through the Old Maid Syndrome. It arises out of spinsterhood and contemplation of an old age spent living with another female in relative penury unless there’s money in the family, which there usually isn’t. And the chief symptom is an overwhelming determination to catch a man. Get married. Have some babies. Be vindicated as a woman. I sympathise, even if I’m determined not to contract the malady myself. I’m never sure which drive is uppermost in the O.M.S.—the drive to find someone to love and be loved back, or the drive to achieve financial security. Of course Chris is an X-ray technician, so she’s paid a man’s wage, but if she went to a bank and asked for a mortgage so she could buy a house, she’d be turned down. Banks don’t give mortgages to women, no matter what they’re paid. And most women are paid poorly, so they never manage to save much for their old age. I was talking to Jim about it—she’s a master printer, but she doesn’t get equal pay for equal work. No wonder some women go funny and abrogate men altogether. Bob is a secretary to some tycoon, isn’t exactly overpaid either. And if you work for the Government, you have to leave when you get married. That’s why all the sisters and female department heads are old maids. Though a very few are widows.
“If it wasn’t for Mrs. Delvecchio Schwartz, we’d lead a dog’s life,” Jim told me. “Running scared of being found out and evicted, not able to afford to buy a place. The House is our lifeline.”
Anyway, back to Chris Hamilton. The trouble is that she’s not a man-trap. Blocky sort of figure, hair she can’t do a thing with, glasses, the wrong make-up, grand piano legs. Which could be overcome if she had any sense, but she doesn’t. Man sense, I mean. So whenever a man, especially one in white, enters our little domain, she simpers and rushes around and turns cartwheels trying to impress him. Oh, not the New Australian porters (they’re beneath her notice), but even the ambulancemen get cups of tea and coy chats over the bikkies. If we’re not busy, that is, give her her due. Her best friend is Marie O’Callaghan, who happens to be Sister Cas. They share a flat together in Coogee, are both middle-thirties. And they both have the Old Maid Syndrome! Why is it that women aren’t deemed real women unless they’ve got a husband and kids? Of course if Chris could read this, she’d sneer and say it’s all very well for me, I’m a man-trap. But why are we categorised like that?
The junior is very shy and, as usually happens in a busy unit, spends most of her day in the darkroom. Looking back on my own training, there were times when I thought I was better qualified to work for Kodak than in X-ray. But somehow it all evens out in the end, we do get enough experience with the patients to pass our exams and turn into people who send the junior to the darkroom. The trouble is that it’s a question of priorities, especially in Cas, where you can’t make mistakes or have ponk films.
Five minutes hadn’t gone by before I realised that I wasn’t going to have it all my own way in Cas X-ray. The Cas surgical registrar came in accompanied by his senior resident, took one look at me and started laying on the charm with a trowel. I don’t know why I have that effect on some doctors (some, not all!), because I honestly am not after anything in a white coat. I’d rather be an old maid than married to someone who’s always rushing off on a call. And all they can talk about is medicine, medicine, medicine. Pappy says I’m sexy, though I haven’t got a clue what that term means if Brigitte Bardot is sexy. I do not wiggle my bottom, I do not pout, I do not give men languishing glances, I do not look as if I haven’t got a brain in my head. Except for Mr. Duncan Crawler Forsythe on the ramp, I look straight through the bastards. So I didn’t do a thing to encourage that pair of doctors, but they still dawdled and got in my way. In the end I told them to piss off, which horrified Chris (and the junior).
Luckily a suspected fracture of the cervical spine came in through our double doors at that moment. I got down to business, determined that Chris Hamilton wasn’t going to be able to lodge any complaints about my work with Sister Agatha.
I soon discovered that I wouldn’t have time to eat lunch with Pappy—we eat on the run. By the time I’d been in the place four hours, we’d had three suspected spinal fractures, a Potts fracture of tibia, fibula and ankle bones, several comminuted fractures of the long bones, a fractured rib cage, a dozen other oddments and a critical head injury who came in comatose and fitting and went straight on up to neurosurgery theatre. Once she got over her miff at the way that couple of eligible doctors had behaved, Chris was smart enough to see that I wasn’t going to be a handicap when it came to the patients, and we soon had a system going.
The unit was officially open between six in the morning and six in the evening. Chris worked the early shift and knocked off at two, I was to start at ten and knock off at six.
“It’s a pleasant fiction that we ever knock off on time,” Chris said as she buttoned her coat over her uniform about half-past three, “but that’s what we aim for. I don’t approve of keeping the junior any longer than necessary, so make sure you send her off at four unless there’s a huge flap on.”
Yes, ma’am.
I finally got off a bit after seven, and I was tired enough to think of hailing a taxi. But in the end I plodded home on foot, though people are always saying that Sydney isn’t a safe city for women to walk in after dark. I took my chances anyway, and nothing happened. In fact, until I reached Vinnie’s Hospital, I hardly saw a soul. And so to bed. I’m buggered.
I finally saw Pappy tonight. When I pushed the front door open I nearly knocked her over, but it can’t have been an important appointment, because she turned and walked to my flat with me, came in and waited while I made coffee.
Settled in my own easy chair, I looked at her properly and realised that she didn’t look well. Her skin had a yellow tinge and her eyes looked more Oriental than usual, with black rings of fatigue under them. Her mouth was all swollen, and below each ear was an ugly bruise. Though it was a humid evening, she kept her cardigan on—bruises on the arms too?
Though I’m a terrible cook, I offered to fry some sausages to go with the coleslaw and potato salad I can’t get enough of. She shook her head, smiled.
“Get Klaus to teach you to cook,” she said. “He’s a genius at it, and you’ve got the right temperament to cook well.”
“What sort of temperament cooks well?” I asked.
“You’re efficient and organised,” she said, letting her head flop back against the chair.
Of course I knew what was wrong. One of the weekend visitors had been rough with her. Not that she would admit it, even to me. My tongue itched to tell her that she was running a terrible risk going to bed with men she hardly knew, but something stopped me, I let it lie. Though Pappy and I were better friends in many ways than Merle and I had been—oooooo-aa, that’s an interesting tense!—I had a funny feeling that there were fences I’d be wise not to try to peek over. Merle and I were sort of equals, even if she had had a couple of affairs and I hadn’t had any. Whereas Pappy is ten years older than me and immensely more experienced. I can’t summon up the courage even to pretend that I’m her equal.
She mourned that we weren’t seeing much of each other these days—no lunches, no walks to and from Queens. But she knows Chris Hamilton, and agrees that she’s a bitch.
“Watch your step” was how she put it.
“If you mean, don’t look at the men, I’ve already taken that point,” I answered. “Luckily we’re awfully busy, so while she bustles around making a cuppa for some twit in white pants, I get on with the work.” I cleared my throat. “Are you all right?”
“So-so,” she said with a sigh, then changed the subject. “Um, have you met Harold yet?” she asked very casually.
The question surprised me. “The schoolteacher above me? No.”
But she didn’t lead the conversation down that alley either, so I gave up.
After