Rajan still said nothing. She couldn’t understand it. What was wrong with him? He had been offered a part-time job with an old friend from Colombo, Dr Pasu—and he had said no. He was sixty-five, the retirement age for some men, but she couldn’t believe that was the life he wanted. This was an excellent opportunity to start working in a clinic in Sydney. Pasu’s practice was famous in the community; it was expanding and he needed an experienced partner like Rajan.

‘Do you want to just keep seeing patients here in this apartment? Do you want this place to be your surgery for the rest of your life?’ Nala asked, her voice becoming increasingly shrill. She tried not to think about the beautiful surgery in Colombo that he had designed himself. She tried not to think about what they had left behind.

When patients came to the apartment to see him, she loved the company and conversation, even if it was about illness. Perhaps especially if it was about illness; her personal lexicon on the subject was impressive. But she also hated showing people where her husband now worked.

The apartment was small and the lighting was insufficient. But with a desk lamp and his reflecting mirror, Rajan could focus a beam of light into a patient’s ear, nose, or throat and create the environment he wanted. Sometimes she would hold an additional lamp over his shoulder, apologising to the patient as she assisted him. Rajan didn’t notice or mind. She could almost see his brain, eyes, and hands connect as he put on his microscope glasses and focused the loupes. He only noticed the ‘paining’ parts of local Tamils. He never charged them more than the Medicare rate. He loved working; he didn’t have to be in Cinnamon Gardens—Strathfield in Sydney was fine, as long as he had a lamp and loupes.

‘I want you to work,’ she shouted at him.

‘I am working.’ He didn’t raise his voice.

‘I know, but I want you to work somewhere better than this,’ she replied, motioning to their apartment.

‘If this place is good enough for us to live, then it’s good enough for me to work. Plus—’ he paused.

‘Yes, plus?’ she prompted, raising her eyebrows. He could be infuriating.

‘I am working somewhere else,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘I’ve been working somewhere else for the last few months. I’m seeing patients at the Holsworthy Barracks Hospital, in the south.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve been seeing patients at the Holsworthy Barracks Hospital,’ he repeated.

‘Yes, I heard you. What does that mean?’

‘It means that I’ve been seeing patients—’

‘I understand what it means; I want to know what you mean.’ What on earth was going on? Other women’s husbands had secret mistresses, sometimes secret wives. Hers had a secret job.