Earlier, in Counselling Room Two, while they were getting their faces painted, she’d said to him: It’s finished. But what if it’s not? he’d said. Beth tried not to roll her eyes. What if there are more tests, he said, more things we could do? There’s a doctor in Germany with pages of testimonials; I can show you, I’ve got it here, look. We can borrow against the house. Forget about the renovations. I can’t accept, I won’t accept, that one morning my wife wakes up feeling a bit off-colour and then in less than five weeks she’s gone. I won’t accept, Beth, I won’t. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes glistened. There was a graze on his Adam’s apple—she remembered one there on their wedding day too.
Jerry helped him into the car and he sat, stunned and silent. Beth had a Pampering Room appointment at four. Are you okay? Jerry asked, as he came back up the steps. Beth nodded. Jerry went inside. She pottered awhile in Kellie’s garden then, lifting the last of the dead summer crop. She heard the family wagon go. Everything was laid over with a misty stillness. The farmer arrived and unloaded his mower and she went around there to watch. Up on the verandah, Meg was shaking out a smock. Come on up when you’re ready! she said.
In the Pampering Room, Meg’s apprentice, Shelley, Glenda’s daughter, helped Beth into a high chair. She flicked the smock up, brought it down and fastened it at the back. The vision in the mirror was partly the reason for avoiding the appointment to now. Her skin had lost its colour and clung like white rubber to her bones. Her hair had thinned, the cords in her neck stood out taut and pale and the flesh around them had sagged. Her eyes still had a gleam, a faint I’m still here sort of gleam, but the lights inside were going out and the whites had already turned grey. Meg ran her fingers through the little hair Beth had and looked into the mirror with her. So, sweetheart, she said: a little off the ends? She lifted a strand, stroked it and let it drop. And maybe a bit of colour? You decide, said Beth—but please, don’t make me look like a clown. Oh, my sweet, said Meg, laughing, that I certainly will not!
Behind her reflection Beth could see the windows, the verandah rail, the view across the paddocks to the hill. She heard the ride-on mower revving and saw at the very edge of her vision the farmer working the grassy road. There was something comforting about the sound, conducted in the chamber of that still autumnal air.
So how did your crying go? asked Meg. Good, said Beth, not bad. And you have everything in order, asked Meg, and nothing left undone? Beth began to nod but Meg was holding her head. There are a few things, said Beth, but nothing that should trouble me after. I trust David with the girls. He’s a good man—a bit of a wimp, but a good man all the same. He’ll probably end up with his secretary—it’s predictable, I know. Maybe I’m just making that up? Meg laughed. There are a few things at work I’d like to have done, said Beth, advanced myself, moved a bit further up the ladder, but work’s the last thing a person should be worrying about now, don’t you think? Touché, said Meg, and they both smiled.
She had Beth over the basin now, massaging in the shampoo. I don’t think there’s any stage we should be worrying about work, said Meg, work’s what kills us in the end. Maybe, said Beth, but dreamily, with her eyes closed, letting Meg’s hands smooth her thoughts. It’s what I love about this place, Meg continued, seeing people freed from that cycle of worry, finally having the leisure time they’ve dreamt about all their lives. It’s sad, I know, I’m sorry—I hope I’m not upsetting you—but I couldn’t count the number of people I’ve had in this chair who’ve said they’ve finally felt liberated from the alarm clock, the crowded train, the annoying boss. Beth let her head nod gently to reassure Meg that, no, she was not upset, and yes, in many ways she agreed. Even now, she couldn’t definitively say that taking the train that morning to Dr Yi’s was a bad thing—how could it be, when through it the door to a previously unimaginable adventure had opened? Leisure time, said Beth, dreamily, languidly: I agree. Meg tilted her head back, stroked her hair and ran some warm water through it.
Beth felt so utterly at peace now, with Meg’s soft fingers caressing her scalp, that for a while she drifted away on a cloud, rehearsing in her mind her going. She felt very light, made of air: her body and mind so open that her insides had become outside. She felt a great oneness, calmness, peace. Meg massaged the colour in and had her sit and wait while it took. A few other customers, two women and a man, came in and sat facing the mirror too. Yes, the hair would be an improvement, thought Beth, but nothing much would change in the face—unless Meg could maybe give it a little definition, or at least somehow enliven the eyes. Sometime later Shelley rinsed the colour out and turned the blow-dryer on. Beth flicked through a magazine, but took in little of it. She already seemed beyond: gone, free.
When the dryer stopped Beth heard the van pull up outside: it was the people coming back from the hall. Chairs were being shuffled out on the verandah, and she could still hear the ride-on mower revving between the gate and the hill. Meg styled her hair, then sat her on another chair for makeup. Shelley did her nails, waxed her legs and plucked a few stray hairs. The light outside had changed, the shadows lengthening on the grass. Meg returned and gave Beth one last check; she fixed a strand beside her ear, ran a finger across one brow. She made her stand, turned her this way and that. Shelley was waiting, hands clasped. Very nice, said Meg, very nice. Are you happy?
Beth turned and looked at herself in the mirror: the full effect, head to toe. Am I happy? What she saw was not offensive and would probably have to do. Yes, she said, I’m happy. Shelley relaxed. Meg touched Beth’s shoulder. Well, in that case, she said: you’re done.
Out in the hallway two volunteers were each carrying a stack of chairs and talking about something they heard on the news. (The news! The world! Life!) Beth followed them to the dining room where preparations were nearly complete. (She was having seared salmon and steamed broccolini—each thing is the last thing, she thought.) The trestle tables were already set in rows and the last of the chairs were now being placed. There was a radio on top of the piano and two young volunteers, soon to be waiters, were kicking a hacky sack between them. When they saw Beth they stopped; the others stopped too. Everyone knew her, but they’d never seen her like this. Each stood, respectfully but at the same time a little awkwardly, eyes downcast as when a hearse goes by. It was a volunteer doing the tablecloths who broke the moment; the rest resumed what they were doing too.
Outside, the sky had darkened and a low sun was firing golden rays across the grass, stretching the shadows and jewelling the dome of Bald Hill. The farmer had finished his road. Beth watched as he turned the mower around and drove back down to the gate, a cloud of gold-lit insects in his wake. The air tasted fresh, new, as if in the time she’d been inside the Earth’s old air had been pumped out and replaced. A chill was coming down. A slight haze still hung over the paddocks. All the sounds were amplified and crisp.
In her demountable her roommate was still lying on her mattress, looking at the ceiling. Lucy had just turned twenty-two. She didn’t look over when Beth came in but kept her eyes fixed. Beth walked to the standing rack in the corner and took down the little black dress; she slipped her arms through the sleeves and let it fall. It felt good. She stood in front of the mirror and smoothed the fabric across her breasts and hips; in the hollows it hung in creases but her old shape was not completely lost. She pulled a face, adjusted her hair. She put the black heels on.
I know it’s only a week since your presentiment, she said, and you do what you have to do. Lucy looked at her. But me? said Beth. I’m ready. She looked at Lucy, her junior, and smiled. Our body is a bag we chuck away when we’re done, Lucy—it was never anything else. Beth took everything off the rack and all the stuff from the end of her mattress and shoved them into the old blue plastic bag. She went through her tote bag, too, curled the handles, rolled it up, and shoved it into the blue bag with the rest. Then she slung the blue bag over her shoulder. So, I’m off, she said, I’ll see you at dinner, you’ve got a place beside me. I
t was dark in the demountable now and hard to see Lucy’s face but she knew she’d left her thinking. That would do for now. She slid the door back and stepped out into the evening air.
She walked first to the area behind the kitchen where she pulled down on the handle of one of the charity bins: the bag landed inside with a thump. The floodlight over the kitchen door was on, throwing shadows onto the ground. It was a while since she’d worn heels and she had to concentrate hard as she picked her way by floodlight back across the trampled ground to the stairs. She saw the light in her room flicker on. Up on the east verandah, the volunteers nodded to her as she passed.
Two minibuses pulled into the driveway and Beth watched the student actors getting out; some had their costumes slung over their shoulders, some carried them in bags or packs. They all walked together to the front door. By the light of a battery lamp down on the grass The Professor was giving last counsel to a group in a circle of chairs. Jerry was standing at its edge. There was a faint whiff of perfume and aftershave, mixed with the smell of cut grass. Jerry saw Beth up on the verandah and let out a wolf whistle. Beth smiled; everyone turned. (I guess I do look pretty good, she thought.) She pulled the creases down over her hips.
The bright lights in the dining room were still on, spilling out across the verandah and down onto the grass below. Most of the tables were laid; you could still hear the radio playing. The lights went out in the Crying Room, then the kitchen floodlight went out too. The dinner bell rang. The Professor and his pupils looked up; Jerry did the same. The bell rang again. They folded their chairs and, holding the lamp before him, The Professor led the way back inside. The only light left on outside now was the fluoro in Beth’s room. Then it went out too.
Everyone drifted inside, and along with them the activity and noise. Beth could hear muffled voices, dull footsteps, the sound of scraping chairs, Ruth’s voice. But outside it was all calm and still. She walked to the verandah rail and leaned on it. Bald Hill was a deep-black silhouette against a blue-black sky. A couple of stars were showing. The usual moon hung above. Beth put her elbows on the rail and cupped her hands either side of her eyes. The haze on the horizon was clearing. There were still a few hours to go. The black hump was out there: solid, benign.
She heard a noise from the far end of the verandah. Beth? Are you coming in? It was Lucy. Beth looked up and nodded. Lucy went inside. Beth leaned her forearms on the rail and rested her chin on them. She felt good in her dress, her body, the moonlight on her skin.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Melanie Ostell for her sharp editorial advice and incredible support throughout, to Michael Heyward for his faith and keen-eyed feedback, and to David Winter for his attentive and sensitive editing. Thanks too to Patricia Cornelius for her valuable comments on an early draft.
But deepest thanks go to my partner, Susie Dee. Only she knows this book’s long and curious history; without her continued love and support it would never have made its way back to the light.
This project has been generously assisted by the Australian Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.
textpublishing.com.au
The Text Publishing Company
Swann House
22 William Street
Melbourne Victoria 3000
Australia
Copyright © Wayne Macauley 2017
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
First published in 2017 by The Text Publishing Company
Cover design by Design by Committee
Page design by Imogen Stubbs
Typeset by J&M Typesetting
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry
ISBN: 9781925355932 (paperback)
ISBN: 9781925410297 (ebook)
Creator: Macauley, Wayne, author.
Title: Some tests / by Wayne Macauley.
Subjects: Australian fiction—21st century. Diagnosis—Fiction. Physical diagnosis—Fiction.
Some Tests Page 19