Rose Leopard by Richard Yaxley Page A

gently.
    â€˜We’re doing all that we can,’ he tells me, and even though his choice of words seems glib, I can see that he is sincere. ‘STSS is a syndrome caused by the streptococcal bacteria. It releases toxins into a wound, thus causing infection and shock. We’re trying to combat the infection with antibiotics and yes, we will have to perform surgery on your wife’s hand, as soon as her condition — in particular her blood pressure — has stabilised. Meantime, I am in regular contact with Dr Wang to gauge his expert opinion and take advice. Okay?’
    â€˜No, it’s not bloody okay!’
    â€˜Mr Daley …’
    â€˜It’s not bloody okay! Savvy? It’s not — bloody — okay!’
    Another silence. A tap dripping somewhere, like a clock, relentless, unceasing.
    â€˜We’re doing our best, Mr Daley,’ says Garten placidly.
    I nod, shrug, feel an overwhelming surge of tiredness.
    â€˜Okay’
    He leaves. I sit in the hiatus, stare dumbly at the walls, wonder why this nation needs so many parched-outback paintings with their withered trees and burnished plains, why so many poems and stories are written about what is essentially an unoccupied wasteland, as if we need constant confirmation of our own immature mythologies.
    I decide that I should make some phone-calls.
    The mobile sits heavily in my palm like a smooth dead rat.
    â€˜Bernice? It’s Vince.’
    Bernice Deane is Kaz’s nutty mother. Short, squat, heavily powdered, smells too strongly of perfume. In possession of small lips that are, whenever I am present, bunched into a disapproving O, granite eyes, a hot-potch of bandaids and dressings that hold her arid, crinkly skin together. Hypochondriac, gossip-monger and red-neck, all rolled into one sweet little package. Think Bernice and you think frocks, accessories and sensible tan brogues, as well as a deep and malicious suspicion of:
    a)  people from other countries (everyone from the Middle East is ‘mad! Who cares if they shoot each other? Vincent? Who really cares?’)
    b)  people from Sydney, especially Cabramatta (‘the root of our national disgrace!’)
    c)  people with ‘more education than they deserve’ (i.e. me)
    d)  girls who get pregnant to increase their welfare entitlement (‘and they’re everywhere, the minxes!’)
    e)  her odd-ball son-in-law (enough said).
    Kaz and I were twenty, maybe older. We were lying at funny tangents in bed, warmed by the after-glow of morning sex. Tousled sheets wrapped our hips, there was a salty bouquet in the air, the fan whiffling above us, our moisture still gluing us together.
    Kaz rolled away, lit a cigarette.
    â€˜You probably should meet my mother,’ she said.
    A guillotine of silence fell between us. I wanted to sleep, be a baby elf snuggled beneath a toadstool. But this was obviously important.
    â€˜Why do I get the feeling,’ I asked, ‘that this is a transcendental moment?’
    â€˜Vince …’
    â€˜Why do I get the feeling that meeting your mother ranks as an international event of significance, somewhere between an audience with the Pope and the possibility of peace in the Balkans?’
    She sighed, dragged hard at the cigarette.
    â€˜She wants me to bring you for lunch on Sunday,’ she told me. ‘Sorry.’
    â€˜Don’t be. Free feed, a few laughs —’
    â€˜Laughter is not encouraged.’
    â€˜I see. Can I burp?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Swear? Tell dirty jokes? Touch the tip of my nose — or yours — with my tongue?’
    â€˜None of the above. Do nothing but eat. Masticate silently and listen politely’
    â€˜Compliment her twin-set and pearls?’
    â€˜If you must. Vince, my mother has the emotional subtlety of road-kill. She will openly appraise you; clothes, build, hairstyle, intelligence, right down to the cuticles on your