From the first meeting at the lunch with Harry Morton and Doreen both present, Luke and Yuri had established a firm friendship, and because of their joint interest, Luke asked if he could feature the doctor’s life story in an article. It was a request that surprised not only the surgeon but Harry, who knew Nakamura’s preference for privacy. He thought doctors in print was like chasing ambulances, and had an old-fashioned view that medical practitioners should not advertise their achievements. He saw Yuri on the point of shaking his head in rejection.
“Put it this way,” said Luke, sensing this, “I’ve got these payments coming in that I feel I don’t deserve. The army still pays me, and Harry and Doreen provide me with a very adequate expense account. If you prefer not to be featured I’ll still be glad to make a donation, but if you do agree, then every cent I’ve earned from that article will go into a fund for your research, and with your consent a portion of it would be earmarked as a memorial to Kaito. I really want to publicise your work, because it’s too important to be secretive and you’re too bloody dedicated to be modest.”
Oh boy, thought his boss, what a sales pitch. He could sell carpets to the Afghans. He watched Yuri, and saw the beginning of a smile.
“Well,” the Japanese doctor paused for a moment, “if you don’t make me out to be like Louis Pasteur or some miracle worker, then perhaps we could meet and discuss it further,” he answered.
“We’ll want a nice photo of you smiling like that,” said Doreen, seizing the moment.
They made an appointment for the following day, and Luke was provided with one of the new magnetic tape recorders. They spent their first afternoon together on basic facts. It had been during a long convalescence that Nakamura had become interested in research, and after the atom bomb he began to specialise in those suffering from even minor doses of radiation. His first step was to define it as a sickness, caused by excess exposure but not transferable to others like influenza or measles. It seemed like a logical statement, but he explained there was a lot of hysteria in Japan after the two bombs were dropped, and quoted the experience with Kaito, being refused admission by regional hospitals as evidence of the fear factor that existed.
“As a country we were in deep shock,” he said. “Those two bombs changed our world. A state of panic was followed by delusion and we were prepared to believe anything. Death rays, viral attacks, nothing seemed too extreme. Especially in less sophisticated areas, but even here in Tokyo.”
He also spoke of fundraising; how donations from overseas, in particular America and Britain, were appreciated but ironic, for both countries were engaged in a race to develop a more lethal bomb. So, while accepting their money, he was open about hoping they would fail in these endeavours. He told Luke that his own progress to protect victims began with trying to warn people against the many counterfeit medications claiming to be miracle cures.
“We’ve got fake doctors advertising tonics that will ward off what they call A-Bomb Sickness. Crowds are rushing to buy the treatments. They’re just herbal quackery that does nothing,” he said, “but people grab at any chance. It’s sad to see them tricked into wasting money on charlatans and false hope.”
He explained that for those who’d been exposed to excessive amounts of radiation, much would depend on the speed with which they were treated. In the case of a child like Kaito, living in the streets without adequate food and shelter, his chance of life was always precarious.
“It seems remarkable that he lived for so long,” Yuri said, in one of their coffee breaks with the recorder turned off. “Such a determination to survive. Brave and amazing. I wish I’d been able to meet him.”
“And maybe treat him,” Luke suggested, but the other shook his head.
“It was almost certainly too late.”
“Are you saying it’s too late for any who managed to survive Hiroshima and Nagasaki?” Luke asked, switching on the recorder again.
“For some, the answer may sadly be yes. Babies in the womb, or the newly born had little hope. Young children are also a high risk as they grow older. What I’m really trying to prevent is continuation. By which I mean future cases of cancer in people unaware of danger. People came through without noticeable effects, but in the next few years they may experience melanoma, leukaemia or carcinogenic tumours. But my research has led me to believe it could occur later than that, even in twenty years time.”
“Scary prospect,” Luke said.
“I don’t want to scare people. I want to save them. But anyone in those cities who did survive, we need to monitor them regularly, test their white blood cell count each year, look for the signs of possible cancer and keep records. Then hope the research now being done can hand us a future cure.”
That message was inserted into a life story of a man whose aims were heartfelt but modest. A hardworking crusader using his own escape from death to give aid and hope to others. It was published with supporting photographs as a middle-page spread in the Pacific Monitor, and republished in Australia, Britain, America, Canada, New Zealand and other countries.
In London, his mother Louisa saw it in The Express, and bought six copies to show her friends. Helen Richmond read it when Rupert brought a copy to show her; they both felt thrilled for him. Her father, the police sergeant, read it and thought what a pity, this young bloke making his mark might’ve been his son-in-law. Whereas wherever she went these days it seemed to be with Rupert, a nice enough bloke, good-looking and polite, but she couldn’t be serious, could she? Len Richmond wouldn’t dream of using words like Pommy poofter, but they were lodged uncomfortably somewhere in his mind.
Barry Silvester saw it in The Sydney Morning Herald, and, swallowing a moment of envy, thought he should send a letter of congratulation to Luke, but put it off for the moment and then, busy with his political career, forgot about it. He’d seen many other articles by Luke, but since he didn’t know his current address and hadn’t heard from him for ages, decided not to bother.
The last to read it was undoubtedly Claudia, who saw it by chance in an old magazine many months later. She felt mixed emotions; delighted at this new evidence of his success, and how her faith in him had been justified, but full of misgivings about the course her own life had taken since being threatened by the timber baron six months ago.
TWENTY-ONE
A passenger ship was making its way past Middle Head, and Barry Silvester watched it from the terrace of his new penthouse apartment, relishing the expansive harbour view. He’d decided Macleay Street in Potts Point was his kind of territory, and on having moved there sent change-of-address cards to spread the word he was on his way up in the world. It was time to escape all memory of the Northern Beaches and his shabby room in Glebe, which he thought of as the day before yesterday’s territory. He’d moved first to share an apartment in Darling Point with a new girlfriend, but when that relationship soured she had twisted the knife by giving him notice to quit, and since her wealthy family owned the block of apartments, Barry was swiftly ejected. It was not an experience he’d enjoyed.
So he mortgaged himself to prevent it ever happening again, and found that Macleay Street, despite its proximity to Kings Cross, was a charismatic precinct with fine Victorian residences. Many of these gracious buildings had been converted into studios and havens for artists and actors. This was reflected in the coffee shops and cafés, always alive with colourful characters that gave the district a Bohemian flavour. Barry thought it was a vintage glamour, and one that suited him.
His own recently acquired residence was on top of a modern building that boasted a uniformed doorman, a luxurious access with several elevators and substantial underground parking. He had two double bedrooms, one of them converted into a gym with a manual air bike and a treadmill. From the terrace he could see Garden Island and the foreshore of Cremorne, and in the distance the outlines of North and South Head. It was an idyllic scene, with a ferry rounding the point where the tram sheds stood, and where there was talk they would
one day build an opera house, adjacent to Circular Quay. Below him eighteen-foot yachts were lining up to race from nearby Rushcutters Bay.
In his mail-out of address notices, Barry had neglected to send one to either Luke or Steven. Luke because he’d had no correspondence from him and resented the lack of it, and Steven because it was hardly worth sending him one in hospital. He felt slightly guilty about Steven, not having been to see him for several months, but his previous visit had been a bit of a fiasco with his mate lying there hardly able to move, and finding it difficult to speak because of chatter from his family visitors. Barry hated hospitals, disliked the strong antiseptic smell, the sometimes bossy nurses and restricted visiting hours, plus the likelihood of finding other visitors crammed around the bed, making it impossible to talk freely.
That had caused his only visit to be a debacle. Steven’s mother, his younger sister and an aunt had been there when he arrived, all busily discussing plans for his return to the family home. Barry had the impression Steve wasn’t at all keen on the idea, but was unable to voice his feelings with his impediment. It had been on that visit he’d last seen Claudia, who’d come to the door of the ward, but glimpsing the Pascoe relatives had moved swiftly away. Not swift enough. The aunt had noticed her, and made a waspish comment about undue influence, declaring Claudia was trying to take over the patient and tell doctors how to treat him, an accusation that left Barry puzzled. The mother had been defensive, mildly saying she disagreed with her husband and felt Claudia had good intentions. While this argument went on poor old Steve had gazed at him, looking totally helpless as if wishing the relatives would go away and leave them so they could chat. But the Pascoes had made no sign of leaving; they seemed settled in for the long haul and in the end it was Barry, having run out of topics, who made his excuses and left.
The change of address cards had made him decide to visit Steve again. He’d take one with him and this time hope he’d be alone. Or not quite alone, not if there was any chance to meet up with Claudia, who must be feeling a bit solitary with Luke overseas all this time. Silly bugger. What did he hope to achieve, and who else would leave someone like her on her own for so long? Must be nearly eight months now. The thought of it made him reflect.
She was bound to be lonely. He and she had not been particularly friendly, but, after all, you never knew when your luck might take a turn for the better. There’d been no room for anyone else in her life except Luke, but now he was a few thousand miles away … so she might be more amenable. She might also be able to tell him about the situation with the Pascoe family, where something peculiar was going on.
But apart from all that, there was another agenda. He’d never forgotten that day at the beach when Luke introduced Claudia. If only he had seen her first. Ever since then he’d had Claudia in mind during moments of high passion in bed with other women. More than in mind, he imagined it was her getting excited and noisily climaxing. It stirred him into thinking this might be his lucky day.
Feeling optimistic, he went down to the car park and threaded his way past the Holdens everyone was now driving, until he reached his English MG sports. Great car for impressing sheilas; Claudia might even fancy a lift home. There was nothing to lose; he’d ask. She could only give one of two answers — yes or no.
He remembered a weird school friend Alfie Metcalfe, whose method was to politely ask girls he met, “I suppose a fuck’s out of the question?” Alfie said he got an awful lot of angry knockbacks, and an occasional slapped face, but he also got a surprising amount of the other. He was rumoured to be in Japan with the occupation force, and Barry wondered if he and Luke had ever met there. Highly unlikely. Alfie was a bit of a larrikin playboy who’d be chasing everything in a skirt, and Luke more seriously attached and loyal to Claudia, although time might be testing that. There was a lot of shagging going on there according to the newspapers — sexual misconduct, they called it, because you couldn’t be explicit in public — and maybe loyal old Luke had been tempted to stray. If Claudia even suspected … he might be able to drop a hint about it, to give himself more of a chance!
He backed the MG out of the car park. Macleay Street was looking its best in the early spring sunshine, the rows of decorative plane trees coming into leaf, the elegant villas like The Cairo mansion a landmark in a street full of grand old houses, along with clusters of small shops and cafes. Definitely a sophisticated address; he knew he was going to be content here.
Attractive girls on the pavement turned to stare at his MG and at him as he drove past. He smiled at one who waved in reply. For a moment he was tempted, feeling confident that if he pulled up and offered her a lift he’d be on a certainty. But he thought loyally of his mate Steve, and resolutely headed for the Harbour Bridge and Manly Hospital. Today was a day for doing the right thing and visiting Steven, plus, with a little luck, perhaps he’d be able to latch on to Claudia as well.
He found the woman on the reception desk tiresome. She said it was possible she’d made a mistake, but highly unlikely and she didn’t think so. When he insisted she rang through once more to the isolation ward while Barry stood waiting, trying to conceal his impatience. He told her again he felt sure it had to be a mistake. His friend had been there for ages. Polio: you don’t get up and stroll out of here with polio.
“They’re just checking,” she said again, and then after listening to what she was being told, said thanks and hung up. “No, my information was quite correct,” she told Barry. “He’s no longer here.”
“But how can that be?” he asked. “He’s got polio.”
“So you already told me,” she replied abruptly. “But people don’t stay in hospital indefinitely, no matter what they’re suffering from. Perhaps he’s been moved to a rehab hospital, one that specialises in physiotherapy, or a private clinic or a convalescent home? I’m afraid I’ve no idea where he might’ve gone.” She was becoming impatient, for phones were ringing with other calls on her switchboard, “but he was certainly discharged from here some time ago.”
“Do you know when?”
“A few months, I think. I really couldn’t say for sure.”
“A few months!” Barry was startled. “I visited him a few months ago. Would anyone else know where he might’ve been sent?”
“I’m sorry, but we’re not in the business of keeping track of ex-patients. You say he’s a friend — why don’t you contact his home?”
No, thanks, thought Barry, not that hostile mob. He hoped for Steve’s sake that he hadn’t been whisked back into family care. “In that case,” he asked, “can you tell me if Claudia Marsden is on duty? She’s a nurse here,” he added helpfully.
“I do know she’s a nurse,” was the terse reply, “but I believe she’s on leave. You should ring up the staff number and make enquiries.”
The receptionist was now thoroughly irritated, and started to answer other calls. Barry shook his head. What a wasted journey. And if Claudia was on leave it was not even worth trying her at home. He’d met the parents and knew they were pally with Luke, so that would be another pointless trip.
“Thank you,” he said, with a noticeable trace of sarcasm, but she was already busy with her switchboard answering someone else. He went out to the car just in time to see a hospital orderly placing a PARKING FORBIDDEN notice on the windscreen of his MG that was in the DOCTORS ONLY area.
“Get your facts right,” he told the man. “I’m the new orthopaedic surgeon, and this place is a bloody disgrace.”
He drove off, deciding he’d call the girl he met the other night at a party. She was keen to see his new flat, and was a certainty to stay the night. He’d heard she shagged like a thrashing machine, and he could always pretend it was Claudia. But, driving away, all he could think of was the disappointment of a wasted day. What had happened to Steve? More importantly, where in the hell was Claudia, and why the hell hadn’t he been smart enough to keep in touch with her?
She sat at a table by the window gazing out at the nig
ht with a feeling of hopelessness. It was late, almost midnight, and although tired she knew sleep would be impossible until this was done. Sleep was difficult anyway, the early summer heat was oppressive, the humidity intense. The town was quiet, the apartment block opposite in darkness, the streets all empty. Like the way she felt, really, but that kind of self-pity was defeating and futile.
In the distance faint moonlight reflected on the dark water of the river, and she could see a lantern glow on what she guessed by its slow drift was a prawning boat. Far beyond that was the placid sea where waves washed on the sandy beach. Nothing else seemed to exist until a lone car went past on the street below, its headlights picking out a drunk waving hopefully for a lift, but the car accelerated and the wave turned into a brandished fist and a loud abusive shout, until he staggered around a corner and out of sight. Alone again now, deprived of her drunk and his antics, it was like being in a foreign land where she was a stranger.
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