The view was mainly of the rear car park, so she knew the curtains would spend most of their time closed – she didn’t want clients getting distracted with cars coming and going. Anyway, there was plenty of light coming from the row of small windows set high up on the wall, again endowed with vertical drapes. She found the cord in the corner and pulled. A small beam of sunlight streamed across the floor to her desk. From the ‘builder’s beige’ on the walls to the cream of the aluminium window and door frames, everything in the room was pale. Surveying her new environment Jacqueline thought about possible alternative, brighter, colour combinations and wondered if Doctor Squire would allow her to have it repainted.
‘It could do with a lick of paint – something a bit brighter,’ Louise said, as if reading her thoughts. ‘Well I’ll leave you to settle in. If there’s anything you need, just ask – we’re only up the hall. Or pick up the phone and press the intercom button then number one,’ Louise said, tossing the words over her shoulder as she left the room.
‘Thanks,’ Jacqueline murmured, and began a more thorough look around her office.
A door in the wall behind her desk opened into a narrow passageway where a door to the right led to a small toilet and basin. At the end of the small hall another door opened onto the rear car park that, Jacqueline figured, must wrap right around the building. Good that she could come and go without being scrutinised by the entire waiting area and Cecile and Louise at reception. Not that she wanted to avoid that – it was just that she liked her privacy.
As Jacqueline was straightening her framed degree on a hook on the wall to the left of her desk, above the pair of matching dark wood-grain print filing cabinets, there was a tap at the door.
‘Come in,’ she mumbled, and turned to find Louise entering.
‘Doctor Squire called. He won’t be able to catch up with you until after lunch. There’s some emergency at the hospital and then he has a full morning of appointments scheduled. Anyway, he sends his apologies and says it’s fine to head out for coffee or an extra-long lunchbreak if you’re bored. Here’s your bookings for the week,’ she said, handing Jacqueline a sheet of paper. ‘Not many yet I’m afraid, but it’ll give you a chance to get settled. So I’ll leave you to it.
‘Oh, and I have lunch at twelve – you’re welcome to join me. I usually just grab something at the bakery and sit on a bench and read a magazine or wander around the shops or something. But if you’d prefer to go later, Cecile goes at one. She says she’s not doing anything special today. Or if you’d rather be alone, whatever,’ she shrugged.
‘I’ll take you up on your offer, thanks,’ Jacqueline said enthusiastically. ‘See you at twelve if not before – meet you at the desk?’
‘Okay, great. See you then,’ Louise added, and left.
Jacqueline sat down at her desk and sighed contentedly. Although her office was quite small and a bit drab, there were no hidden cameras with guards out in their back room scrutinising her every move, like it had been at the prison. She knew the security was necessary for both her safety and monitoring the inmates who were her patients, but she’d always felt aware of the cameras and that her work was compromised to a certain extent. At least here her patients would know they could talk freely.
She picked up the piece of paper, which was a neatly handwritten one-week calendar with six names dotted about in the appointment times. ‘Oh well, it’s really going to be a gentle introduction,’ Jacqueline said, and sighed. And her first patient wasn’t until two that afternoon – a Damien McAllister.
She had just finished putting the textbooks from the second box she’d brought in from her car into the bookcase behind her desk and was wondering how else to fill in her time when there was a tentative tap at the door. Jacqueline looked up to find Ethel, her neighbour from across the street, peering around the frame.
‘Oh hello there,’ Jacqueline said, beaming.
‘I really don’t want to disturb you for too long but I thought you might like a bite of morning tea. The girls at the desk said you don’t have anyone for a while, but if it’s not convenient I’ll go.’
‘No, not at all, please come in.’ Jacqueline scolded herself for the desperate tone in her voice. Ethel shuffled in clutching a large, brightly coloured bulging string bag. Jacqueline watched in amazement as she unpacked and carefully arranged an oval wooden cutting board, date loaf log, serrated breadknife, small crock of butter, pate knife, a pair of fine china cups and matching saucers, teaspoons, small plastic containers of milk, sugar, tea and coffee, neatly pressed red gingham tablecloth with two matching napkins, and finally a battered red tartan-print metal thermos.
‘Now,’ Ethel said, putting the limp bag aside, ‘I wasn’t sure if you would prefer tea or coffee, so I brought both.’
Jacqueline smiled broadly, marvelling at the trouble Ethel had gone to and the obvious enjoyment she was getting from setting everything out so precisely.
‘You’ve made my day, Ethel. This looks sensational.’ She suddenly thought how much Ethel reminded her of her maternal grandmother. Not in appearance but in her mannerisms and attention to detail. Lost in her thoughts, it took her a few moments to realise Ethel had asked her twice if she wanted tea or coffee.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. Coffee, white with two, thank you.’
Jacqueline was enjoying her second cup and second slice of lavishly buttered date loaf, thinking how much she was enjoying the company, when Ethel began packing everything up and saying she’d better get going as she was sure Jacqueline had better things to do than entertain a silly old woman. As she opened the door for Ethel she surprised both of them by giving her a peck on the cheek and a brief hug.
‘That was lovely, thank you Ethel,’ she said.
‘Goodbye dear, enjoy your first day,’ Ethel replied warmly.
Chapter Three
Damien’s mum turned up just as he was getting ready to go and see the bloke they called a psychologist. He wondered if she was there for any other reason than to tell him his house looked like a pigsty. His stomach felt queasy and he wanted to tell her to just clean it up herself if it bothered her that much, but he didn’t have time for an argument. Damien didn’t give a shit if his sink was full of dishes and the ants had made a highway across his bench top to the opened Milo tin – they didn’t eat that much.
‘And where are you off to?’ his mum enquired, looking him up and down. It was her tone that pissed him off the most, but least she’d stopped blabbering on about the kitchen. He wanted to tell her it was none of her bloody business and remind her that he was thirty, in case she’d forgotten.
‘Few things to get in town,’ he mumbled. He sounded meek, that’s what his mum did to him.
‘But I rang you last night and specifically asked if you needed anything brought out,’ she said.
There really was no point answering. He could say, ‘Yeah, I didn’t think I’d run out of milk but there you go,’ or, ‘Well Bill’s only just called to say the fuel filter’s in for the tractor.’ But she’d probably seen Bill collecting the paper and he would have mentioned it for sure.
Damien didn’t have the time and energy for all the questions. He knew there was no way he could tell her what he was really up to. She wouldn’t understand and he’d be opening himself up for a full-on interrogation and nagging. Damien suspected half the time she didn’t even realise she did it; the way she behaved was just part of being a control freak. Damien also reckoned his mum was sort of martyr-like. Not in the way that she’d sacrifice her life for anyone, more that problems should not be discussed and that everyone should just put on a happy face and get on with life. Cold. She always had a wall up for protection.
It wasn’t that Damien didn’t love his mum, he did – actually, he didn’t think it was possible not to love your parents. But the last thing he was about to do was tell her he was off to see a shrink.
Damien was churning through excuses in his mind and discarding them one after the other while his mother was w
ell into a minor tantrum, demanding to know what was going on and reminding him she owned half of everything, the farm, the lot, which entitled her to know what he was doing. He thought maybe he should just forget the shrink, but he’d already said he was off to town, so that was what he had to do.
‘I’m buying your birthday present if you really must know,’ he blurted, putting on an offended tone. He congratulated himself for his clever line, even though it was hardly quick. He was a month early and for a few seconds his mother chewed it over, looking anything but convinced. And she was right to be sceptical since he’d completely forgotten her birthday last year. But then a tight smile broke out on her face and Damien sighed with relief, unaware that he’d been holding his breath.
On the road, Damien knew he was going to be about five minutes late but refused to speed, well not on the dirt anyway and not in his semi-precious Toyota ute. He’d learnt that lesson a few years back when he was racing to get to the hospital after slicing his hand open on a sheet of corrugated iron. He remembered driving like a bat out of hell at a hundred and twenty on the limestone only to come over the rise and find his neighbour, Sam, moving a mob of sheep down the middle of the road. No warning signs, no nothing. He hit the skids on the old Kingswood and even with everything locked up still managed to collect twenty or so hoggets. The pools of blood stained the road for the next six months until it was graded. The ever-reliable Kingswood managed to limp into town before lapsing into a coma after a final hiss from the ruptured radiator.
Damien hurried into the medical centre and was directed to the door at the back of the building. He was flushing various shades of beetroot as he strode through the waiting area. All eyes were on him, curious to see where he was going. He felt like telling them to fuck off and mind their own business.
The door was slightly ajar and opened further when he knocked – a little too loudly in his flustered state.
‘Come in,’ a feminine voice called.
Shit – it’s a chick! He wished he’d cancelled – stayed home and cleaned the kitchen. He hated it when his mum was right. Which she was, far too bloody often. And what would a chick know about men anyway? But he knew he’d look a right wanker if he turned and left.
Damien was so nervous he couldn’t remember if they’d shaken hands or exchanged names, and could only assume they had and he’d missed that bit. He sat in the indicated chair and she sat down behind her desk. Nervous as he was, he couldn’t help thinking his view of her was definitely worth writing home about – though not much point until dogs learnt to read.
She wore a crisp white shirt with blue stripes that was stretched across two reasonably large, firm mounds. Even though she had the second-last button done up, he could still see a scattering of pale freckles disappearing into the valley of pale skin that ran between them.
Concentrate, dickhead, she’s asking you a question …
‘Um,’ he said and swallowed deeply. Marital status? What the hell sort of quack is this? Damien thought he detected slight blushing at his innocent evasion – wishful thinking?
‘I like to put together my own patient profiles and records. So?’ she prompted, pen poised.
‘Oh, sorry, single – unfortunately.’ Now she’d probably think he was the most desperate sad sack in Hicksville. Damien realised she was making notes and wanted to beg her not to record her first impressions of him. This was not going well.
‘Now, have you seen a psychologist before, Damien?’
‘Nope.’
‘Do you understand how psychologists differ from psychiatrists?’
They all screw with your head, he thought, and answered, ‘Nope, not really.’ There was nothing more to understand.
‘Well the easiest way to explain is …’
Damien hated how people, city slickers especially, always felt the need to explain things in simple terms for the dumb farmer.
‘… that psychology is the science of human nature whereas psychiatry is more about the treating of mental diseases – more science-based rather than emotional. Now, I see Doctor Squire has prescribed you antidepressants. How’s that going? I know it’s only been just a week but have you noticed any changes; improvements or otherwise?’
‘Okay, I suppose.’
‘So is there anything you’d like to talk about today? I’m here to listen and everything remains confidential.’ Damien knew things were only confidential until the snoops on the front desk got involved. ‘Also, just so there are no embarrassing moments, it’s unethical and absolutely forbidden for a practitioner to have a personal relationship with a patient.’
Damien silently huffed. She must think she’s pretty hot to have to say that. As if I’d be interested in you anyway, great tits and brains or not. In his experience city chicks only ever hung around long enough to realise there was no David Jones or Myer in town. He blinked, trying to appear as if the idea hadn’t entered his head, but knew his hot ears and burning face were a dead giveaway. Damn not inheriting a poker face from his mother.
The attractive woman on the other side of the desk leant back in her chair, her hands loosely clasped in her lap. Damien wondered what was supposed to happen next – was he supposed to say something? And if so, what? Bloody hell, I knew this was a bad idea, he thought, looking down at the floor. He was pleasantly surprised to see his boots were clean; good old Mum must have done them the other day while he was out in the paddock. He was forever missing the little things.
The silence continued and when, after a few moments, Damien looked up and noticed her patient stare, he felt like leaping up and escaping. Instead he shifted awkwardly on the brown vinyl chair and looked away from the captivating gumleaf-green eyes threatening to peer into his soul.
With his gaze on the commercial carpet he continued to wonder what to tell her – perhaps how much work he had to do, how it never ended and how he certainly didn’t have time to be sitting around in her office if she wasn’t going to bloody well do anything. He could tell her how the auger engine had to be completely stripped and rebuilt after carking it on the last road-train of wheat. How the wide-line cultivator had to have its tynes converted to cope with the heavier trash from this year’s above-average crop. How it shits him that there’s always some crap to interfere with the good in the game called farming.
There was also the seed-and-super unit that needed upgrading. Damien wished he could afford a small, reliable Acco four-wheel-drive truck for the purpose – nothing flash – but he couldn’t. He was stuck with an antiquated heap of junk. For some reason the levers worked the hydraulics for the grain chute but not for the super. He’d scratched his head over it on and off for months while the year’s crop grew, but now he reluctantly admitted it was time to call in an expert. More bloody money. And everything had to be done before next season’s rain – hopefully in five months’ time – but he knew there was really at least two years’ work in fixing machinery alone. What made it all the worse was that Damien had all this to do while the other blokes in the district were putting their feet up, holding end-of-harvest celebration barbies, or taking their families off to the beach.
Damien thought about the sheep. Fucking sheep. Pains in the arse, all of them. Three kilometres of fencing had to be upgraded so they didn’t destroy next year’s crop. More time and money. He would just send them all off to market if it wouldn’t be admitting failure; that he couldn’t cope with both cropping and sheep programs when all his bastard neighbours with their fat cheque-books could.
Even though running sheep meant fewer chemicals were required for weed control and wool was realising the best prices in years, Damien didn’t think they were worth the grief. And lambing time was a major pain. So many foxes around preying on the newborns and weak mothers meant endless, often useless, gun patrols – something else he didn’t have time for, but was necessary.
He could get someone in to help, but wouldn’t know who’d want to work on such a run-down, untidy shithole – the mess he’d inherited and
never got the better of. And paying someone to do what he could do himself went against everything he’d been taught … not that he could afford it anyway. He’d just managed to make the last payment on the piece of land next door thanks to the above-average harvest. Everything came down to finance – those who sniggered behind his back obviously didn’t have such worries. No, when he got everything up to date and organised, and the bills paid, then he’d get some help. Like that would ever happen.
‘So, tell me about yourself,’ the woman broke the lengthy silence. ‘What you do for a living, that sort of thing.’
Shit. Damien suddenly realised she’d spoken while he’d been lost in the never-never. Thank Christ for a question he could finally answer.
‘I’m a farmer. Sheep and cereal, wheat mainly.’
‘Right. And do you enjoy it?’
‘It’s okay. Beats sitting around as a dole bludger.’
‘And did you always want to be a farmer?’
‘Suppose so, can’t remember.’
‘So, tell me, why were you prescribed antidepressants?’
‘It was Doctor Squire’s idea. He suggested I might be depressed.’
‘And are you depressed?’
Damien shrugged. He sure as hell wasn’t about to ask for a definition of the word. He’d look a right goose. And he knew if he opened his mouth he’d probably say something about the ‘incident’ with the rifle, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. That had been just one of those days. He wanted to forget it.
‘Perhaps you have trouble sleeping, sometimes don’t want to get out of bed in the mornings, headaches, feeling of general lowness – these are just a few of the many symptoms of depression. Some people experience some or all of these, and others. The important thing is to recognise when there are feelings and behaviours you don’t like and want to change – that’s what we work on, together.’
Wattle Creek Page 3