The Spare Room Read Online Free PDF

painful in me. It rebuked me in my suspicion and contempt. What did I know about cancer? Maybe there was something in these cockamamie theories. Maybe they were the future. Maybe Leo was wrong when he stated that vitamin C did not shrink tumours. Maybe it was unfair that these pioneers had fallen foul of the authorities and were obliged to treat their patients in shabby private clinics.
    But I couldn’t help sneaking looks at the loose swag of flesh that overlapped the waistband of Dr Tuckey’s trousers. His shirt buttons divided it into a double burden. It did not appear to be meaningfully attached to his frame. It swayed half a beat behind his movements: it trembled, it hung, a shapeless cargo of meat.

    At a quarter past eight that first evening, four hours after the time of her appointment, Nicola was called in to see Dr Tuckey.
    ‘Come on, Hel,’ she said, stowing the novel into her shoulder bag and setting out for the inner room. I paused at the door but Nicola did not hesitate. She barged in and took the first chair she saw. I scurried after her.
    A cold fluoro strip lit a scene of disorder, as of recent arrival or imminent flight. The whole floor was taken up by cardboard cartons, some of them in toppling waist-high stacks, others split and spewing manila folders. Empty metal shelves stood about on pointless angles. The window was unshielded except for a broken venetian that hung derelict on one cord.
    The surface of the desk across which the doctor greeted us with a genial nod was strewn with electronic cables. He shoved aside a large TV monitor and made a narrow space for Nicola’s file, which he began to open and close with penguin-like flappings of his hands. She launched a coherent account of her cancer, the discovery of it in her bowel, her theories about its origins, the history of its progress through her body, and the array of treatments she had already undergone. Dr Tuckey listened with flowing gestures of comfort and sympathy, like an old lady hovering over the tea things: frowning and clicking his tongue and shaking his head and raising his eyebrows and pursing his lips. Then, when Nicola fell silent, he began to speak.
    ‘You sound like the perfect person,’ he said, ‘for our kind of approach.’
    She straightened her spine and leaned back in her chair. She was smiling.
    ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think you’ll respond to it very well.’

    That night Nicola wet the bed. I came upon her in the hall at two o’clock, backing out of the spare room with an armful of sheets. ‘I had a dream,’ she said, ‘and when I woke up in the middle of it I had piss running out of me. I made it to the toilet for the rest of the stream, but look. I’ve made a mess.’
    This was the closest I had ever seen her to embarrassment. We were old bohemians, long past shame at basic bodily functions.
    ‘Give me those,’ I said. ‘I stocked up on manchester before you came.’
    ‘Manchester? This is like an Elizabeth Jolley novel.’
    We started to laugh. She sat on the chair while I made up her bed afresh. I saw her bare feet on the rug and thought of my mother, how she would clean up after me when as a child I had what she called ‘a bilious attack’. I remembered her patience in the middle of the night, the precious moments of her attention, in the house full of sleeping children who had usurped my place in her affections. In a trance of gratitude I would watch her spread the clean sheet across my bed, stretch it flat and tuck in its corners, making it nice again for the disgusting, squalid creature I had become. Without revulsion, she would pick up my soiled sheets in her arms and bear them away.

ON TUESDAY morning we took the train to the city. I showed her how to avoid the chaos of Flinders Street Station by getting off at Parliament; we walked down to the Theodore Institute together. Sensing wariness in Colette’s greeting, I left Nicola there to settle in for her first treatment, and went downstairs to