Dark Oasis

by Dulcie M. Stone

Leaving the window, she obeyed.

  Steadily, as though reciting from a medical document, Amy reported, “Rick has episodes of depression and, sometimes, uncontrollable violence. He’s prone to a type of convulsion.”

  “Epilepsy!”

  “Not at all. You need be aware of one thing only, Gail. His condition is incurable. He will never be fully well. In fact, the prognosis is that the condition will deteriorate. Eventually, he will.”

  “It’s not true!”

  “You know it is.”

  “It’s not true!”

  “Take the picture, Gail.” Amy placed the photo on the bed. “You must leave him alone.”

  “No!” She threw the picture to the floor. Splintered glass exploded across the room.

  Amy bent to retrieve it. “I’ll get a broom. The glass.”

  “Don’t touch it!”

  From the lounge, Gus called, “Everything all right in there?”

  “I’ll have to go to him.” Stepping gingerly across the shadowed glass-strewn floor, Amy left the room.

  She crossed to the door and slammed it shut.

  Broken shards ripped her bare feet. She felt nothing.

  When she woke at noon the house was silent, the autumn sky outside the window mellow. Fred was in the lounge, black on the pastel cushions. The kitchen was empty. She showered, dressed in shorts and shirt, re-bandaged her feet, and gingerly eased them into loose sandals. Her sunhat was hanging on its hook by the side door. She put it on, and stepped out onto the thick lawn.

  From the work shed came the sounds of music and voices. Even if he was there, she couldn’t risk public confrontation. She started for the cottage.

  Blue raced from the shed.

  Frustrated, she yelled, “Get out!”

  The dog cringed. Why had she ever feared it? Immediately contrite, she called for it to follow. Ears pricked, knowing her destination, it trotted ahead.

  The cottage door was unlocked. She opened it. The new hinges squealed protest. The unfamiliar sound was disconcerting. Memory of Tom mending the broken door became abruptly relevant. She’d never before thought about how it might have been broken. Today, she didn’t need to.

  She went in. The dog followed, whining, crying. The rooms were unnaturally tidy. The records had been precisely stacked and covered to protect them from dust. The meticulously arranged book-case exhibited, like a child’s mouth, a tooth-less gap in the middle of an upper shelf. The bed had been carefully made, the cotton cover was smooth, the corners primly folded; hospital-style. She turned it back, revealed blankets but no sheets, the pillow without a cover. In the wardrobe were his work clothes, shorts, shirts, boots, broad-brimmed hat. The case was not there, nor were the casual after-work clothes, the formal blue suit, the white shirts, the striped ties, and the fine leather shoes.

  The afternoon hours she spent alone in Phoebe’s bedroom. Whether she slept or cried or thought, she never knew. Later there were only memories of the empty cottage, the stripped bed, the protesting door and the dog’s keening.

  In the evening she walked to the dining room, sat with Amy and Gus, drank little and ate nothing. When Gus left, she started to follow.

  “You need to stay.” Ramrod straight and tight-lipped in the high-backed chair, Amy objected. “You haven’t asked about Rick.”

  “You wouldn’t tell me the truth if I did ask.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “He’s gone. You didn’t tell me he was leaving.”

  “My son had another convulsion. His medication requires further modification.”

  “Is he in hospital? Can I see him?”

  “They flew him to Sydney.”

  “I’ll go.”

  “No, Gail. You won’t go. They won’t let you in.”

  “He needs me.”

  “He won’t know you.”

  “Of course he will!”

  “He doesn’t even know himself.”

  “You’re lying!”

  “Forget him, Gail.”

  She left the house. The sun’s last rays were striping the cloudless horizon, the vines browning towards winter, the birds easy in the cool air.

  She went back to the empty cottage. Inside, diligently searching, she again found nothing, no note, no message. He’d left her nothing.

  She lay on the turned-back cover, head on the unsheathed pillow, stared blindly into the naked overhead light. A gentle breeze, sifting through the fly-wire, was swinging the bulb in tiny circles that formed shadow patterns on the ceiling. An occasional brittle autumn leaf, loud in the utter silence, skittered across the corrugated iron roof.

  It was his world. In this room, on this bed, he’d become resigned to his terrible condition. He’d forsaken hope. This was his world as it had been before she’d seduced him from it. He’d asked her not to. He’d pleaded. She’d not listened. For a brief moment, for a lifetime, she knew his grief.

  God forgive her. Because in this room, on this bed, she’d betrayed him. There were no excuses. How could there be? He’d begged and she’d not listened. In the name of love? Love does not destroy. Guilt ridden, she was too disturbed for tears.

  Midnight – the knock on the cottage door was insistent.

  She ignored it.

  “Who’s in there? Answer the door!” Ryan’s voice was anxious.

  Leaving the bed, she opened the door.

  “Gail.” He was relieved. “I didn’t know who it could be.”

  “Rick wouldn’t mind.” She switched on the exterior light. Ryan’s left arm was in plaster, his head in bandages, his face bruised and one eye swollen. “You’ve had an accident!”

  “No. Don’t worry about me. I’m okay. I’ll be on my way. I was just checking everything was okay.”

  “Was it a fight? What happened?”

  “Mother told you about Rick.”

  “He had a convulsion.”

  “That’s what Mother calls it.”

  “You should be in hospital.”

  “I told you. Don’t worry about me.” He turned to leave.

  She was closing the door, listening to the protesting squeal of the repaired hinges, when Ryan turned back.

  “That’s Tom junior’s fault,” he grimaced. “He’ll never be as good as his father. I’ll get him to oil the door tomorrow.”

  “The door isn’t important.”

  “Rick has no idea he’s doing it, you know.”

  I don’t want to hear this.

  “It’s been terrible for all of us, Gail. You mustn’t blame Rick. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He didn’t mean to hurt me. He can’t help it.”

  Don’t tell me this.

  “He’s not bad, you know. He hates himself. He hates what the fits make him do.”

  No more.

  “We had to knock him out. Dad and Tom drove us in to Emergency.”

  Please go.

  “Gail! Are you all right?”

  Leave me alone!

  “I should get Mother!”

  “No!”

  “Honestly, Gail. You shouldn’t be in there alone. It’s not healthy.”

  “I’ll leave,” she promised. “In a minute.”

  “You shouldn’t be in there alone.”

  “Did Rick say anything? In Emergency – did he say anything?”

  He shook his head, the white bandages stark in the cruel porch light. “Not a word. Not about anything.”

  “He must have said something! He must have!”

  “He cried! Damn it! He cried! That’s it!”

  That’s it.

  She closed the door.

  That’s it.

  She remade the bed, fitted the covers as he had, closed the wardrobe door, re-checked the records, the dust covers, the bookshelf. The incongruity of the gap-toothed space on the upper shelf demanded attention. What had been there? Scanning the shelves, she found the blue Opera Book. Moved to a lower shelf, the small blue-covered volume had been placed with a series of thick brown leather-bound encyclopaedi
as. Had he left it for her?

  She opened it. Inside, inscribed in thin blue ink, she again read, ‘To my darling Rick. I just found it. Enjoy. Love, Phoebe.’

  Enjoy. She had stripped him of joy. She’d betrayed him. Even if he had left it for her, which was impossible, she could not take that too.

  Shaking, she replaced the little book where he had left it; on the lower shelf with the erudite tomes. Switching off the light, she locked the door, and went back to the darkened farmhouse.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  She couldn’t visit the surgery. The Campbells were too well-known; someone would report back to them. On the pretext of visiting the township’s small library, she’d persuaded Ryan to drop her off on his way to the Farmer’s Club.

  Assuring him she’d catch a taxi back to the farm, she ascended the library steps, but did not go in. When the rear lights of his station wagon had turned the far corner, she headed for the back streets and Dr Walker’s house. She’d made no appointment, nor even attempted to. It would be unwise to allow him time to contact Amy.

  The narrow avenue was lined with jacarandas, their bare branches grotesque in the blue-tinted light of the street lamps. The red-brick houses, unlike the typical flimsy weatherboard and corrugated iron monstrosities, were old and large and substantial and immaculately maintained. Number ‘8’, set well back from the roadway, was doublefronted with a broad verandah, low slung and surrounded by a large garden. The night air was rich with the perfume of flowers. Huge evergreens screened the windows and there was no sound of any kind. Daunted, yet having no choice, she unlatched the wrought iron gate and listened for sound. Still none, not even a faint squeal from the well-oiled hinges.

  The unlit path to the front door, illuminated only by the distant street lamp, was lined with a border of recently watered lavender. She stepped nervously onto the broad verandah. Immediately an overhead light was activated, its glare momentarily blinding. As she fumbled for the doorbell, the heavy front door opened.

  From behind a wire screen, a woman asked, “Can I help you?”

  “Is this Doctor Walker’s house?”

  “May I ask who wants to know?” The woman’s voice was private school cultured, her eyes guarded.

  “Gail Mitchell. Is Dr Walker in?”

  “May I inquire your business? I’m Mrs Walker.”

  “It’s private. I have to see him.”

  “Is it a medical matter?”

  “Yes. I have to see him.”

  “In that case, Doctor will see you in surgery hours tomorrow, Miss? If it’s urgent, the hospital.”

  “It’s urgent. I can’t go to the hospital. I have to see him.”

  “Tomorrow. You can see him.”

  “It’s about Rick Campbell. His brother – Ryan – dropped me off.” It wasn’t entirely the truth. But she needed it.

  “You should understand, my dear.” The door opened a fraction. “My husband has to be protected. For his own sake. Especially here in a small town. His private time is precious. You do understand.”

  “It is urgent. I promise. I won’t be long.”

  “Perhaps … do you mind waiting out there? I’m sure you understand. I’ll check.” The Doctor’s wife disappeared into the dark and silent interior. There was no sound of footsteps.

  Standing alone under the glaring security light was nerve-racking. She might just as well have gone to the surgery. Despite the huge trees and the large garden, prying eyes were sure to be behind the drawn blinds across the road. She should leave. She couldn’t.

  No sound of footsteps heralded the wife’s return, only the welcome sound of the opening screen door.

  “Do come in.” The Doctor’s wife re-locked the door. “Forgive my caution. You do understand. He’s in the den. At the end of the passage.”

  The carpet was thick, the ornately wall-papered walls inadequately lit by gilded lamps, the doors on both sides closed, the silence total; no voices, no music and the faintest scent of lavender. Reaching the closed door at the end of the oppressive passageway, she knocked; tentatively, because even the tiniest noise had to be audible in this silent house.

  There was no response.

  She knocked again; more loudly, more firmly.

  Dr Walker’s muffled voice called, “Come …”

  The room was small, dark timbered, thickly carpeted and shadowed and had a low ceiling. All available wall space was lined with books, the heavy brown velvet curtains were drawn and a shaded table lamp reflected its golden light from a highly polished walnut desk. By an open unlit fireplace was a pair of metal-studded leather armchairs, a small table between them. In one of the chairs, reading and drinking by the light of a second lamp, was Doctor Walker. Wearing soft slippers and a maroon velvet dressing-gown over his trousers and loose-hanging shirt, he did not look up.

  She coughed.

  “A moment …” Setting down the empty glass, he continued to read.

  She shouldn’t have come here. She was out of line. This was not the way to get what she wanted.

  “The young lady did say it was urgent, Jim.” The wife had followed her.

  Placing an impatient hand on the book, Doctor Walker looked up. “As you have already indicated, dear. We shall see.”

  “I’m sorry, Jim.” The wife flushed. “I thought … Amy is such a …”

  “I heard you!” The hand on the book trembled. “I’m doing as you asked.”

  Retreating, Mrs Walker whispered, “Call when you’re ready to leave, Miss Mitchell.”

  Waiting for the door to close, she apologised, as was expected. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I have to see you.”

  “At this hour? Surgery hours are quite clear.”

  “I can’t go there.”

  “And why not?” He reached for the empty glass, looked thoughtfully at it, and dryly commented, “I’d offer you one. But it would be inappropriate.”

  His wife was right. Coming here was unwise. “I don’t drink.”

  “Of course not.” He waved at the opposite chair. “Sit … sit …”

  Setting handbag and hat at her side, she perched on the edge of the stiff leather.

  “So, my dear, is that clear? I’ll make sure surgery has a vacancy for you tomorrow.” He smiled, happily setting boundaries.

  “I told you, I can’t go there.”

  “Don’t think me callous, Gail. This has been a trying time for everyone. I understand that you want to talk. One has to be circumspect.”

  Quickly, she blurted, “I think I’m pregnant.”

  “Of course you do.”

  She might have been reporting the weather. “I have to find out!”

  “As I have already said, my dear. You’ll need to come to the surgery.”

  “You know!” Of course he knew. “How could you know?”

  The book slammed shut, thunderous in the hushed room. Unsteadily unwinding his six feet two inches of maroon velvet, empty glass in hand, he left the chair and paused by the golden arc of desk-light. His breath, even across the distance between them, was heavy with spirits.

  She should not be here. His wife had opened the door only because of the Campbell name. That was why he was bothering with her. It was irrelevant. Drunk or sober, she had to persuade him to talk to her.

  Reaching into the desk, he retrieved a half-full bottle of whisky, opened it, and refilled his glass. “A small personal discipline,” he grimaced an aside. “If I can walk to it, I can drink it.”

  She should leave. “I have to talk to you.”

  “Not tonight, I think.” Intently balancing the full glass, he returned to the chair. “Kindly close the door when you leave.”

  “Rick talked to you.”

  “Oh dear.” His sigh was condescendingly melodramatic. “Do we have to do this tonight?”

  “I can’t be seen in the surgery!”

  “Absolute rot. You should …”

  “What did Rick say to you? What’s happened to him?”

  “What happened
with Rick is not your business.”

  “I have the right to know.”

  “You’re a Campbell?” he sneered.

  Her dislike of the Campbell family doctor intensified. “Not yet.”

  “Not ever!” He raised the glass, as in a toast. “To romance!”

  She cringed.

  “What a shame you don’t drink. You’d feel much better. My wife tells me … she’s also an unhappy teetotaller.”

  “What’s happened to Rick?”

  “You know better than to ask, young woman. You’re trespassing. That’s Campbell territory.”

  “This child is Campbell territory.”

  “If there is a child. If there is indeed a child, is it Rick’s child?” His eyes, above the rim of the glass, were watchful. And amused. Was he really drunk?

  Doctor Jim Walker did not approve of her. She should have been prepared for this reception. Care for Rick and loyalty to the family precluded any concern he might have for her. He’d want her out of Rick’s life, and out of his. Further protest would gain nothing.

  “I’ll let myself out.” She gathered handbag and hat.

  “My wife will be expecting you.” He returned, steadily, to the desk. “I’ll make a note for the surgery staff. Phone in the morning.”

  She started for the door.

  “One more thing,” he ordered. “In the unlikely event that this is not yet another instance of your overactive imagination, consult my partner, not me. My concern is entirely with the Campbells.”

  “The family has a responsibility to me. Rick will.”

  “Don’t even begin to count on Rick.” Glaring across the impassive expanse of polished walnut, he was unflinching. “For your purposes, young lady, Rick is a non starter.”

  “What’s happened to him!”

  “Not your business. You will need to …”

  He was interrupted by a quick knock, the opening door, and his wife. “Sorry, Jim. It’s Amy Campbell on the line.”

  “As you see, Gail,” he returned to the desk. “I am busy.”

  She wanted to leave, but could not move.

  Doctor Walker made no attempt to lift the receiver of the desk extension.

  “I’ll see you out, my dear.” The wife waited.

  “What’s happened to Rick?”