“You mean that you’re going to leave The House?” I asked.

“Next year I’ll have to,” he said. “Once the robots take my job, I’ll be back to living from hand to mouth if I stay in the City, whereas if I’m living in the Blue Mountains I can grow all my own vegetables, keep fruit trees, buy cheaply because prices are much lower. And if I get the hotel contract, I’ll be able to build a decent house, own my own place free and clear.”

I just wanted to cry, but I managed to smile and tell him how happy I was for him. Damn and blast Pappy! This is all her fault.

Wednesday,

August 24th, 1960

Oh, dear. A whole month since the last entry. But what is there to write when life has settled into a routine and nothing comes along to disturb it? I suppose I’ve become a Crossite, and what used to knock me sideways doesn’t have that capability any more. Duncan and I are as settled as an old married couple, though we haven’t lost our enthusiasm for bed. For a while he tried to persuade me to increase his visits by adding Tuesday and Thursday evenings, but I stood firm. Even idiots as myopic as Cathy F. do have eyes. Absences during the week above and beyond what she’s used to might start her wondering about Duncan’s sudden passion for golf at the Lakes, a lot closer to Queens than to Wahroonga, his excuse for choosing to play on a links where he’s not known.

Maybe I’m just a little tired of the furtiveness, but my instinct for self-preservation says that as long as Cathy F. lives in blissful ignorance, I don’t have to make any choices about posh houses and a future playing Missus Doctor. It irks him, though he won’t hurt her by confessing. She’s the mother of his sons, after all, and Unk on the Hospital Board thinks the sun rises and sets in her. What had Duncan said? Don’t create adverse ripples on the big hospital pond. Well, I don’t want any adverse ripples on my own Kings Cross pond, thank you very much.

Today has seen a tidal wave on the Cas X-ray pond. Chris and Demetrios are getting married, and she’s absolutely ecstatic about it. All of Cas has seen the engagement ring, a very nicely unusual cluster of diamonds, rubies and emeralds that belonged to the prospective groom’s mother. Such is hospital snobbery that our humble Greek porter, having caught himself a senior X-ray technician, is now spoken of as “up-and-coming”. Helped by Chris’s raves about the motor mechanics course and the garage, which Demetrios has put a down-payment on. Shrewdly chosen, because it’s on the Princes Highway in Sutherland and there’s no competition within cooee. He’s bound to do well. Poor old Sister Cas has bitten the bullet nobly, which is smart of her. She’s talking about moving into the Nurses’ Home until she finds just the right one to share a flat with. And there’s the agreeable prospect of being Chris’s bridesmaid. Chris asked me to be a bridesmaid too, but I declined tactfully, said that I’d come to the wedding. Then I teased Sister Cas by saying I used to be a champion basketball player, so I intended to outmanoeuvre the competition and catch the bride’s bouquet. Dr. Michael Dobkins is staying at Queens. Once Demetrios came on the scene, Chris forgot all about her feud, and Sister Cas has decided that he’s worth keeping because he’s so alert and competent.

Well, well. Even if she dies tomorrow, Chris isn’t going to die wondering. Demetrios struts around the place like a turkey cock, and Chris has a new facial expression—the “I know what it’s like to have a good fuck” look. I was right, it has done her the world of good.

The wedding’s set for next month, and will be a Greek Orthodox ceremony. Chris is busy taking lessons from the priest, and will, I suspect, end up more orthodox than the orthodox. Converts are usually a pain in the arse.

Sunday,

September 11th, 1960

I was seeing Duncan out this afternoon, Flo clinging to my leg, when Toby came clattering down the stairs. The moment he saw us he propped, the debate clearly written on his face—so far he’s managed to avoid meeting Duncan. But then he shrugged, kept on coming down. It’s always hard for a short man to have to look all that way up as he sticks out his hand for the introductory shake, but Toby did his duty, tried to look a very tall man’s equal.

As he made his escape out the door, he flung a question at me. “What’s the matter with our Pappy? She looks terrible.” Then he was gone.

I don’t see much of her, is the trouble. But tomorrow morning I’m going to get up early and tackle her.

Monday,

September 12th, 1960

Toby was right, she looks terrible. I don’t think she’s any thinner—that would be hard without going to complete bones—but she seems to have lost substance. Her beautiful mouth is dragged down at its corners, and her eyes flicker nervously here and there, won’t settle on anything. Including me.

“What’s wrong, Pappy?” I asked.

She panicked. “Harriet, I’ll be late for work, and I’ve been in so much trouble with Sister Agatha for months—I look tired, I’m not applying myself to my job properly, I tend to be late or absent on Mondays—if I don’t go now, I’ll be in the soup!”

“Pappy, I will undertake to visit Sister Agatha this morning and tell her any tale that comes into my mind—you’ve been run over by a bus, or abducted into the slave trade, or you’ve had this man stalking you for months and it’s affecting your work—I’ll fix Sister Agatha, you’ve got my word on it. But you’re not moving from this room until you’ve told me what’s the matter, and that is that!” I said fiercely.

Suddenly Pappy bowed her head, covered her face with her hands and wept so desolately that I found myself crying too.

It took a long time to quieten her. I gave her brandy, helped her to an easy chair and half-lay her in it with her feet up on a low stool. Until this moment I had always gone a little in awe of Pappy, so much older, more intellectual, more experienced, more loving and giving. Too loving and giving, I realised now. All of a sudden I felt myself her equal because I understood that I owned heaps of something she utterly lacked—commonsense.

“What is it?” I asked gently, sitting beside her, holding her hand strongly.

She gazed at me out of blurred, drowned eyes. “Oh, Harriet, what am I going to do? I’m pregnant!”

Funny, that. When a girl is filled with joy, she always says she’s going to have a baby. But when she’s filled with horror, she says she’s pregnant. As if the phrase she chooses is an emotional and cerebral distinction between a lovely fact of life and a much dreaded disease. I looked into her ravaged face with overwhelming sadness: there, but for the grace of a considerate man, go I.

“Does Ezra know?” I asked.

She didn’t answer.

“Does Ezra know?” I repeated.

She swallowed, shook her head, tried to wipe away the fresh tears with her hand.

“Here,” I said, giving her another handkerchief.

“I tried everything,” she whispered dully. “I threw myself down the stairs. I beat my stomach against the corner of my table. I gave myself a douche with ammonia, then I tried to push a soap-and-water douche right up. I bought some ergotamine tartrate from a wardsman, but it just made me vomit. I even resorted to melting hashish with cheese on a piece of toast and eating that, but it made me sick too. I’ve tried everything, Harriet, everything! But I’m still pregnant.” Her face became a mask of terror. “What am I going to do?”

“Sweetie, the first thing you have to do is tell Ezra. It’s his child too. Don’t you think he has a right to know?”

“Harriet, I was so happy! What am I going to do?”

“Tell Ezra,” I insisted.

“I was so happy! This is going to spoil it. He wants an emancipated sexual partner, not more babies.”