In a Fishbone Church

by Catherine Chidgey

  Bridget wants to know how safe this is, but Gülten is already talking about something else.

  The gorgeous bartender kisses them both on the cheek and leads them to a table. Gülten flits about the place, chatting to acquaintances, getting free drinks. She returns to Bridget, flushed.

  ‘Don’t turn around,’ she says, ‘but that guy by the speaker is the DJ from Globus. He just bought me a drink.’ She grabs Bridget’s arm. ‘Come over.’

  Bridget says she might later. She is feeling tired, she just needs a bit of a rest.

  She leans into the soft wall and wonders what she is going to tell Gülten. If she even knows the right words. Gülten, she wants to say, listen. She thinks about what the correct expressions might be. She thinks about it the whole evening.

  Further

  emergencies

  During her first few weeks at the Queen Victoria Memorial Hospital, Christina greets everyone whose name she can remember. It projects friendliness, she decides, calling people by their names. Sydney is a big place. She watches out for the Austrian man from the barbecue, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Good morning, Andrew.’

  ‘Christina.’

  ‘Hi, Alicia.’

  ‘Hi … Claire.’

  ‘Evening, Pam.’

  A nod.

  Most of them just keep walking down the lino corridors, following the blue line that leads to Cardiology, or the yellow to Radiology, or the green to Oncology. Christina soon learns by heart the meandering route of the red Maternity line. The department’s official title is Obstetrics and Gynaecology, but nobody calls it that. The gynaecology component is negligible anyway, Andrew Martin tells her; it is a wealthy suburb, and most women see private specialists. The ones who do come to the hospital, he says, are mainly the over-sixties.

  He’s right. During her first two days Christina sees a dozen retired women; they lean into her face with their worried questions and their breath like tea. They remind her of Etta. Christina wonders when she’ll see anyone of childbearing age, let alone pregnant. HRT, advises Andrew Martin. Hormone Replacement Therapy. It is a modern miracle. Slap an oestrogen patch on their bums and they’ll be happy. Attention. That’s all they’re after. Christina will be assigned some of the pregnant patients when she’s been there a little longer; when she’s settled.

  ‘Hello, Claudia.’

  ‘No, stupid,’ the woman says, stopping. ‘Not Claudia as in “Melbourne is Cloudier than Sydney”. Claudia. As in claw.’ And she walks off to Radiology, the yellow band glowing in her wake.

  Christina makes a point of saying her name properly from then on. Or at least, she says it the way Claudia does. She’d been taught the other pronunciation, the Cloudier one, and it is a shame she can’t use it, she feels, because it is one of the few things she remembers from third-form German.

  ‘Ich heiße Claudia. Wie heißt du?’

  ‘Ich heiße Peter (Pay-ter). Ich bin 13 Jahre alt. Wie alt bist du?’

  ‘Ich bin 14 Jahre alt. Ich wohne in München. Wo wohnst du?’

  And so on.

  Christina wakes herself with her own crying. She doesn’t remember the dream, but throughout the day small details return to catch her off guard. At the letterbox, fields of broken glass. Cooking lunch, a man calling for help. In the shower, flames. Shift work has thrown her sleep pattern, and she’s given up on trying to get a regular eight hours. She sleeps whenever she can.

  ‘Just prescribe yourself something, stupid,’ says Claudia. ‘It’s the only way you’ll be able to cope.’

  They’re in the hospital staff room, Christina slouched over an instant coffee that is having little effect.

  ‘Claudia,’ she says, ‘I don’t want to tell you to shut up, but shut up.’ And she lays her head on her arm.

  ‘You ask anyone here. Nurses, doctors – especially doctors – orderlies, reception. Andrew Martin. They’re all on something.’

  Christina grunts.

  When she finishes work in the morning, she writes a prescription for herself and gets it filled on the way back to her flat. Then she takes a pill, climbs into bed and has the best sleep she’s had for a month. No nightmares, not even any dreams. Which may or may not be a good sign, but it is one she is prepared to ignore.

  When she wakes up, it is the weekend. She takes a letter out of the back of her diary and looks at the address again, although she knows it off by heart. Joanne Fairfield, 43 Simmond Avenue. It’s not that far away. It is possible that Christina has already seen her crossing the street, or on a bus, or at the supermarket. Or that Joanne has seen Christina. Recognised some likeness and wondered.

  It would be silly not to go, she decides; everyone has said so. Even Etta.

  She isn’t what Christina was expecting. Mothers do not wear red nail polish, they are not blonde.

  ‘Christina? You don’t look like your photo.’

  ‘Neither do you.’

  Joanne invites her into a house that smells very new. At the windows are curtains hanging all the way to the floor. They are hooked back with puffed bows, and above them, along the tops, ample swathes of fabric have been draped. Around the walls, slightly higher than eye level, are floral borders. Arched doors lead from one room to another and grooved columns, which Christina doubts are structurally necessary, have been painted to look like marble.

  ‘We haven’t been here long,’ says Joanne. ‘We were searching for ages to find the right carpet.’

  Christina notices the red and gold medallioned pile. She says nothing.

  Joanne is wearing heavy makeup. Her eyelids have been shaded purple to match her suit, and the too-red lipstick emphasises the narrowness of her lips, the tiny lines around them. Blusher sweeps over her cheekbones, as high as her temples, and Christina finds herself rubbing distractedly at her own cheeks, although she has only applied lipstick and mascara. She watches Joanne put on a CD, adjust tasselled cushions on the couch. There is nothing in the house that corresponds to Christina’s taste, but as she observes Joanne she notices something about her face, hands, certain gestures, that is familiar. The line of the nose. The tapering of the fingers.

  ‘Would you like something to drink? Tea, coffee? A glass of wine?’

  ‘Wine sounds great.’

  ‘ I like to indulge myself when it’s so hot here,’ says Joanne. ‘Not that I’m an alcoholic or anything. Although there is a family history of sorts, I suppose you’ll want to know about that kind of thing … not that there’s anything wrong with being an alcoholic. Well, healthwise there is, but – ’ She stops, wineglasses clinking between her fingers.

  ‘I talk a lot when I’m nervous too,’ says Christina. ‘Dad says I should have gone into sales, not medicine.’

  ‘He’s an … architect?’

  ‘Not exactly. He’s a manager for a construction company. Was. He’s retired now.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘He started out as a builder. He did a lot of the old State houses.’

  ‘ They’re very fashionable now. My sister’s bought one and stripped all the floors back. Solid rimu.’

  ‘Mum and Dad have just shifted, too, into a smaller place.’

  ‘They must be in their sixties now?’

  ‘Dad’s sixty-three, Mum’s sixty-one.’

  ‘Yes, they told me – Social Welfare – that they were an older couple. I didn’t mind, I thought it would be better to have someone more mature looking after you.’ Joanne eases the cork from a bottle of wine and the glasses ring as she pours it.

  ‘So you never married?’ says Christina.

  ‘God no, I don’t believe in it. I’ve been with Dominic for fifteen years now though, we might as well be married. We act like we are.’

  ‘Did you ever think about marrying my father?’

  Joanne snorts. ‘I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but I can hardly remember what he looked like, let alone his name.’

  ‘Oh.’ Christina takes another sip of wine. On the rim of Joanne
’s glass there is a print of red lipstick; half a smile.

  ‘It was a one-night stand at a party, when we were students. In the bathroom actually. We were both so drunk I’m still amazed we managed it at all.’

  ‘They told Mum and Dad you were university lecturers. Catholics.’

  ‘Ha!’ Joanne swallows some more wine and refills the glasses. ‘They told me your dad was an architect.’

  ‘You were engaged to be married.’

  ‘Your mum was infertile.’

  They stare at one another for a moment, then Joanne bursts out laughing. ‘I’m sorry, it’s not funny – ’

  ‘In the bathroom, really?’ says Christina.

  ‘In the bath!’ Joanne laughs even harder. ‘People were knocking at the door wanting to go to the loo. One guy tried to climb through the window!’

  Christina drains her glass. ‘Where’s the bathroom here, by the way?’

  Joanne shrieks. ‘You want to know where the bathroom is!’

  Christina places her glass on the coffee table and stands up.

  ‘The bathroom. Sure. Down the hall, third door on the left.’ Joanne wipes the wet mascara from under her eyes.

  Christina thinks of excuses. She has an assignment due tomorrow, she’s on nights at the moment so she’s really tired, she’s parked the car illegally. In the mirror she watches herself drying her hands. Some people react badly under pressure. They make bad jokes about the mother of the bride, they drive on the wrong side of the road, they talk too much, they laugh when nobody else does. They have pink toilets installed. She splashes her face with water and presses it dry with the embroidered hand towel.

  ‘Well, I should be getting back,’ she says. ‘The cat will be wanting its dinner.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Joanne. ‘All right.’ She holds out her hand and Christina offers hers and they shake on it as if to agree that Christina is leaving.

  ‘It’s been lovely meeting you. I hope we can get together again.’

  ‘Me too,’ says Christina. ‘Well – ’

  ‘Why don’t you leave me your number? You can come round for a meal some time, and meet Dominic.’

  ‘Yes, okay,’ says Christina, and scribbles on the piece of paper Joanne provides.

  ‘Maybe you could find some photos to bring. Of when you were little.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘I’ve only got the one of you.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can dig some up.’

  Christina doesn’t feel like going straight home. She wants to be around other people, in a crowd. She discovers an open-air art market just five minutes’ walk from her flat, and wonders why she’s never seen it before.

  She lingers over glazed bowls, silk scarves that feel like skin, hand-made paper. She runs a finger over a row of coppery hair clips hanging from a ribbon. The stall owner approaches, and asks if Christina needs any help.

  ‘We make them all ourselves,’ says the woman. ‘My brother and myself. All original designs.’

  Christina nods and turns to look at the slide combs with their spiked metal teeth. She notices the mirror in front of her, and sees herself in it, and the woman behind her, watching.

  ‘You’re welcome to try some. Although I’d go for one of the wider ones if I were you. You have such lovely thick hair.’ And she comes over, and Christina has to slide the comb into her hair. She feels the cold teeth scrape her scalp, and is afraid she will push too hard, and draw blood.

  ‘Here, let me show you. It’s a bit tricky getting the knack.’ The woman takes the comb and secures a swathe of hair to the side of Christina’s head. ‘It suits you.’

  ‘Could I try one of the round clasps?’

  The woman stands behind Christina and her cold painted fingers twist her hair into a coil. She holds a clasp to Christina’s head and slides the pin through. Both ends of it are visible, but not the middle, like one of those trick arrows children fix around their necks to frighten and deceive. The woman gives Christina a hand mirror, and holds another behind her head so she can see better. A few people have stopped and are watching. Christina hopes she won’t see anyone she knows, although this is very unlikely. The woman is waiting for an answer, but Christina’s mouth is empty. Leaves are falling on to the tables and she hears every one as it lands like a dry breath. One falls into her lap.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to try a different one?’ The woman slides out the pin and Christina’s hair uncoils and writhes against her cold neck.

  The second clasp drags at the roots of her hair, giving her a look of taut surprise. She shakes her head and they try a third one, more intricate than the others and also more expensive.

  ‘These ones take a lot of work to produce,’ the woman explains as her hands wind through hair.

  Christina sits there until they have tried every single clasp. There is something reassuring about the woman’s fingers working her hair into elaborate knots, and every so often brushing the back of Christina’s neck or the side of her face. As if this is their natural routine. A man stops to look, and smiles at Christina as her hair is transformed with a few expert twists. When the woman says there are no more to try, panic begins to seep up through the autumn ground and the soles of Christina’s feet. She has no idea which to choose, and holds the mirror up again to have a look at the last one, hoping it is right. All she can see is the woman’s ringed hand on her hip, expectant fingers spread, and her own eyes. She looks at the row of clasps on the table, trying to remember which one she liked, which one the woman liked, but the leaves are still falling and it seems they will cover the whole table with their whispers. Christina clears her throat.

  ‘They’re all so beautiful … which one do you think suited me?’

  The man who was watching walks past again. ‘That one with the flower design, the big round one,’ he says, pointing. His hand is almost transparent, and shakes. Every vein is visible.

  The woman smiles and picks up the clasp he is pointing to. ‘Yes, that would be my first choice as well. Shall I wrap it up for you, or do you want to wear it now?’

  The man walks off, picking his way through the crowd with ease.

  Christina realises that she hasn’t eaten all day, and makes her way to one or the takeaway stands. She passes through rows of stalls selling antiques and second-hand clothes. Incomplete sets of etched glasses, rich velvet coats with only one or two buttons missing, jointed teddy bears loved smooth, manicure sets monogrammed with someone else’s initials.

  A young man in a leather jacket stops to look at the glass cases of jewellery. Christina can tell by the way he scans each one that he is looking for something special. She forgets that she is hungry and she follows him from stall to stall, picking up glass beads, books with inscriptions in them, a silver shoe horn shaped to a Victorian heel. He asks to see a few pieces: a marcasite watch, a cameo brooch, some heavy lockets. He has good taste, and politely refuses to be shown junk. Christina reaches past him for a brass-bound Victorian photo album, and asks the stall keeper if there is a key for it.

  ‘No, unfortunately. But any locksmith could open it for you, and probably find you a key that fitted. It’s on special today.’

  By the time Christina has insisted she doesn’t need a locked photo album, the man in the leather jacket has disappeared.

  She buys some chips and stabs them with a flimsy plastic fork. She hears male gulps of laughter behind her, and when she turns around she sees the man who chose her clasp and the young man in the leather jacket stopping and climbing into an expensive car together. They have bought some flowers, which they place on the back seat, and the young man slips a small package wrapped in lilac tissue paper into his jacket pocket. Then they drive off, the engine so smooth it is almost silent.

  Christina is glad to be away from the market, and kicks up clouds of leaves when nobody is watching. She still has some time before she can go home and make dinner for herself. She could keep walking until her cheeks are red and her nose is running. She could go and fe
ed the ducks. She could gather some wild mushrooms. She’s seen people doing this, young couples, mainly, and has always meant to try it herself.

  She finds a bench and sits down. Through the clearing, the presence of water is indicated by the shimmering of trees. After a while a woman comes and sits on a bench nearby, but she doesn’t stay long.

  Tonight Christina will go out. She will get dressed up, put on makeup, twist her hair into an elaborate coil. She will go to a bar and secure a high stool for herself, one that shows off her outfit to its best advantage. She will sip stingy glasses of champagne. Men will come and talk to her, and some of them she will answer. She will let them buy her drinks and offer her cigarettes. They will fumble for their lighters and lean forward, illuminating her careful makeup for a second. Her fingers will be spread, elegantly, framing her cigarette with nails filed to safe curves. She will collect several phone numbers. She will not make the mistake of giving hers. She may allow herself to be persuaded into another bar when that one closes, but only if it is within strolling distance or if they go in a taxi, which he will pay for. She may decide to take someone home with her; she will not, of course, agree to go to his place. Her apartment will have been tidied in advance; interesting books will have been placed open and there will be wine cooled. In the morning, or perhaps the afternoon, she may decide she has a pressing engagement, and will promise to phone that week.

  ‘Well?’ says Claudia.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘What was she like?’

  Christina opens her locker, runs a comb through her hair. ‘These mirrors are pathetically small. How you’re supposed to see more than a nostril – ’