A Marriage Made in Reading: and Other Stories

By M J Lasker

Doctor Nwar is a most unusual psychiatrist: his patients include both the living and the dead. He journeys throughout the world, he travels in time, and his patients come from all ages to seek his help. In quiet voices, they tell him their personal stories and they reveal to him their innermost hopes, dreams and fears.

They discuss with him the fascinating subject of life, the big and the small issues. How do I search for happiness? How do I cope with pain and sadness? Doctor, what advice can you give me about love? About loss? About the possibility of finding a sustaining direction in my life?

Together, the psychiatrist and his patients share the most intimate stories. Together they laugh, they cry, they reminisce, and, most of all, together they wonder: what if.

Doctor Nwar’s most interesting and revealing cases are presented by Phoebe von Messinger. Doctor von Messinger was a long-time (several centuries) manager of Doctor Nwar’s psychiatry practice. She was also its resident nurse, and most importantly, his perennial chronicler. Touched, she admits, by the ‘lure of the pen’, she delves into the subtle complexity of his cases, outlining them lucidly in simple and readable prose. (She points out that all of the Doctor’s case notes can be found in his time-travelling office, in the filing cabinets under the painting – the original – of Whistler’s Mother. ‘Most apt for a psychiatrist, don’t you think?’ she comments.)

Readers will be pleased to find that Doctor von Messinger is particularly adept at sketching revealing pen-portraits of the patients; and also most skilful at capturing Doctor Nwar’s own warm and sympathetic character.
The patients search out Doctor Nwar from all over the world. And of course, from the other world. They also travel from different times and different ages. But their questions are the eternal ones. They ask Doctor Nwar to help them find happiness, and to grasp meaning in the flux and the beauty of life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Aug 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9781922812711

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Copyright 2022 © M J Lasker

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Disclaimer

This story is entirely a work of fiction.

No character in this story is taken from real life. Any resemblance to any person or persons living or dead is accidental and unintentional.

The author, their agents and publishers cannot be held responsible for any claim otherwise and take no responsibility for any such coincidence.

Cover design and layout by Ally Mosher at allymosher.com

Cover artwork by M J Lasker

A MARRIAGE MADE IN READING

PROLOGUE

There was a time during the last century when the renowned psychiatrist, Professor Jules Nwar, FRAPA, AWAGPTL (Paris, London) had consulting rooms in the city of Sydney.

At that time, I, Phoebe von Messinger, was honoured to be his resident nurse and practice manager.

I was also his chronicler.

In the following pages, I describe, from those Sydney years, one of his interesting cases.

In one sense, the story may be trivial. I am not sure it can claim any lofty academic research value. I suspect it lacks the requisite major psychological and philosophical implications.

In short, it won’t be found in the text books.

It is simply presented here, an extract from the many files, as a simple example of the complex human desire to love.

As the patient herself says – most accurately it seems to me – it is a story for romantics.

THE CASE

She was an old woman. It was her first visit to Doctor Nwar.

Her face was leathery and wrinkled. There was the sadness of life about it. She must have seen many things.

But she smiled a lot. So she must have seen some good things as well.

Doctor Nwar had greeted her in the reception area and then escorted her into the rooms.

Inside the door she stopped and placed her hat and umbrella on the stand.

She surveyed the room, then walked briskly to the chair. She placed her bag on the floor and began taking off her gloves.

She adjusted her glasses and looked at Doctor Nwar.

He felt a little that he was being surveyed as well.

‘I am so pleased, Doctor,’ she said, ‘to be in this part of Sydney again.’

She carefully folded her gloves and laid them next to her bag.

‘The park, the streets around Central Station, I haven’t been down here for quite some time.’

‘Are you a Sydney-sider?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘born and bred. But I left when I was sixteen, and I spent my working career in Victoria and Melbourne.

‘I came back to Sydney a decade ago. I live across the harbour …’

She looked over towards the window.

‘It is so nice to be reacquainted with the city and its streets. They are quite beautiful, as I am sure you know.’

‘Yes, I certainly do.’

‘Have you noticed, Doctor, how rain is a powerful catalyst to memory?’

He looked at her with interest.

‘The raindrops, each with a rainbow in them, and the aroma – of the water itself, and of other things, like trees, and grass, and flowers. And yes, concrete and steel, and tar … the smell of all these things, elicited, and exaggerated, by the rain.’

She turned her head, and brushed the chair with her hand. She sat down.

She wriggled a little, making herself comfortable. Then she clasped her hands and folded them into her lap.

She looked up and smiled.

‘Ready at last,’ she said. ‘When does the consultation begin?’

‘Whenever you are ready.’

‘Well … with your permission, Doctor, I would like to tell you a story.’

‘Please do.’

‘It is a story for the romantics.’

‘Yes please,’ replied Doctor Nwar, with a smile of his own.

She looked away and paused.

There was a period of silence.

Doctor Nwar watched her. He saw the familiar signs: the psychological struggle to start.

He laid down his notebook. ‘Before we begin,’ he suggested, ‘would a cup of tea help our story?’

She replied instantly: ‘A cup of tea helps everything.’

Doctor Nwar came out of the rooms. He asked me to prepare a pot of tea and a selection of cake and biscuits.

I did so, and when I took the tray in, I took time to glance at the patient. As I was doing so, she looked up to thank me.

She had very blue eyes and her voice was soft and musical.

I thought to myself, as I went back to the door, that, if she was telling the Doctor a story, he would certainly enjoy hearing it.

She took her cup of tea with a little milk and a biscuit. She savoured the tea. She smacked her lips.

She looked around the room and then she said to Doctor Nwar: ‘My parents christened me Rosalind, but I was always called Rosie …

‘I would like it if you called me that.’

‘I would be most pleased to, Rosie.’

She nodded.

‘It was back in the early fifties – when my story starts.

‘Having done my library training in Melbourne, I was working with the State Library Service.

‘I was transferred to a regional country town called Rutherglen.

‘It was a smallish town, but the Library itself was quite a size, because it was a regional library. We served a number of the towns nearby.

‘The libraries and people in those towns would request books and we would deliver them by truck.

‘It was my first posting and I was quite young and shy …

‘At the Rutherglen Library, there was a staff of six.

‘There was Mister Osborne. He was the boss. Officially he was the Manager of the State Library Service Centre, Rutherglen. He always insisted we get the title right.

‘Mister Osborne had the distinction of having served in both the world wars. That meant he was older and distinguished. It also meant he could be quite grumpy.

‘He was a touch frightening at first. Maybe even more than a touch. But after a time, I learnt that he was a gentle man who had been hurt by what he had seen in the wars.

‘And, though he wouldn’t say anything, his arthritis would often play up.

‘He was a fine manager in the old fashioned sense. In a military sense. Everything had to be just so. And he was quick to point out if it wasn’t.

‘There were two drivers at the Library. Ernie and Bob. They were younger fellows. Much younger than Mister Osborne. Ernie in his middle thirties and Bob in his early twenties.

‘Ernie had been in the war as well. He had served in New Guinea when the Japanese invaded.

‘Because they had both been soldiers in the war, there was a certain bond between Mister Osborne and Ernie.

‘They never spoke about it, and didn’t show much, but you could tell they had a special regard for each other.

‘As I said, the other driver was Bob. He was younger. And funny, and cheerful, and bright and breezy.

‘Because he was young, he wore the fashionable clothes of the day.

‘His hair was brushed up with lots of hair tonic, and he wore tight jeans, and shoes with pointed toes.

‘As drivers, Ernie and Bob had to wear work coats. Ernie told me that Mister Osborne had suddenly introduced the coat rule. That was because he wanted to cover Bob up.

‘Ernie said that Mister Osborne told him: we don’t want people saying there are bodgies working at the State Library Service!’

She nodded at the memory, and laughed out loud.

‘They were good mates as well, Ernie and Bob, though they didn’t see much of each other at work. That was because we had two trucks for deliveries, and the trucks would go to different places.

‘So Ernie and Bob would greet each other in the mornings, share some male talk and camaraderie, and then they would set off on their deliveries, in opposite directions.

‘There were two other members of staff, Mary Wilkins, the only woman there, until I arrived. And Barry Burnside.

‘It is these two people who are at the centre of the story I want to tell you.’

She sipped on her tea, ate some cake, and waited for a minute. Her face was thoughtful.

‘I said it was a romantic story didn’t I?’

‘Yes, you did.’

‘Well it is …

‘It is also about what life does to people. What they talk about and what they won’t talk about. And about the choices they make, within those parameters.

‘I am now an older woman, Doctor, as you can see …’

Doctor Nwar nodded respectfully, but also with respect, did not say anything.

‘I never married and have no family, so I have lots of time to think. And I think a lot about memories.

‘I dwell on the times I spent at places like Rutherglen.

‘I believe, in some strange way, that it was Mary Wilkins and Barry Burnside who really taught me to think.

‘To read and to think …’

She smiled. ‘I am sorry. I am like a modern novelist, am I not, who won’t get on with the story?’

Doctor Nwar laughed. He offered her another biscuit, which she took.

‘I am not sure you should be rewarding the modernist trend, Doctor Nwar,’ she said.

He saw the flash of impishness in her eyes.

‘Mary Wilkins was the Chief Librarian. There was nothing she didn’t know about libraries. In effect she ran the State Library Service Centre at Rutherglen, with Mister Osborne as the titular head.

‘This suited them both. Mister Osborne was feeling his age, and was looking forward to retirement when he would move lock stock and barrel to the Rutherglen Golf Club. Its beautiful nine holes, and its charming bar …

‘He was quite happy to let Mary Wilkins run the show. Especially since she was very tactful, and a good actress to boot.

‘She was very good at acting the part of the loyal Lieutenant to Mister Osborne’s Colonel.

‘In public she deferred efficiently to his wisdom and experience. And, with brisk contentment, she carried out his orders.

‘In private, of course, she was the one devising the orders. But she always, always, ran them past the eyes of Mister Osborne.

‘As you probably know, for a good actress there is often no delineation between private and public. To ensure no slippages the role must be seamless.

‘And a good actress, being a priori female, is also aware that many men – most men perhaps – when it comes to their own lives, are unable to grasp the public and private divide.

‘Suspecting for a terrible moment, as they look in the shaving mirror, that they are, in effect, not in charge, they immediately block out such unworthy workings of the mind, and redouble their efforts when they stride purposefully onto the stage of public appearance …

‘But Mary managed all this – might I say managed all this deliciously – so that Mister Osborne’s shaving mirror was a happy, uncontentious place for him and, at the same time, the management of the State Library Service Centre at Rutherglen was both akin to clockwork, and widely and unreservedly attributed to him.

‘Each afternoon, he would lean up against the bar of the Rutherglen Club and bask in self-satisfaction and glory.’

Here the patient paused.

She nibbled on the biscuit and sipped on her tea.

Doctor Nwar was happy for the sudden quiet, because this flight of words had left him slightly exhausted.

He too sipped tea. He also surreptitiously glanced at the old woman, his patient, with respect and a growing warmth.

With pleasure, he awaited the continuation of her story.

‘Mary Wilkins …’ she said. ‘Mary Wilkins was simply … simply … the best librarian I have ever seen …

‘Ever. Let me tell you something about her.

‘When I arrived, and I was only nineteen, she would have been approaching her forties.

‘My first impression was of a stern authoritative woman. She reminded me of my mathematics teacher at school.

‘She was brisk and efficient, and constantly on the move.

‘I found her daunting from the start. I saw her striding from job to job, function to function, and resolution to resolution.

‘And she did stride, indeed she did – she strode out, yes, eyes ever forward, brimming with contented purpose.

‘She radiated confidence to all who met her, as if she was sending out psychic waves that said: I know what I am doing. I know my job. I know your job. I know all the jobs here in the State Library Service Centre at Rutherglen, and I will see to it, you can rest assured, that what needs to be done will be done.

‘And done with steely efficiency and a clipped, frosty courtesy.

‘I suppose I saw in her a mix of my mathematics teacher, the Pythagorean Terror, and the nursing matron I used to see at Sydney Hospital when, as a girl, I would go in there with my mother to visit my father when his war wounds were playing up.

‘Frosty, stern, overwhelmingly efficient, frightening, focused … And this view of her was only increased as I came to realise that she was the real boss of the State Library Service Centre at Rutherglen.’

Here she paused again. She looked at Doctor Nwar.

‘I am trying to be chronological, as I am sure you are aware, Doctor.

‘I will begin with the sharp judgements of a very green young woman. And, as we continue, I would like to talk to you about how my naïve, and rather snobbish, views were gradually changed by events, and the passing of time …’

She waited. ‘Is that OK?’ she asked.

Doctor Nwar smiled and replied, ‘That is just how a consultation should proceed.’

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘Mary Wilkins dressed severely. She inevitably wore a blouse, a cardigan if required by the weather, a skirt, with hem below the knee, stockings and very sensible shoes.

‘She eschewed colour. It was almost as if the war was still going on. Camouflage colours, it seemed to me, were her choice. Light greens, beiges, browns …

‘She liked to wear hats, simple berets and manly fedoras. These too were invariably in her standard, subdued colour range.

‘Her hair was auburn, and quite bright, which she probably regretted, because she always wore it tied back, in a bun, or, in the hotter months, in a pony-tail.

‘And no make-up. None whatsoever. All of which made her – was designed to make her – blend into the background.

‘Or rather, perhaps more accurately, to make her only visible, clearly visible, to eyes solely concerned with library work and management …

‘So that, Doctor, it came as quite a shock to me, when some years later, I had opportunity to stop – to stop and look at her face.

‘To look at her, really I suppose, for the very first time.

‘What I noticed then was her olive skin, her freckles, her lips that were tight, and her eyes which were quite blue. And seemed to me, in those later years, wanting to be even bluer, and certainly not tight in any way at all.’

She stopped suddenly and laughed slightly.

She seemed a touch embarrassed.

Doctor Nwar had already noticed, of course, her love of language.

And the skill with which she used it.

He had also began to be accustomed to the rhythm of her words. How they built up, until she suddenly decided that the poetry was becoming a little too rich, or too soon, and then she pulled back, or stopped completely.

He wondered if this pattern would continue throughout the consultation.

Or if the building up would gradually continue without stop until he was lucky enough to find himself hearing something like an ageless oral narrative, something in the beautiful old, communal tradition.

She counted off on her fingers.

‘Mister Osborne, Mary Wilkins, and Ernie and Bob … Let me tell you about the final member of staff …

‘His name was Barry Burnside.

‘He was probably in his early forties. He was titled the Research Manager.

‘This meant that, among other things, he would take on board all the projects that came to the State Library Service Centre, Rutherglen.

‘From endless tasks and directions emanating from central office, to frequent requests from the other libraries we serviced, to helping individual library users with research of their own, both big and small.

‘He too was an impressive librarian. He had been trained in Melbourne.

‘Barry Burnside – it was obvious to see – had suffered from polio as a child – on one leg he wore the big boot with the built-up sole, and he walked with a profound limp, and a clumping noise.

‘He was of few words. He spoke very softly. He had curly brown hair. At first he seemed shy.

‘But when you asked him something, he opened up a little and was very helpful and very knowledgeable.

‘He had a nice crooked smile, boyish, and when he smiled, he would look at you with his thoughtful eyes.

‘Because he and Mary Wilkins were of roughly similar age, and because there was some doubt – at least there was with me at the start – to the status of their positions, it could probably be thought that there might be some competition between them.

‘Her title – it was on her door – was Assistant Library Manager, whereas he was the Library Research Manager.

‘But, as far as I could see, there was no competition at all.

‘They spoke very politely to each other. It was always Miss Wilkins and Mister Burnside.

‘And of course, everyone referred to the Manager as Mister Osborne. So it was Mister Osborne, Miss Wilkins, and Mister Burnside.

‘The pattern was only changed with Ernie and Bob, the drivers. Although they referred to everyone else by their formal names, they referred to each other as just Ernie and Bob. And were so called by everyone else.

‘From the moment I arrived, I was called Miss Hammond.’

She paused for a moment.

Then she said: ‘But I would still like you to call me Rosie, if that is OK, Doctor?’

‘Of course, Rosie.’

‘Everybody there treated Mary Wilkins as the second in command, 2IC, if I may continue to use military parlance.

‘That was accepted, that was the public position, although we all knew in private that she really ran the organisation. That was the agreed, unstated consensus.

‘And Barry Burnside accepted that. For the shy man that he was, and his quietness and his physical slowness caused by his childhood polio, he seemed to me to be a man who was surprisingly comfortable in his own skin …

‘It is the relationship of Miss Wilkins and Mister Burnside that I would like to talk to you about.’

She waited for his agreement, and then she said formally: ‘I do thank you, Doctor.

‘As I was saying, Mary Wilkins and Barry Burnside always addressed each other very respectfully and very politely.

‘And they were most efficient in their work together. They worked long hours and very hard – so it seemed to me – for the good of the State Library Service Centre, Rutherglen.

‘But as I worked there myself, and time progressed, I began to understand that, not only were they colleagues, but that there was a friendship there as well.

‘A certain kind of friendship …

‘It was very dignified – I never heard them call each other by first names for example – but nevertheless a friendship it was.

‘Respectful and considerate and ever polite. And I eventually came to realise that it was based on … books.’

She looked up.

‘So natural for librarians, don’t you think?’

She smiled.

‘In the Library building, we had a little staff kitchen, but most of us would bring our lunch. Sandwiches, fruit, cake, thermoses of tea, and drinks, etc.

‘There was a lovely park next to the Library. And bushland behind us with benches and tables, so we were very spoilt.

‘And over the years, I often saw Miss Wilkins and Mister Burnside lunching together.

‘As I was inquisitive and interested, I noticed three distinct scenarios.

‘The first was when they would sit and eat their lunch, but seemed to have very little conversation. As though they were just sitting and enjoying the surroundings, the views, the bush, the breeze, the sounds of all the birds …

‘The second was when they would be eating their lunch and they would be reading