‘No, thank you, darling girl.’ Phyllida sat, pretending to read a magazine on homes and gardens. In the back was a horoscope page. Her friend Mary liked astrology. And Phyllida could appreciate the idea of cyclical transformation and a personal cosmic journey, even though this magazine version was probably all rubbish. Still, the sun transiting through Mercury and creating balanced moods sounded very pleasing. And all those predictions about health and harmonious encounters were excellent for keeping one’s chin up.
She wondered what David thought about horoscopes.David.A shiver went through her; it was fear, she knew. The sheer terror of the possibilities. That was why she was here.
She flicked through the magazine; stared at an article about keeping roses. She thought vaguely she should pay attention to the words because she had a place to put some more roses in the garden. But that thought only took her to the idea of black-spot and aphids; the sicknesses and setbacks, the fragility and impermanence. The seasons of life. The Samhain was here, and she had tried to embrace it, to walk barefoot for a few minutes each day on the cold earth, to remind herself of her connection to all living things. She had spoken to the trees, run her hand along rough bark, pressed her palm hard, so the painful grooves of timber calmed her spiralling thoughts. But despite all of it, this news from David frightened her.
She flicked through the pages. David wouldn’t tell her much about any of it because Miriam was taking him to all his appointments. Doctor Patel would put her mind at rest, though. Phyllida wasn’t going to come right out and say it—she’d just hint at it. Get as much information as she could, so she could feel a bit more on top of the situation. A bit more educated, and less fearful. Knowledge was power. It made you more certain of the parameters of things.
She’d prayed, of course, although she worshipped no particular god, and praying wasn’t foolproof. But it gave her a lovely sense of harmony when she prayed, and that felt useful. Plus, you felt as though you weren’t being avoidant, because you’d put together a list of Very Important Things to Sort Out, and whatever deity was in charge up there had the brief.
She’d pondered all this for days since David had come home from Sydney, silent and surprisingly sickly looking after just a week away. At first, she’d been hurt he’d asked Miriam to take him to a Sydney doctor rather than asking her. Why hadn’t he gone to the local doctor? And she was confused and annoyed that Miriam was acting like a mother instead of a girlfriend.
Miriam said she knew some good specialists in Sydney.David has been getting these pains in his stomach.Miriam had said it with such a proprietary air that Phyllida became impotent with anger. How could her role have been taken over in the space of a few weeks? What would this waif know about keeping anyone healthy? She starved herself in the name of fashion! And then had the temerity to sort out this specialist appointment and bring him over to the house to tell Phyllida this ridiculous, awful news after keeping her in the dark.
‘Mrs Banks?’ Doctor Patel was smiling at her from the hallway entrance. ‘Hello, Phyllida,’ he said, as she approached. ‘Lovely to see you.’
She smiled back, thought how handsome he was with his large brown eyes and milk-coffee skin and—she hadn’t set out to notice, but how could she not—his lovely physique. She realised such thoughts were inappropriate, but she wasn’t a saint and nor was she intending to save the image for later. She was simply being observant. She followed him into the room and took a seat as he washed his hands at the basin.
‘How are things in the bookshop?’
‘Cracked but holding, you might say,’ she replied.
The doctor tipped his head to one side, a slight frown on his face.
‘It’s a term we use to describe bookbinding when the spine is holding by only a thread.’
‘I see. That’s sounds ominous, then. What can I do for you?’
‘Well …’ Now that she was faced with him, she couldn’t find the words. ‘Well …’ she tried again. ‘The thing is …’ She sighed, stared at the blue swirls of the carpet. ‘The thing is, I don’t exactly know what to say because I’m just after some information, you see.’
‘Right.’ Caleb Patel lowered himself into his office chair. ‘What sort of thing would you like to know about?’
‘Well, I know most are quite curable and treatable these days, because my friend Jenny’s breast was perfectly fine after she had it chopped off and underwent all the treatment, so I don’t want to appear alarmist.’ She took a breath. ‘But the thing is, I was wondering how to get some information about … cancer.’
‘Cancer?’ he said carefully. ‘Have you discovered a lump? Or are you feeling ill?’
‘Oh, no!’ Phyllida swiped the air. ‘No, not for me. For … a friend. It seems he’s possibly got a cancer, and, well, I need to get some information on the right food to cook, or vitamins and so on, to help with the recovery. Nature provides so much for healing, and I’m good with herbal remedies, but I need some specific direction.’
The doctor said nothing for a ridiculously long moment. They sat in the silence, until she said, ‘Some specific herbs, I mean. Something for a natural boost. For the immune system.’ Phyllida had done all she could think to do already. She had even brought home a copy ofMrs Beeton’s Book of Household Managementfrom the shop. An 1881 edition with gilt Morocco titling labels. She had turned to the page for traditional beef tea,careful, of course, because the book had the most delightful full-page coloured plates and was a fine copy with an inscription on the front free endpaper. She had it priced at six hundred dollars.
David had laughed at her when she’d steeped the beef mince, and anger had risen in Phyllida. Anger fuelled by fear. The book may have been a century old, but her grandmother had sworn by the treasures in the invalid recipe section. David had winced with disgust as she watched him drink the meaty sediment, but she did not care that he was disgusted. Disgust was fine. Disgusting things could cure.
‘Are you able to tell me who has the cancer, and perhaps some details about it?’
‘Well, no. Sorry, Caleb. I’d be breaking his, er …herconfidence.’ Phyllida’s voice wobbled.
‘But it’s someone close to you?’
Phyllida’s eyes filled, as if Caleb had poked a hole in a water pipe. She was becoming ridiculous.
The doctor was very still, his head cocked to one side. Then he looked down at his lap. On the desk was a framed picture of his family. A lovely red-headed wife, Bettina was her name, if Phyllida recalled correctly, and three girls, the eldest perhaps fifteen.
‘Phyllida, I notice David has lost quite a bit of weight lately. Is it him you’re worried about?’
Phyllida looked away. Wondered if those three girls were happy in Brookbank. If the village primary school suited the younger ones.
‘Well, itmightbe David,’ said Phyllida, ‘I can neither confirm nor deny it.’ Good lord, she sounded like Rumpole of the Bailey.Perhaps she should swap to watching a medical drama now that David was sick. She would probably pick up all sorts of knowledge.
Caleb cut through her thoughts. ‘Phyllida?’ There was a sharpness to his voice. Almost as if she might be in trouble for testing his patience. ‘What sort of cancer?’ he asked. ‘I need to know.’
