‘One of the best?’ Helen said.
‘It’s a competitive field. They argue about it. Why’s he sitting all hunched like that?’
I was on the couch in the front room still wearing my jacket because I couldn’t move the arm enough to slip it off. Helen’s attempt to do so had called forth an unmanly scream. I’d taken off the wet footwear though. ‘Shoulder,’ I said.
‘Jesus, Cliff, you’re…’
‘I know. Too old. I’m too old, Helen.’
‘You’re babbling. He wants whisky, Ian. What d’you reckon?’
‘Why not? It has important medicinal qualities. I’ll take some of the same medicine. Let’s have a look at the shoulder.’
‘After the Scotch,’ I said. I had a stiff one and heard about the hand Ian had been holding when Helen called. I had another and hardly screamed at all as he eased the jacket off.
‘You could almost do the Elephant Man,’ Ian said. ‘With the eye like that and the back all swollen.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Quasimodo’d be more like it. It feels like a hump.’
‘Richard III, then,’ Ian said. ‘Don’t go downmarket. ‘
‘You’re both crazy,’ Helen said. ‘It’s bloody blue!’
‘Bruised.’ Ian finished his whisky and tapped the glass. ‘More, if you please. This the first time you’ve seen him like this, Helen?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re lucky. Cyn…’
‘Ian!’ Pain shot through me as I spoke. ‘Drop it, Ian.’
‘No. Tell me.’ Helen poured more whisky for Ian and one for herself. I nodded and she added a few drops to my glass. Ian was probing at the shoulder; his hands were cool and firm. It almost felt better under them.
‘This is dislocated and strained. Nothing broken, I think. He was a wild boy in those days, I can tell you. Liked to mix it, would you believe? I stitched him and set him in plaster. Quite often.’
‘No good for the sex life,’ Helen said.
‘Funny, that’s what Cyn used to say.’
‘D’you mind?’ I said. I felt myself slowing down and drifting, stress and Scotch will do that to you. ‘Shouldn’t you ring this fuckin’ wizard of microsurgery… whatever?’
Ian was fiddling with a syringe and a bottle with a rubber membrane on the top. ‘Blah, blah mls of scotch whisky, blah, blah mls of this,’ he mused. He gripped and pressed until a vein stood up in my arm. He slid the needle in. ‘Goodnight, Cliff. I promise to respect your woman.’
I woke up in a private hospital in Hunter’s Hill. I didn’t know then that it was Hunter’s Hill, but the water and trees and gracious rooftops I saw from the window told me that it sure as hell wasn’t Glebe. I was wearing a nightshirt-something that had lain in a drawer since the last time I was in hospital, about eight or nine years back- long stubble and a plastic bangle around my wrist with my name on it and some coded things I couldn’t understand. My watch was on the bedside table. It was 7 a.m. on Saturday: time to lie in bed with Helen and read the papers, check the quotes of the week and if there was a movie on we wanted to see. No Helen.
A nurse came around at 7.30 and took my pulse and temperature.
‘When’s breakfast?’ I said.
‘Tomorrow for you.’
‘Eh? What is this, the Gulag?’
‘You’re fasting, Mr Hardy. You’re being operated on at ten o’clock.’
I realised for the first time that I was only looking through one eye. The other was closed, covered with a pad and throbbing. Through one eye, the nurse looked fresh, clean-scrubbed and young. Invisible Man jokes, Prisoner in the Iron Mask jokes, wouldn’t mean a thing to her. My shoulder was stiff but not as sore as it had been. I wriggled up in the bed. ‘What am I being operated on for, nurse?’
‘Torn cornea.’
‘It sounds like a rock group,’ I said. A soft, warm wave called sleep hit me in the face and I slid down the bed and off it onto a soft, warm cloud.
The next time I awoke, two men in white gowns were bending over me. One was looking at my eye, the other was asking me my name.
‘Cliff Hardy,’ I said.
‘How did you sustain this injury?’
‘I ran into a tree branch.’
‘My name is Stivens, Mr Hardy. I’m a surgeon. The sight of your right eye is endangered but the operation I am going to perform has a 90 per cent success rate. Do you understand?’
‘What d’you like at Randwick in the fifth?’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘It sounded like you were quoting odds.’
‘Yes, Ian Sangster told me you have a sense of humour. I have not. This is Dr McGregor, he is an anaesthetist. I believe he has a sense of humour too.’
The other white-gowned figure nodded and grinned. ‘Dr Stivens,’ I said.
‘Mister.’
‘Mister Stivens. Could you just hold out your hands for a second. Like this?’
‘I told you I have no sense of humour.’
‘Please.’
He held out both hands; dark hairs sprouted around his wrists. I let myself go back and relax. ‘I’m sorry about the sense of humour,’ I said, ‘but in your case I’ll settle for the steady hands.’
‘Dr McGregor?’ Stivens said.
‘You’ll feel a prick, Mr Hardy. Then I’ll count backwards from ten and at five I’ll tell you a joke. Ten, nine, eight…’
I didn’t hear the joke.
It was a private room. I’d never had a private room in a hospital before. I couldn’t have afforded it. I couldn’t afford it now. Helen and Sangster were there. Where’s the cat? I thought. But you know cats, they’re never around when you need them.
‘How does it look?’ I said. ‘Get it? Eye operation? Look?’
‘Jesus,’ Helen said.
‘You must never touch narcotics, Cliff,’ Sangster said. ‘They’d be too nice for you.’
‘Okay,’ I pulled my right hand out from under the bedclothes and put it up to my eye. Big patch, very tender. Helen gently took my hand away and held it. Her fingers were cool and smooth. I played with them. Sangster cleared his throat and stood.
‘Vance Stivens’ll be back tonight,’ he said.
‘Vance?’
‘That’s right. He told me to tell you he’ll adjust the sutures under local anaesthetic tonight.’
‘Terrific,’ I said. ‘I hope he’s had a nice day.’
‘We played golf this morning after he’d worked on you.’
‘Good. What did he shoot?’
‘Eighty-one. He’ll be happy with that.’
‘I’m glad.’ I gripped Helen’s hand and felt a strong sexual urge. Sangster moved away from the bed.
‘He also said to tell you that when he’s finished it’ll feel like there’s a house brick under your eyelid. That’ll last for a couple of weeks. You’re not to worry.’
‘I won’t. Thanks, Ian.’
‘Ciao.’
Helen was wearing, a silk dress I liked and she smelled wonderful. Our hands were gripped together.
‘Not much we can do about it here. When do I get out?’
‘Tomorrow. But you could be on hand jobs only, for a while.’
‘We’ll see. You didn’t get put off, did you? By that stuff about Cyn, and me getting beaten up?’
