Homecoming (4 page)

She huffed off into the house.

He resumed reading
The Civil War.

THE PREROGATIVE OF
the affluent and the ambitious, Martin reflects now without resentment. Hire and fire with equal ease. He re-reads the note. Very honest, he concedes. There is no pretension of politeness. It is impersonal and toned to a scale of efficiency. He didn’t like the woman. She was fussy and overbearing. With more resolve, he returns to the telephone.

‘It’s me.’ He talks a little, to ease things. Tells Frank about Colin being in hospital again. Frank remembers these men.

‘Oh Dad…I’m sorry.’

Martin scratches his forehead in relief. He is unable to detect any trace of hostility in his son’s voice. In fact, Frank sounds vague and subdued. ‘Not entirely unexpected.’

‘I didn’t think he’d be readmitted so soon,’ says Frank.

Martin is reluctant to discuss Colin’s condition. Cancer seems far more sinister and insidious than the fighting they had known. Instead, he says, ‘Ah…can I take you up on your offer of lunch next week?’

There is a brief silence of surprise. ‘Sure, sure! I—we’d like that.’

They agree to meet in a St Kilda bistro.

Martin hangs up, pleased to have made the call. There is so much that can go wrong between parents and children. Respect for your children’s privacy can often be misconstrued
as indifference, but concern for their wellbeing can provoke accusations of interference. It’s a delicate balance, hinging on the degree of willingness to accept differences. Martin regrets the heated argument he and Frank had at their last meeting, in a pub. But he’s unable to recall at what point the conversation turned to Frank’s personal life. It had not occurred to him that, given Frank’s professional success, he could be insecure or dissatisfied with life. It was a simplistic assumption, Martin admitted to himself later, ashamed of his self-absorption.

MARTIN HAD INSISTED
on another round of beer. He had drifted towards that state of mind where he was vaguely aware that he’d had enough to drink and yet did not care. Recklessness—the foetal stage of the Freudian death wish, where you shrug off the safety factors of living! It was a sinister dimension of freedom.

‘Three in three years. That’s not a bad effort, mate!’ He looked accusingly at his son. ‘What’s the record? Ten in ten? And after that? Even fools eventually learn.’

‘This time it’s serious,’ Frank said stiffly. ‘We’re planning to move out of the city. Live in Daylesford. Buy a property with five or ten acres. Slow things down. Maria should be able to find a job in one of the towns there. There’s still a demand for physiotherapists in regional areas…’ Frank looked at him. ‘How about if we all have lunch? You can meet her then. My shout, of course.’

Martin ignored the offer. ‘There’s no bloody commitment to a relationship these days,’ he droned. ‘And what about your job?’

‘I want to do something different. Something less stressful.’

‘Stressful?’
Martin mocked. ‘I could handle sixty-five thousand dollars worth of stress.’

‘If you weren’t so stubborn about not accepting the War Veterans’ pension, you wouldn’t be so money orientated!’ Frank snapped. ‘You don’t understand what it’s like to be in the computing business. Pressure all the time. Abusive clients. Paper work. Bosses who expect you to work late. And then there’s the image, the social side of things. You’re supposed to lead life in a certain way. People judge me by what I do, how much I earn, the way I look and what I know.’ Frank took a breath. ‘The
trendy
culture!
Efficiency
and
tangible success
and all those
key words.
So I pretend to be cool and in control. Hey! This is Australia! Best country and all that. Dress smartly, eat out, know about all the latest from Europe, enjoy the outdoors, talk about the arts and community affairs, rubbish politicians, run up a debt and feel good about yourself…But I want to find time for myself, and do things
I
really want. There are bits of me scattered all over the place.’

Martin was in no condition for this. ‘Yours is a selfish generation,’ he announced imperiously. ‘Self-gratification is all you desire.’

‘Not true!’ Frank retorted. ‘You’re against anyone who won’t succumb to masochism. You think it’s virtuous to be up against the wall. You want to struggle to make a living, so that you can blame an unfair world for inflicting hardship on you. Where is the sense in that? There’s no flexibility in your scheme of things. No spontaneity. That’s not about simple living—it’s more about miserable living!’

More words. Accusations. Until they parted, silently hostile.

MARTIN WONDERS HOW
different it might have been with a daughter. He and Moira had often talked about having another child or two. Until Ron Morris’s wife gave birth to their second baby a boy who was born without fingers.

‘We brought something back with us!’ Ron had insisted bitterly. ‘Something inside us. Christ! What a frigging mess!’ He had broken down and cried. Martin and the others watched helplessly each contemplating a private future of calamity. The jugs of beer remained untouched.

The next time Moira spoke of having another child, Martin lost his temper and yelled at her.

He dispels the memory of Moira, of her bewilderment and his own ranting.

Martin considers himself to be fortunate in Frank’s wellbeing. His son is in good health, intelligent and articulate. But in some ways Frank disappoints him. The young man appears to have no awareness of cultural boundaries, nor does he allow himself to be guided by tradition. Frank dabbles in whatever appeals to his craving for the exotic. He studies and practises Buddhism, chants mantras for relaxation, indulges in Asian cooking, visits Hindu friends during their religious festivals—even participating in the rituals when he is permitted—and reads Vedic literature. He plans to travel to Tibet, and the Hunza Valley in Pakistan. And now—another change of partner.

Martin wanders into the lounge room. The darkness here has a calming influence. He steels himself against thinking about the letters from the bank, or about Colin lying in a hospital room, uttering words about the continuing enrichment of his mind which has not been
invaded by the cancer. ‘The therapy of egotistical thinking,’ Colin had once joked. ‘Even as my body retreats from life, I remain positive.’

Martin welcomes the tiredness that has crept into his limbs. A car pulls up on the opposite side of the street. There are acrimonious voices. He moves to the double window and looks out.

On the other side a girl stands under the streetlight, gesticulating at a young man. Martin does not know her name. He has witnessed her growing up. She would smile at him shyly a few years ago—that innocent and uncertain look of a schoolgirl. These days she is self-assured and cautious about the world, a working woman with the mask of wariness in place. Occasionally they nod to each other in passing.

‘You prick!’ she screams now. The man takes a menacing step towards her.

A fit of trembling seizes Martin. He resists rushing outside to see if she needs assistance. ‘It’s none of my business!’ he chatters between his teeth. The argument subsides. Unexpectedly the girl gets into the passenger seat. Doors slam. The car roars away. Several minutes pass before Martin stops shaking.

Cautiously he peers into the night again. There is a bare stretch of the road illuminated by the streetlight. He wipes his forehead and moves away from the window to the stereo.

Ella Fitzgerald is throaty and moody. Martin contemplates the barren order in the house. An accumulation of things. He envisages a landscape without foliage, dotted with rocks. He thinks about a girl he knew. The years have fled in a blur of
indistinguishable images. They are in a dim room, dancing. Her body strains against him. Her face…as it was. But now she is much older. There is sadness in these pictures.

Restlessly he paces the room and then returns to the window. There are memories. But he does not know how to remember desire.

‘How’s Nora?’

The question is a ploy to direct the course of the hour’s ‘chat’, as Andrew Gribble likes to call it. Sometimes Martin resents Andrew’s familiarity with his personal life. But intrusion is necessary for the sorting out process that began years ago. Martin has stopped asking himself whether he is permanently impaired. He understands that there will be no definitive pronouncement of biblical magnitude:
You are healed.
This is not the age of absolutism.

But he no longer wakes up in the middle of the night screaming and sweating, with noises in his ears pounding him into abjection. Now he comes here without a sense of clearly defined purpose. Even his scepticism has eroded.

In the years since he began these sessions, Martin has seen Andrew’s hairline recede. Lines have lacerated his face. These days he wears spectacles and bow ties. Dark suits. The voice is more modulated, the phrasing less colloquial. He is slightly hunched, perhaps under the weight of two divorces.

Once this was a wallpapered room decorated with cheap prints. Now the brick walls are adorned with expensively framed paintings. Investment in aesthetics. It almost sounds noble. The furniture, which is likely to be seen in glossy magazines, makes the room more impersonal. Perhaps it is meant to have that effect. Certainly there is no desire to linger after the mandatory hour has passed.

Spending time in such opulent surroundings can be disconcerting. There are settees and chairs upholstered in dark leather. Shelves made from Tasmanian blackwood. Paperbacks are an insignificant minority. A huge desk with neatly placed paraphernalia. Cabinets and tables, polished and glistening, are adorned with freshly cut flowers in valuable vases. Elegant lamps. Andrew Gribble is eminently successful, highly professional and, from all accounts, brilliant in his field of work. But—ah, there is a triumphant and irrevocable qualification—he has aged.

‘Martin, how is Nora?’

He looks briefly at the psychiatrist and then shuts his eyes.
Is there any point in telling you? How do you think she is? A sliver of her mind seems to have disappeared. The truth is, I can’t really tell. There are times when I think she is exacting some kind of revenge by playing a role. It keeps me on tenterhooks. The skin on her face and neck hangs like thin sheets of parchment. There are bald patches on her head. It’s painful to think of the way she was. She is desolate and full of anguish. Maybe those are her reasons for living. It was her birthday in April. I don’t even know how old she is. Certainly much younger than I am. I went to different florists and ordered flowers to be sent to her. The cards read, ‘Happy birthday! From Bob and Marilyn.’ ‘With love,
Caroline and Damien.’ ‘Thinking of you. Love, Margot and Peter.’ I ordered a cake to be delivered to the hostel. Am I taking too much credit? Well, that’s what happened. Then I went to see her with a dozen roses and a box of chocolates. I wanted to make her feel as if people still cared and remembered. To strike a chord of happiness maybe. I couldn’t bear the thought of her feeling lonely…Oh, there must be other reasons! Loyalty, for what she has been to me. For God’s sake, don’t ask me if I love her. I don’t know. I don’t bloody well know
—

‘Martin, how is Nora?’ The voice is insistent but professionally patient.

‘As well as she can be.’

‘Have you seen her lately?’

‘On her birthday, and again about four weeks ago.’ He feels guilty about the time lapse.

‘Tell me about it.’

It? Can
it
be interpreted as a factual narrative of movement and dialogue? What about the intricacies of thought, and the dynamics of physical presence that determine motivation and behaviour? Martin has no desire to answer questions about
it.
There are no definitive explanations.

What he did was impulsive. It was not a premeditated act of love. But he feels that it would be a betrayal to reveal all of Nora’s make-believe world. He resorts to deliberate deception. He allows a significant discrepancy between what he says and his recollections of the birthday.

HE HAD FELT
awkward in the oversized jacket. He was clean-shaven and had taken care to shampoo and condition his
thinning hair. His shoes were polished and the trousers had been ironed.

He rolled his shoulders and coughed nervously. The attendant smiled warmly. ‘Nora will be delighted to see you, I’m sure. We didn’t realise she had so many close friends. Such lovely flowers! And she insisted on changing. Normally she isn’t fussy about clothes, but today it had to be a particular dress.’

‘A blue one?’ Martin asked tonelessly.

‘She’s never asked for it before. Maybe she knew you were coming,’ the nurse teased. ‘She’s having tea in her room today as a special treat after all the excitement of the party. You know we give a party? So thanks for the cake!’

Nora sat on a chair next to her solitary window. The room was sparsely furnished and there was a tray of food on a table in front of her. She stared out into the garden. The roses were still in bloom. April had been a mild and sunny month.

‘Hello, Nora. Happy birthday.’ Martin was unable to inject any enthusiasm into the greeting.

She continued to look outside, ignoring his presence. He leaned down to kiss her skinny cheek. The blue dress hung loosely on her. She had last worn it on his own fifty-third birthday. That was the day they walked along the beach and he had seen the emotional gulf widen between them. Days earlier, Nora had suggested a party. Martin had been adamant. Not even dinner with close friends. And no surprises either.

‘Why not?’ she had asked.

‘Because I don’t like the unexpected. Let’s just spend some time together.’ He had offered this apologetically, as if it were an inadequate compromise.

He had been late. He saw that Nora was wearing a special dress. She had showered, tied her hair in a bun and applied make-up.

‘I thought we might stroll along the beach for a while.’ Martin scratched his head. ‘Get an ice cream.’

Nora smiled, hiding her disappointment. Sometimes his lack of imagination irritated her. She noticed the fresh grease stains on his overalls. His hands were grimy. She had spent the morning wrapping his present—a short-sleeved shirt and a tie. Her card, when he opened it later, read:
We sometimes know people by what they don’t say.
This was followed by
Happy birthday! Love, Nora.

NOW HE SAID
hello again, more forcefully. She turned to look blandly at him as he offered her the flowers and chocolates. He had also brought her a soft doll. Nora loved stuffed toys. She had collected them since childhood. Suddenly she brightened. ‘I’ve had friends visiting me all day. They brought flowers!’

‘That’s lovely! Who came?’

She blinked, as if it were a remarkably silly question. ‘Friends, of course!’ she said crossly. ‘Sue and…Peter! Margot and…and Bob! Others.’

‘Bob and Sue,’ he corrected her gently. ‘Margot and Peter.’ As far as he knew, both couples were now living in Sydney.

‘And others!’ she repeated energetically.

‘Have something to eat,’ he cajoled.

‘I want some of that.’ She pointed to the box of chocolates.

‘After you’ve had your tea,’ he insisted.

‘It’s yuk!’ Nora stuck out her tongue at him.

‘The meat looks all right.’ He remained unperturbed. ‘Some mashed potatoes and peas?’

‘Yuk!’ she exclaimed stubbornly. She turned her head to look outside again. Shadows had begun to creep across the flowerbeds.

Martin picked up the fork and knife. He had to exert pressure on a rubbery piece of meat. ‘Nora, please!’ He slid the fork over the brown slush of packet gravy.

‘Do you know there are fairies in the garden?’ She pivoted slowly to stare at him. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘There are males. They visit me at night.’ She giggled.

‘Really? Here, have some of these.’

Nora pressed her lips together tightly and shook her head.

He resorted to the cliche he had used when Frank was a child. ‘You won’t be strong if you don’t eat. You won’t be able to stay awake to meet your…ah, friends.’

Reluctantly she accepted the piece of steak and chewed slowly. Then a sly look spread across her face. Martin tensed. She closed her eyes, leaned towards him and spat out the food. ‘Yuk!’ She banged on the armrests of her chair. ‘Yuk!’

Martin grabbed a handful of tissues from the table beside her bed. He was careful not to demonstrate any sign of agitation. Calmly he began to clean up the mess. The partly masticated food was like splattered shit. It mottled the carpet, the tray and the lapel of his jacket. She watched him hawkishly

He controlled the urge to walk out of the room, more as a
gesture of weary capitulation than anger. Unload a burden and never come back again.

Perhaps the fairies were much better companions, more tolerant and patient. Whatever lived in the mind could be more accommodating than humans.

‘Martin?’ She sounded like a forlorn child.

Am I using her to punish myself?
he wondered. He thought about the word ‘atonement’. The reconciliation of God and man through Christ. Did reconciliation also embrace mandatory suffering? He dabbed at the spat food and pondered the coordinates for locating God. And Christ. Were they the pages of texts? Within the confines of a church? On top of mountains? Perhaps in the imagination, living alongside fairies. In some ways Nora’s world was infinitely more secure. Creative chaos was all that mattered to her.

‘Martin, will you punish me?’

He reached out and stroked her hands. They were cold and limp. ‘Of course not. It wasn’t really your fault.’ He threw the wad of tissues in the wastepaper basket. It had been much easier to walk away from difficult situations in his younger days. ‘Would you like some caramel custard?’ He heard a resigned note in his voice—a recognition of the liability that he could not possibly evade ever again.

Nora nodded, eager to please.

He picked up the dessert spoon from the tray and plunged it into the plastic bowl. The custard was runny. She ate several spoonfuls, her eyes on his face. He dabbed the corners of her mouth with a paper serviette.

‘There’s one very handsome fairy in the garden.’ Nora looked at him coyly.

‘What’s his name?’

‘He wants to marry me. Take me away.’

‘Congratulations.’

She refused the next spoonful. ‘You never loved me!’

Martin did not respond. Twilight slid across the room. He felt unsettled and empty.

If Nora’s accusation encapsulated romantic love in all its blinding passion and impermanence, then it could not be refuted.

‘Sebastian loves me.’

‘Is that his name? You are fortunate to have such a good friend.’

Nora smiled tolerantly as if she were sympathetic towards his struggle to understand her.

‘Not a soul

But felt a fever of the mad, and played

Some tricks of desperation.’

‘What?’

She looked out of the window and stifled a giggle.

Martin offered her a drink of water. He sat quietly on the edge of her bed.

It was impossible for him to judge if there was still a strong bond between them. He sensed his own dependence on her. An element of concern did intensify the pity that motivated his visits. But he didn’t search for any strands of feeling that might run through the ruin of what had been. He was unable now to distinguish between affection and love. So he skirted around the unavoidable questions. How long could a relationship operate on gratitude alone? Or stagger along on guilt?

There was nothing more that he wanted to say. A night attendant knocked and entered the room. He switched on the overhead light and greeted Martin. Nora began to hum
Greensleeves.

‘We are in a good mood today!’ The man laughed.

She turned to the attendant. ‘Do you love me?’

‘With all my heart!’ The attendant winked at Martin. ‘Nearly time for the cartoons.’

Nora laughed and clapped her hands. She pointed the remote control at Martin and pressed the power button several times. ‘It’s no good trying to turn you on!’ she said, frowning.

‘TV is in the corner, love. That’s the way,’ the attendant called encouragingly.

Nora’s basic needs were met. She was fed, helped to wash, and clothed. And now there were fairies in the garden. Martin smiled ruefully. Would she care if he did not turn up again? He bent down gingerly to kiss her forehead. His lips could have been touching a statue on a winter’s evening.

ANDREW HAS BEEN
scribbling notes, as he normally does when Martin visits him. The psychiatrist pauses to read what he has written.

How can there be love,
Martin wonders,
when I am so reluctant to visit Nora?
Perhaps he feels servitude to the memories of companionship, to the unwavering strength and consolation Nora had offered
him
when it mattered most? ‘You are a strange man, Martin,’ she had said to him once. ‘Kind and gentle, but I can never really reach you. It is as if you are a
comforting voice on a telephone. You hide behind such large shadows.’

‘You haven’t opened up either,’ he had reminded her. ‘There are times when you retreat within yourself. I try not to follow you. Is it asking too much for you to do the same for me?’ Evasiveness. In a way they were similar.

Andrew closes his notepad with a grunt. ‘I would like to think that you will be honest with me, tell me everything, even though it may be painful. Otherwise progress will be very difficult.’ It’s a repetition, almost word for word, from their very first session. Martin wonders about the intervening years in this room, about what Andrew’s experiences with his clients have taught him.

There is an endearing honesty and earnestness about Andrew. He has helped me, Martin admits readily to himself. But he also derives a peculiar satisfaction from misleading a cleverer man: it frees him from the image of himself as a prey being pursued deep into the dimness of a forest.

The deceit of omission preserves his own right to privacy.

Ever since his first visit to the psychiatrist, Martin has left out part of an afternoon from the Vietnam days. There are times when he feels that he ought to have regurgitated it all and coped with the release of guilt. After all, in the days after Martin’s marriage had ended, Andrew had selflessly given extra time and negotiated him through an unsettled period. And had Martin been more forthcoming with Moira too about his days in Vietnam, she might have been less bewildered.