Hindsight Page 11

  “You haven’t eaten your breakfast, Mrs Taylor? Shall I leave it for you?” the nurse asks.

  “No thanks. I’m not very hungry this morning,” I say. The truth is that even if the toast were able to make it past my throat, it would come back up as soon as it hit my stomach.

  “OK then. You can pop in and have a shower while you wait for the doctor to come and see you,” she says as she clears away my tray. “He’s due here in thirty minutes, so best you get a move on. There’s a towel here for you.”

  The hot shower does nothing to calm my nerves. It washes off the sweat from last night, but does not remove the stench of fear. What if they commit me? Who the hell am I in 1961? How can I act like the normal me when we’ve never met?

  Thirty minutes passes like thirty days as the doctor makes his rounds. He enters the room with another man by his side and together they make an odd couple. Dr. Tomlinson is tall and slim, while the other, Dr. Holman I am guessing, is short and round with greasy black hair and round glasses perched high on the bridge of his nose. He scares me, but it’s showtime, so I tell my beating heart to quiet down and my swirling stomach to be still and put on my PR face.

  “Mrs Taylor, how are you feeling this morning?” Dr. Tomlinson asks.

  “Much better, thank you Doctor.”

  It is better not to be too chirpy or volunteer too much information because that will make me seem …nutty.

  “Good, good. This is my colleague, Dr. Holman. He’s going to ask you a few questions, alright?” he asks.

  “Yes, of course,” I say. The sweat is starting to accumulate in my armpits again.

  “Mrs Taylor, can you tell me today’s date?” Dr. Holman asks.

  “Yes, it’s April 2nd…1961.”

  “Good. And your complete name please?”

  I try to swallow to lubricate my tongue, but my mouth is completely dry.

  “My name is Juliette Eleanor…Taylor.”

  “Good. Your address please.”

  I tell him the address and he continues to ask me a barrage of questions about myself and my family, all of which are very difficult seeing as the answers are, largely, unknown to me. Then he gets me to perform a series of physical activities that remind me of the ones the police used to get suspected drunk drivers to do — walk along the white line, touch your nose. The effort required to not show my fear, to stop myself from sweating, or vomiting, or scratching or fidgeting is enormous. He’s a psychiatrist, so he is assessing my behaviour, not just my answers.

  After forty minutes, my nerves are shot. It’s a struggle not to dribble and scratch imaginary lice. He shows no emotion and examines me as though he has already decided my fate and is looking forward to conducting experiments on me back in Kew Asylum. Soon after I fail to answer the question regarding what I do for a living, the two doctors pack up and leave the room, taking with them the last of my energy. The skinny bed looks as inviting as a bedchamber in Buckingham Palace as my body flops down and sleep overtakes me.

  “Mrs Taylor? Wakey wakey,” the nurse says as she brings in the lunch tray. It’s a curried egg and lettuce sandwich, a bowl of yoghurt and an apple. “You’ve had a nice little nap but now it’s time for lunch and the doctor will be in here soon.”

  “He will?” I ask, clutching at the sheets on the bed.

  “Yes, he’s got some news for you.”

  Oh my God. Tears prickle my eyes and my heart speeds up to dangerous levels. They’re committing me. I am going to Kew Asylum! The nurse continues talking but I can’t hear her because the wailing inside my head and the blood rushing around my body is drowning out every other noise.

  Is escape an option? There’s got to be a door around her somewhere. A back door, a side door. Any door will do. Then I can go home and tell Chris that they discharged me. He’ll never know the truth. Until they come to get me and take me away, that is. Oh God, would they do that in front of my children? Would Ethan and Cal have to watch me being taken away, kicking and screaming like a…a looney?

  “Good afternoon, Mrs Taylor,” Dr. Tomlinson says. “I’ve been in discussion with Dr. Holman regarding your condition.”

  The blood stops moving around my body. My eyes cease blinking. The internal organs that keep me breathing grind to a halt.

  “According to him, you have suffered a type of amnesia. You have trouble recalling information stored in both long and short-term memory, which is puzzling, but not uncommon. Your test results show no other brain injury or malfunction, so it’s safe to rule out stroke. If you had suffered a brain injury your coordination wouldn’t have been so precise, amongst other symptoms that are absent.”

  I nod and will my brain to stop whirring around in my head.

  “Therefore, your memory loss is a result of the fall, rather than your fall being a result of a stroke or brain injury. The memory loss is hard to predict. You may make a fast recovery, or it may take some time. For this reason you will be transferred…”

  “No, please don’t. It’s just a bump to the head, Doctor, that’s all,” I say.

  “If only it were that simple, Mrs Taylor. We need to ensure that you are not a danger to yourself, or to others. Especially your children.”

  “But they need me at home, to…look after them.” My voice has risen two octaves.

  “Yes, they do,” he nods, “which is exactly why you are being transferred to the care of your general practitioner.”

  “The… what?”

  “Your GP, a Dr. Hamilton,” he says, checking the forms in his hand. “He will observe you weekly and make the necessary arrangements from there, should you need to be…”

  “So you’re not transferring me to Kew?”

  “Not at this stage, Mrs Taylor. Let’s see how things go over the next few days. Then we can make a decision. Your appointment with Dr. Hamilton is in four days’ time. Here are the details.” He smiles, handing me a form with my appointment time on it.

  It’s like the sun has come out to play again after months of storms. My entire body loses its rigidity and all that’s left is the ache from having been so tense.

  “So I can go home…”

  “Today, yes.”

  It’s almost impossible not to launch off the bed and crash tackle Dr. Tomlinson in appreciation, but that wouldn’t be a smart thing to do seeing as the threat of a psychiatric stay still looms over me. If it were possible to see the relief washing off me at the moment, my feet would be standing in a puddle of it up to my knees. Thank God.

  My discharge papers are signed and Chris comes to collect me. It’s lucky my head still hurts from the injury, otherwise the caffeine withdrawal would be skull-crushing. The good news is that the eye bandage has been removed and, although still partially shut, my vision has improved. I am no longer bumping into things, which is a bonus because one head injury at a time is enough.

  It’s a proper autumn morning — a chilly wind but warm sun. The leaves on the trees are starting to turn the beautiful orange, yellow and red tones. The birds are singing and the sound of traffic is light — more like the suburbs than the city. There isn’t even the smell of the city; the air is clean. Most unusual.

  “Where did you park, Chris?” The parking can be an absolute bugger in this part of the city.

  “Park? Park what?” he asks.

  Was my question cryptic? Has he lost half his IQ?

  “Park. The. Car,” I say it slowly as though talking to a simpleton, complete with charade-like hand gestures, turning the steering wheel and honking the horn.

  “Ooooh, the car,” he says.

  “Yes, the car.” My head is broken, but he has no excuse.

  “Jules,” he stops walking, “we don’t have a car.”

  The world stops. Even the birds stop singing.

  “What do you mean we don’t have a car? Of course we have a car. Everyone has a car.”

  “No, not everyone. Jules, are you feeling alright?”

  “What do you mean not everyone has a car? Who
doesn’t have a car, this is the twenty-first century for God’s sake!”

  People are stopping to look at the bruised looney about to have a melt down on the footpath. Note to self: Mrs O’Shane.

  “Jules, calm down. We don’t have a car. We used to have one, but we sold it when Cal was born because we couldn’t afford it anymore. And it’s only the twentieth century, not the twenty-first.” His head makes a very small shaking motion, tiny, but noticeable.

  “Well, how the hell do I live without a car? How do I get around, you know, do stuff, get to work?’ Grief is already starting to set in at the loss of my luxury-mobile.

  “You either walk or catch the bus, train or tram.”

  “I catch public transport?” Shock has moved into denial. “No way! Public transport is full of people who fall asleep or pick their nose when they think no one is looking.”

  “You do use it Jules, but not often. Not much takes you outside the house.”

  Perhaps the front room is my office now? But then where would Chris work? No, because the front room had a dining setting in it two days ago. Perhaps he has his own set of offices in the city? The prospect of being married to a successful architect who has his own firm cheers me up. We must be rich. No, if we were rich we’d have a car. Maybe we are rich but environmentally friendly, you know, ahead of our time. No, Chris said we got rid of the car because we couldn’t afford it. The rollercoaster is emotionally exhausting. “Do I work from home?”

  “You could say that, Jules…” and then he says the words that burn a hole straight through me, literally, the pain starts in my chest and works upwards. “You are a housewife and Mum, you gave up work when you were pregnant, remember.” It’s difficult to breathe.

  I choke on his words.” No! No! No! That’s ridiculous. There’s no way would I ever give up work! Work is my life. Why would I do that?” My airways are constricting.

  “Because you were about to become a Mum, it’s what you’d always wanted. We agreed that our family came first. Besides, you didn’t really like your job anyway.”

  “Bu…I…No…Kids…”

  Can’t breathe.

  “Jules, this all seems like a shock to you. We’ll go back to the hospital, they may need to do more psychiatric tests on you. Perhaps you need a…a longer rest.”

  Nothing quite snaps you back to reality like the threat of a psychiatric ward sleepover, does it?

  “No! No, I’m fine. Really, I’m just…um…” What’s the correct word? “…Just tired, that’s all.” No Oscar-worthiness here.

  “You can have a rest at home, but if we don’t get a move on, we’ll miss our tram, so let’s get going.” He leads me by the arm, like a stubborn goat.

  “Can’t we take a taxi?” I ask, stopping again.

  “A taxi? Jules, we can’t afford a taxi,” he says as he pulls me again into forward motion. It’s a bit like taking your dog into the vet, when it scrabbles against your efforts to get it into the surgery.

  “But you’re an architect, Chris. You make a good living. How can we not afford a taxi ride to Clifton Hill? It’s only a few blocks away.”

  Chris smiles, not the sexy, crinkly eye smile. It’s more of a ‘my wife is a nutter’ kind of expression. The tram dings and we board quietly. Well, he boards quietly. Mine is more of a morose plonking up the steps and into a wooden slatted seat that acts as a mobile torture rack as the tram pitches forward, cracking three vertebrae.

  Great, no car. How does anyone live without a car? What else is missing from my life, other than my laptop, mobile phone, financial independence, nanny, housekeeper, successful business, bank account, hairdresser, beautician, and career, which is probably about to disappear because I’m unable to answer my bloody phone, because it is over fifty frigging’ years away from me. Calm down…breathe. Mrs. O’Shane.

  Chapter 11

  The tram bumps its way along Victoria Parade, throwing me forwards into the wall of the driver’s box as it stalls at each stop. After a short pause it starts up and lurches forward again, throwing me back into the torture rack, cracking more bones and possibly my pelvis. It’s the most violent means of transport imaginable.

  “Jules why do you think I’m an architect?” Chris asks.

  “Because that’s what you are, aren’t you?”

  “I’m a tool maker at the Tramways. I’ve worked there for nineteen years.”

  “What, but…no! How can that be?”

  “I wanted to go to uni and study architecture, but my parents couldn’t afford it. I left in grade nine and started in the drafting office because I was too young to begin an apprenticeship…”

  “Because you…”

  “Skipped year one and year seven,” we say together.

  It’s true. Chris was deemed so intelligent that he skipped two years of school. That meant that he went on to uni at the age of sixteen instead of eighteen like his cohorts. Unfortunately, a Mensa-level IQ doesn’t seem to count for anything here.

  “Only wealthy people go to university, Jules. Being smart doesn’t have much to do with it.” The beautiful smile is tinged with sadness.

  His dream didn’t come true in this life. A lump forms in my throat at the thought of him never getting to do something that he loves and has a natural talent for. I reach out to take his hands in mine. The soft, smooth skin has been replaced with calluses, cracks and roughness; the hands of a tradesman, not an architect.

  So, we live on a tradesman’s wage, which probably isn’t a lot, and seeing as my role doesn’t derive an income, that means that we’re not rich, or even well-off. We live in Clifton Hill, which despite being a trendy suburb in my time, was where the working classes lived originally, and we can’t afford a car. So, we’re poor. Do we live on variations of mincemeat recipes each night? Urgh, I hate mincemeat. All those bits of gristle ground up with the meat and God knows what else: cow lips, bum holes, testicles, how disgusting. It doesn’t bear thinking about.

  It’s a delicate subject, but surely, as the ‘home economist’ I have a right to know how much money we live on? Best to broach the topic carefully.

  “So, we don’t have much money then?” Oh, way to go Juliette, verbal castration is always popular.

  Chris’ face turns to stone.

  “No Juliette, we aren’t rich. We have a good, simple life. We pay our own way.”

  “Yes, a great life. We’re very happy, I just couldn’t remember the specifics, that’s all.” If it were possible to backpedal any faster I’d be landing in 1945 about now.

  The rest of the journey to the top of our street is in awkward silence. Chris is clearly offended by my lack of diplomacy, but he’ll get over it. For me it’s a far worse scenario. I don’t have any money. Holy shit! This is a completely foreign concept. Never have I sought Chris’ permission to buy anything; my income has always been bigger than his. My stash of credit cards exist under the marriage radar. We’ve never had to worry about the cost of living; since the business took off there’s always been more than enough to go around. Maybe the looney bin would be a better option? At least I could live in the delusion that I am an independent career woman. Do they serve mincemeat there?

  It’s only a short walk from the tram stop to the house. It’s painted cream with contrasting blue-grey trim, set off by the silver tin roof. Our little house sits peacefully amongst other like houses in the street, which is renowned as the most prestigious street in Clifton Hill in my own time due to its proximity to parklands, the tram stop, railway station, schools, and small café precinct. The village atmosphere is amplified here because it’s not contrived.

  There are only four cars parked in the street and each house appears to be occupied by garden-proud owners; there’s not an overgrown or untended front yard in sight. Likewise, each house is painted and maintained to an immaculate level. The lack of traffic noise allows birdsong to flood the street, adding to the ambiance and amenity.

  Chris unlocks the door and holds it open for me. Stepping throu
gh the threshold of my own house, over forty years prior to actually purchasing it, is a crazy kind of déjà vu. It’s as though this one act is going against the entire force of life as we understand it, although, if you want to get technical, my pure existence here, in 1961, breaks all the rules as well.

  Three days ago I walked through this door to face Chris’ wrath after breaking Ethan’s heart. Two days ago my adoring husband peeled me off the floor and tended to my wounds. Today…well, let’s see what today brings.

  “I’ll just go tell Lily we’re back. Why don’t you make some tea?” Chris says after he puts my overnight bag on the kitchen table.

  “Sure, that should be easy enough.” If only making tea was easy. It’s not like a coffee machine, with one button. It involves boiling water, which is sort of like cooking, but I manage to find the tea and light a flame under the kettle without setting myself on fire.

  The kitchen is the same size as our modern kitchen, but looks bigger. Probably because there are far fewer appliances on the bench tops. The kettle whistles at me and I fill the pot with boiling water and place it on the table. It all looks very civilised.

  Chris returns and five minutes later, Lily brings Callum over. Although not familiar, she does look nice, in a 1961 kind of way. She’s about my height and build, has mousy brown curly hair and is a living monument to a healthy lifestyle. Her rosy cheeks give the impression of blusher, and the thick black eyelashes surrounding royal blue eyes would pass for mink extensions, but after peering closely, it’s clear that her beauty is all natural. Damn it. Her slightly olive complexion looks as though it has come straight out of a Chanel bottle — perfection. I had hoped that my best friend was a glamazon who would sweep me up in her wake and transform me into less of a train wreck. Not to be.

  “Mummm,” Cal says as he launches onto me and wraps his chubby arms around my neck.

  “Cal! How’s my little man?” It’s a relief to see him; at least my children here are my own. If it’s not bad enough waking up in the past, imagine living with a family that wasn’t mine, a group of strangers, having to share a bed with a man unknown to me. That would be unbearable.