Silver Wattle (18 page)

When he reached the booth, he sank into the chair and grimaced as though trying to hide the exhaustion his efforts had cost him. I could not help staring when he slipped his crutch under the table and laid the tripod next to it. My fascination was with his camera case. He swung it onto the table and clicked the locks open. When he took out a Pathe moving-picture camera my heart jolted. Ever since my interest in making films had been piqued, I had been studying camera catalogues and I recognised the model. It was the same camera that Billy Bitzer used—the cameraman who had created films with DW Griffith. From that, and the way the man checked the adjustments and cleaned the lens, I deduced he was not an amateur. I was so absorbed in my observations that I did not notice the pair of eyes that were studying me with interest.

‘Hello, pretty! Give me a nut!’ the cockatoo squawked, bobbing its head in my direction.

I turned away but was not fast enough to avoid catching the man’s eye. He held my gaze but did not smile.

‘He is a beautiful bird,’ I said, embarrassment raising the pitch of my voice.

The man did not answer. I was sure he thought I had been staring at him because of his leg. I glanced at my watch and did some play-acting of someone who has realised they are late to be somewhere else. Although the man returned to the task of checking his camera, I felt his eyes on me when I gathered my purse and jacket. My hands shook when I rummaged for the money to pay the waiter.

‘That poor man,’ another customer whispered to me when I approached the door. ‘I don’t think he could hear you.’

I nodded to her but I was sure she had interpreted the man’s reaction incorrectly. He had heard me. At the moment our eyes met, he had flinched. And in his tortured expression I had seen a mirror of what I was feeling. We were kindred spirits: two people trying to fend off despair.

I visited Klara the following day and was delighted to find her not in bed but waiting for me in the visiting room. She was wearing a dress instead of a hospital gown. The nurses had cut her hair to make it easier to manage but Klara had softened the severity of the style by wearing it swept to the side and held in place with a silver clip.

‘It’s good to see you,’ I said. I took her hand and admired the piece of embroidery she had been working on while waiting for me.

Klara smiled and I was pleased to see the colour in her cheeks and lips again.

‘I hoped I might find you both here,’ said Doctor Page, striding into the room. He held a package wrapped in brown paper under his arm. ‘I found this treasure today,’ he said, sitting down beside me and placing the package on the table in front of Klara. ‘But I have to leave directly from here this afternoon to go to a conference and I need someone who can mind it for me until tomorrow evening.’

Doctor Page indicated to Klara that she should open the package. She untied the string and unravelled the paper to reveal a Chinese figurine. This one was a bearded man with a calligraphy brush. The hands and feet were the natural flesh colour of the mud from which the figurine had been made. The model was not especially artistic or well crafted but something about his raised eyebrows made me laugh. Or perhaps it was the tongue-in-cheek way Doctor Page spoke about it, as if he were entrusting us with an antique from the Tang Dynasty.

‘What sort of figurine is this?’ I asked him.

‘A mud-man,’ answered Doctor Page. ‘The Chinese use them in their bonsai scenes.’

‘Do you collect them?’ asked Klara.

‘Oh yes,’ said Doctor Page, rolling his eyes in mock-seriousness. ‘This is my two hundredth mud-man. Each one is unique.’

Klara’s face lit up with amusement. ‘We shall guard him with our lives,’ she said.

The ward nurse passed by with her trolley of medicines and sent an admiring glance in Doctor Page’s direction. I could understand her attraction. He was not a classically handsome man, but in his crisp white coat and with his smooth skin and reddish-brown hair he was dashing.

‘Well, I’d better be off,’ he said, rising from his chair.

We wished him the best for his conference. After he had left, Klara passed the figurine to me. ‘You had better take it,’ she said. ‘If I put it on my bedside table, the night nurse will break it. She breaks at least one glass a night and then runs around with a brush and pan making a terrible commotion.’

The following day I returned with the figurine. I also brought my camera.

‘Can I take some pictures of my sister in the grounds?’ I asked the admissions nurse. It was the woman who had told us we could only visit Klara once a week, and I could tell from the way she pursed her lips she was not pleased that Doctor Page had been lenient with me.

‘I hope you know that your request to come every day earned Doctor Page a talking-to from the superintendent,’ she said.

So visiting only once a week was a policy of the clinic? I could have told her that I had not asked to come every day; Doctor Page had suggested that himself. But I thought it best to look contrite. The nurse slapped the signature book on the desk. I took it as a sign that she had granted me permission.

‘Don’t be more than ten minutes,’ she warned me.

I took pictures of Klara in the rose garden. The weather was sunny and the flowers had come into full bloom.

‘Let’s take some pictures of Doctor Page’s figurine,’ Klara said, setting the mud-man among the ferns and rocks. I was pleased to see her taking an interest in life again.

‘I hope the photograph cheers Doctor Page up,’ she said, positioning her face behind the figurine so that through the lens the little man looked as if he were about to be devoured by a giant.

‘Why does he need to be cheered up?’

A shadow fell over Klara’s face. ‘The nurses talk about him,’ she said. ‘They say he is madly in love with his fiancee but she keeps delaying the wedding date.’

‘Klara, that’s gossip,’ I told her. ‘Don’t get involved in gossip.’

The admissions nurse opened a window and bellowed that we had been half an hour instead of ten minutes and visiting time was now at an end.

‘I’ll bring the photographs soon,’ I told Klara, rushing back with her towards the clinic.

On the way home I found myself thinking about Doctor Page. So he had a fiancee? I had scolded Klara for gossiping about her doctor and yet I was curious about him too. I did not have much experience with men, apart from a boy I had admired at an afternoon tea in Prague, but I could not imagine keeping Doctor Page hanging on a string. His fiancee must be very beautiful and very sure of herself, I thought.

When I arrived for my visit some days later, Klara was beaming. ‘I showed Doctor Page the pictures of his mud-man and he laughed so much I thought he would never stop,’ she said. ‘He asked me all about you.’

I placed the bunch of daisies I had picked for her in her lap. ‘What did you tell him?’ I asked.

‘The truth,’ she grinned. ‘That you are wonderful and clever but rather shy.’

I wondered if Doctor Page had been asking questions about me as part of his analysis of Klara. ‘What did he say to that?’

‘He laughed even harder,’ said Klara. ‘I don’t know why.’

I thought of the way I had burst into the men’s ward a few weeks ago, demanding to know why Doctor Page, instead of a senior doctor, was treating my sister. No wonder he had thought Klara’s description of me as shy was funny.

When she could, Ranjana changed her shifts so she could come to see Klara with me while Esther minded Thomas. Uncle Ota came on his days off. He was with me the next time I saw Doctor Page, which was our first encounter since he had given Klara the mud-man to look after. I was pleased to find him sitting in the garden talking to her. He stood up to greet us and made enquiries as to our well-being but he was not himself. There were circles under his eyes and the roses in his cheeks had faded. His eyes met mine then he looked away. ‘You will have to excuse me,’ he said. ‘I’d better get started on the afternoon rounds.’

‘He’s a nice young man,’ remarked Uncle Ota, watching Doctor Page make his way up the steps to the clinic.

Klara’s smile waned. ‘He’s out of sorts,’ she said. ‘He and two orderlies took some soon-to-be-released patients out on a harbour cruise yesterday to celebrate their recovery. It was a happy outing until they were on their way back. A young woman jumped off the boat and drowned herself.’

I shuddered. If Doctor Page lost a patient, he would feel it. ‘He must be devastated,’ I said.

I was pleased with Klara’s progress under Doctor Page’s care, but I had not yet made an appointment with him as I had promised. I did not have the courage to tell him—or anyone else—what had happened to us. But the tragic incident with his patient prompted him to seek me. We sat down together in his office.

‘Miss Rose, I hope to discharge your sister soon. I believe she turns thirteen on 29 September? I’d like to send her home on her birthday.’

My heart leapt at the news. Klara coming home? I could hardly believe it.

Doctor Page sent me a serious glance. ‘But before I have her discharged I want to make sure that I have treated the true nature of her trauma. I lost a patient this week who I thought was cured. I won’t let that happen to your sister.’

His statement made me realise the gravity of the matter. My stomach tightened.

‘The patient who died was admitted because she supposedly had a phobia of spiders,’ he continued. ‘It’s a fairly straightforward fear to address, and I consulted with the doctors here and a specialist in England. After a few weeks the patient showed remarkable improvement. I was even able to take her through the grounds and encourage her to stand close to spider-webs without any sign of fear. What we failed to realise was that what she really feared was not spiders but the world outside. She lived in a cocoon here, safe and quiet. She could not imagine returning to that frightening world again.’

I pressed my face into my hands. I had thought when I came to Australia that I could put my life in Prague aside. I had anticipated that Klara and I would live in another dimension until she reached twenty-one. I missed Aunt Josephine and Frip terribly but I would not allow myself to feel it. Although I could never forget Mother, I forced myself to almost disregard that she had been murdered. It was as if I expected that she would be waiting for us when Klara and I returned. But things had not happened as I had planned. Klara had become sick, and it seemed that if I did not cooperate with Doctor Page she might not recover.

I swallowed. ‘Doctor Page, our mother was murdered by our stepfather. That is why Klara and I came to Australia.’

Whatever Doctor Page had been expecting, he was not prepared for anything quite so dramatic. ‘I see,’ he said, frowning. ‘Please tell me what happened.’

It took me a few minutes to gather my strength, but once I began speaking I could not stop. I told Doctor Page about Milosh and about the assassin. I even told him about Aunt Emilie, and the thought that Klara might harm herself made me choke back a sob.

‘Klara never told me any of this,’ said Doctor Page. ‘I thought she might be a perfectionist. Very sensitive people and artists often drive themselves to breaking point striving for excellence.’

I felt tears rise up in my eyes. ‘Doctor Page, do you think she will get better?’

‘I don’t think your sister is insane,’ he said. ‘The situation that you’ve described would break anyone. During the war I treated strong men who came back from the battlefield shattered. From what you’ve told me, I’m surprised that you haven’t fallen ill yourself. I only wish that your sister had confided all of this to me earlier. I could have helped her sooner.’

I had never heard a doctor speak so thoughtfully. I could not imagine Doctor Soucek or another doctor saying he had sympathy for us, even if he felt it. Doctors told you what to do and you did it. I realised that I had built a shell around me and Doctor Page was making cracks in it, gently and painstakingly.

I dabbed at my face with my handkerchief, trying to control the tears running down my cheeks. ‘We couldn’t,’ I said. ‘We were afraid. We could not confide in anybody.’

Doctor Page sat back, lost in thought for a few moments. ‘Is there no way your mother’s killer can be brought to justice?’ he asked.

My handkerchief was so damp that it was useless. Doctor Page reached into his pocket and passed me his own. I explained to him the difficulties of the case and the lack of evidence.

‘I’m glad that you’ve told me what you have,’ he said. ‘I lost my mother in a fire when I was ten years old. It’s a terrible burden to carry alone. I feel very much for Klara—and for you.’

I was too moved to speak. I stared at the Irish linen handkerchief in my hand and wondered if Doctor Page’s fiancee had given it to him. If she did not value Doctor Page, she was a foolish woman. He was so kind, and when you had been through all Klara and I had, kindness was what you most appreciated in people.

A
lthough Broughton Hall was not as expensive as an exclusive clinic, Klara’s treatment had drained our funds. She was excited about starting at the Conservatorium High School in the new year. How could I tell her I no longer had the money for her tuition?

‘I wonder if I could find work in an office,’ I said to Uncle Ota one day when he was reading the paper in the parlour. ‘I know how to type.’

Uncle Ota glanced at me. ‘That would bore you, Adelka. You’re a daydreamer. Not that it is a bad habit—if you are creative. Besides, the Czech and English keyboards are not the same.’

‘I could adapt,’ I said.

He gave me a smile. ‘Why don’t you do some work with your camera? You take exceptional portraits.’

‘That will take a long time to set up,’ I told him. ‘I’d need film, a better camera, developing chemicals, and I’d have to find clients. The tutors’ fees are due by the end of the year, otherwise Klara will lose her place with the teachers she wants.’

Uncle Ota thought for a moment before answering. ‘Studios need ladies to take passport photographs. Or colourists to do touch-ups. That will bring money in and you will meet clients that way. You can use my camera for the portraits.’