Back of Sunset. Jon Cleary

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СКАЧАТЬ The only neat things about him were his feet, small and beautifully shod, and his hands, strong, long-fingered and the best surgeon’s hands in the State.

      “You look tired,” he said, turning his back on his own problem, the one he had forgotten the answer to.

      “I’m more than that,” said Stephen, and leaned back, closing his eyes. “I’m run down, Charles. Maybe I should see a doctor, eh?”

      Goodyear smiled, went to reply, but was interrupted by Miss Mack at the door. “There’s a patient to see you, Mr. Goodyear. A Mr. Tristram—”

      Goodyear looked at the open diary on his desk. “I’m due out at St. Vincent’s in an hour. There’s no appointment down—”

      “Have I gotta make an appointment to see you after twenty years? I been sitting out there in the bloody waiting-room for half an hour.”

      The little grey-haired man came past Miss Mack into the room with a peculiar rolling walk, almost as if he were pretending he was riding a bicycle. Something blew in with him, and Stephen, opening his eyes a little late, blinking in the sudden lance of sunlight that had just struck into the room wasn’t sure what it was: it was as if the small grey-haired man had brought with him another presence, another atmosphere, that spun restlessly in the elegant confines of the room.

      “Jack!” Goodyear came round his desk in a hurry, one hand outstretched to the newcomer, the other waving Miss Mack away. “God Almighty, where have you been? Stephen, hey Stephen, this is Jack Tristram! You should remember your father talking about him – well, stone the crows!” When he was excited, and it was a long time since Stephen had seen him as excited as this, Goodyear dropped back into the slang of his youth. “Holy mackerel, I’ve often thought of you!”

      “You never wrote, you baldy old bastard,” said Tristram, false teeth clicking loudly in his widely grinning mouth.

      “Where would I have written, you old bastard yourself?” Goodyear’s clothes seemed to crease even more with his excitement; the silk tie had begun to creep round under his ear. Stephen, standing up to take the knobbly-jointed, calloused hand Tristram thrust towards him, marvelled at the change in Goodyear.

      “You don’t remember me, do you?” Tristram said, biting at the air as if trying to catch his teeth before they slipped from his mouth. “You were a nipper when I saw you last, about twelve or thirteen. You’ve grown, son. A big skinny bastard just like his old man, eh, Charlie? Well, how are you, mate?” Tristram dropped Stephen’s hand and turned to look about the room. “That was a bloody silly question. It’s pretty obvious how you are. I been reading about you. I’m surprised they haven’t made a bloody knight of you. Sir Charlie. They’ve given titles to worse bastards than you.” Tristram appeared able to talk without taking a breath; his teeth clicked continuously. He squinted about him, looking for something. “Where’s your degree, Charlie?”

      Goodyear pointed to the framed degree, hung on a side wall and almost obscured by the drawn-back curtains. “There.”

      “What’s the matter, you ashamed of it or something? Or ain’t it as decorative as them two paintings?” Tristram had unwittingly hit on the truth, the reason why Rona had hung it where it was, but he hadn’t stopped talking to note the effect of his comment. “Well, I’m glad you’re still a doc, even if you do hide your proof of it. That’s why I’m here, Charlie. I been feeling crook lately. Well, not exactly crook, just a bit off, you know what I mean? About six months ago a horse fell on me, up Noonkanbah way, and busted a coupla ribs. It’s been sorta coming back on me lately.”

      Goodyear looked at his watch. “I’m due out at St. Vincent’s at twelve for a lecture. But come on, Jack. You’re not going to any other doctor in Sydney while I’m still in practice.”

      “That’s why I come to you,” said Tristram, winking at Stephen. “Why should I pay good money to a stranger when you owe me about ten quids’ worth of treatment? You never did pay me back that ten quid you borrowed on your wedding day.”

      “You’ll leave here with a cheque, plus interest,” Goodyear said. “What a memory!”

      “Me memory is all I’ve had sometimes,” said Tristram, and drew his shirt over his head: the crackling voice was all at once hushed, the clicking teeth silent. “It’s been a long time, Charlie, and I been gone a long ways. Memory is a good thing, Charlie, you know what I mean? And not for just remembering ten quids you’re owed.”

      Tristram lay on the table against one wall and Goodyear began to examine him. Stephan stood by, listening to the continuous crackle of Tristram’s voice, his mind stumbling through the misty memories that were now coming back to him: a younger, dark-haired Tristram seen from the larger-than-life viewpoint of a twelve-year-old boy; his own father greeting Tristram with the same excitement as Goodyear had just shown; Tristram, talking a multi-coloured streak, his teeth clicking even then, telling him stories of the Outback that had made his boy’s heart leap till he was dizzy.

      “Shut up, Jack,” said Goodyear. “I’m trying to hear what’s going on inside you.”

      “Nobody ever hears what’s going on inside a man,” said Tristram, and winked again at Stephen. “You know what I mean?”

      “A bush philosopher,” said Goodyear. “Shut up!”

      Twenty years, thought Stephen, and the world and himself had changed for ever: he saw the world now through the wrong end of a telescope and his heart no longer leapt. But Tristram hadn’t changed, except in the flesh, where none of us could avoid it. His hair was grey now and thinned by years of sweat and neglect; the square, broken-nosed face was gullied with deep lines, and the eyes had faded, washed in too much sun; and the body now exposed on the white-sheeted table had begun to loosen round the belly and the legs and arms had begun to thin, the muscles atrophying and the flesh slackening off. But the energy and spirit were still there, and the voice was tireless.

      “See that? A croc took a bit outa me up on the Roper. Had a good year that year, ‘48 it was, shooting crocs. Me and me mate ud do a hundred and fifty, two hundred crocs in a season. That? Got that breaking in some brumbies up on Gogo. That? Got that—”

      He talked on and on without pride in his scars or wonder at the life he had led, lying there on the table in the elegant room in the building high above the roaring city while Goodyear probed and listened and grew increasingly sober. “Shut up for a while, Jack,” Goodyear said at last. “Get dressed.”

      Tristram began to dress, struggling with the starched old-fashioned collar he wore. “Are you always as cranky as this during consultations? Wonder anyone comes to you.”

      “Jack.” Goodyear was sitting at his desk, drumming a gold pencil on the pad before him. He had taken off his jacket and his tie was now loose; it suddenly struck Stephen, seeing the two older men in their shirt-sleeves, that there was almost a likeness between the two of them. It wasn’t so much a physical likeness, and yet whatever it was he knew that he himself didn’t share it. And taking off his jacket would bring him no closer to them. They shared something that seemed to have gone out of the world he knew, and he wasn’t sure what it was.

      “Jack, I want you to go into hospital.”

      “Hospital?” Tristram stopped struggling with the collar. “Ah, don’t be silly, Charlie—”

      “Jack.” Goodyear looked at him with affection. “You’ve got a heart murmur that I don’t СКАЧАТЬ