She said he could walk down with her to get some milk, but he thought he’d rather go out later, and when she’d gone, he turned again for reassurance to the photographs on the big table, chose one of his favourites. A photograph taken of Donna after her graduation ceremony, with other happy people in the background, but his daughter as the focus, holding her academic regalia to her body against the stiff wind, but smiling, smiling, delighted not so much for her achievement, but for the pleasure she knew it gave her parents. And it had. Watching her in the capping procession he thought how much more defined she seemed than all those around her, so that she was the gem amid the massed and moving setting that carried her along. Watching as she came upon the stage for her moment of acknowledgement. Watching as in the evening she held a glass of Moët in her small hand and told him of her plans, and as he listened, and as the restaurant thrummed with colour, noise and movement around him, he had known it was a flag day in their family life. He wrote her name and the date on the back of the photo. The information was unnecessary for him, but in time, when perhaps even Donna was long dead, someone could well be thankful for the identification, would look closely enough at the photograph to sense the gratification and love it recorded.
Most of the photographs were of their immediate family, although Sarah had a good many inherited from her parents, even formally grouped bearded and bonneted forebears of two and three generations before, who struck a conscious pose before the novelty of a camera. Robert had none of those, and few even of his parents, or himself as a boy with them. They were both dead, and his sisters must have taken possession of the family photographs, knowing his own lack of interest then. His parents had seemed preoccupied with their own lives, and so Robert had learnt to concentrate on his own. There was one family shot of them all on a tartan picnic rug with willows behind them and dry hills farther back. His mother sitting, his father half lying, propped on his elbow, his two sisters close by, and he a little apart, cheerful and squinting into the sun. Robert found it incongruous, for they had been a family who never picnicked, or so it was in his recollection, yet the anomaly was almost the sole remaining pictorial record of his childhood.
Largely obscured by other photographs there was an image that roused very different recollections and feelings. An informal shot of a Christmas party for his dental practice colleagues. Sarah, of course, and his partner Bill and his wife, the receptionists and nurses, the part-time hygienist, even their accountant, though both Robert and Bill said at the time they couldn’t recall inviting him. It had been taken late in the evening, and they were all in slight disarray, a sheen to their smiling faces, and arms around shoulders. In such cheerful inclusiveness there was no sign of the trivial feuds, offences and grievances that had run through the working year. However he would write nothing on the back of this snap: maybe he should tear it up and dispose of it privately.
Polly was in it, whom, over some months, he had fucked happily in the locked surgery after-hours. In the party photo she is towards the end of the table, leaning forward, eyebrows lifted comically, looking directly into the camera. Polly was a hard-case and knew what she was doing. He had greater guilt concerning Natalie, the hygienist, whom he never even kissed. She had come to him, knowing what was going on, and said she couldn’t remain working there if it continued. There was no threat to expose him, no self-righteous lecture. Everyone in the practice must have known about Polly, if Natalie did, but she was the only one to do anything about it. And Robert had taken her resignation rather than her advice, although she was a solo mother with two young children.
No, that picture wasn’t one that Robert wished to keep. Months afterwards, when Polly was long gone, he’d rung Natalie and asked if she wanted to come back. She said she would think about it, but he never heard from her. Occasionally he saw her shopping, or at events. Once there was a picture in the paper of her elder son receiving a regional youth art award. In their brief conversations no mention was ever made of the circumstances of Natalie’s resignation, or her decision not to return. Not all of the photographs in the albums, or loose, or on the computer, were ones that he wished to linger on.
All of them seemed to have gained in significance, though, since he became sick, reassurance to balance present uncertainty. He was forced to accustom himself to having no role in life that assured him of deference and respect from other people. No longer was he the senior partner in a professional practice with staff and patients attentive to his opinions and whims: he had become just another ageing man undergoing cancer treatment, dependent on his wife, deferential to Mr Goosen the specialist, grateful to hear of his daughter’s life and family when she had the time. He sat back and spread his hands on the table. ‘Jesus,’ he said to himself softly. ‘Jesus.’ He rarely indulged in self-pity, and was pleased that Sarah wasn’t with him, though what he felt was closer to dissatisfaction. He wished the photographs, even more the memories, showed greater love, valour and fair dealing on his part than he could discern. Maybe he was dying; maybe the cautious but encouraging reports he received from Mr Goosen were merely emotional palliatives to hide the truth. Death was a big thing, an enormity that made the humdrum achievements of his life seem even less important.
‘WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN up to?’ asked Sarah on her return.
‘Just the photos again. I’m almost finished and you’ll be able to have that table tidy-up you’ve been itching for.’ A deliberate cheerfulness infused his voice.
‘I’ll believe it when I see it.’
‘Well, it’s been quite a job, you know.’
‘I’m joking.’
‘I’d like to go out,’ he said. ‘I know you’ve just come back, but I’d really like to go somewhere for a while instead of being stuck here.’
‘Oh, okay. It’s not great outside at the moment.’ They both looked at the low cloud being bundled through the sky by the wind. ‘I needed a scarf, but couldn’t find my green and yellow one. I must have a proper hunt.’
‘It doesn’t matter then,’ he said.
‘No, no. We’ll wait awhile to see what it’s doing. We could take a bus, go down town and have a wander.’
‘There’s always the Magnus?’
‘Boring,’ she said. ‘No atmosphere at all.’ Hartley might be there, and even if he weren’t, the place had associations she wanted to avoid. Ever since his phone call from the house in Hamilton she worried that he would do something stupid to make contact. He just wouldn’t let go, and she had a sense of him out there somewhere, intense, determined and with a sort of heart-rending yet threatening devotion. It must be her fault as much as his that they found themselves so unhappy. She tried not to cry. ‘It’s shitty weather,’ she said vehemently to pull herself together. ‘On days like this I can’t wait to be back in Hamilton.’
‘Me, too, and we’ll get there.’
For a moment she felt that she could sit down with him, tell him that what had happened with Hartley was no big deal. That she’d met him by accident, come to enjoy his company because she was isolated and worried, been flattered by his attention sufficiently to welcome sex between them for a short while, but ended it all rather than leave her marriage, or continue the deception. She’d been foolish, but not ultimately dishonest, surely? Lots of people had the same story, including Robert himself. Almost, almost, Sarah did sit down beside her husband and tell him everything, wanting release from unrelenting anxiety. If he’d been well she may have done so, but he was sick, and looking at him she decided she couldn’t do it. Not then. And things could still turn out okay couldn’t they, if she just hung on? Hartley would get over her and veer off on his own life path again. If she held on, it would be all right. Hold tight to ordinary things as protection.
The weather didn’t improve, but after lunch they took coats and went out to the bus stop. At home they never used buses, but in Auckland, although they could afford taxis, they had come to enjoy the occasional novelty of a bus if they were together. Now, however, Sarah could take no
pleasure in it, her mind turning always with misgiving to Hartley’s persistent affection. Despite everything she still cared for him, and felt sympathy. How could love become something you seek to escape from?
They soon tired of the streets and the crowds, for scattered rain began to be flung by the wind at them despite the overhangs, and paper rubbish swirled against them. People abandoned courtesy in an effort to preserve comfort, pushing and crowding towards the more sheltered side of the pavement: reluctant to give way. The shopping malls were unaffected by the weather, maintaining their own artificial and gaudy atmosphere of retail carnival. But Sarah enjoyed little refuge there. The lines of cramped, glass shops with young women assistants imprisoned within like Amsterdam prostitutes, the lights casting jelly colours, the stale fragrances of Asian cooking, the incessant wail of pop music with an underlying throb of the air-conditioning and the escalators, and all with the sense of trivial and ultimately futile activity like the third-deck games room of a cruise liner. Yet she knew of course that she was casting over all about her, a disenchantment from a quite different source. One song seemed to pursue her from shop to shop and level to level — ‘Knocking on Heaven’s Door.’
They escaped to a first-storey café with a view across to the wet waterfront. Even the one flight of stairs was enough to have Robert breathing heavily, but he wanted to convince Sarah that he was enjoying the outing. He took her coat and put it with his own over a spare chair. ‘This is nice,’ he said firmly.
‘I have to say I’ve gone off Auckland,’ Sarah said. She looked about to make sure Hartley wasn’t there.
‘Eh?’
‘It would be good to be home again, don’t you think?’
‘Well, yes,’ said Robert, ‘but the treatment’s not over, is it.’
‘Maybe we could travel up for it when necessary. It’s not all that far after all.’
‘We talked about all that. I thought this was the way you wanted it? No need for driving back and forth.’
‘But you’ve stood up to it better than we expected, most of the time, and there aren’t many sessions to come, are there. Maybe we could talk to Mr Goosen and see what he thinks?’ She would be safer in Hamilton, she thought. Farther away from Hartley, and that would help him to forget, or at least lessen the chances of a meeting.
‘I know it’s been damn tough,’ said Robert. ‘Away from home and friends and all that. I don’t mind coming back and forth if that’s what you want. Okay, let’s talk to Goosen if you like and get it sorted.’
‘Only if you’re happy with it as well. That’s what’s important.’
‘Why not? And it wouldn’t be so lonely for you.’
Outside the squalls continued, the wind persistent, but the rain sometimes giving way to interludes of sun that glinted on the wet streets and traffic before the cloud blew in again. Beside her Robert was intent on his hefty carrot cake with soft, pale icing, slowly dividing it with a small fork. Hartley would have been entertaining her, intent on her response and needs, open in admiration, painting emotional colour on the world. Now she was content with the relaxed and accustomed companionship of marriage. ‘We’ll take a taxi back if it’s still raining,’ she said.
WHEN THEY WENT TO the oncology department three days later, they asked to talk to Mr Goosen before the radiation therapy. The specialist had Robert’s latest results, and was reasonably positive. Not spectacular, but nothing upsetting and that was the main thing, he told them. ‘It’s quite common’, he said, ‘in such treatment to have an apparent lull, a sort of marking time. Overall progress is the significant thing and we’re doing well enough.’ The specialist liked including himself when he could be positive.
‘Perhaps, then, this isn’t the best time for what we wanted to ask,’ said Sarah. ‘We were wondering if it would make any difference if we came up from home for the sessions rather than having the apartment. We’d still stay overnight if that was necessary, if Robert didn’t feel up to the drive home.’
‘Whatever you find works best,’ said Mr Goosen. His hands were placed side by side on his desk and aligned with care, as if they were surgical instruments for the moment idle. ‘If you’re happier at home, I don’t see why not. I wouldn’t recommend Robert drive, however.’ He looked at them in turn. ‘And when we’re no longer juggling both chemotherapy and radiation you should be able to be treated at Waikato hospital anyway.’
‘That’s what we’ll do then, I think,’ said Robert. ‘It’s less than a two-hour trip after all.’
‘It’s good to have an option,’ Sarah said. She’d already decided. As soon as possible they would move back home. They would go before Hartley could bring anything to a head, and the shift would show him that she was absolutely decided the affair was over. She should have thought of it before, but it was a relief to have action to take rather than just fretting. She was pleased with the outcome of the discussion with Mr Goosen. Things would be better when they were in their own home again. She wouldn’t have to pass the Magnus, or the Spanish motel, with their associations both reproachful and oddly treasured. Her accustomed life would close up the gaps left by no longer seeing Hartley.
When all the visits were over she would give Mr Goosen a gift, and also the reception nurse who was so pleasant and understanding while Sarah waited for Robert’s sessions to finish. Yes, gifts in appreciation, but also to show the conclusion of a time in her life she wanted to bring to an end. ‘We appreciate everything that’s being done, don’t we, Robert? I think it would be positive for us to be back in Hamilton from now on.’
‘We do, yes,’ he said, but shifting home again was unlikely to have any effect on the outcome of his treatment, and that was the important thing for him. He felt reduced, distanced, saw Sarah and Mr Goosen as if through a small, high window, and strained to concentrate on what they said. Illness is a form of isolation.
So they ended the interview, each in a different way: Sarah encouraged, Robert inwardly downcast, and Mr Goosen professionally unmoved.
‘Hello Robert, it’s me again,’ said Hartley, while Robert gaped a little at the door. He wasn’t feeling well, had a cough and a cold as well as more deep-seated ailments, and was in the midst of a debilitating round of treatment. It took him some time to place his visitor and then, finally, ah, twittery Olders, the outpatients guy.
‘Yes,’ he said without enthusiasm. A clear drop hung for a moment from his nostril and he wiped it with the back of his index finger. Such a trivial social offence, but unlike him. Niceties fell away in the struggle to preserve essentials.
‘You’ll be thinking that I’m pestering you, but it’s just a routine check that your situation hasn’t changed. We’ve acknowledged you don’t require any of the services.’
‘Right.’ The tone was of endorsement not invitation.
‘If I could come in for a moment,’ said Hartley.
‘Actually, we’re moving back home in a day or two. We’ll be commuting for the rest of the treatments and so won’t need anything. Nothing at all.’ Robert continued to block the doorway, not belligerently, more because he had one hand on the frame for support as he coughed.
Hartley felt he’d been struck hard on the chest, and although there was no physical contact he almost stepped back. Had he been alone he might have given in to the urge to cry out at the sudden news that Sarah was leaving. She’d given up on him and lost faith. She was taking off. And she had so little trust, so little honesty, that she was leaving without saying anything to him. He was only just in time, and he took that as a validation of his intention.
‘If I could come in, though. There’s a couple of standard questions required before clearance,’ he said, attempting a smile. As if he had stepped into a dark, chill pool, he felt sadness rising through him. Also conviction that the final decision was close at hand. The knife seemed to throb slightly in his jacket pocket.
Robert heavily led the way into the living room. He looked older and less resolute than on both previous visits Hartle
y had made. He was breathing audibly through his mouth because of his cold, his lower eyelids hung slightly so that an inner moist red rim was visible, and through what hair remained, brown spots like giant freckles could be seen on his pale scalp. Even in the shock of Robert’s news, Hartley, though smaller, was aware of his own health and physical competence. He was slim, upright, with a good head of hair, even if it was grey. He was younger than Robert and had visited a doctor since meeting Sarah only to renew his pills. For an instant he felt like emphasising his fitness and superiority in some way, but instead he kept moving, on to the French doors that led to the small balcony, and beyond. As he went he noticed again Sarah’s Matakana jug. For him it had a luminosity that was lacking in all of the other ornaments. It was a talisman that urged him on.
‘What a view these apartments have,’ he said, his assumed enthusiasm drawing Robert somewhat reluctantly after him. ‘I’ve often looked up and admired the balconies, wondered what it would be like out here, and now I know. Gets the morning sun, I guess, and that’s when you really need it, especially in winter. And you’ve got double-glazing to keep the traffic noise out when you’re inside.’ It was only a couple of paces to the balcony rail, and Hartley stood there, leant a little to see the drop and the paved area below before the lawn and main gates. He’d given up any pretence to be Olders from outpatients. He would say and do what he liked and Robert could make of it what he would. Sarah was killing their love, and any other harm, any revelation, any other death was rendered insignificant by that.
‘Your wife’s never been here when I’ve called,’ Hartley said. ‘I would’ve liked to meet her, because you say she’s been a great support during your treatment.’
‘She’s at the shops,’ said Robert. He came to the balcony edge and the direct sunlight made him sneeze. As Robert fumbled for his handkerchief, Hartley wondered if a determined shove might send him over and down. He tensed himself for the physical effort, but realised the rail was too high to act as a fulcrum, and Robert too heavy to be lifted quickly.
Love as a Stranger Page 22