The Quilt Page 14

  “Three - you get off your arse and help me.”

  A round of applause erupted from the crowd and the embarrassed man took control and backed the trailer steadily into the murky water.

  It was followed by an audible sigh as it became obvious Sandy had no idea what to do next.

  Resigned to his role as helper and advisor, the man patiently showed Sandy how to release the vessel from the trailer. He showed her how to tie a knot and secure it to the jetty he then parked her car and trailer. He explained the controls in the boat and checked the fuel. Hesitantly, he attempted to start the outboard.

  Further trailer boats had launched and tied to the jetty. The owners waited while “Lucky Lady” coughed and spluttered asthmatically at the end of the jetty. No amount of persuasion convinced the outboard to make any attempt to burst into life.

  The unfortunate man helped Sandy move the little boat to the opposite side of the jetty. Whatever problem the outboard had was not going to be rectified on the water. He watched as Sandy hunched over miserably, but there was little he could do other than retrieve the car and trailer. He then helped her to reload the boat and secure it for transporting.

  The man stood watching Sandy drive away, water pouring from the rusty trailer. He looked towards the sky and silently thanked whoever was up there for preventing the crazy redhead from going out on the water alone.

  The marine mechanic was not optimistic when he viewed the small outboard motor. It was old, had high running hours and he suspected little maintenance over the years.

  “The repairs will take your boat out of the water for at least two weeks. As far as costs go, I won’t know until we strip the engine down and see what the damage is. The account could well be substantially more than you paid for the boat itself.”

  He felt a pang of sympathy when he looked at Sandy. She had obviously only recently purchased the vessel and certainly no one with any knowledge had checked it out beforehand.

  “Look, I’ll strip it down and hopefully the news won’t be that bad. Realistically, it wouldn’t be worth you replacing the engine. So let’s have a look at what can be repaired and then discuss the options when we know.”

  He smiled sympathetically. He couldn’t quite put it into words but there was something desperate about the young woman looking back at him when he spoke.

  “Who painted the mural?” He was running his hand down the side of the boat.

  “I’ve never seen anything this detailed unless it was airbrushed and done on the flat surface of a hot rod.”

  He smiled kindly at Sandy.

  “When we know the extent of the damage would you consider doing some art work for me in exchange for the outboard repairs?”

  Frustrated by the setback, Sandy drove straight to a local fishing and tackle shop. She purchased several lures in bright attractive colours and some rods and reels.

  The teenage salesman eagerly explained how to put bait on to the hook, how to tie knots in the nylon and how to attach the lead sinker. He selected charts explaining the waters of the Gulf and advised her to purchase two lifejackets. She nodded with enthusiasm but his words were totally lost on Sandy.

  Without the distraction of Lucky Lady, the lump seemed to take on a life of its own. Like an enemy that lived within Sandy’s body, it invaded her mind. Obsessive morbid thoughts enveloped Sandy, draining her energy and leaving her an anxious shell.

  She could no longer bury the ominous lump beneath planned days of warm relaxation on a tranquil harbour. Long days stretched into long weeks. With every turn of a page in her diary Sandy marched one step closer to a strangers desk and information she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear. Why did she feel so overwhelmed when it was unlikely to be anything to worry about?

  She called in at the outboard shop and was relieved to find the mechanic had stripped most of the engine and felt he could repair it without huge expenditure.

  He gave her a photograph of a grey horse galloping along a stretch of black iron sand beach.

  “The picture is going to be a Christmas present for my fiancée. She has had that horse for ten years and I think she would get rid of me before it went.”

  Sandy turned the picture around in her hand. What would it be like to have someone who cared about you enough to organize something that personal? She felt even more alone.

  Art had always consumed Sandy. She could lock the world out while she painted, losing track of time and transporting herself to another place. No matter how she battled, her hand wouldn’t flow, the horse wouldn’t translate to the canvas. Sandy felt crippled by fear. The lump was robbing her of everything.

  She had had to wait four weeks for her appointment with the specialist. He was very old and he looked even older. He was worn down after years of delivering bad news to unfortunate woman. Too often they were mothers and, far too often, they were young. He hadn’t become bitter, he had just become sad and the sadness was etched into the lines of his face.

  He really hated it when they first walked in. They always smiled. He knew they were nervous but wouldn’t dare let it show. What if they had? Would admitting their fear invite tragedy? Perhaps if they didn’t smile they would cry and if they cried they wouldn’t know how to stop?

  They always looked at him to give them hope. Their eyes always pleaded him to offer something positive, some reassurance or confirmation that their symptoms applied to someone else. Perhaps it was just a medical error.

  Of course, there were exceptions and a few opportunities to deliver diagnosis of benign tumours or cysts. But often, the women referred to him were at the start of a journey that had no guarantee of a happy ending.

  He had started to dread what he would find. He had also started to wonder if he really could help or perhaps all he could do was to cushion the delivery of what was often devastating news. Maybe age was making him too cynical.

  Sandy smiled at the specialist. The specialist shuddered.

  Doctor Hansen looked like a kindly grandfather figure as he peered at her over half glasses. She suppressed a nervous giggle.

  The elderly man examined the lump carefully. He fell silent as he extended his thorough probing under her armpit. He seemed to take a ridiculous amount of time looking at an area seemingly unrelated to the lump. Sandy was becoming concerned; perhaps the old man had lost his senses and forgotten exactly where the offending lump was located.

  When he eventually spoke his voice sounded cautious.

  “Sandy, I read on your notes that you found the lump approximately seven months ago. Would that be correct?”

  “It might be a little longer, I can’t really remember.”

  Sandy smiled brightly to mask the nervous sick feeling that lurked just below her skin.

  The specialist tried not to waver from the pasted on neutral look he had perfected over the years.

  “There is also a lump under your armpit. These lumps in the axilla-armpit may suggest a suspicious lymph node.”

  He hesitated studying her expression. Did she understand?

  Sandy nodded and smiled, her look of comprehension was well practiced. For years at school she had read books with very little understanding of their content. She had known it would lead to relentless teasing and, perhaps, the alienation and humiliation of remedial reading classes if her classmates or teachers had realized.

  “We need to schedule a mammogram and an ultrasound as soon as possible.”

  He continued, “Do you have any questions, Sandy?”

  “No,” she said firmly. If she asked questions she might get information and with information she might shatter the relief that was now spreading over her in warm waves.

  Doctor Hansen hadn’t mentioned a biopsy, the word cancer or injections. It really couldn’t be that bad after all.

  The ramp looked just as steep and foreboding as it had the time before. Sandy stared at the green, slimy, concrete surface for the second time. She had arrived at the jetty and waited patiently while the families in front of her
quickly launched their boats, efficiently manoeuvred their trailers into tiny parking spaces provided and headed out on the Gulf, unfazed by what appeared to them to be a simple routine.

  She cursed, as the trailer drunkenly headed towards the concrete barrier rail for the fourth time.

  Why was this proving to be such a stressful task? She glanced at the pack of beer.

  “Hey, would you like to earn a six pack?”

  The good humoured bystander laughed. He negotiated the ramp with ease, assisted Sandy to launch the “Lucky Lady”, parked her trailer and stood watching with concern as the little craft wobbled unsteadily through the narrow bar manned by the victorious grinning red head.

  Sandy navigated out into the green waters and headed towards the long dramatic landscape of Waiheke Island. The sun shone on her back and the water glistened in the morning sun fragmenting on the small ripples of disturbed water.

  Critter barked with excitement at the sea gulls and rushed nimbly from one end of the small craft to the other. Kawhai launched to the surface, exploding schools of tiny baitfish out of the water surrounding the boat in flashes of silver light.

  The “Lump” could not intrude while she was here. Surely it could not even exist while Sandy was surrounded by so much life.

  The fast moving waters at the mouth of Sergeants Channel tossed the small boat causing Critter to whimper in alarm. Blank glass windows stared from homes snugly nestled on the golden horseshoe beaches and gentle slopes that lined the edges of the Island.

  Sandy fumbled with the anchor until it gripped the bottom firmly. She followed the instructions given by the enthusiastic young shop assistant and carefully baited her hook before releasing the tension on the reel and allowing the line to drift with the current until it settled.

  The peaceful solitude and the beauty enveloping her like a warm secure blanket soothed away her thoughts of mortality.

  Unless the conditions on the water were too rough, or the wind too high, she escaped into solitude and peace of the Gulf on every occasion she could. There was always someone at the ramp to help her launch or to help her retrieve the boat and with each trip she was becoming more confident but perhaps no safer.

  A week before her second specialist appointment Sandy had rung her mother. It would be easier to talk about the lump over the telephone than to have the difficult conversation under the imposing figure of Jesus with his tortured eyes.

  She had hoped there would be support. Perhaps, even an offer of company, or an offer to drive her to the next appointment.

  “Sandra, it will be fine. You are too young to have anything serious. But I will pray for you and I would suggest you also pray. This may be a sign for you to question your beliefs.”

  Stephen answered the telephone.

  “Sandy, I am sorry Joanne is out at the moment. I’ll pass on a message and get her to return your call.”

  “I bet you will, you prick. Just like the other messages I’ve left.”

  “You had your chance,” his words were laced with both sarcasm and pleasure. He then hung up.

  Sandy attended the next appointment alone. The mammogram was uncomfortable but not as bad as she had imagined it would be. She was left sitting in a small cubical draped in a bib arrangement, which was unflattering and made her feel vulnerable. There were magazines and a box of tissues on the seat. Surely the magazines weren’t that bad. She shuffled on the seat. The silence was unnerving. How long do these things take to process? A clock ticked in the background. She picked up a magazine and tried to concentrate.

  Minutes passed before a young and efficient looking radiologist spoke through the curtain.

  “We would just like to re-do one image of your right breast.”

  She spoke a little too brightly.

  “Don’t worry, this is often the case if the plates are not clear.”

  The ultrasound was painless. They had smeared her with cold gel and the same efficient, young radiologist had chatted nonstop about things of no importance while staring at a blurry image on a small screen. Every so often she pressed a wand like object harder on to the tissue and took what looked to be a picture.

  “I will send the results directly to your specialist. He will need to review the images. Could you please ring his office as soon as possible to make an appointment with him?”

  Sandy exploded.

  “This is ridiculous! You have the images, can’t you read them? Back and forth prodding and pushing and still no one will tell me what this stupid thing is. If I didn’t have an evening job you would have cost me my employment by now!”

  Sandy’s face had flushed red with irritation. The tears overflowed and ran down her cheeks. The radiologist looked at her feet.

  “I’m sorry, I know it isn’t your fault but this thing is ruining my life.”

  The young woman smiled sympathetically.

  “It’s ok, this is always an uncertain time and your reaction is quite normal. You have a very experienced doctor looking after you, so you are in the best hands. He has advised us it is a high priority so I am sure he will see you quickly and he will be able to answer your questions.”

  She smiled kindly and offered Sandy a tissue.

  “Is there someone that can go to the next appointment with you?”

  “No, just the bloody lump and me.”

  The following day Joanne had rung. She would have boarded her flight by now. For the first time since discovering the lump, Sandy allowed herself to feel optimistic.

  Section 3 “PAUL”

  Chapter 15

  “Paul”

  The sound of a farm bike coming back to the yards broke though Paul’s sleep. He rolled over and pulled the mothball-smelling blanket up to his shoulders. The pain killers had long since worn off and a throbbing ache had settled behind his eyes. Cautiously, he tried to focus on the shafts of sunlight that cut through the windows and illuminated the flecks of dust that hung suspended in the warm morning air. His jumbled brain felt dulled and still saturated with the last dregs of liquor.

  “Jess, get back here you mongrel!” his father’s voice rung out below.

  There was a sound of scrambling claws on the stairs followed by Sean’s shrill whistle as he fought in vain to recall Paul’s border collie. Two liquid eyes, the colour of melted chocolate, focused with concern above him. He reached up and pulled at the velvet softness of her ears and she pushed her cool damp nose into his palm.

  Sean appeared in the doorway his brows knotted together in annoyance.

  “That damned dog of yours won’t listen. I have no idea how you competed with her without embarrassing yourself. How are you feeling?”

  Sean glanced at the empty bottle lying beside the bed and realized his question was probably not necessary.

  “Guess it didn’t help?”

  “Not at all. What is the time?”

  “Eleven thirty. Don’t worry too much about moving. I’ve been out the back and checked the ewes. Everything is fine and the kennels and runs have been cleaned.”

  “Thanks for that. I’ll get up and have a shower and some coffee, then there are a few things I want to sort out at the cottage”.

  Sean nodded.

  “Perhaps call in at the house sometime later today.”

  Paul stood deep in thought at the front door of Shearers Cottage. Birds could be heard in the surrounding trees, the stream made a gentle soothing noise as it trickled over the rocks but otherwise he stood in silence.

  He walked into the cool empty building. His footsteps sounded hollow on the wooden floor as he made his way slowly to the small bedroom. Leslie had removed her personal possessions, she had also taken everything that could hold monetary value and was easy for her to transport. She had taken their wedding album and discarded several other photographs on the floor. Paul glanced down but he made no effort to pick up the memories that littered the carpet.

  Leslie was gone from the Cottage, all that was left was the sweet sickly odour of her perfume t
hat clung to the fabrics and furniture in the building. Had anyone ever been happy living between these walls?

  He packed up his clothing, a few personal items, his music and guitar. Paul glanced back from the doorway into the gloomy, abandoned lounge. He knew it would be the last time he would open that door. The Cottage had brought nothing but misery to everyone that had tried to make it a home.

  “How is he?”

  Jean sounded anxious. She slammed another cupboard.

  “Hung over. In fact, very hung over.”

  The pantry door closed with a bang.

  “That’s not going to help the situation. I am sure you feel angry about Leslie but breaking the hinges isn’t going to achieve anything.”

  “That damned Mrs Seddon was at the supermarket.”

  Another cupboard slammed closed. Sean groaned.

  “The local rumor mill has been efficient if that busybody has information already.”

  “It hasn’t even been twenty four hours since Leslie left Twin Pines! What luck the taxi she was travelling in stopped for a red light and who should be crossing but old Mrs Seddon!”

  Jean continued before Sean could comment.

  “She had the audacity to suggest that Leslie may have lost her child and Paul had shipped her off in a taxi!”

  Jean was bristling, indignantly.

  “We have enough to worry about without concerning ourselves with gossip and appearances. I’m going to put the jug on, would you like a cup of tea?”

  “Don’t dismiss the gossip, Sean. Paul is going to find things tough enough without those old biddies passing judgment about a situation they don’t fully understand.”

  “Another episode in the Clarke family drama.”

  He tried to lighten the conversation. Jean looked up sharply.

  “You look tired. Are you feeling alright?”

  “Yes, I am feeling fine. But you are right, I do feel tired. I am surprised that doing hard physical work and the early mornings are not as easy as they used to be. I guess none of us are getting younger.”