Dinner at Rose's

by Danielle Hawkins

  He answered on the third ring. ‘Graeme Sunderland here,’ he said. I’d forgotten what a nice voice he had – deep and rich, like caramel.

  ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘It’s me.’

  There was a longish pause. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I need your professional opinion.’

  Another pause. ‘Go ahead, then.’

  Calling him had been a mistake. Somehow when he rang me I had the moral high ground. But I’d done it now, so I asked, ‘If a breast cancer metastasises to the spine while you’re getting chemo, what’s the prognosis?’

  ‘That’s not my area of expertise,’ said Graeme.

  ‘I know, but you’ve got a far better idea than I do. Aunty Rose had a six-week course of chemo and then a mastectomy, and then they found that the margins weren’t clear, and now she’s got back pain because of a growth on a vertebra.’

  ‘Look, Jo, I don’t know what kind of cancer you’re talking about –’

  ‘Ductal carcinoma.’

  He carried on as if I hadn’t interrupted, ‘– or what chemotherapy regime she’s on, or what type of surgical margins they took. I can’t just speculate on a case I know nothing about.’

  ‘Graeme,’ I said tiredly, ‘for just half a minute could you pretend to be a nice person? I know you can’t say exactly – I just want a bit of an idea.’

  Graeme sighed. ‘Had it metastasised before they started the chemo? Did she have an initial CAT scan?’

  ‘Yes. It was clear, as far as I know.’

  ‘Then I wouldn’t have thought there was a whole lot of hope.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘I’m sorry, JD.’

  His tone had gone from pompous and professional to quite kind, and hot tears rose in my eyes. ‘Yeah, life’s a bitch. Thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome. And Jo?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m sorry about everything else, too.’

  I nearly fell out of my chair in shock. This coming from Graeme, the man who would rather pull out his own carefully groomed fingernails than apologise for anything. ‘Um, thank you.’

  ‘I’m having an open home this weekend. I’ll let you know how it goes.’

  ‘That’d be good,’ I said. ‘Talk to you later, then.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Graeme. ‘Miss you, JD.’ And he hung up.

  It’s funny how things change. A few months ago I would have spent many hours that would better have been devoted to sleep in thinking about the ramifications of ‘Miss you, JD’. Did it mean he’d seen the light? Was he regretting the whole sorry mess? Did he wish he hadn’t replaced me with a woman who refused to leave the house without makeup? Was he on the verge of rushing to Waimanu to cast himself at my feet and beg me to take him back? And so on and so forth.

  But who the hell cared about Graeme and his apologies if all this chemo and nausea and – and bullshit was for nothing?

  ‘HOW ABOUT POPPING on a pair of gloves for chopping onions?’ Hazel suggested. ‘It saves you from getting that smell all over your hands.’

  Or you could just wash your hands afterwards. But I said, ‘That’s a good idea,’ because it’s easier to agree with Hazel.

  Kim was lying full-length on the chaise longue with her hands folded across her stomach, like an effigy on a medieval tomb. ‘What’re you making?’ she asked.

  ‘Liver and bacon.’

  ‘Gross.’

  I smiled at her. ‘I just do what I’m told.’ I rinsed my hands and added a generous knob of butter to the frying pan.

  ‘So much butter, Josie?’ Hazel asked gently. ‘You know what they say: An instant on the lips, a lifetime on the hips.’

  ‘She doesn’t have hips,’ Kim protested.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Rub it in.’

  ‘It was a compliment!’

  ‘Being rectangular is no laughing matter, I assure you. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find trousers that fit properly?’ I added the onions to the pan. ‘I reckon the more calories we can get into Aunty Rose the better.’

  Hazel sighed. ‘This ghastly disease,’ she said. ‘Rosie, how are you feeling today?’

  Aunty Rose had just come slowly into the kitchen. ‘Not bad,’ she said. It was quite obviously a lie – she was an unpleasant shade of yellowy green and had deep shadows under her eyes. ‘Kimlet, move over.’

  Kim rolled to her feet. ‘Would you like a glass of ginger ale?’ she asked eagerly.

  ‘I would adore one.’ Rose sank onto one end of the chaise longue and rested her head back. ‘Who’s that, Josephine?’

  From the window above the sink I saw a little blue truck mounting the hill. The dogs arose in a body from the back porch and sped to meet it. ‘Bob McIntosh,’ I said. ‘Oh, dear Lord, no.’

  ‘What do you suppose he wants?’ Hazel asked.

  ‘Josie,’ said Kim, and sniggered.

  ‘Lucky me. Can you get the door?’ I turned away from the window to fetch the lamb’s liver from the fridge, pretending not to have seen his coy little wave.

  ‘Good evening, ladies,’ said Bob, nodding from the doorstep. ‘How are we all?’

  ‘Very good, thank you,’ said Kim demurely. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Oh, not bad at all.’ He advanced into the room with a crab-like sidle. ‘Something smells wonderful, Josie.’

  ‘Liver and bacon,’ said Aunty Rose briskly. ‘What can I do for you, Bob?’

  She may as well not have spoken. ‘Liver and bacon,’ he repeated. ‘Delicious. Real old-fashioned cookery. Is there anything Josie can’t do?’

  ‘Shear,’ Aunty Rose said, accepting her drink.

  ‘That was uncalled for,’ I told her. ‘I didn’t want to shear your revolting sheep in the first place.’ Taking out a sharp knife I began to shave wafer-thin slices off the side of the liver. Liver’s never going to be high up on my list of favourite foods, but if you slice it so fine it’s almost transparent and then cook it in about half a pound of butter with plenty of bacon and onion, it’s actually not too bad. Especially compared to my grandmother’s recipe, which consisted of large dense cubes of ox liver in Bisto gravy. I remember being about eight and looking down at a plateful of the stuff with the strong conviction that even if I somehow managed to get it down it would come straight back up again.

  ‘Well,’ said Hazel, ‘we’d best be off, Kim, and get our own dinner.’

  ‘May I stay?’ Kim asked.

  ‘I didn’t think you liked liver,’ I said.

  ‘I could have spaghetti on toast.’

  Aunty Rose smiled at her. ‘Fine by me,’ she said. ‘Now, Bob, is there anything we can help you with?’

  Bob coughed nervously. ‘I was wondering if young Josie might like a little jaunt this weekend,’ he said. ‘Perhaps a meal out. I know she prefers not to leave you in the evenings but lunch may not be out of the question?’

  ‘No thanks, Bob,’ I said, and with a superhuman effort I prevented myself from adding, ‘But that’s very kind of you,’ which would only be taken as encouragement.

  ‘Oh,’ he murmured sadly. ‘Oh, well, perhaps another time. Now I can see I’d best leave you ladies to your dinner . . .’ He paused hopefully, just in case anyone was going to press him to stay, and then sagged when nobody did. ‘Well, goodnight.’

  As he went back across the gravel to his little truck Hazel said, ‘Poor fellow.’

  ‘You reckon?’ Kim asked. ‘I think he’s pretty creepy.’

  I sighed. ‘He’s harmless, but I wish he’d leave me alone.’

  ‘Sit him down,’ Hazel advised, ‘and explain that you’re just not interested.’

  ‘I have,’ I said. ‘I’ve made it crystal clear.’

  ‘Don’t you feel too sorry for him,’ Aunty Rose said. ‘He knows perfectly well he’s making you uncomfortable – it’s a rather subtle form of bullying. Now, Hazel, are you staying for liver?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Hazel. ‘Kim, love, haven’t you got homework that n
eeds doing?’

  ‘Hardly any,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, Mum, I’m on it.’

  ‘Are you sure you want this monkey on your hands, Rosie?’

  ‘I rather like her,’ said Aunty Rose. ‘Goodness knows why.’

  ‘I’ll return her when we get sick of her,’ I said.

  WE ATE AT the kitchen table, and then Kim and I did the dishes while Aunty Rose supervised with her feet up. ‘This is lovely,’ she remarked. ‘Watching the pair of you work is quite delightful. Kim, my sweet, the table needs a wipe.’

  ‘You haven’t fed the dogs yet, have you?’ I asked.

  ‘No. You may do it, if you like.’

  I fetched a new dog roll from the cupboard above the wood box and began to slice it up. ‘Some for Percy, or is he dieting again?’

  ‘Perhaps he’d better. The poor fellow’s on the verge of morbid obesity.’

  Matt’s ute came up the hill as I handed out chunks of dog roll (and one carrot to a pig who looked at me with deep reproach).

  ‘Hi,’ he said as he crossed the gravel.

  ‘Hi. Isn’t it lovely?’ It was icy outside and breathlessly still. A thin trickle of smoke from the wood stove rose straight upwards and the sky was alight with stars. I had forgotten, living in the city, about winter nights like this where the stars swing in blazing arcs across the sky and the air is sharp and crisp. The kind of night where you imagine fancifully that you can hear the stars singing in high pure voices and you vow to take up astronomy and moonlit walks. And then you go inside and watch Master-Chef and forget all about it.

  ‘It’ll be a killer frost unless the wind picks up,’ said Matt. ‘There was ice on top of the troughs this morning.’

  ‘I think there was ice on my pillow, too.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ he said. ‘This is the coldest house in the world.’

  ‘I particularly like the way the wind whistles through the walls and lifts the wallpaper from underneath.’ I scratched Percy between the ears and turned to go back inside. ‘I’m thinking of getting myself a onesie.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Those cool pyjama-things made of polar fleece, with feet and a zip up the middle. Like a baby’s stretch-and-grow. And you can get them with a flap at the back so you don’t even have to take them off to go to the toilet.’

  ‘Jo,’ said Matt, ‘you’re all class.’

  We went back into the warm shabby kitchen to find Kim had set out four teacups on the table and was standing on tiptoe in the pantry to reach down a packet of chocolate biscuits. ‘Tea, Matt?’ she asked.

  He blinked in surprise. ‘I should yell at you more often.’

  ‘But if you overdo it you’ll desensitise her,’ I said. ‘It’s hard to get it just right.’

  ‘You won’t need to yell at me at all,’ said Kim. ‘I’m off men. Probably for good.’

  ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘I expect it’ll only last for a week, but it will be a nice relaxing week.’ He kissed Aunty Rose and she laid a claw-like hand against his cheek.

  ‘Are the cows behaving, dear boy?’ she asked.

  ‘Two heifers calved last night,’ he said. ‘That’s five cows in already – I’m not feeling mentally prepared just yet.’

  ‘When are they due to start?’

  ‘Not for another ten days.’

  ‘I’ll take you to chemo next week, then,’ I told Aunty Rose.

  ‘I can do it,’ Matt said.

  ‘I was talking to Cheryl the other day. She’d be quite keen to start doing a bit of work and her mother-in-law’s dying to have Max for a day, so it’ll be no problem at all.’

  ‘It’s alright,’ he said. ‘I won’t be really busy for another couple of weeks.’

  ‘Sweet peas,’ said Aunty Rose. ‘I won’t be going to chemo.’

  We both stared at her. ‘What do you mean?’ Matt asked.

  ‘I’m not going to have any more chemotherapy,’ she said quietly.

  ‘But you’ve got four weeks to go,’ he said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But . . .’ I started, and then stopped.

  Aunty Rose smiled at me. ‘You see, chickens,’ she said, ‘it’s really only palliative now, and what on earth is the point of a few more weeks or months if it’s spent feeling, as Josephine so aptly puts it, like total poo?’

  There was a horrified silence, broken only by the hiss of falling embers in the wood stove. Finally Kim, eyes enormous in her white face, whispered, ‘What does “palliative” mean?’

  ‘That they can’t fix it; they can only alleviate it a little.’

  Kim gulped and hid her face in her hands.

  ‘Oh, sweetheart,’ said Aunty Rose. ‘Come here.’ And holding out her arms she gathered Kim up against where her bust used to be.

  ‘Look,’ said Matt angrily, ‘you can’t just give up. There are plenty of other specialists – I was reading on the internet about this new protocol in America with really impressive results.’

  ‘No,’ she said again.

  ‘But –’

  ‘Matthew, hush.’ He hushed, with an effort that hurt to watch. ‘We’ve given it a good solid try, but the rotten thing has spread right through my lungs now, and into the bone. I would so much prefer to enjoy the time that’s left, rather than dashing all over the country to be told the same thing by a dozen different oncologists.’ She held out a hand to him, and on taking it Matt, who I had never seen anything but stoical in the face of bad news, sank abruptly onto the kitchen floor beside her and hid his face in the skirt of her dressing-gown.

  I slid to my feet from where I had been perched on the edge of the table and went blindly across the room. Kim and Matt should have some time alone with her. They’d already lost their father and now they were going to lose the woman who had provided all the useful mothering they’d ever had. Of all the lousy, miserable, unfair bloody set-ups – I just wanted to get away and find something to kick.

  ‘Josephine,’ said Aunty Rose gently as I reached the door to the hall. I looked back over my shoulder and she beckoned with the hand that she had been using to stroke Kim’s sleek brown head. Going slowly back across the kitchen I sank down beside her and rested my head against her spare knee, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume. Kim was crying quietly with her face buried in a cushion and Matt sat quite still on her other side. I touched his hand because I couldn’t help it, and he reached out without looking to grip my fingers hard in his.

  Aunty Rose patted us in turn for a while, and then she said, ‘My darlings, this is terribly flattering, but you’re starting to make me quite damp.’

  ‘Tough,’ said Matt thickly, but he sat up straight and swiped the sleeve of his shirt across his wet face. I got up and fetched a roll of paper towels off the bench, taking one to blow my nose before passing them along.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Aunty Rose encouragingly. ‘Good little sausages.’

  I gave a slightly hysterical sob of laughter that Matt and I, at six foot four and five eleven respectively, could ever be described as good little anythings.

  ‘Josephine, have we got any of that sherry left?’

  ‘N-not the good stuff. Only that awful cooking sherry.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Aunty Rose resolutely. ‘It will be better than nothing. We’ll have one all round.’

  ‘It’ll probably finish us off completely,’ I said, but I got it out of the cupboard above the microwave and poured a slug apiece into four of the best crystal tumblers.

  ‘Christ,’ Matt muttered, sipping dubiously. ‘Are you sure it’s not paint stripper?’

  ‘It’s not good, is it?’ Aunty Rose agreed. ‘Never mind – bottoms up.’

  ‘How long have you known?’ Kim asked, shuddering as the sherry went down.

  Aunty Rose sighed. ‘I didn’t tell you, but the prognosis never was very good, and then the last scan showed that quite a few secondaries had popped up during that first course of chemo. I really did feel that was a case of adding insult
to injury. So I had a long talk with the specialist last week, and he agreed that we weren’t making much progress and that it was a reasonable decision to stop wasting a lot of expensive drugs on tumours that weren’t responding to them.’

  ‘How long?’ Matt asked.

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘Rough estimate.’

  ‘A few months. Perhaps.’

  ‘And how long if you finish this course of chemo?’

  ‘Six months, they thought,’ said Aunty Rose. She sighed again. ‘It’s all terribly inconvenient, I must say. I would have liked to see your children. Although no doubt they’ll be an ill-disciplined rabble with permanently runny noses and sticky hands.’

  ‘Please stop trying to cheer us up,’ I said, mopping my eyes again on my paper towel. ‘It’s unbearable.’

  Aunty Rose smiled at me fondly. ‘Ungrateful wench,’ she murmured.

  Chapter 21

  ‘HOW ARE THE goats?’ I tucked the phone between my ear and shoulder and bent to feed another log into the wood stove. Matt had been over while I was at work and stacked about half the wood pile inside the back door, which I suspected had taken up all of the time he might otherwise have used to have breakfast.

  ‘Fine, fine,’ said Mum dismissively. ‘Kidding like mad. How’s Rose?’

  ‘Not that great. Her back’s giving her quite a lot of trouble, and she’s still nauseous from the chemo. Although she pretends she feels fine so we won’t worry.’

  ‘You sound so tired, sweetheart,’ said Mum. ‘Are you bearing up alright?’

  ‘I’m okay,’ I said bravely, and then had the grace to feel ashamed of myself. It’s not that noble to produce the odd omelette for a woman who used to make you cat-shaped biscuits and who suffered through every one of your school plays.