True Stories Read Online Free Page B

‘He doesn’t understand what you are saying. He doesn’t understand any English at all.’
    â€˜Oh,’ said the nurse, stepping back.
    At this moment the two doctors came into the ward. They said good morning to all concerned. Mr Tiarapu gazed from my face to theirs, waiting.
    â€˜Can you explain to him why he is being moved?’ I said. ‘Because he has only just got used to being here and talking to the bloke in the next bed.’
    The doctors looked at each other. One of them said, after a short pause, ‘We have to move him to another ward to do tests.’
    I translated to Mr Tiarapu that he was going to another ward in order to have more tests. This information did not cause the look on his face to alter.
    â€˜Which ward?’ I asked the doctors.
    â€˜Oncology,’ said one of them, and he looked me right in the eyes with an expression at once blank and challenging. He said oncology. He did not say cancer. And I was not absolutely certain, not one hundred percent certain, that oncology did mean cancer. And I couldn’t ask because Mr Tiarapu was holding my hand and staring at me and the doctors with his grey face, and the French word for cancer is so similar to the English that it would have been impossible to disguise it.
    â€˜Do you want me to explain what you mean?’ I said to the doctors.
    They looked embarrassed, moved their feet on the spongy lino, and glanced at each other. ‘If you like,’ said one of them.
    â€˜But do you think I should ?’ I said.
    They both shrugged, not because they didn’t care but because they were very young, and because they probably didn’t know any more than I did whether he was going to live or die. The longer we talked and gestured like this, without my translating anything, the clearer it became to Mr Tiarapu that there was something someone didn’t want him to know. The responsibility for the transmission of information had been shifted squarely on to me, and I was not adequate.
    I said to Mr Tiarapu, ‘They are moving you to a different ward because they have to do the tests, and they’re still not sure what is wrong with you, and they can’t do the tests here.’
    Mr Tiarapu nodded, and lay back down.
    I said to the doctors, ‘Don’t you have interpreters here? Because I have to go back to Melbourne tonight. I can’t stay any longer.’
    â€˜Oh, yes, I think so,’ said one of the doctors. ‘There’s supposed to be a woman somewhere round, but she’s renowned for her lack of tact.’
    The nurses got Mr Tiarapu ready for the move. I stood between his bed and that of my friend, who had been watching this without speaking. When Mr Tiarapu was on the trolley and it was time to go, he took my hand again and said, ‘You have been very, very kind to me. I will always remember your kindness.’
    My friend also said goodbye, and Mr Tiarapu was wheeled away.
    1980

The Schoolteacher
    IT’S HAPPENED TO me half a dozen times, lately. I’m coming home through the Edinburgh Gardens, or along Brunswick Street at dusk, and I see them a block in front of me, ambling along, shoving each other, heading towards me, their legs a moving thicket—heavy kids, eight of them, maybe ten. I keep walking, but I keep my eyes on them, and my feet wait for the sign to take off.
    The kids are not sharpies. They are Greeks and Italians, all boys, all wearing green or maroon cardigans with a double black stripe round the chest, Levis or Wranglers that fit just right, showing a bit of sock and reddish shoes with big heels. I move across to the outside of the footpath to let them pass without a confrontation. They spread out a little, taking the courtesy as a right. They’re close enough now in the almost-dark for me to see their faces. And it’s all right, because the front one is Chris from Fitzroy High and he says, ‘Hello, miss!’ and the others are kids