She stilled in his arms. She moved away from him and gazed into his eyes. ‘You want us to make love.’ It was a statement—not a question.
Oh, he could drown in those ebony orbs. ‘Sweetheart—’ he touched his lips to hers again— ‘I want you so much.’ He shifted her on his lap, so she was in no doubt of how badly he needed her.
Sheva stilled, and then slipped off his lap. Sitting with her knees bent on the couch, she dropped her forehead on his chest. ‘I am sorry. So very sorry, Roy.’
He raised her face with a finger under her chin. ‘Why sorry, Sheva?’
‘I—I do care for you. And I won’t lie. I do want to make love with you.’ She stopped and took a deep breath, ‘I can’t do casual sex, Roy. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have given you the impression I would—’
Roy pulled her back into his arms. ‘Sheva, Sheva, darling.’ With a whimper she responded with a passion to match his own. ‘Whatever else it is, sex would never be casual between us.’ Her dark eyes grew deeper with desire and a tumult of other emotions Roy couldn’t read. ‘What do you want, Sheva?’
She paused, except for her hand that inched around his neck, and her fingers that tangled in his hair. ‘I want to feel your hair in my fingers,’ she whispered. He kept still, amazed at the deep satisfaction and tranquillity he felt at her touch. Her other hand moved to his shirt, ‘I want to look at you.’ Slowly, she slipped the buttons off. Sliding her fingers over his bare chest, her fingers moved through the hair on his chest. Resting her palm over his heart, she pushed his shirt open and laid her cheek on his chest. Her lips brushed his bare skin. ‘This is what I dream of, but, I can’t.’
He tightened his arm around her. He had been wrong to rush her. She was a woman who needed to be romanced. ‘I understand, Sheva. Let’s take it slowly.’
‘Sex is special to me, Roy. I—I’ve been waiting until marriage, and I understand you can’t make a commitment like that to me. My girlfriends in Sydney never understood my choice either.’ Her fingers continued to rest on his chest. ‘I understand your situation, Roy,’ she continued, ‘I don’t move in your social scene. I’m Sri Lankan. Not white Anglo-Saxon Australian. I know you need a wife suited to your life, and your social standing as a high flyer businessman. I’m sorry – much as I want to be with you, I can’t do a temporary affair.’
The implication of her words sank into Roy’s brain. He leapt off the sofa and pulled her up with him. ‘You think I don’t want to commit to you because of who you are? You think your ethnicity, colour or social standing matter a jot. Is that what you think of me? None of it matters, Sheva. But I can’t. Do you hear me? I can’t. I just can’t.’ He realised he was shouting.
Sheva pulled away from him. ‘Stop it Roy. What are you talking about?’
He dropped back on the couch. Resting his elbows on his knees, he dropped his head in his hands. ‘It’s not you, Sheva. I can never commit to any woman. Never get married. Never—never, ever be a father.’
His body burned with shame and the pain of the confession he had made to her.
Sheva knelt down beside him. ‘Roy, why not? Are you unwell? Is that why Samson is there with you? Please, let me help you. I care for you, Roy, and I am a doctor.’
‘I’m not sick. Well, not yet.’ The words were wrung from him.
She stroked his hair. It was comforting, almost hypnotic. ‘Roy, what is it? I trusted you. I shared my life with you. Can you not do the same?’
The buzz of his phone interrupted them. He glanced down and read the message from Samson: “Edward is agitated, I can do with your help. Sorry to spoil the evening.” He raised his eyes to meet Sheva’s.
Yes, it was time she knew the truth about his father’s condition—and his.
‘Sheva, you want to know why I can’t make a commitment to any woman? I’ll show you why. Will you trust me on this?’
Sheva stood straight and dry eyed. Her eyes met his. ‘I trust you, Roy.’
He stood up and buttoned his shirt, picked up her handbag and handed it to her. ‘Come on.’ He took her hand and pulled her to the door.
Sheva shouldered her bag and locked the front door behind them. ‘Where are we going, Roy? To the farm?’
He opened the door for her before crossing around to his side and climbing in. Once she’d clicked her seatbelt in, he turned on the engine. ‘Hold on tight. I need to get home quick.’
‘Roy, what is it?’
‘What you wanted: the truth.’
‘What is the truth?’
‘Something you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy, Sheva.’
Chapter 30
Roy swung the car on to Kosciuszko road. On their right, Lake Jindabyne brooded, grey and menacing. The wind whipped up waves on the usually placid surface of the water and sent dark clouds churning over the mountains.
‘There’s a storm brewing.’ Roy’s fingers were rigid on the steering wheel. The tendons of his wrist were sharply defined under his slim gold watch and silk cuff of his shirt. Sheva shifted her eyes to his face. Every muscle was tense, his mouth a tight line of controlled anxiety. His eyes were fixed on the road with resolute intensity. The atmosphere in the car matched the weather: bleak and brooding.
Twilight deepened and night crept around them. Roy swung off Kosciuszko Road. There were no streetlights on Barry Way. The headlights cut through the dusk, picking up the shadows of wallabies standing by the edge of the road. Roy didn’t slow down.
A wombat ambled across the road. Roy braked and swerved to avoid it. They left the buildings behind. There were now no other vehicles on the road. Dark clumps of bush were broken by the dim shadows of pine and gum trees and the ghostly silver-grey of white box and ghost gums.
The car was a cocoon of silence. She reached over to place her right hand on his thigh. His muscles contracted under her fingers.
The signpost reading “Jindabyne Aerodrome” was barely visible. To break the thick ominous stillness between them, she asked, ‘Is this where you keep your plane?’
‘Yes.’
‘Please, Roy. Talk to me. What is it? It’s something to do with the farm isn’t it? I sensed it on the first day when I drove over to see your arm.’ She kept her hand on his thigh.
He kept his eyes on the road, but took his left hand off the wheel to cover hers.
‘Sheva, I talked to Dan after our walk to Kosciuszko. He explained to me how incredibly brave you’ve been. I promised him that I would watch out for you—and I will. But, what is happening in my life is far more personal, even horrible. I have no right to get you involved.’
He fell silent again.
‘Roy, by being here with you, I am already involved,’ Sheva persisted. ‘Professionally and personally, I have seen and experienced life at its lowest and worst. Whatever is happening at the farm, let me help you.’
Roy nodded. ‘Thank you.’ Weariness and a deep sadness laced his voice. ‘I hope you don’t regret your offer.’
The car turned into Mowamba Way.
The darkness was absolute. The stars and moon were completely obscured by menacing black clouds. Flashes of lightning speared over the mountains and the accompanying thunderclaps echoed across the plains. Empty paddocks stood stark and eerie in the bursts of light, like some Martian landscape.
Sheva had never seen anything like this. She remembered Sunil and her sitting side by side in church, listening to the hellfire messages that Reverend Bob preached. ‘His chariots of wrath the deep thunderclouds form, and dark is His path on the wings of the storm,’ she murmured, under her breath.
‘What was that, Sheva?’ Roy’s face was set in a rigid mask.
‘The scene—it is almost apocalyptic’
His laugh was harsh, pained, ‘Yes, good analogy.’
The car bumped over the unsealed section of the road leading to the farm.
She t
ouched his hand, wanting contact and longing to assure him she would be there for him. His fingers tightened, white-knuckled, around hers. ‘We’re almost there,’ he managed to choke out.
‘Roy, whatever it is, we can deal with it together.’
A crash of thunder muffled his reply.
The gate was open and Roy swung the car in and up the drive, braking to a stop at the veranda’s steps.
Samson pushed open the front door and shut it behind him. He stood on the veranda, watching them.
They jumped down from the car and when Roy came around to meet her, she put her palm on his chest. ‘Go, I’ll be right behind you.’ She followed Roy up the steps and to the front door, their footsteps echoing on the timber floor.
‘I don’t know what set him off, Roy—’ Samson glanced from Roy to her— ‘and I’m sorry to mess up your evening.’
The wooden front door was surrounded by an intricate panelling of stained glass. The coloured glass shimmered like a jewel in a flash of lightening. Samson grasped the brass knob and pushed it open.
There was a sound, a cross between a wail and a howling scream. It was a cry of pain, anger and profound sorrow. It chilled Sheva to the bone.
Samson shut the front door behind them.
Roy glanced back at her. ‘Are you all right, Sheva?’ She nodded her assent.
They were in a corridor with high, ornate ceilings. The hardwood floor was covered by a magenta thick pile carpet. The muted lighting came from a single three armed chandelier. Framed photographs adorned the walls. She followed Roy and Samson, glancing at the photographs as she passed them. Family pictures; one of an older couple and Roy as a teen, another with him as a child; Roy in the University of Sydney Rugby jersey, with his team holding up a trophy; Roy at graduation, in ski gear, and in another, on horseback. Other framed photographs were of a beautiful middle-aged woman and a distinguished older man.
Samson talked as they walked down the corridor. ‘You know how he likes the Sunday evening service on the Christian radio station? Well, I recorded it and played it for him today. He dozed off and I switched the music off. He woke up and started screaming. I haven’t been able to control him since.’
Wood swing doors with glass panels stood closed at the end of the corridor. Samson pushed them open.
They were in a spacious room with a high ornate ceiling, from which hung a shimmering, crystal chandelier. Painted roses decorated the intricate cornices and the polished timber block floor was cosy with oriental rugs in blue, green and silver. Three walls of the room were papered with a soft blue-white floral design, but the wall facing the door had thick cream coloured linen curtains, drawn across what Sheva presumed were ceiling to floor windows. Two couches upholstered in maroon oriental damask sat along the walls of the room, between which a marble fireplace was laid with tidy logs, ready to be lit.
Despite all of these marvellous details, Sheva’s eyes were drawn to the person in the wheelchair at the centre of the room. He was facing away from the door, towards the windows. Staccato explosions of noise came from him, disconnected vocalisations of larynx and vocal cords that refused to obey the directions of the brain. Her brain whirled with thoughts and possible diagnoses.
Roy stepped in front of her and swung round to face her, his body shielding the man. ‘Sheva, I’m sor—’
‘No, stop right there, Roy. I’m a doctor. Whoever it is in the wheelchair—’ she glanced into Roy’s eyes— ‘is obviously someone close and special to you, and unwell. I am here. Let me see your patient.’ She moved away and around him.
The sound continued. The volume increased and grew even more anguished. Samson rushed over to the wheelchair.
She ran through the differential diagnosis: Stroke, cerebral palsy, cerebellar tumour— then her brain clicked. The decisive sign was the arms flaying on either side of the wheelchair. Arms clothed in long shirtsleeves. A gold watch glimmered on the left wrist. The limbs moved in a writhing dance-like movement. The fingers twisted and grasped at air, uncontrolled. Staccato sounds continued to grind out from the tortured larynx.
They were all classic signs of chorea.
Sheva looked into Roy’s eyes. ‘He has Huntington’s Disease.’
His eyes narrowed in amazement. ‘How? You haven’t seen him yet.’
She pointed. ‘The movement of the arms, the sound of his vocalisation. The shirt and watch.’ She paused and took his hands in hers. ‘Who is he, Roy?’
‘My father.’
The sound was louder. More agitated.
‘Roy, I’m here,’ she grasped his arms. ‘Let me see him.’
His lips turned up in a smile, but his eyes were bleak. ‘Thank you.’ He placed a restraining hand on her shoulder. ‘Wait here. Let me talk to him.’
Samson leant over the wheelchair. ‘Please, Mr Knight. Calm down, sir. What is it you want?’ He picked up a board and held it up in front of the wheelchair. A white board with pictures: a glass, cup, plate, book, toilet seat, bed, and music notes.
The writhing arm reached forward from the wheelchair towards the board. A trembling finger stabbed at the music note.
‘Music. You want me to put on music.’ He moved aside.
Roy dropped to his knees before his father. He took hold of the twisting fingers and stilled them in his own. ‘Father, I have a doctor here to see you.’ He listened to the slow stuttering sounds his father made and shook his head. ‘No, it’s not Professor Pennington, but I think he would approve of her.’ He looked at Sheva and signalled for her to approach.
Sheva moved to stand beside Roy. She stood beside him for a few seconds and then dropped to her knees by his side. Roy continued his hold on his father’s hands and kept his eyes on his face. ‘Father, this is Doctor Sheva Singh. She runs the new medical centre in Jindabyne.’ He smiled at the sounds from his father. ‘Yes, the one you helped build.’
He turned to Sheva. ‘Sheva, this is my father. His name is Edward, Edward Broughton-Knight.’ He stood up and moved back, allowing Sheva to slide closer to his father.
‘Here, Doc.’ Samson placed a low stool beside her. ‘You can’t stay on your knees.’ She got off her knees and sat on the stool.
She reached out and took the flaying hands in hers. She wrapped her fingers around the thin wasted fingers. The pressure partially stilled the erratic movements. She looked into his eyes, fixing his gaze. ‘Mr Broughton-Knight, I am a trained neuro-muscular specialist. I know Professor Pennington. I train with him. We do surgery together.’
His neck jerked and twisted. The face and lips contorted in a grimace. She caught phrases and part of words. ‘Sir? You want me to do what?’
Roy bent over her. ‘I think Father wants you to call him Edward.’
Sheva didn’t take her eyes off the older man. Tears filled her eyes and she blinked them away. The figure in front of her was the wasted shadow of a handsome man in his mid-fifties. His grey hair was well groomed and his pale, sunken cheeks were clean-shaven. His tailored silk shirt and trousers fresh and ironed—if a couple sizes too large for the almost-skeletal frame. Her heart filled with sorrow. The grey eyes and sharp features were exactly like Roy. The strong bone structure all the more pronounced by the muscle loss. She glanced at Roy, who stood by the wheelchair.
‘Yes, I look just like him. I’ll show you some pictures of him in his Sydney University rugby jumper later.’
The sound coming from the wheelchair drew her attention back to Edward. It was an irregular, crudely musical vocalisation. His right leg raised, writhed and banged down on the footrest of the wheelchair. He repeated the movement. Once, twice—a fitful rhythmic cadence.
She kept her eyes on Edward. She mouthed the words she could make out. ‘Survey—cross—Prince—’ kept her eyes focused on his eyes as best as she could— ‘Samson, did you say you were playing the recording of last Sunday night’s service? Was it 1
04.3 Praise FM?’
‘Yes, Doc.’
Sheva wracked her brain. She had listened to it too, a Sunday service from the Anglican Church in Parramatta. She tried to recall the hymns. Something with cross, prince and survey.
‘Roy, did your father—did Edward sing in a choir?’
‘He loved it. He sang bass with Lavender Bay Anglican Church. Hated when he had to miss choir practice.’ Roy smiled. ‘He even went straight from the airport to choir practice after an eighteen hour flight from London once.’ He paused. ‘Sheva, you don’t think he’s trying to sing?’
She nodded.
Still holding on to Edward’s hands, Sheva smiled at him. ‘You miss choral music don’t you? I think I know which hymn it is. So, let’s sing together, shall we?’
The delight in his eyes was obvious. The noise he made sounded like, ‘Yes—yes—yes.’
She settled on the stool and held her body erect. Keeping hold of Edward’s hands, she started singing, ‘When I survey the wondrous cross. On which the Prince of glory died—’ She stopped at his stuttered moan. ‘Come on, Edward. I don’t think my voice is so bad.’ She laughed. ‘You want the other tune. I know it—Rockingham.’
Edward’s face twisted in the parody of a smile.
‘Okay, you’re on.’ She held his hands. ‘Join me. I’ll sing the tune. You can join with the bass. From the beginning.’ Sheva tapped her foot in keeping with the slow rhythm Edward was stamping.
‘When I survey the wondrous cross.
On which the Prince of glory died,’
Sheva kept her eyes locked on his. Her clasp limited the twisting and flaying of his arms. ‘Come on. Edward. We can do it.’ Tears rolled down Edward’s cheeks. A ragged sob broke from his throat. Sounds emerged to join her voice:
‘My richest gain I count but loss,
And pour contempt on all my pride.’
The words were hardly comprehensible, but the notes were clear. The muscles on his face contorted. He was remembering. She did too. Memories of other times. Times when she was growing up in Colombo. Choir practices with her father. Singing duets with him. His tenor to her soprano. Sheva started on the second verse:
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