Could this be the beginning of something? Or would it wither and die once the incongruous link of the hospice no longer existed? I ordered another round of drinks, and with the utmost determination banished all dark thoughts from my mind. Tonight, I was determined to relax and enjoy Judy’s company, tomorrow would come soon enough.
Do you know who’s singing?
An attractive girl my age sidled in beside me at the bar and motioned towards the stage.
Yeah, his name’s Dayne Wallingham. He’s a good friend of mine.
Hmm. He’s cute.
With that the girl turned and headed back to a table in the corner.
A friend of yours?
The brief conversation drew Judy’s attention.
No. But I bet we’ll be seeing her again later this evening when Dayne’s finished his set.
Her sly, beguiling, smile made me wonder, was she just amused or issuing a note of caution?
Hey, I know this one!
Judy began singing along with Dayne’s rendition of Passenger’s Let Her Go.
He really is very good.
I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. You are enjoying yourself, right?
Of course, relax, will you! I’m having a great time!
From Passenger to Persuasion by Tim Finn, followed by an old Dingoes’ number, Dayne had the small crowd wrapped around his little finger. Rapturous applause filled the room and Dayne took a moment to soak it all in. He drained the last of his second bottle of Carlton Draught and begun playing the opening strains of To Her Door.
The Paul Kelly classic was one of the first song’s Dayne learnt to play. It was the summer after he’d been expelled from school and was living, temporarily, with my mother and I after his dad kicked hi
m out of their family home. The simple tune about second chances and redemption always held a special meaning for him. At the end of the song, he bowed, and with guitar in hand simply walked off stage. To the crowd, it appeared a well-planned, theatrical exit. Only I knew the feelings the song invoked made it impossible for him to speak.
We met Dayne outside in the beer garden. His guitar packed away, along with his emotions, in the battered old case which came with his first guitar. It was the guitar’s purchase, with his own hard-earned money, which prompted the final argument with his dad. What Dayne saw as an investment, his dad viewed as money tossed down the drain. The two have rarely seen eye-to-eye, or spoken, since.
Dayne, wide-eyed and energized from his performance rose from his seat as we approached and offered Judy one of the small wooden chairs.
So, how did you like the show, m’lady?
It was absolutely brilliant. So, this is what you do for a living?
Well, not exactly. Thirty minutes at the Yarra doesn’t exactly keep the lights on at chez Wallingham, but the free beer is nice.
The temperature continued to drop under the cloudless sky. A faint breeze ruffled the leaves of the potted plants scattered throughout the beer garden. Judy wrapped her woollen shawl around her shoulders and gazed up at the clear night sky. The lights of the inner-city reduced the brilliance of the stars to a faint glow, yet the setting couldn’t have been more idyllic.
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