The Doctor’s Special Touch

by Marion Lennox

  Massage wasn’t a substitute for loving human contact, Ally thought, but it certainly helped. She’d warmed and mobilised Gloria’s aching joints. She’d given her time out from her loneliness and she’d listened as Gloria had filled her in on the last seventeen years of town life.

  Gloria was happy. She’d sleep much easier tonight because of her massage, and Ally accepted her fee knowing she’d given good service.

  It was a start, she thought with satisfaction as she stood on the doorstep and watched Gloria walk off happily down the street. She’d helped.

  And best of all she’d been paid. She could eat!

  ‘You know that Gloria has arthritis?’

  She whirled to find Darcy Rochester watching her from the front step of his rooms. He looked as if he was about to go out on a house call. Every inch the doctor, he was carrying a smart black doctor’s bag and he was headed in the direction of his capacious Mercedes Benz parked out on the street.

  A brand-new Mercedes, she thought bitterly. As opposed to her ancient rust-bucket of a panel van which looked almost ludicrous beside it.

  ‘Do you have to keep scaring me?’ Ally demanded, and he raised an eyebrow as if such a notion was ludicrous.

  ‘What, you don’t have a spare bucket of paint to throw at me this time?’

  ‘I wish,’ she muttered darkly. ‘And, yes, I do know Gloria has arthritis.’

  ‘So maybe massage isn’t appropriate.’

  ‘Go teach your grandmother to suck eggs.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You know your business and I know mine,’ she said through gritted teeth. She was almost deliriously happy to be here again-in this town, setting up her own business-but this man was threatening to burst her fragile bubble of contentment. ‘I know what I’m about,’ she said, trying to moderate her voice a little. ‘I understand that massaging inflammatory joints can cause damage, and I was extremely careful not to do anything of the kind. I helped.’

  ‘She’s on medication. If you’ve interfered-’

  What was it with this man?

  ‘I did not,’ she said, again through gritted teeth, ‘interfere with Gloria’s medication in any way, shape or form. I did not imply that she’d be better off taking wart of hog, collected at midnight from the local cemetery in ritualistic sacrifice, than she is taking your boring old anti-inflammatories. I did take a medical history-I’d be stupid not to-but she’s your patient, and aside from rubbing her down with a little sandalwood oil…’

  ‘Sandalwood’s expensive.’

  ‘So’s a Mercedes,’ she snapped. ‘I charge to cover my expenses. The sandalwood costs me maybe a dollar. I factor it into my accounts. How much do you charge to cover the cost of running your Mercedes?’

  Yikes. That was way out of line. She couldn’t believe she’d just said it. She wasn’t normally this rude-this abrupt. What was it about this man that got under her skin?

  But he stood on the doorstep of the place where her grandpa used to practise medicine, and his eyes condemned her.

  ‘Um…we seem to be getting off on the wrong foot,’ he said, and she blinked.

  ‘We do indeed.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re a fine massage therapist.’

  ‘And I’m sure you’re a fine doctor.’ Her tone was wary.

  ‘If you’d just like to talk to me about my patients before you treat them.’

  ‘And your patients would be…who? The whole town?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘You’d like me to ask permission to touch anyone who comes near me?’

  ‘There’s no need to be dramatic.’

  ‘There’s every need to be dramatic.’ She was practically snarling. ‘I’m a massage therapist. Not a witchdoctor. The first rule of a good massage therapist is exactly the same rule as for a good doctor. Do no harm. So, if you’ll excuse me, would you just get into your fancy car and take yourself off to wherever you’re going? Because I have things to do.’

  She certainly did. She had a steak to buy. A really big steak. Gloria’s money was practically cooking itself in her pocket.

  But Darcy was staring at her as if she’d just arrived from outer space.

  ‘What?’ she said crossly.

  ‘I just thought…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look, maybe we should get to know each other a little better.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘It’s a small town. I gather you’re intending to stay.’

  ‘You’re the Johnny-come-lately,’ she agreed. ‘I’m the local. Maybe you’ll move on.’

  ‘It’s unlikely.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I like it here.’

  ‘A big fish in a small pond,’ she said cordially, and watched the frown snap down.

  ‘Look…’

  Maybe she ought to change the subject. She had no idea why they just had to look at each other and they started snapping. Conciliation was her middle name, she thought ruefully, and she had no idea why this man had the capacity to knock her right out of her normal pacifist nature.

  But she sort of enjoyed it, though, she decided. Astonishingly. Somehow tossing paint at him at their first meeting had set her free to bounce insults around.

  Or maybe it had been that when he’d flared in anger and she’d retreated in fear, he’d made it absolutely clear there’d be no consequences.

  Argument for argument’s sake was a novel concept, but she was discovering she could enjoy it. But she did need to move on.

  ‘Did you get your shoes clean?’ she queried.

  ‘No,’ he said shortly. ‘I didn’t.’

  Honestly, he was irresistible. He stood on the top step all dressed up like a very important doctor, and he was so looking like a bubble that had to be burst.

  ‘You couldn’t have tried hard enough,’ she told him, and watched the grey eyes widen in astonishment. He wasn’t used to be being teased.

  ‘I got the pavement clean,’ she continued, watching the amazing wash of expressions on his face. ‘I scrubbed and scrubbed and there’s not a trace of blue paint left. So I can be quite useful. There are also times when I don’t do harm.’

  ‘I didn’t imply…’

  ‘Yes, you did.’

  He glowered. And then he glanced at his watch and he glowered some more, while she watched with interest. She had no idea why she was goading this man, but she couldn’t stop to save herself.

  ‘We need to talk,’ he said at last.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We just do.’ His frown faded and suddenly he was looking at her with an expression that was almost a plea. ‘There are problems. Things you should know about.’

  ‘About every patient in town?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he conceded. ‘But some. If you’ve got time…’

  ‘I need my dinner.’

  He glanced at his watch again. ‘It’s only five o’clock.’

  Yeah, but she hadn’t had lunch. And she had enough for a steak.

  ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘I haven’t had lunch…’

  Snap!

  ‘I’m about to grab a sandwich from the general store. Have you ever had chickenpox?’

  What sort of question was that? ‘No.’

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘I’m inoculated, though.’

  ‘You’re inoculated?’ Once again there was a trace of confusion. ‘Aren’t you too old to have been inoculated?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Chickenpox inoculation for kids didn’t come through until fifteen years back.’

  ‘I had it later, as an adult.’ All non-protected doctors did. But what business was it of his?

  ‘Oh.’ He was looking at her as if she were some sort of puzzle-a puzzle that had a hundred pieces and he was far too busy to put them together. ‘Well, good.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I was going to say that I’ll buy you a sandwich to keep the wolf from the door, and then take you out to the hills above t
he town.’

  ‘Are you propositioning me?’

  There was a sharp intake of breath on that one. ‘Are you listening?’ he demanded, and she stifled a giggle. Propositioning her? Maybe not. Did this man know that she was even a woman?

  ‘I’m listening.’ She put on her demure tone and received a suspicious glance for her pains.

  ‘I have three really sick kids up in the alternative lifestyle settlement above town,’ he told her. ‘It’s a commune of sorts. They’ve been hit with chickenpox and I can’t bring the really sick ones down to hospital as I’d like. They won’t let me.’ Then, as she still looked confused, he explained a bit more. ‘I have another half-dozen house calls to do before I call it a day, so I don’t have time to talk to you about the problems you might be facing, but I do need to talk to you. It’s a fifteen-minute drive. Come with me and talk on the way?’

  She stared at him. She stared at the big Mercedes.

  She looked down at herself.

  She’d been painting when Gloria had arrived. She’d put clean jeans and a T-shirt on to do the massage but they weren’t exactly the sort of gear this man would expect in any woman he dated.

  And their date was with chickenpox?

  Plus a sandwich. A free sandwich. And a ride in a very nice car.

  ‘OK, then,’ she said, trying hard to sound demure and compliant and not truly excited about a free sandwich. ‘I can do that.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I have time between clients.’

  ‘When’s your next client due?’

  ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out,’ she told him. ‘Can I have my sandwich toasted?’

  Which was how, fifteen minutes later, they were heading north out of town, with Ally wrapping herself around a double round of toasted ham, cheese and tomato sandwiches with double the usual cheese and very thick bread.

  Darcy had ordered himself a single round of salad sandwiches-how boring was that? He finished them off while he drove, then concentrated on driving with the occasional sideways glance at her.

  She’d added a chocolate thick-shake as a side order. It tasted unbelievably wonderful.

  ‘Do you have worms?’ he asked, and she almost choked. But didn’t. That would be a waste of sandwich and there was no way she was wasting a crumb.

  ‘Why would I have worms?’ she demanded with her mouth full, and then added a polite, ‘Doctor?’

  ‘I’ve never met anyone so skinny who eats like you do.’

  ‘Then you haven’t lived,’ she told him, and turned her attention to her thick-shake again. Some things required full attention.

  ‘So you live on your nerves?’

  She sighed. She slurped the rest of her thick-shake and thought about licking the rim. She sighed again, this time in real regret, and let it go. A girl had some standards.

  ‘I don’t live on my nerves.’

  ‘So you’re bulimic?’

  ‘Right. A bulimic call-girl.’

  ‘Hey…’

  ‘Do we have to get so personal?’ she asked him.

  ‘I just want to know.’

  ‘Well, I don’t particularly want to tell. No, I am not bulimic, Dr Rochester. I’m disgustingly healthy. So set your professional concerns aside and tell me why you’re bringing me on this drive to see chickenpoxes. I assume you don’t think they want a massage?’

  ‘No, I-’

  ‘Good. Rubbing poxes would make them itch.’

  ‘You know-’

  ‘Just tell me what you want me to hear.’

  He hesitated. She waited. This car was really lovely, she thought. It must have cost him a bomb. If she set up her own medical plate in the main street of somewhere like Tambrine Creek, then maybe…

  Yeah, right.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said again, and this time there was an edge of anger in her voice that she didn’t try and disguise.

  ‘There are some vulnerable people in this town.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really,’ he said angrily. ‘Will you just listen? You haven’t been near this place for nearly twenty years.’

  ‘So you think I’m about to prey on the population.’

  ‘I bought you a sandwich,’ he snapped. ‘Listen.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said. She set her empty shake container in the cute little drink holder between the seats, folded her hands in her lap and stared straight ahead. ‘In payment for my sandwich I’ll be quiet. But only because you let me have double cheese.’ Her voice became totally subservient. ‘Please, sir, I’m paying attention. You can start now.’

  Silence. Then a sound from the driver’s side that might almost be…a chuckle?

  She ventured a suspicious glance at him and found his lips were twitching. And those eyes…

  Laughter did something to him, she thought, and tried very hard to stay looking demure and compliant and good.

  ‘OK.’ He took a visible hold on his sudden and unexpected flicker of humour, and gripped the steering wheel harder. ‘There are a few people I need to talk about.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Ivy Morrison,’ he said, and there was a touch of desperation in his voice that said that laughter wasn’t too far away.

  ‘What about Ivy Morrison?’

  ‘She’s on a pension.’ Laughter faded. ‘She’s a little simple. She buys every new thing that’s going and gets into the most appalling financial mess. She’ll be desperate to see you.’

  ‘I’ll see her.’

  ‘Are you listening?’ he demanded. ‘She can’t afford you.’

  ‘So you’re saying I should say, “Sorry, Ivy, the doctor says you’re too poor to see me”?’

  ‘No, I-’

  ‘Because that would be insulting and humiliating,’ she told him.

  ‘Yeah, but-’

  ‘What I can do is take her the first time. I’ll only accept cash-which I do anyway as I can’t afford credit facilities-and I’ll tell her that frequent massage isn’t indicated in someone really fit and healthy. I’ll also make sure that the only appointments I have available for her are on the day before pension day. Never the day after. OK?’

  There was a silence. Then he said, ‘You understand about pension days?’

  ‘Of course I do.’ Did she ever. She knew all about eating reasonably in the first days after you received it and starving in the days before it arrived.

  But this was no time for reminiscences. Darcy was still watching her curiously.

  ‘You’d do that for Ivy?’

  ‘Of course. I’d do it for anyone I thought needed that level of care. This is my home and this is my community. I’m not about to exploit it.’

  ‘You really feel like that about Tambrine Creek?’

  ‘It’s the only home I’ve ever known,’ she told him. ‘I’m not about to mess things up by being greedy.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you are.’ His voice fell away. He was clearly unsure where she was coming from.

  As she was.

  ‘What about you?’ she asked, moving on. ‘You’ve told me you have a very romantic mother and you have a wood stove. What else?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘What’s the rest of the story?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘You’re not married? Gloria says you share the doctor’s house with two dogs and a bunch of chooks.’

  ‘Easier than a wife and kids,’ he said with mock seriousness, and she grinned.

  ‘I guess. OK. Why are you in Tambrine Creek?’

  ‘I like it.’

  ‘Most med students could think of nothing worse than heading straight to Tambrine Creek when there are heaps of jobs available in the cities. Gloria said you just arrived here five years ago to practise and you’ve never made any attempt to leave.’

  ‘I told you-I like it.’

  ‘But there must be a reason why you came.’

  ‘What’s the phrase you used?’ he demanded. ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out?’


  But he wasn’t laughing. Ally looked at his hands on the steering wheel and saw his knuckles were white. There was a story here.

  Yeah, well, that makes two of us, she thought wryly. Two of them running from ghosts.

  There was no time for more. ‘Here we are.’ He was steering the big car along a dirt track leading from the ridge overlooking the town.

  ‘They live here?’ she asked incredulously, and he nodded.

  ‘They do.’

  ‘This belongs to Gareth Hatfield. Or it did.’

  ‘Gareth Hatfield? I’ve never heard of him.’

  ‘He’s…um… His son was a…a friend of my father’s,’ she said, her voice trailing off. Then, realising something more was expected, she tried again. ‘The old man was filthy rich. He bought all the land around here and then sold it off for a vast profit. The locals used to say he’d find some sucker to sell even this place to, and maybe he has. Is there water up here now?’ Tambrine Creek itself was set on a rich coastal plain, but the land up here was rough and rock-strewn. It was so dry it was almost dust.

  ‘They cart their water up from the river,’ Darcy told her.

  She fell silent, staring about her. She could see three rough bush huts set well back into the scrub. The place seemed deserted. The huts were primitive and there were no vehicles parked where the track ended.

  ‘No one’s here.’

  ‘They’ll be inside. Between five and six o’clock, the women cook and the men meditate.’

  She swallowed. Memories came flooding back. To have such a community here…now… But Darcy was still watching her, waiting for a reaction. She could see she was starting to puzzle him. What had he said? The women cook. ‘Lucky women.’

  ‘You’d rather cook than meditate?’ he asked, and she struggled to make her voice sound normal.

  ‘Of course I would. I’d rather cook than do anything. Especially when I get to eat what I cook. Where are the cars?’

  ‘There aren’t cars. They don’t believe in them.’

  ‘How do they get water up here?’

  ‘The women carry it.’

  Her jaw dropped. ‘You’re kidding. It’s a half-mile climb.’