‘Great,’ he said, looking genuinely pleased. ‘Did the doctor sound concerned about it? Did she tell you anything else?’
‘No. She was clinical. Like she had more important things to worry about.’
‘I’ll drive you in.’
‘There’s no need.’
‘Of course there is. I’m still your husband. I’m not sending you in there on your own.’
‘That would be nice. I’ve got to be there by eleven o clock.’
They didn’t do a lot of other talking. And he didn’t ask her for a hand with the farm work.
‘How’s 3027?’ she asked as he put his hat back on after lunch.
‘She and her calf are in good shape. We did a good job.’
‘That’s one positive thing.’
‘It certainly is.’
Dimple was glad to get out of the house. It was claustrophobic now. He didn’t know what to say to her, except to ask her why she would leave or what she felt about having the operation. She hadn’t talked about it at all, and now there didn’t seem to be the space to. Discussing the state of 3027 was one of their few safe topics.
The heat that the bureau had long promised was arriving earlier each day. And now the temperature was tipping over what they used to call a hundred degrees in the shade, and it was still spring. What would Christmas be like? Enduring a hot southern summer had been a badge of honour in recent years — Santa in boardshorts, and all the rest of it. If it got hot enough, the joke might be on the joke-makers.
He serviced pumps, knowing he should pull down and repair a few old submersibles, because the extra heat would mean the remaining cows would drink large volumes of water — over 40 litres each a day. Because his cattle numbers were down, there would be more than enough water, no matter what the weather decided to do; but a day without water would be a bad day, so he had to be ready for a broken or malfunctioning pump. He liked to be prepared, and now, especially, he needed to be busy. Getting things done took his mind away from the past and the future.
He walked up through the cattleyards, checking gate catches as he did, as he always did, in the same way he checked fridge doors and house lights and vehicle fuel caps. His hands needed to be doing something; his world was full of things that could cause cost and disaster down the track if they weren’t regularly monitored. At least, that was what he told himself.
He checked the weather forecast, as he did every spare moment: the weather event that had been coming for ten days was almost upon them and had not faded. The percentage chance of rain was very high, and the amount of rain would be worthwhile. But now came the painful bit. Would it actually turn into rain, or would it be another false prophecy? Despite his obsession with the forecast, he decided to ignore it. If it rained, it rained. If not, so be it. Brave words from the desperate, from someone who would be very, very annoyed if the rain did not eventuate. At any rate, it was worth trying to be brave.
Ruthie went through her clothes, found the scrunched-up piece of paper, and flattened it out on the kitchen bench. The number was clear. She looked at it for a long time. She wanted to talk to Paul, but not for the obvious reasons. She needed to feel that the experience had been real, even if she just apologised for her behaviour and left it that. She walked around the garden to check that Dimple was nowhere nearby, then rang the number.
‘Paul, it’s Ruth Travers. We met at the—’
‘Ruthie! You rang! I am so pleased! I was worried you had decided to forget about that night.’
In his voice, she heard his excitement and her folly. He immediately became a boyfriend from years ago that she had long since grown out of. The thrill of the possibility of talking to him had vaporised, and left her grounded and serious-minded. She wanted to put the phone down, but he was saying how much fun he’d had — more than he’d had for ages, more than he’d had with anyone since his wife died — and when could they do it again? They must do it again. It didn’t matter where. He would drive anywhere.
‘I’m sorry, Paul. I only rang to say it was nice to meet you, but I hope I didn’t lead you on. I had too much to drink. I was out of control. I think I’ve given you the wrong …’
‘Oh, that’s okay. I know you’re a married woman. We can still have fun, can’t we? Doesn’t matter if it’s the four of us again. Please don’t change your mind. I have been so lonely. So dull.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m not what you need. It was a mistake.’ She hung up, hoping he wouldn’t ring back. But he might. She would deal with that then.
The phone rang again. Had he rung straight back? It was a local number. She picked it up. ‘Hi, Mrs Travers? It’s Faith from Dr Musgrave’s surgery. How are you? Seems like there’s been a bit of a mix-up with results, I’m afraid.’
Ruthie felt her heart thump. She found a chair and sat down. ‘Yes?’
‘We seem to have confused your records with someone else’s. It’s good news. Your lump is quite clearly benign. There is no need for you to have treatment or surgery. The doctor says to keep an eye on it, and it might be worth getting it removed at a later date.’
‘Oh, that is good news.’ It was unbelievable news. Hard to make sense of. How could she get mixed up with someone else? ‘Did I need to have the biopsy?’
‘Ah, no. There probably wasn’t a need. We are very sorry about that.’
‘I bet you are.’ Ruthie felt her anger rising hot from her chest. ‘How does the other poor woman feel? The one who’s just found out her lump is cancerous?’
‘I can’t talk about other patients.’
‘That’s convenient for you, isn’t it?’
‘We do apologise for putting you through this, Mrs Travers. This practice prides itself on not making these sorts of mistakes. So, you see, it was a shock to us, too.’
‘Poor you.’
‘We understand how upset you must be. This is an awful situation.’ A pause. Then: ‘So, just to confirm, we’ve cancelled your surgery, and I’ll make an appointment for you to see the doctor next week. You can then talk about what’s best for you.’
‘How about next Wednesday? Or will you muck that up, too?’
Faith confirmed the appointment, and finished the conversation by apologising again, sincerely, for any inconvenience.
Ruthie melted to the floor. There was nothing wrong with her. She was not having a mastectomy; there were no cancer cells endlessly replicating in her body; she was not dying. She felt relief, but shame, too, for her melodramatic stupidity. The crisis that might have been the instigator of her odd behaviour was precisely nothing at all. She had acted as if she knew the date of the end of the world, when there was no such date. Christ almighty! Where was that phone number?
The fear of dying, or being disfigured, or of enduring endless procedures was replaced by a new fear for the future. Her fantasies of a different world, of new partners, had departed with the exit of bad news. Had everything been sacrificed?
She let herself cry softly to acknowledge the good news and to release the pressure. Then she was still, with no thoughts in her head, just a heartbeat and deep, regular breaths.
What had Dimple said? ‘When you are well, we sit down and work out …’ He would understand. She could convince him it was simply a fear of dying that had caused her to act so out of character. He didn’t look like he could be persuaded, but she had always managed to do so before. It would surely just take a little time.
An idea struck her, and she stood, picked up the phone, and dialled.
‘Faith? Can I speak to Dr Musgrove?’
‘Putting you through.’
Ruthie asked the doctor if the mix-up was real, if she really was in the clear and there had never been a risk.
‘I am so sorry. The names got mixed up on the files. You were confused with another woman right from the start. I can assure you that your lump poses no threat.’
> Ruthie walked out into her garden. When should she tell Dimple? Perhaps she should fake it for a while to give herself some time. She could go into town tomorrow and pretend to go to the doctor. Maybe she could tell him the appointment was at two o’clock but leave at eleven, claiming the doctor had brought the operation forward? That was a hateful idea. Not even Ruthie from the past 48 hours would have approved of that.
And now, as she found herself walking down towards the sheds and the yards, thinking about winning Dimple back, she remembered the sensations that the 48 hours had brought her. She had liked it. Even if it was just for a short time. Could she really give up on the way that felt? Maybe it didn’t have to be either/or. But Dimple would want decisions now. He thought he had taken hold of the whip handle, and would be unwilling to let go. His manhood depended on it. Stupid manhood. She realised she had been on her way to talk to him. She turned around and headed back to the house. More thinking was needed. Maybe more thinking was always needed.
Dimple moved the cows into a new paddock. There wasn’t any more to eat in it than in the old one, but a change seemed like a good idea: maybe there were viruses or bacteria lurking in the soil, and a move would evade them. And sometimes it was important to have a change for its own sake. He watched them wander out into the paddock, sniffing and searching, probably remembering when there was feed there. They walked on, lifting their heads in disappointment. He knew how they felt. He was struggling to see the good in anything. Ruthie no longer wanted to fight — for the farm or for him. The climate was stuffed, and maybe in a state much worse than he could imagine. The world had been conquered by the worst kind of people, the Wally Olivers, and nothing could stop them. So why fight? Why not take the money and run? Become the sort of person who likes to talk about their overseas trips, or the size of their house, or the success of their investments? Isn’t that who everyone wanted to be? Why not him? God. Was that really what Ruthie wanted?
He shut the gate, and took Ringer and One-eye around to be fed. They were watching him today, certain they were in trouble for something they could not fathom. It didn’t matter. They would forgive him anything and, hey, tomorrow was a bright new day. He rubbed his hand over One-eye’s smooth head. ‘Tomorrow’s always a good day, isn’t it, mate?’ The dog lifted a front foot and put it down, aware that something significant was going on. ‘Wish I could agree with you.’
Dimple was late, which Ruthie took as evidence that he didn’t want to be in the house with her. With most of the cows gone and no crops planted, there wasn’t that much work to do. Not the usual load, anyway.
When he’d come and cleaned up, she poured a beer into a tall glass, its glistening droplets sliding down onto the kitchen bench. She felt like a 1950s housewife. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first — remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.
He drank it, looking over the top of the glass at her. ‘Thanks. Looks like it’s going to rain tonight. There’s a storm forecast, and it’s really heavy out here. Fingers crossed.’
She sipped at a wine. ‘I don’t have cancer.’
‘What?’
‘There was a mix-up. Mine is just a cyst-type thing. Nothing to worry about. I don’t have to have surgery.’
‘Wow! That’s amazing news. What happened?’
‘They got me confused with another woman who actually has a bad cancer. Needs to be taken out straightaway.’
‘I’m so pleased.’ He put his beer down and crossed the floor to hug and kiss her. ‘Terrific! Terrific! You must be so relieved.’
‘I am. I definitely am.’ She had been thinking so much about his ultimatums that she had forgotten he would be excited for her. Which didn’t mean anything, because people she didn’t even know would be pleased for her. It made her feel good, though.
Dimple reached for his beer. ‘That certainly is worth a cheers.’ He touched his glass to hers, and then gulped down half of his drink.
She drank, too, smiling at him. And then words she had not intended came out: ‘So now we sit down and talk about Wally’s offer?’ Was she making a joke? She wasn’t sure.
His face went slack. He had not even begun to celebrate. There was something nasty about her bringing it up right now. It made him think about the things she’d said and done over the weekend.
‘Yes, we do. And you need to tell me what you want. And even if you blindside me like this, I’m not going to let you play me. Just let me enjoy my beer tonight. If you don’t mind.’ He turned and walked over to the TV, and switched it on.
She had always been straightforward with him, occasionally blunt. But now she seemed unable to control herself. Despite her fear and her thinking and her worrying, she had to scratch at the sore. She needed to push him on it, even though now she was afraid of what might result.
It might not be breast cancer, but there might still be something seriously wrong with her. Some sort of pressure on the brain. A tumour, maybe. She was definitely not her normal self. A screw loose, perhaps. She would be calm and as pleasant as possible, just like that 1950s housewife, and tomorrow she would, most likely, be back to normal.
She took her wine and sat down on the couch. ‘Cheers,’ she said, lifting her glass at him as a question.
‘Cheers,’ he said flatly, dull-eyed.
‘I’m sorry. It’s been scary for me. It brought out some odd behaviour in me. But I feel like I’m not going back to the way I was. Maybe I will, but it just doesn’t feel like it at the moment. So perhaps we shouldn’t talk about the offer or the future for a week or so? What do you think?’
‘I think that’s a good idea. I’m not sure I can go back to the way I was, either.’
She stopped herself staring at his face, and looked down at his thick legs and broad feet. It hadn’t occurred to her that he might shift his ideas about the future. She did not expect change of any sort from him.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m having a bit of trouble seeing the point. I like farming. I like animals and machinery. I like seeing things grow. But is that enough reason to keep farming?’
‘I think it is.’ She was contradicting herself. Where did that come from?
‘If we can’t afford to buy cattle or even sheep when the drought breaks, what do we do with that part of the place? We won’t earn as much money as we need to. We won’t be able to make the improvements that we want to. And then we’ll probably sell up to some prick like Wally Oliver anyway. But at a price that suits him and not us.’ He clasped two hands tightly in front. ‘And if your heart is not in it, how can mine be?’
She wanted to tell him he was doing the right thing and that she would be with him, no matter what. But she couldn’t. Because she wasn’t certain it was the truth. Only a few days ago, she would have had no problem reassuring him. But a few days ago, they wouldn’t have needed the discussion.
‘I keep asking myself: am I rejecting Wally Oliver’s offer just so I can selfishly have the life I want? A life, it seems, you don’t really want anymore. Am I thinking I don’t want him to own the farm because he’s a bad person? And I’m a good person? I actually don’t know that’s true.’
‘Yes, you do. You are a much better human being than he is.’
‘Am I? I’m sure he would say I’m just too weak to take advantage of the circumstances. You have to reach out for what you want, and bugger the cost.’ He looked at her, his eyes a little bloodied, his body tired.
‘Are you saying that’s what I’m doing?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know. It’s probably your right.’
‘At least you’ve said it.’
He started to say something and then didn’t. He picked up his beer and drank deeply from it.
Outside, lightning lit up the western sky. It flashed on their faces, and Ruthie guessed it reve
aled two lost people. People who did not know what it was like to be lost.
Dimple got up and went to the kitchen door, and stood looking out into the sky. Several large drops hit the back path hard, like the advance party of the multitude he hoped was coming. He could feel the temperature dropping with every whack on the hard surface. The drops increased in number, and then stopped. He could hear himself breathing. The path had not been fully wetted, and was already beginning to dry. He checked his phone. It said it should be raining right now, exactly where he stood. He turned back, feeling disgust at having allowed himself to hope for something that his experience told him would not come true.
Ruthie was preparing rice for dinner.
‘I can’t eat at the moment. I’m sorry.’
‘You need to eat, Dimple. Even if it’s something small.’
‘I’ll see how I feel after a shower.’
He took off his clothes in the bathroom, doing his best not to think. Too much thinking. That was the problem. Ruthie would get over her doubts, and so would he. Then, before he could put his hand on the shower tap, he heard raindrops — a handful, and then more — on the corrugated-iron roof. He stood still, and thought, Celebrate when it happens, not what you hope will happen. But the drops came in massed numbers now, banging on the roof and laughing wickedly down the gutters. He walked out the bathroom door, down the corridor, and outside into the rain. He stood on the lawn, feeling the biting cold of the water as it hit his skin. He knew it could stop at any second, making its effect as good as nothing, but still it felt good, positive, and wet.
Ruthie looked out the window at his white-and-brown body and his dripping hair, and smiled. It’s what city people think country people do, she thought. Dance around in the rain the first time they see it after a long dry spell. City people refused to understand that one fall never broke a drought. Neither did two. With the heat coming, it would take a lot of rain to get in front of the dry. It didn’t mean you shouldn’t celebrate it, though. She went and got two towels from the bathroom, hung them on a chair, and then pulled her dress over her head, slipped off her underwear, and put them in a neat pile on the same chair. I hope it doesn’t stop before I get out there, she said to herself. But the rain was not stopping. Puddles were forming on the road, and on the slope outside the garden, a rivulet was pushing its way down the shallow gully as if the gully needed to be told this was what it was capable of.
Small Mercies Page 12