Matthew Flinders' Cat (14 page)

‘That’s not what I’ve been instructed to do!’ the receptionist repeated again.

‘Call Dr Goldstein on his pager, my dear, he’ll sort it out,’ Johnno urged, this time not without a touch of genuine sympathy. He leaned over the desk and spoke in an undertone, ‘He may be a derelict but we manhandled him, there were witnesses. Stella’s not backwards in coming forward, and the old bloke would have seen it as well, that could mean trouble, not just for Kevin and me, you’d also be implicated.’

The woman hesitated, then sighed. ‘Very well!’ she said, trying to maintain her dignity. She dialled the doctor’s pager and, when he answered, asked him to come to reception.

‘Thanks, Missus,’ Ryan said politely. The receptionist glared at him, but remained silent, not sure she wasn’t being sent up.

Dr Goldstein appeared a few minutes later. He was a bear of a man, whom even Billy, a rugby union man in his day, recognised as one of rugby league’s truly greats. Nathan Goldstein was probably the bestknown medical name in Sydney. He’d played in the second row for the Rabbitohs for ten years and had gone on to play for Australia in three test series. He was the son of a Jewish heart surgeon who’d survived the Warsaw Ghetto and the Holocaust and who, after the war, had migrated to Australia, where he’d been required to do the final two years of the medical course at Sydney University. He’d worked with the people in Redfern, helping the local GP, whose qualifications he’d greatly exceeded. When he passed his second medical degree he’d been invited to join the medical faculty, but Moishe Goldstein politely rejected the offer and chose instead to practise in Redfern, not two miles from the university campus and in the heart of Rabbitoh country.

His son, Nathan, had attended Waterloo Public School, where he earned the respect of his peers by belting the crap out of anyone who called him ‘Dirty Jew’ or ‘Reffo!’ Later he won admission to Fort Street Boys High, a selective school whose former students included some of Australia’s most famous men. There he played rugby union on Wednesdays for the school and for South Sydney Juniors on Saturday. At the tender age of nineteen, much to the chagrin of the university rugby union club, Nathan elected to play first-grade rugby league for South Sydney. He played as a lock, wearing the number thirteen jumper, and despite his dark hair and eyes was predictably known as Goldilocks.

In the seventies and early eighties when South Sydney nearly went broke and, with no money to pay players, almost didn’t survive, Goldstein could have played for any club in the competition, earning big bucks, but he stuck with the Rabbitohs. ‘In football terms, South Sydney is my mother and father and you don’t walk out on your parents when things are getting tough for them, do you?’ he’d once told a reporter from the
Herald
.

It was a popular myth among the people of South Sydney that Goldstein had acquired a tattoo showing a rabbit wearing the famous red and myrtle-green football jumper leaping over the crack in his bum with the legend above it inscribed in Latin: ‘
Nisi cunicularius, pilosus podex es
’. Which roughly translated means ‘If you’re not a Rabbitoh, a hairy arse you are.’

Nathan Goldstein was to become a rugby league legend and be included in the lexicon of South Sydney’s greatest players, awarded sixth position behind such immortals as Clive Churchill ‘the little master’, Harold Horder, Ron Coote, Bob McCarthy, Ian Moir, and then Nathan ‘Goldilocks’ Goldstein equal sixth with Les ‘Chicka’ Cowie.

‘Gidday, mate,’ Dr Goldstein said to Ryan, putting his giant hand on the boy’s shoulder, then looked at the receptionist and back at Johnno and Kevin. ‘What seems to be the problem?’

Mrs Willoughby was the first to speak, ‘This child is a troublemaker, doctor!’ Dr Goldstein looked surprised. ‘Ryan?’

‘Spot of bother with the paperwork, doctor,’ Johnno said.

‘Oh? Who’s the patient? Not you, Ryan, is it?’ Kevin pointed to Billy, ‘Old bloke on the bench. Suspected fractured wrist.’

‘The boy lied, said he had lockjaw,’ the receptionist interrupted.

Despite himself, Goldstein laughed. ‘Lockjaw? What have you been up to, Ryan?’

‘Me friend, he fell in the dirt, he needs a needle, tetanus.’

Nathan Goldstein looked over at Billy and immediately understood the situation. ‘And his wrist?’

‘I think it’s broke.’

‘I’ll take a look.’ He turned to the receptionist, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll take care of the paperwork. The triage sister will do his medical details later.’ He still had his hand on Ryan’s shoulder and turned him to face the receptionist. ‘I think you owe . . . I’m sorry, I don’t know your name, madam?’ he said politely.

‘Mrs Willoughby, doctor.’

‘You owe Mrs Willoughby an apology, Ryan.’

‘Sorry, Mrs Willoughby,’ Ryan said in a small voice, bowing the way little kids do at school. It was a sendup and it wasn’t missed by the still angry receptionist.

‘The boy should learn some manners and could do with a good wash if you ask me,’ she sniffed.

Goldstein ignored her remark. ‘Righto, come in, let’s take a look at your friend, Ryan.’

Ryan walked over and picked up Billy’s briefcase. ‘Let’s go, Billy, see I told yiz, no worries,’ he whispered rather too loudly.

They entered casualty, where Goldstein took them through to the treatment room.

‘He’s real crook, Dr Goldilocks,’ Ryan offered.

‘Do you know his name?’

‘’Course, it’s Billy.’

‘Just Billy?’

‘Nah, Billy O’Shannessy without the
u
,’ Ryan replied.

Nathan Goldstein walked up to Billy, who rose at his approach. ‘What seems to be the matter, Mr O’Shannessy? Ryan here says you’ve had a fall, hurt your wrist. Have you?’

‘I probably just sprained it,’ Billy said, looking a bit sheepish, ‘We shouldn’t have bothered you.’

The doctor looked up in surprise at Billy’s accent, it was obvious it was not what he’d expected. ‘That’s why we’re here, sir. Will you hold your wrist out, please?’ Goldstein let out a soft whistle. ‘Looks ugly, it’s badly swollen and you have a large haematoma spreading up the arm.’ He touched the wrist lightly with his forefinger. ‘How did you get these lacerations?’

‘Handcuffs!’ Ryan said quickly.

‘Pardon?’ said Goldstein.

‘From the briefcase,’ Ryan said and pointed to the set of handcuffs dangling from the handle of the briefcase he held.

Dr Goldstein looked puzzled but recovered quickly, ‘Oh, right, that’s how you carry it, is it? Good idea around here.’

Nathan Goldstein knew better than to inquire any further, his job at St Vincent’s covered the whole spectrum, from heart attacks in the elderly, domestic violence, stabbings, drug overdoses of every description from heroin to the even more dangerous amphetamines. He dealt with just about every other complication known to medical science that could be brought on quickly by human stupidity or sudden frailty. He was famous for a quote he’d once given a reporter: ‘If the city of Sydney were to be given an enema, they’d stick the catheter into the front door of St Vincent’s Casualty.’ Child prostitutes, male and female, who sold their tender young bodies to paedophiles and the other trash preying on children while posing as respectable citizens, knew to come to Dr Goldilocks when they were in trouble.

He’d chosen to practise among what he thought of as the victims of society, the young, the weak, the hopeless, the silly, the unfortunate and the mentally retarded. Nathan Goldstein was a constant thorn in the side of DOCS, and he’d long since given up asking questions or judging his patients. But what he did understand was that these addictions and proclivities usually created a deep sense of vulnerability and a lack of self-esteem that often led to paranoia. Billy’s desire to carry his briefcase shackled to his wrist was a mild enough obsession when compared to some he’d come across.

‘You’ll need an X-ray and then you’ll have to wait for an orthopaedic surgeon to examine your wrist. Broken bones are not my area but it looks very much like a Colles’ fracture.’

He indicated the lacerations, ‘We’ll clean up this mess and give you an antibiotic shot and a sling to make you more comfortable, but while you’re here I’d like to examine you, is that all right?’ Billy looked alarmed. ‘How long will all this take?’ Goldstein didn’t try to placate him. ‘Most of the morning, I dare say. You look pretty wretched.’ Billy’s wrist rested in the palm of Goldstein’s massive hand and the doctor pinched at the skin on the back of it, pulling it up into a ridge and releasing it. The ridge of skin on Billy’s hand remained static for several seconds before slowly resuming its previous position. The doctor also noted the papery dryness of Billy’s lips and the blood blister where earlier on he’d forced the pebble into his mouth.

He undid the third and fourth button of Billy’s mud-splattered shirt and eased the arm into its interior so that it would act as a temporary sling. ‘I just want to check your tongue.’ Billy stuck his tongue out. ‘Well, you’re pretty dehydrated, I’d like to put you on a saline drip, Mr O’Shannessy.’

‘I don’t think I’ve got the time for that, doctor. All morning, did you say? No, I simply can’t be here that long. I have business to attend to.’

Goldstein didn’t argue with him. ‘Sure . . . well then, we’ll take it one thing at a time, see how we go, eh?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with me, just a bit of a strained wrist,’ Billy protested. He knew that what he needed more than anything was a drink.

Billy was also worried that he was breaking his routine for the second day running and he was losing his grip, slipping into the twilight zone where so many on skid row passed their lives. It was a part of his paranoia that he believed his sanity could be measured by the precise order in which he did things, and any deviations were a sign of his increasing instability.

‘We’ll need to take your blood pressure and your temperature.’ Nathan Goldstein pointed to Billy’s wrist again, ‘Clean that up a bit before you go into X-ray, then we can decide.’ He turned to Ryan, ‘Don’t you have school today, young man?’

Ryan looked down at his shoes, then up at Billy. ‘I’ve got to take care of me mate. Can’t yiz give me a note?’

Dr Goldstein laughed. ‘Ryan, you’ve got to go to school. You’re pretty bright, you know. No point wasting your brains, eh?’

Ryan looked up pleadingly. ‘Garn, just this once? I could have lied and told you it was school holidays.’

‘And I would have told you that’s bullshit, I’ve got kids of my own, you know. I’ll give you a note that allows you to be two hours late, that’s the best I can do, mate.’

‘School sucks,’ Ryan replied, kicking at the toecap of his left shoe.

‘So does life without a proper education,’ Nathan Goldstein replied.

‘The doctor’s right, Ryan. I’ll be fine and I’m most grateful to you for your help.’

Ryan looked at Billy as if he’d betrayed him. ‘I thought we was mates.’

‘We are, but the doctor’s still right.’

‘Fuck, who can you trust around here?’ Ryan said, kicking at his toecap again.

Goldstein laughed. ‘C’mon, mate, you can sit in on the examination, see we don’t harm Mr O’Shannessy. Medical malpractice, you can’t be too careful these days.’

Half an hour later, with a note from Nathan Goldstein for his teacher, Ryan said goodbye to Billy as he was going into the X-ray room. ‘Termorra, I’ll see yiz termorra, Billy.’

A sister arrived shortly after the X-ray had been taken. ‘We’ll be having to take you through to the triage sister, Mr O’Shannessy. It’s a bit backwards, you should have seen her when you came in, but never mind, you’re Irish. Let me take your briefcase,’ she offered in a broad Irish accent.

‘No, no, I’m fine.’ He grinned. ‘It’s a part of me, I’d be lost without it.’ He added, ‘The only Irish in me goes back to six generations ago.’

The sister grinned. ‘You’d not be knowing then, it
can’t
be bred out, Irish is forever.’

After he’d been processed backwards by the triage sister, the same Irish sister came to fetch him and Billy was shown to a bed with a green plastic sheet spread over the hospital linen. ‘Just lie on the top please, you’ll only be here an hour or two before you see a consultant and then go into surgery,’ the Irish sister said.

‘Surgery?’ Billy looked alarmed. ‘Oh, I don’t know about that, sister.’

Seeing Billy’s alarm, the sister attempted to put him at ease. ‘Now we’ll not get too fussed, Mr O’Shannessy, nothing’s certain yet. Dr Goldstein isn’t the one to decide.’ She smiled at him. ‘Can you get up onto the bed on your own?’ Billy nodded. ‘You’ll oblige me, young man, by first taking off your shoes.’ She drew the curtain around his bed. ‘Sister will be in soon to put in your drip. Would you like a nice cup of tea and a cheese sandwich?’

‘Very kind of you, sister, but no thank you,’ Billy said.

The sister picked up the briefcase Billy had placed beside the chair at the side of his bed. ‘I’ll put this away for you in the cupboard.’

‘No, no, please!’ Billy said, alarmed. ‘Please, sister, I have to have it with me.’

Seeing his agitation, the sister smiled kindly. ‘You’re quite right, it should be close to you,’ she said. ‘Do you need help with your shoelaces?’

‘No, I’ll be fine, sister,’ Billy said, somewhat shaken by the prospect of losing his briefcase to some anonymous cupboard.