I woke up in Vita’s bed around 9 a.m. My tongue was furry and there was a dull ache behind my eyes as if I’d been drinking heavily the night before, which I hadn’t. A glance at the floor showed that the Jack Daniels bottle still contained liquid. It hadn’t been one of those bottle-emptying nights. I decided that my head hurt as a result of the blows I’d taken, an almost honourable injury. I began to roll off the bed and the pain in my neck, shoulder and arm made me gasp and sink back onto the pillows.
The shoulder was bruised, but I’ve had worse, including bullet wounds. This hurt more than bullets or broken bones. After lying still for a while, I figured a way to get off the bed without putting any pressure on the shoulder. I managed to stand upright. I cradled the left elbow with my right hand and shuffled out of the bedroom. The flat was empty but Vita had left a note propped up on the kitchen bench beside the Panadol packet.
Dear Cliffo
The working girl has gone to work. You were groaning in the night so I figured something must be hurting and you might need these. I don’t know what you eat in the morning but you’ll find some cereal and stuff in the cupboards. If you drink beer for breakfast like some men (and women) I’ve known, then you ‘re shit out of luck.
It was great getting to know you. Next move is up to you. I’d like to help with the matter on hand (being discreet here, see?), if you think I can.
The key unlocks the back gate, just be firm and confident with Dylan. I’ve told him you are a friend of mine and I think he understood.
Vi.
I stood in the sunny, warm kitchen, grinning and feeling good despite my injuries, infidelity and uncertainty about the matter at hand. Still nursing my left arm, I rummaged in the cupboards and found a packet of muesli that seemed to be so low on some things and so free of others that it was unlikely to have any taste. I toasted a few slices of wholemeal, low-salt bread, spread them with something called Canola and drank a cup of decaffeinated instant coffee with fat-free milk. This was an overload of self-denial-I felt as if I was training to be some kind of monk, but I was still happy.
There was something liberating and novel about being in another person’s house and not needing to snoop through their belongings to discover their secrets. She trusted me not to do that and I wouldn’t. I took another long look at the montage in a better light and all I could see were signs of good health and good fellowship. There were enough joints being smoked and cans being drunk from not to give it a God-bothering accent.
I was getting used to protecting my left arm, but the few times I tried to move it normally the pain shot through me and set up a throbbing ache. I took two tablets and poured a small measure of whisky into my cooling coffee. For medicinal purposes.
Her bathroom was about the size of a voting booth and I stood under the shower with hardly enough space to get the soap to the right spots. I washed my hair with her shampoo and dried myself off, performing both actions right-handed. I dragged a wide-toothed comb through my greying but thick hair, thought about using one of her disposable razors on my heavy beard, but decided against it. Clean was good enough; cleanshaven would be trying too hard.
I realised how incapacitating the injury to my shoulder was when I tried to get dressed. Like all right-handed men, I put my right arm into my shirt sleeve and take it from there. There was absolutely no prospect of dropping my left arm far and back enough to be able to bring it through the sleeve. The movement was hopelessly restricted, and any attempt to extend it sent shooting pains through the arm and shoulder. I swore and put the shirt on clumsily by slipping my left arm in first and shrugging into it. I felt like a child, just learning to dress himself, and my good mood evaporated.
I finished dressing, picked up my jacket from the couch and Vita’s key from the bench and went out into the yard behind the flat, slamming the door behind me. I was so preoccupied with the stiff shoulder that I forgot about Dylan and didn’t react in the normal wary fashion when he approached me.
The dog stood off and growled.
‘Don’t fuck with me,’ I said. ‘I’m not in the mood. Anyway, I’m the lady’s friend.’
He followed me to the gate and watched me unlock it. My having the key seemed to mollify him and he backed off. I went through the gate and was relieved to see the Falcon standing in the lane with all its bits and pieces apparently intact. The big question was-would I be able to drive it?
‘Shoulder cuff lesion,’ Dr Ian Sangster said. ‘Popularly known, although I shouldn’t say that because it’s bloody unpopular, as frozen shoulder.’
I said, ‘What’s the treatment?’ as I put my shirt back on by the left-arm first method which, for some reason, exasperated and annoyed me as much as the injury itself.
Ian lit a cigarette. He accepts all the scientific findings about smoking and disease but says smokers have to have some doctors they can go to without being lectured and he’s willing to make the sacrifice and assume the role. ‘Three ways you can go once it really freezes up on you, and this will, in my judgement. One, you can have an operation under general anaesthetic that turns the arm in the cuff, ignores the inflammation, breaks up the scar tissue and frees the joint. Two, you can spend a thousand dollars or so over the next year or so on physiotherapy, osteopathy and bloody acupuncture. Three, you can do a few stretching exercises, leave it alone and wait for the bugger to get better.’
‘Number one sounds quick, and I’ve got full medical cover.’
Ian, who has been my friend and patcher-upper for twenty years, butted his cigarette and looked at the clock. It was just past eleven, a fraction early for him to propose having a drink. We were in his Glebe Point Road rooms, immediately across the way from the pub, and lan’s patients were used to him ducking across the street. Often, they ducked across with him. He lit another cigarette, coughed and reconciled himself to being a physician for just a little longer. He is a tall, lean man whose bad habits so far have left no significant exterior mark.
‘Trouble with that is, the tissue damage done by the operation can be worse than the injury itself and you can be looking at an even longer recovery period.’
‘Shit, why is it done?’
Ian shrugged. ‘Makes money for orthopaedic surgeons and it’s the option often taken up by impatient bastards like you.’
‘OK, so you’re advising me to let it heal by itself and depriving your colleagues of custom. Sounds all right. What do I do-put it in a sling? It hurts like hell when I move it like this.’
‘I thought you were a tough guy. No, that’s the worst thing you can do. Keep it moving. Make it hurt. Your pain will be good for you.’
‘You’re a sadistic bastard, Ian.’
He snorted derisively as he ran my card through his stamping machine. Ian has long ago given up on receptionists, being unable to find one who would tolerate his erratic methods and eccentric patients. I moved to sign the slip, forgot about the arm and gasped as I put it in a painful position. ‘Bugger it. I won’t be playing tennis for a while.’
‘Your biggest problem will be in bed.’
‘Eh?’
‘Getting to sleep. You’ll find it hard to achieve a comfortable position and when you roll over onto it you’ll wake up. What about a drink?’
‘That’s terrific. I’m facing a year without sleep. Recommend alcohol, do you?’
‘Always. Shouldn’t worry a hero like you. If it gets too bad I’ll prescribe you some anti-inflammatories. Might help. By the way, Cliff, how’s Glen?’