Mine was an imperfect understanding from the first; even now I have trouble making sense of it all. No star led me from Adelaide to the Gold Coast that year; the summons came via bleeper, on a Thursday afternoon in the middle of hospital rounds. Christmas was a matter of days away; outside a hot north wind was tickling across the suburbs, ruffling trees, bumping window-panes. Half the topsoil of the mid-North seemed to be hanging in the air, suspended above the city. Hay fever weather, wheezy asthma weather. Inside I was working on autopilot only, going through the motions, dragging a flock of bored students from bed to bed.
Too many positive ions, my mother — always abreast of the latest crank health fashions — would tell me.
My bleeper insisted, again; I picked up the nearest phone and was connected to a distant, half-familiar voice.
‘Mara? Mara Fox?’
I was firm: ‘This is Doctor Fox.’
‘Mara — this is Richard Pfitzner. I’m ringing from Queensland. Season’s greetings.’
It took a moment to place the name. It was probably the longest sentence the man had spoken to me, ever; more words, certainly, than he had sent my way in our six years together in medical school.
‘You’ve made quite a reputation for yourself, Mara.’
I remembered how much I had disliked him: the silver spoon wedged firmly in his mouth, the over-loud voice, the nurses always in tow. I was not worth a glance in those days: too skinny, too dowdy. Too clever. And — above all — too, forthright. A woman who spoke her mind.
‘We always knew you would succeed, Mara. Even as a student there was something special about you.’
‘Are you trying to sell me something, Richard?’
He laughed, collusively: ‘Still the same Mara.’
Behind me the students waited, shuffling feet.
‘Can you get to the point, Richard? I’m in the middle of something.’
A small throat-clearing: ‘You had heard of my appointment up here? Dean of Studies at Schultz Medical School?’
‘Congratulations.’
‘In short, Mara, I’m headhunting. We’re headhunting.’
I almost laughed out loud; he was offering me a job.
‘Mara, don’t say a word. I know what you’re thinking: Schultz Bible College. Soap-boxes, sermons. Tabloid headlines. But I want you to keep an open mind — can you do that? I want you to hear me out.’
It seemed a practised speech; he allowed me no time to answer.
‘Of course the salary package is only one of our advantages. Freedom of inquiry is what we offer: guaranteed, hands-off research funding. And I mean funding.’
Pfitzner murmured on — butter-voiced, muzak-voiced — sketching out the rough draft of an offer which even I, a financial naif, sensed was still no more than an opening bid. My own Chair, he purred. In my own Department: Reproductive Medicine. Research duties only. A team I could handpick.
‘I don’t think it would be immodest to claim that Schultz can offer facilities unmatched anywhere. And I don’t just mean in this country.’
Part of me wanted to shout ‘No!’, then and there, but somewhere a deeper, less cynical self was urging tolerance. Or was it a more cynical self: a more self-interested self? Third-rate Bible College or not, his offer had the dimensions of a lottery win, and therefore had to be heard.
‘Mara,’ Pfitzner murmured on, ‘all we’re asking is this: fly up. Look around. You look at us, we look at you. We wouldn’t want you to rush any decisions.’
‘I never rush decisions.’
‘Speaking for myself, I’m looking forward to catching up with you again. I’ve followed your work closely. You’ve become quite a celebrity.’
He halted the flow of flattery momentarily, as if allowing me a little basking time.
‘How does the New Year sound? Sometime after Christmas? My secretary can fax yours an itinerary. And arrange the tickets.’
‘I only have half a secretary. And no fax.’
He laughed, playfully. ‘That’s the public health system for you. Get out, Mara. Before it’s too late. If not here, overseas. They don’t know how to use people of your quality. First class suit you?’
He suddenly seemed a world away from my economy-class lif. The Ward Sister was nagging gently at my side: ‘You were due in theatre half an hour ago, Doctor Fox. The afternoon list.’