Short story: Hearsay, by Owen Marshall

Newsroom

2 days ago

'Biscuits, Baking Needs, Breakfast products' the sign read above the supermarket aisle into which Marianne Crawshaw turned her trolley, and it was there she saw Becky Allan. Usually Marianne preferred not to see friends when shopping, because it held her up and the Saturday supermarket day was always a busy one, but Becky was one of her best friends and even chance meetings were welcome. 'Why hello Mrs Becky,' she said, pushing her trolley close to the dried fruit so as not to block the isle for others. It annoyed her when people did that.
'I think I'll get my groceries delivered,' said Becky, 'or better still those boxes with all the ingredients for the meals made up. I'm not cut out to be a bloody housewife.' Becky wasn't a housewife in fact, but a planning officer at the Council. She did have a five year old daughter, who was fretting at her skirt. 'Stop that, Ava.'
'It'll cost you though, Food Bags,' said Marianne.
'Everything's costing us now though isn't it. I don't know how some people stay alive. Prices always more and the contents always less. Double whammy isn't it. Stop that, Ava.' They talked about the double whammy and also the Golf Club raffle night, and then they watched Dr Alice Worser walk by with just a supermarket basket. They didn't know her, but knew who she was. Most of the doctors in their part of the city were known by sight to most of the people who lived there. Dr Worser gave a brief, professional smile.
'Renee goes to Dr Worser,' said Marianne when the doctor had gone by. 'She says she's been sort of funny the last times.'
'Funny, how?'
'She kept humming, even when Renee was talking.'
'But Renee's always talking isn't she,' said Becky. 'Stop that I said, Ava.'
'Pretty much, yes,' said Marianne, but not unkindly and they went on to other topics.
*
Becky had her hair colour reinforced that Saturday afternoon, in the Tendrils Saloon. She always had Evelyn, who understood how she wanted things done. They talked as familiars even though they never met socially outside the salon. Mathew Driffel was there also, waiting to have what remained of his hair trimmed. For most of his life he'd gone to barbers, but that seemed a dying trade, and like so many older men, he'd ended up in a salon and become accustomed to being surrounded by women there. Becky and Evelyn talked of the weather, the local repertory production, the ram raid on McGruders and when subjects were running out, Becky thought of Dr Worser. 'A friend told me this morning that Dr Worser's started singing in surgery,' she said. 'Do you go to her?'
'No,' said Evelyn, 'but people say she's very good, just a bit brisk.'
'Well now she's decided to give them something different. Singing.'
'Maybe the stress is too much. Telling people they're going to die, or that something's burst inside, can't be easy.'
'Anyway, weird isn't it. I'd be wary if I was going there.'
*
Mathew wasn't sitting far away, but there were others talking in the salon and his hearing wasn't great, but he was interested in mention of Dr Worser's condition, because his daughter went to her. 'I hear Dr Worser's started singeing her patients,' he told her when she called that night. 'And they don't take to it. There's complaints been made.' He added that for a little additional impact.
'What do you mean singeing?' Isla asked. 'Singeing what?'
'I'm not sure, but it's not going down at all well. I suppose singeing hair, or maybe wounds. You cauldronise wounds don't you.'
'Cauterise,' she said.
'Yeah, well people are talking about it thats for sure. Even a doctor shouldn't go round burning people. Maybe you should change.'
'I never go any more than I have to,' said Isla. 'Does sound odd though doesn't it.'
*
Isla told Peter Tangaroa about it at the gym on Monday. Very early, and with the late autumn morning barely begun. Peter was often there at the same time and although younger than Isla there was an undercurrent of sexual frisson between them. She especially liked the way his thigh muscle bunched above the knee when he did leg presses. 'My doctor's taken to burning people,' she said.
'Jesus. Not at the stake I hope.'
'Just burns them I gather. Anyone who turns up for an appointment.'
'What's his name?
'Her name. Dr Alice Worser,' she said.
'Are you serious? What's being done about it?'
'I only heard in the weekend. There's to be formal complaints for sure. I'm not going back until she's okay. Maybe not even then. You just don't imagine doctors get sick do you, though this of course can't be a physical thing.'
'Freakin' strange really. I've heard of her,' and Peter began his exercises again, reassured of his own well-being in all respects. 'Burning people. My god. What with, a prod, or acids?'
'Whatever, it's not on is it,' Isla said.
'And what about the ram raid at McGruders, eh?' said Peter as he watched Isla's breasts lift during a shoulder press.
'Little buggers,' said Isla.
*
Peter told his mother about it that evening over a pumpkin and broccoli quiche. He would have preferred something with meat in it, but he knew there was apple crumble to follow and said nothing because he was fortunate to be still living at home and contributing eff all as he saved to go overseas. 'Do you know Dr Worser?' he asked his mother.
'Of course I do. She's in the Bridge club with me. Gold room.'
'She's gone berko and attacked some of her patients. The police have been involved.'
'Who told you all this?'
'A friend at the gym who goes to her, but won't be any more. She's been electrocuting people or something, burning them anyway. Maybe someone finally died. The police were called.'
'How awful. When did all this happen?'
'Dunno,' said Peter. 'Not long I think.'
'It can't be long, or I would've heard at the club. She wasn't there on Tuesday, but seemed just fine the time before. Not that she ever talks a great deal about herself, but she didn't seem bothered by anything.' Marama Tangaroa was a kindly woman and quite concerned at what Peter had said. She liked Alice Worser, even though not a close friend. She'd been her partner once in a local tournament when both their regular partners had been unavailable. 'People say she's a very thorough doctor,' she told her son, 'and she never gets cross at Bridge. You want to hear some of the snarky things some of them say at the table.'
'Maybe she's got personal problems.'
'Her husband did go off with the cleaner, but that was years ago. She seems very settled now. She's a top player and goes to national tournaments when she can.'
'Who knows then,' said Peter. He was more interested in the dessert.
*
Marama decided to ring Dr Worser to see if she was okay, if there was any help she needed. Better in the evening and using her mobile number, Marama thought. Even if the police had been called, even if someone had died, surely Alice Worser wouldn't be in a cell.
'Alice Worser speaking.'
'Yes, hello Alice. It's Marama from the Bridge club here.'
'Oh yes, hello Marama.'
'I just want to say how sorry I am about what's happened and if there's any way I can help.'
'Sorry about what, I'm not with you?'
'About the accidents in your surgery with patients and the police and everything.' Marama began to feel rather foolish, aware of a certain vagueness in her knowledge of events.
'Well, I'm not long home, but there were no police waiting for me, and the worst accident of the day was a baby vomiting on the new couch at the clinic.'
'The person who told me must have got muddled,' said Marama. 'I'm sorry I said anything. I just wanted you to know you've got support.'
'I appreciate that, and don't feel bad. Maybe some other doctor has had a bad experience. God knows the pressure's there. Ever since Covid there seems no let up at all. Who's your own GP?'
'Dr Kruger.'
'An excellent physician,' Dr Worser said, and whatever her opinion that would have been her reply, for she observed professional guidelines. 'And you're keeping well?'
'Fine thanks,' said Marama. 'I'm glad everything okay. I wasn't prying at all.'
'Of course not. I do appreciate your concern and look forward to seeing you at the club. I hope to make it on Tuesday.'
Dr Worser didn't spend time speculating on Marama's call. Her profession had accustomed her to personal idiosyncrasies. Before the call she had begun watching a French film on Netflix, and wished to return to it. The French were so cynical and yet so emotionally true in their depiction of relationships. She went back into the lounge to continue watching, humming to herself, just slightly.
Asked what was on his mind when he wrote the story, Owen Marshall replied, 'This is a light-hearted story based on the reality that often we mishear or misconstrue what is said. This can lead to humour and oddity, but also sometimes results in more serious misunderstanding.'