Peninsula, page 3
People kept ringing once they got wind. He’s stopped answering the phone. Endless questions he can’t answer. Half of them only ring to complain that he hasn’t told them, like he’s a bloody magician hiding his tricks. Di is at the hospital, she doesn’t look good. He doesn’t know what to do with this information. Why would anyone else?
He finds four slices of Tip Top white thin-sliced, lays them on the bench and smears on a thick coat of the yellow muck. He adds honey then folds them into pairs like he does for his golf lunch. Slices them diagonally and chucks them in a plastic container. Last, he retrieves a small bag of jet planes from the coffee table.
The roads are quiet, though cars keep overtaking him at stupid spots. Jim refuses to increase his speed. Radio Sport turned up loud. Idiot host banging on about the Blues versus Chiefs match. He’s plain wrong. Has he even watched the game? Selectors are nuts. Don’t rate the Northland players, always overlooking them, stick with blokes their side of the bridge. If they’d picked Larkin, the Blues would have won easy. They need Larkin. Same flare and intuition for ball distribution as Sid Going. Coach probably never heard of Sid. Jim squints as the sun hits the front of the windscreen. Does he have sunglasses? If he concentrates, he can see. He’s been down here often enough recently. Told Jack he’d have to wash the cowshed himself. Jack tried to talk him out of driving, said he’d go with him later. Later’s no good. Beat the traffic. Sooner he gets to see what’s going on, sooner they’ll let Di come home. No point sitting on the farm doing nothing, unable to concentrate on any farm work. No point waiting for the hospital to ring, they’re too busy to ring. They’re like him, allergic to phones.
Jim drives past lines of houses. He hates the way they’re springing up everywhere, invading perfectly good farmland. Used to be dairy all around here, good flat fertile land, should be in grass. The car park isn’t full. Parks his ute near the entrance to minimise the walk. He glances at his lunch. He’ll leave it, probably means he won’t eat it, but the hospital café has pies. Not as good as Di’s mince pie, and she’d give him hell if she caught him eating pies, but considering her current state he’s pretty safe. She isn’t in a position to give anyone hell.
Jim levers himself out of the ute. People keep passing him. A couple ask if he’s okay, one volunteers to help him inside. He waves off all offers. ‘I’m good thanks, just taking it easy.’ He leans on the handrail of the ramp for a rest. At reception he asks for directions to Di’s room. He’s learnt the hard way not to wander the rabbit warren hoping to find her.
In the heart ward, Di’s immediate neighbours are sleeping but a woman three beds along is struggling to reach her water. Di goes over to assist. The woman’s name is Mavis. She’s in for tests, has a son but he’s in London. Di tells her, when she went to England, she couldn’t believe how green the fields were or how grey the sky was. Mavis wants to sleep. Di decides she’ll rest, then call Jack to update him, and he can tell Jim. Poor Jim, he should stay home. There are meals in the freezer, left over from when friends brought them last time. Jim prefers her cooking. He’s probably already on the way down.
Jean had preferred her cooking too. Di was baking scones in her kitchen when Jean arrived with her youngest, born a week after Di’s twins. Her sister smelt of stale smoke and disinfectant. Rachel, Jean’s favourite, came running for a hug.
‘Hello angel! You’ve grown, look at those lovely curls! Where’s Jack?’
Di watched Rachel light up. She blushed, giggled and twirled. How old were the kids then, four maybe? Jean’s boy joined in, wide brown eyes, curly dark hair, the spitting image of his mother. Jack poked his head around the corner, offered a shy grin, brushed his long fringe out of his eyes, his nose was covered in freckles.
Jean surveyed the kitchen. Di waited. Jean’s house was as clean as a whistle, everything labelled and organised, fitting together like a jigsaw. Cigarettes were Jean’s only dirty habit. Di hated smoking. She should have put her foot down and insisted it only happen outside. Instead, she looked around for a plate that could double as an ashtray. Pair of chimneys Jean and her husband, they lit up more than their parents. Di didn’t understand it. Jean was a nurse for God’s sake!
Jean set her black leather handbag down on the bench, but not before wrinkling her nose.
‘When did you last clean the bench?’
Di sighed. ‘Cup of tea?’ She turned and excavated the stainless-steel teapot from the cupboard. It was at the back behind the plates and Tupperware. Some of the containers spilt onto the floor and Di stooped to retrieve them. Jean helped.
‘Sorry I’m being a pain in the arse. Your garden’s looking great. Those irises, mine look like they’re going to die. You’ve got the green fingers of the family.’
‘Take some when you go.’
‘I brought you some shortbread.’
‘Why? Mine’s better than yours!’
The sisters shared a laugh.
‘You know I didn’t bring any shortbread. I wouldn’t dare. You make the best shortbread.’
Jean wanted to see the latest stuffed toys Di had sewn for the Red Cross. She’d heard a lot about the teddy bears made of blue towelling with a pink flower print. Hippy bears.
When Di opens her eyes, Jim is hovering over her. He looks terrible.
‘Asleep?’
‘No, resting. I was going to ring. They’re keeping me in for an operation.’
‘Operation, what kind of operation?’
‘Heart. Will be a few days, maybe a week.’
Jim is relieved. Not so bad, a pump, like fixing a blocked pipe. Not messy like chest infections and the stomach bugs Di keeps getting, or cancer. No four weeks to live then dead. He slumps onto the chair beside the bed.
‘May as well go home, no need to stay,’ Di says. She’s glad to see him but Jim is not a good visitor, he doesn’t like waiting around. If he lingers, she’ll point him to the television room.
‘I’m here now.’ Jim folds his arms, prepares for a long wait. He needs a rest. ‘Are they sure it’s heart this time?’
Across in the nurses’ station, the shift supervisor glances over at Di and Jim, wondering who the awkward, grizzly bear of a man is. Di’s husband she guesses. Di’s tiny, looks frail but she’s a fighter, gritty. Like a solar panel, the way she teeters about drawing energy from patients and nurses, reflecting it back. Di’s the kind of patient you remember. The man, despite his size, looks fragile, lost.
Di’s in a room with a view. Lake Pupuke, heart-shaped, glistens in the sunlight. A few sailboats glide across its silky surface. She wishes the window opened, she’d love to feel the air, even though it’s humid and laced with exhaust fumes.
‘Di!’
Di turns to see a stout woman approaching, her hair encased in a cherry red headscarf, crinkles around her eyes, a bright grin. Tui bends and gives her a kiss on both cheeks, stands back, surveys the scene. ‘Never mind that lake, you’ve got your back to all these gorgeous flowers.’ She takes Di’s shoulders and gently turns her around, giving her a wink. ‘Anyone would think you were dead already!’
Di laughs. There is an abundance of flowers. Almost every visitor has brought some. On his last few visits Jim’s brought roses from the garden, though they don’t seem to like it in here, the petals keep falling off. She’d rather he brought his sweet peas. Di has carried several bunches of roses down to the other end of the ward for other patients to admire.
‘Heard about the junior doctors’ strike. Never rains it pours, eh?’ Tui settles herself in the chair.
Di nods and lies back. ‘Delays things by a week plus whatever new urgent cases come in.’
‘Well, you and me, we’re survivors. Hell, look at me, not only survived cancer, won the other Lotto, the money one!’
Di giggles. ‘Better not say that too loud Tui, someone in here’ll mug you.’ Not many people know that Tui gave all her winnings to the Women’s Refuge. She said it was to stop her family hassling her.
Tui touches Di on the arm. ‘Doing okay here? At least there’s folk to talk to.’
‘Yeah, always something going on.’ Her fellow patients and their visitors are interesting, some are infuriating. On the farm, she’s alone and used to it, but people are a good distraction, as useful as the medicines, she feels. ‘The food around here, Tui.’ Di looks around to make sure there are no nurses within hearing. ‘It’s disgusting, worse than aeroplane food.’
‘Temporary, eh. Long as they fix you up so you can get back to cooking your own stuff, you’ll be sweet.’
‘Yep, it’s not a hotel. Want them putting their energy into the fixing. Long hours some of these doctors and nurses work, no weekends, same as us farmers. Jean, my sister, used to moan about the shifts. Got Jack to bring down some of my yoghurt. Stuff here tastes like sugary toothpaste.’
‘How old were you when Jean died?’
Di blinks, wonders if she heard correctly. It’s as if Tui can read her mind.
‘I was thirty-four. Jean was thirty-nine.’
‘You think about her?’
Di shuts her eyes for a moment. ‘Only when I’m awake.’
Tui nods.
‘Lately in my dreams as well.’
Tui stokes Di’s pale arm. ‘What’s she telling you?’
Di stares into the distance, doesn’t reply for a long time.
‘I’ve had an extra lifetime.’ She turns to Tui. ‘I haven’t told you. I wanted to be a nurse too, but I played up at school. Got sent up north to board. Hated it, quit soon as I could. First job I ever had was working for Dr Jury. Had a pharmacy job too. Medical centre was better. Here I am, need nurses to look after me, not the other way round. Kids would put me in a rest home given half a chance. Jim says they’re to throw us in a hole up the back of the farm.’ Di is smiling now, though her eyes are leaking.
Tui reaches out and pulls a tissue from the box and hands it over. ‘Not the wildest idea Jim’s had. Think of the mushrooms you guys would fertilise, they’d be mighty tasty. I’d come harvest them, sit down for my tea, get stuck into them. Raise a toast to you both. It’s a long way off though, the time for that.’ Tui looks down at Di. ‘Can I tell you something else?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
Tui reminds her of Jean. It’s in the olive skin, dark hair, but mostly her directness.
‘I don’t reckon you’d have made a great nurse, Di. You like people in small doses, don’t suffer fools gladly. Some folks would find it hard to take. What you’ve done raising your family, all the committees, sports organising, toy making, baking. I could go on, my point being, your path, sure, maybe you stumbled on it, but it seems like it’s allowed you to use your natural talents.’
‘You’re trying to make me feel better, Tui.’
‘Is it working? Maybe I should’ve been a nurse.’
Jim drives to the hospital every second day. Today the road is busy and he’s tired. He wonders if he should pull over, never done that in his entire life. Where are his jet planes? Bugger, he realises they’re on the coffee table in the lounge. Maybe a sandwich but he’d have to stop. Next petrol station, he’ll turn in and get some wine gums, easier to chew. Good to have a stash to leave in the ute, one less thing to remember. Jim considers petrol stations, the old route through Orewa, mostly local traffic. He used to play cricket in Orewa. There’s a station at the top of the hill, south of the town.
Golf the day before had fatigued him he supposes, plus a bit of worry stealing his sleep. He’s been feeling out of sorts lately, especially first thing, normally his best time. He’s like the old man, attached to the routine of rise and retire early, years after the need has fallen away. He doesn’t like being in the house without Di, though not for the reasons everyone assumes. He’s perfectly capable of cooking for himself. Doesn’t bother with the frozen meals, except for the occasional pie he’s smuggled into the freezer for emergencies. He’s found his air fryer. Di tried to hide it, like she hides her baking, but Jim’s not silly.
Jack calls by most evenings after milking.
‘Dad do you want some quiche? We’ve got plenty.’
Jim points to his fryer. ‘One of my golf mates told me about these. Gadget’s a winner, cooks chips and sausages in a few minutes, tasty, no mess. You should get one.’ He’s told Rachel about it too.
Jack studies the fryer. It doesn’t look particularly clean but at least Jim’s eating. He glances at the needles and lollies on the dining room table. Jim notices.
‘Damn hard to get the little needles in.’
Jack understands, faints at the sight of blood himself. ‘You’re drinking water and washing, eh?’
Jim doesn’t reply. Main thing is for the animals to have their food and water. He showers when he’s going to the hospital.
The aspect that bothers him with Di in hospital is being alone at night. The empty space in the bed. The only times in their long marriage she hasn’t been beside him are when she’s been in hospital. First to give birth to the kids, more recently due to illness. Di has always been fit and healthy.
At night he lies awake, his thoughts churning like a vat of milk. He isn’t alone in this. The phone is always calling with demands from people who really want to talk to Di. Ring the hospital, he wants to say. Di needs a mobile phone. He’s asked Jack about it. Jack reckons it’s pointless, the valley has no cellular coverage. And Di loves to talk. If she had one, she’d be nattering all day. Talking holds no appeal for Jim, he’s a doer like Rachel.
Rachel rings daily to tell him not to answer the phone. She rings at 7pm so Jim will know it’s her. They’ve agreed that if he doesn’t feel like it he doesn’t have to pick up. They talk about golf. A quick check-in, no meandering waffle about some ailment the caller had five years ago, or some vague need to justify not visiting Di, as if he has the energy to figure out what the person really means in order to give the appropriate response. It isn’t that he doesn’t care. He isn’t a bloody mind reader. If he was face to face he’d stand a better chance of figuring it out. Phone talk exhausts him, makes his head spin.
Yesterday, he and Peter played a round of golf with Lance and Steve.
‘Your cart or mine? How’s Di doing? Bit boring waiting.’ Peter survived heart surgery a few years previously.
‘She’s all right, gossiping with everyone, bossing the nurses.’
‘Oh yes, can imagine Di getting right into the swing of things. She’ll be good as new after the surgery. Take my cart eh? You’re going down the hospital tomorrow, be sick of driving?’
Jim hesitated. Peter’s cart wasn’t as good as his. He’d bought an almost new one from Gerard’s widow. Waited a few weeks after Gerard passed, then rang her. He’d felt a bit awkward making the call but Gerard had said to him several times, it would make him happy if Jim had it when he went. Widow was glad to get rid of it. Asked if he could take the trailer too, it was blocking the driveway, she couldn’t get her car into the garage easily. Top bloke, Gerard.
‘Okay, you drive Peter, but shall we take Gerard’s cart? Thing is practically new.’
‘I know, good score there Jim. Okay, give us the keys.’
‘How long did it take you to recover?’
‘From surgery? Made it to the spring play-offs, only a couple of weeks of resting. Bit longer for my golf to get back to decent but I felt one hundred percent better after the knife. She’ll be good as new Jim. Like we are now we have our carts.’ Peter grinned. ‘My bloody nephew keeps trying to borrow mine. I say to him, you’re thirty-six, nothing wrong with your legs. Kids, like to save time, get a round in quick. Think carts are like those mobility scooters, only cooler.’
Jim mulled this over. Funny how the young ones were in such a rush. Best thing about golf was it took up half a day, time hanging out with your mates. He recalled the wheelchairs in the hospital. ‘They’d be no good for golf those wheelchair things, they’re for people can’t walk at all.’
‘No mate, not wheelchairs, the scooter things are like skateboards with a long thin thing up front and handles.’
‘Oh.’ Jim had a way of saying oh that made it seem like an entire sentence.
Back in the clubhouse at lunchtime they checked their cards, though they all knew Lance had the lowest score.
‘My round then?’
‘Too right,’ Peter said. ‘Think we all need some chips, am I right gentlemen?’
Jim said, ‘Too right. Tell Sandra tomato sauce, don’t forget the sauce.’
When Peter and Lance got back, they fell into a discussion about club maintenance.
‘Jimmy, you’ll be off to North Shore tomorrow to see Di, so you’re out?’
Jim nodded.
Lance raised his pint. ‘Here’s to Di, speedy recovery.’
The others raised their pints. ‘To Di.’
‘Need her home eh, Jim,’ Peter said. ‘I’m almost out of shortbread.’
‘Lucky bugger,’ Steve said. ‘I haven’t had any for months. She’s forgotten me. Can you put an order in for me Jim?’
Jim said, ‘She won’t let me have it anymore, might have to pinch some of yours.’
‘Why not?’
‘Diabetes.’
‘Jeez, most people our vintage got diabetes. You have those jet planes.’
‘Yeah, yeah, gotta eat stuff most of the time, keep the blood sugar constant, lollies are for in between, emergencies.’
‘Not all bad then.’ Peter clapped Jim on the back. ‘Though Di’s shortbread. Worth dying for. Did you guys see Jim’s inherited Gerard’s flash cart? Remember we said when he got it, he could hardly play then, we said, jeez that’s a big spend-up for limited time to use it.’
‘Old bugger was loaded though, can’t take it with you, may as well spend it doing what you love.’
‘Another toast. To Gerard.’ Peter raised his pint.
‘To absent friends with great taste in golf carts!’ Lance winked.
Okay, Orewa now, good. He’s feeling giddy, vision isn’t right either. There used to be a dairy at the northern end, they’d stop for ice creams on the way home from cricket, it was long gone, replaced by town houses and roundabouts. He doesn’t like roundabouts. There on the right-hand side he catches a glimpse of the statue of the mountaineer, what was his name? Jim turned to get a better look, Hillary. Ed Hillary.
