unabled.
I had no guilt to carry in regard to Claire. Well, less guilt perhaps. It is all a matter of degree.
Her mother, my first wife, Frances, had left Claire’s place in Queensland only hours before I’d arrived. She was still married to the man she’d left me for long ago, a surgeon, thin and pinstriped Richard, and Claire had two half-siblings, boys I’d encountered three or four times a year while Claire was growing up. Richard was your normal medical specialist:straight As for maths and science, no personality that would show up on any test. Nevertheless, he’d clearly touched something in Frances when he’d operated to fix an old tennis injury. Soon after, she departed without warning from the conjugal dwelling, taking with her one-year-old Claire. The next day, Richard arrived at my old law office in Carlton.
‘Mr Wiggins to see you, Mr Irish,’ said the secretary.
He was as pink and clean as a newly bathed baby and wearing a suit worth more than I was making in a fortnight, gross. Primed to the eyebrows, hardly inside the door, he said, spitting it out, ‘I’m here to tell you I’m in love with Frances and plan to marry her when she’s free.’
I was late for court, looking for things. ‘Steady on,’ I said. ‘Now what Frances is that?’
He coughed. ‘Your, ah, wife. Frances.’
I said, ‘Right, that Frances. You plan to do what with her?’
‘Jack,’ he said, ‘I know this is a painful…’
‘Wiggins,’ I said. ‘Aren’t you her surgeon?’
Richard touched his razor-abrased chin. ‘I did first meet Frances as a patient, yes, but…’
‘Professional misconduct,’ I said. ‘I think your future lies in medical missionary work. Leper colonies, that kind of thing.’
His lips twitched. ‘Jack, I assure you that I have not in any way contravened—’
‘What’s your first name?’ I interrupted.
‘Richard.’ He saw hope, shot a cuff, put out a slim white-marble hand.
I ignored it. ‘Save the assurances for the disciplinary hearing, sunshine. Now, I’m busy, so see yourself out will you?’
He gathered his dignity, head to one side. ‘Unless the patient is the complainant, Jack, there really isn’t…’
I was putting papers into my briefcase. ‘Wiggy,’ I said, ‘you cut the flesh, I’ll do the legal argument. In case she turns out not worth sacrificing a career for, try the sister. Some of the blokes prefer her.’
Cruel. Cruel and unnecessary, but the wounded animal is without compunction.
On this chilly Melbourne morning, many years later, time having healed some wounds, put fragile scabs over others, inflicted new ones, I drove down Carrigan’s Lane, its sole streetlight making gleams on the bluestone gutter. It was still dark as I unlocked the side door to Taub’s Cabinetmaking, clicked on the lights, noted the bulbs gone: three. Charlie wouldn’t have fluorescent lighting and no day passed there without me risking my life up a ladder replacing incandescent bulbs.
The workshop was as Charlie had left it on the day he flew to Perth to attend the marriage of his youngest granddaughter to someone in the quarry business. His idea had been to be back inside twenty-fourhours but he had been prevailed upon to spend ten days with another grandchild and his family.
Before he left, Charlie said to the workshop, not to me, ‘For what do I need a holiday?’
I was under a three-metre-long table, made of red cedar cut in northern New South Wales before World War One. Charlie bought the timber in 1962, wrote the date on it in pencil. I was examining the perfect fit of the wooden buttons that fixed the tabletop to the frame and would allow the timber to move seasonally for a few centuries until it stabilised.
‘You’ll probably never want to come back,’ I said. ‘It’s still warm. Hot. More than hot.’
He banged a huge fist on the tabletop directly above my head, causing me to feel that I was fainting.
‘Hot? You tell me what’s hot good for. One
I had no guilt to carry in regard to Claire. Well, less guilt perhaps. It is all a matter of degree.
Her mother, my first wife, Frances, had left Claire’s place in Queensland only hours before I’d arrived. She was still married to the man she’d left me for long ago, a surgeon, thin and pinstriped Richard, and Claire had two half-siblings, boys I’d encountered three or four times a year while Claire was growing up. Richard was your normal medical specialist:straight As for maths and science, no personality that would show up on any test. Nevertheless, he’d clearly touched something in Frances when he’d operated to fix an old tennis injury. Soon after, she departed without warning from the conjugal dwelling, taking with her one-year-old Claire. The next day, Richard arrived at my old law office in Carlton.
‘Mr Wiggins to see you, Mr Irish,’ said the secretary.
He was as pink and clean as a newly bathed baby and wearing a suit worth more than I was making in a fortnight, gross. Primed to the eyebrows, hardly inside the door, he said, spitting it out, ‘I’m here to tell you I’m in love with Frances and plan to marry her when she’s free.’
I was late for court, looking for things. ‘Steady on,’ I said. ‘Now what Frances is that?’
He coughed. ‘Your, ah, wife. Frances.’
I said, ‘Right, that Frances. You plan to do what with her?’
‘Jack,’ he said, ‘I know this is a painful…’
‘Wiggins,’ I said. ‘Aren’t you her surgeon?’
Richard touched his razor-abrased chin. ‘I did first meet Frances as a patient, yes, but…’
‘Professional misconduct,’ I said. ‘I think your future lies in medical missionary work. Leper colonies, that kind of thing.’
His lips twitched. ‘Jack, I assure you that I have not in any way contravened—’
‘What’s your first name?’ I interrupted.
‘Richard.’ He saw hope, shot a cuff, put out a slim white-marble hand.
I ignored it. ‘Save the assurances for the disciplinary hearing, sunshine. Now, I’m busy, so see yourself out will you?’
He gathered his dignity, head to one side. ‘Unless the patient is the complainant, Jack, there really isn’t…’
I was putting papers into my briefcase. ‘Wiggy,’ I said, ‘you cut the flesh, I’ll do the legal argument. In case she turns out not worth sacrificing a career for, try the sister. Some of the blokes prefer her.’
Cruel. Cruel and unnecessary, but the wounded animal is without compunction.
On this chilly Melbourne morning, many years later, time having healed some wounds, put fragile scabs over others, inflicted new ones, I drove down Carrigan’s Lane, its sole streetlight making gleams on the bluestone gutter. It was still dark as I unlocked the side door to Taub’s Cabinetmaking, clicked on the lights, noted the bulbs gone: three. Charlie wouldn’t have fluorescent lighting and no day passed there without me risking my life up a ladder replacing incandescent bulbs.
The workshop was as Charlie had left it on the day he flew to Perth to attend the marriage of his youngest granddaughter to someone in the quarry business. His idea had been to be back inside twenty-fourhours but he had been prevailed upon to spend ten days with another grandchild and his family.
Before he left, Charlie said to the workshop, not to me, ‘For what do I need a holiday?’
I was under a three-metre-long table, made of red cedar cut in northern New South Wales before World War One. Charlie bought the timber in 1962, wrote the date on it in pencil. I was examining the perfect fit of the wooden buttons that fixed the tabletop to the frame and would allow the timber to move seasonally for a few centuries until it stabilised.
‘You’ll probably never want to come back,’ I said. ‘It’s still warm. Hot. More than hot.’
He banged a huge fist on the tabletop directly above my head, causing me to feel that I was fainting.
‘Hot? You tell me what’s hot good for. One
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