Dinner at Rose's (9 page)

‘I
S JO ANYWHERE
handy?’ came a familiar voice from reception.

It was a drizzly Wednesday morning in early May and I was catching up on some paperwork.

‘I’m afraid she’s tied up right now,’ said Amber primly. ‘If you’d like to leave your number I’ll ask her to call you when she’s got a –’

Before she could finish I jumped up from my desk and opened the door of the consulting room. ‘Hey, Matt, wait.’

Matt turned at the sound of my voice. ‘I can call you later if you’re busy,’ he said.

‘I’m not.’

‘But you said –’ Amber began.

‘I said if
Bob
came in I was busy,’ I reminded her.

‘You’ve got to ring the hospital,’ she informed me smugly. ‘So you
are
busy.’

‘True,’ I said. ‘But I reckon I can probably talk to Matt for a minute or two if that’s okay with you – I’ll take it off my lunch break.’

‘You don’t have one today. I booked in Mrs O’Connor. Her hip’s been really bothering her and she can’t wait till tomorrow.’

‘That was kind of you,’ Matt noted.

‘Thank you,’ said Amber.

I repressed a sigh – I would have fitted in Mrs O’Connor too, no doubt, but Amber was depressingly generous with my time. ‘Come in for a minute,’ I said to Matt and led him into the consulting room.

‘Have you talked to Rose in the last day or two?’ he asked. her comments on my love life. ‘What’s up?’

‘She’s got cancer.’

I stood quite still and stared at him in horror. ‘Wh-what kind of cancer?’ I croaked at last.

‘Breast,’ he said. ‘Hey, Jo, don’t panic. Rose reckons it’s an easy one to kill off. It’s not fatal or anything, and they’re getting right onto it – she’s starting chemo next week.’

Chemo next week. It must be real, then. ‘Bloody hell,’ I said blankly.

‘Yeah.’ He reached out and touched my shoulder very lightly. ‘It’ll be okay. It’s not like Dad’s. She hasn’t waited until she’s nearly dead before going to see someone about it.’ Patrick King died of bowel cancer that had metastasised
everywhere
before he thought perhaps he should talk to a doctor about why he’d lost twenty kilograms in six months and was passing blood when he went to the toilet.

I put my arms around Matt and hugged him. ‘Aunty Rose would never let a mere detail like breast cancer interfere with her life.’

He hugged me back, resting his chin briefly on the top of my head before letting me go. ‘That’s what she reckons,’ he said. ‘Right, you’d better get back to work or you’ll be in trouble.’

I followed him out to reception, where Amber was chatting over the counter to Bob McIntosh.

‘Sucks to be you,’ said Matt very quietly, grinning with a most unfeeling lack of sympathy as he went out the door.

THAT EVENING AFTER
work (which I left late, Amber having obligingly squeezed in another two appointments after five) I went to see Rose. She was pruning the roses in a truly breathtaking pair of tartan dungarees as, with Percy trotting before me, I made my way towards her across the lawn.

‘How am I to diet that pig?’ she wanted to know, straightening up and waving her secateurs at me in greeting. ‘He gorges on windfall apples and walnuts, and it breaks his heart if I shut him up.’

‘Perhaps you could put him on an exercise program,’ I suggested, leaning forward to kiss her cheek. She smelt of Ponds face cream and Chanel No. 5, as she had ever since I could remember.

‘I s’pose he and I could jog together,’ she agreed, tweaking my collar straight. ‘So I take it I’m forgiven for my tactless remarks?’

I hugged her tightly. ‘You’re a horrible woman, you know. Now, what’s the story with this cancer?’

Aunty Rose made a face. ‘Doesn’t good news travel fast?’ she murmured. ‘A mere nothing, my dear. I shall have it blasted with chemicals and if there’s anything left they’ll whip it out with a scalpel, and that will be that. I wonder if they’d be willing to do a tummy tuck at the same time? Some kind of two-for-the-price-of-one deal?’

‘How long’ve you known?’ I asked, refusing to be distracted.

‘Oh, goodness, only a week or so. I went up to Wai-kato and they stuck needles into my armpits, among other things. Honestly, Josephine, they leave no orifice unprobed, it’s all terribly undignified – and now they’ve decided to add insult to injury by giving me a course of nasty toxic medications that will no doubt have all sorts of unpleasant side effects.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Very sadistic people, oncologists.’

‘And when is your first appointment?’

‘Next Tuesday.’

‘Can I take you?’ I asked.

‘Too late. Matthew is going to be my chauffeur.’ She bent down and gathered an armful of spiky rose branches. ‘Let’s toss these over the fence and go and have some wine, shall we?’

I THOUGHT I’D
better leave Rose in peace on Tuesday evening, but on Wednesday I drove up the valley through the gathering dusk. It was a spectacularly lovely evening with just the hint of a breeze stirring the golden leaves of the poplars along the roadside and the sun setting behind the ranges in a soft glow of apricot and green.

Matt’s ute was already there, and Hazel’s zippy little white car. The dogs were evidently worn out from greeting this surfeit of visitors and got up rather reluctantly to wander over and sniff me. The ancient huntaway did manage to lift his leg and squeeze out a drop or two against my back tyre but you could tell his heart wasn’t really in it. Percy was busy under the walnut tree behind the shed and I could only see his well-padded ginger bottom.

I let myself in at the kitchen door just in time to see Rose throw up copiously into the sink. She stood there a moment, gripping the edge of the bench with her head bowed, before looking up and saying, only a very little less emphatically than normal, ‘Why are there always carrots in one’s vomit even if one hasn’t eaten one of the beastly things for days?’

‘My friend Stu has a theory about that,’ I said. ‘He reckons the gall bladder is actually a carrot-storage organ, and whenever you throw up some are released.’

‘Ah,’ said Rose, nodding as she turned on the tap to rinse out the sink. ‘That explains it.’

‘Oh,
Rosie
,’ wailed Hazel from the living room. ‘I can’t bear to see you suffering like this.’

‘Then don’t look,’ Aunty Rose muttered, running herself a glass of water and taking a large gulp. ‘That’s better. Come through, sweet pea, the whole
is here, bless their cotton socks.’

In the living room Kim was curled in an armchair, Hazel was pacing the floor in a distressed sort of way and Matt was leaning against a heavy oak sideboard crammed with dusty willow-pattern dishes. ‘Hey, Jose,’ he said lightly. ‘Have you come to watch Rose throw up? It’s great entertainment.’

‘It is,’ I agreed. ‘I had a free evening, so I thought it might be a fun way to spend it.’

Hazel looked at us more in sorrow than in anger. ‘Your aunt has
cancer
,’ she said. ‘It’s not funny. R-remember your father, Matthew . . .’ And pulling a wisp of lace from the sleeve of her cardigan she pressed it to her eyes in a touching display of grief. I looked at Matt’s face and wanted to hit her.

‘We might as well laugh. Much better than all sitting around sobbing. Pull yourself together, Hazel,’ said Rose briskly. She sank onto a sofa and leant her head back wearily. ‘Kimlet, don’t look so worried. It’s just the chemo; it’s only temporary. It will be making those cancer cells a lot sicker than it’s making me.’

Kim nodded, and smiled at her tremulously.

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I saw this in town, Rose, and thought of you.’ I passed her a small brown paper bag and sat down on the sofa beside her.

Aunty Rose opened the bag and pulled out a bright purple Indian cotton scarf shot with silver threads. ‘Josephine, it’s fabulous.’ She smiled.

‘It won’t be very warm,’ I said, ‘but I thought it looked nice and glamorous.’

‘Darling, you shouldn’t have.’

‘It only cost seven dollars,’ I told her.

‘Stingy cow,’ she said.

‘Absolutely.’ I squeezed her hand for a second.

‘Matthew, there’s a bottle of ginger ale in the fridge. Be an angel and get me a glass?’ said Rose. As he went she added, ‘I may as well make the most of all this sympathy, don’t you think?’

‘Should I make you a poached egg, Aunty Rose?’ Kim asked eagerly.

‘Sweetheart, I don’t think it would stay down just at the moment. But thank you.’

‘How much chemo are you going to have?’ I asked.

‘One lot down, five to go.’ She sighed. ‘Yippee.’

‘Rosie,’ said Hazel, dabbing at her eyes again, ‘I’ll stay the night.’

‘Most unnecessary,’ said Rose.

‘I insist,’ said Hazel.

‘Well, if you like. But we’re not watching
Dancing with
the Stars
. I couldn’t face it in my fragile state.’

Chapter 9

Any tips for getting scorch marks off ceilings greatly appreciated! In future must remember to have fondue night separate from tequila night – it’s a dangerous combination. But so much fun!

T
IGHT-LIPPED, I LOGGED
out of Facebook. I shouldn’t keep doing this – I should just remove the slapper from my Friends list – but it was like picking off a scab. You know you’re making it worse and that it would heal much better if you left it alone, but the compulsion to do it is almost irresistible.

I looked at my watch and found that it was three twenty-seven. I had a three-thirty appointment but Carol Abbott was chronically late. I had intended to grab a cup of tea before she arrived, but instead I opened my email and started a message to Stu.

Hey, dude, have you been round to the house lately? According to my BFF Chrissie’s Facebook updates there’s a party there every evening – it all sounds much more exciting than it was in my day. I was a bit concerned to read her comments about scorch marks on the ceiling, though. If they trash the place during their high-spirited capers it won’t impress potential buyers.

Life here in sunny Waimanu is ticking along quite happily, though contrary to your predictions the place isn’t bristling with virile and rugged farming types like those seen in McLeod’s Daughters. Or if it is, none of them need physio. I can’t complain, though – just yesterday a man in his late forties with halitosis and pores like the craters on the moon brought me an African violet and asked me to go to the rugby with him on Saturday. It’s nice to know I have another option apart from tie-dying my clothes, throwing away my bras and living in a shack with seventeen cats. The only thing standing between me and perfect happiness is that Aunty Rose has just been diagnosed with cancer. She is quite determined not to let a silly little thing like that slow her down, but the chemo’s knocking her round quite a bit.