Homecoming (6 page)

Water splashed up his legs and Nora jabbed him on the arm. ‘Time to come back, dreamer.’

Startled, Martin reacted clumsily. ‘I…Sorry! I was just thinking.’

‘About what?’

‘Choices in life. About how often we make, um…regrettable decisions.’

‘If we didn’t, then there wouldn’t be too much by way of awareness. The wider lens, right?’

He liked that. ‘Well, do you think we are entirely to blame for what we
don’t
do then?’

‘Most of the time. There is safety in inaction.’

‘Other people and circumstances. They have an influence.’

‘Excuses are the most respectable form of lying. How often do we shift our burdens onto someone else?’

Now her words did not please Martin. He grunted and walked back to the shore.

‘Did I say something to upset you?’ Nora came up to him.

‘Time to think about tea.’

‘All right, then. On the spur of the moment, what will it be? Go on, what will it be?’ By this time Nora knew him well enough to realise that he struggled to make instant decisions.

‘Chicken and chips?’ Martin hesitated about the next few words. He measured them carefully. ‘We could go back to my place.’

It was the first time that he had invited Nora home in the evening. By day he had seen her silent disapproval of the small two-bedroom house, of its peeling paint and tacky second-hand furniture. He kept the place tidy, but the rooms were never touched by sunlight and were perpetually dismal.

He stood digging his toes in the sand, hands buried in his trouser pockets. The breeze on his face felt chilly. He had meekly ventured out of the neutral zone. He eyed the speck of a fishing boat bobbing in the sea. Sunlight perforated the veil of cloud, making it look like the boat was on fire.

He glanced at Nora. She appeared relaxed. He could not tell if she was trying to hide a smile of triumph. Her silence was unsettling. Perhaps it would have been more prudent to suggest going to the Fitzroy Gardens or the banks of the Yarra.

‘With a bottle of wine.’

‘Pardon?’ But he had heard her clearly.

A MIRACLE HAD
not occurred. It was some time between midnight and dawn. There was only the starkness of awful reality.

Remnants of the evening were scattered on the kitchen table. An empty bottle of wine. Stale tea in a porcelain pot. A half-filled jug of water. Two smudged wine glasses. Plates streaked with grease and scraps of food. Used cutlery.

Martin sipped tepid black tea. Treacherously he recalled his last couple of years with Moira. She had not seemed to mind when he turned his back to her.
Just a phase,
he had consoled himself.
It’ll pass. I’ll talk it over with her if it lasts much longer.
But he never did. And Moira made it easy by seeming unperturbed. After all, she had nursed him patiently through the worst. So Martin convinced himself. He persuaded himself that Moira, in bed, did not mind. Together they focused their attention on Frank, and made domestic calm the proof of stability.

But now…He would have to drag himself to the doctor.
There is another problem. I have suspected it for some years. Should have told you earlier, but I kept hoping. It is so humiliating.
He tried several variations and flinched at what he might end up saying. And at the prospect of more therapy and tablets.

Martin’s immediate concern, though, was the embarrassment of facing Nora. She was still in his bedroom. He considered ways to avoid contact before she left. He finished his tea and tiptoed to the settee in the lounge. Nora would surely slip away discreetly from the house later that night or early next morning.

He had left her on the bed, half-undressed, a perplexed expression on her face. ‘Sorry,’ he had muttered, miserable and humiliated, as he stumbled away from the bed. ‘I have no right to treat you like this. It’s my fault. I…I am sorry.’

He turned and gave a helpless gesture of appeasement. But her silence made him cringe as he backed out of the room.

He would not phone her again, he determined. It was best to let the miserable business die quietly. That way his shame could be minimised. But then he saw the selfishness in this. In the dark he thought of her. How did she view the bungled effort? With scorn? Dismay? Sympathy? He was aware of the insensitivity of cutting Nora off without an explanation.

Martin had never been courageous about facing problems. What would he tell her?
I am incapacitated,
he could say. Or blurt out the truth directly without resorting to euphemisms.
Sexually, I am dysfunctional.
Somehow, not even that was direct enough.
I am impotent.
He winced and then forced himself to whisper the sentence aloud. No. It would be impossible to make such an admission to anyone. Even telling a physician would be difficult.

Again he hoped that Nora would leave without seeing him.

MARTIN HAD HEARD
the noise before he was fully awake. He tensed and lay still, breathing noiselessly. That part of military training was grafted into his being. Survival skill, they called it. Sharpening of instincts. Making oneself inaudible and invisible. Instant reaction to even the slightest hint of danger. In the jungle they would crouch low and cease movement. Communication through eye contact, where possible. Only when it was necessary to manoeuvre to a new position was a hand signal permissible.

The sounds drifted in from the kitchen. Running water. Was she humming? Martin shivered, his nostrils twitching. The smoky aroma of frying bacon.

He pulled the blanket over his head, as though it was an antidote to a hellish dream.

‘Shit,’ he muttered between clenched teeth. ‘Shit.’ But suddenly he was quite hungry.

MARTIN ENJOYS THE
hot crusty bread and manages the borlotti bean soup. But he is not thrilled about the oven-roasted rabbit with potatoes in white wine.

Frank and Maria have been talking. They tell him they have just paid a deposit on a house and twenty acres of land. The building needs renovation, they say, but the soil is rich and they are keen to grow vegetables. ‘Much better than sitting in front of a computer screen, wriggling your fingers and hitting the keys,’ Frank declares, watching his father for a response. ‘You must come and see the place, Dad. It has a large new shed. But as for the rest…’ He grins. ‘It’d be great if you could give us a hand. It’s a very pleasant drive from Melbourne.’

‘Sure,’ Martin agrees, not voicing any reservations. ‘I’ll drive over and help you out.’

Maria has to leave. ‘Doctor’s appointment.’ She beams and runs a hand across the top of her belly.

Martin looks fearfully at her. He has read that the long-term effects of reglone, grammoxone, tordone and hyva across generations ‘cannot be ascertained with authority’. But he doesn’t know how to talk about this with them. Maybe it’s a case of over-anxiety. After all, some studies say there is only a remote possibility that subsequent generations may be affected. Over the years, though, doctors have been hesitant about answering his questions. ‘There is insufficient data for any definitive conclusions.’ Maybe he ought to leave the matter alone. After all, Frank was fine other than the skin rashes he suffered as a child.

Martin stares out of the large window. He and Ron have been discussing the price of petrol, the greed of banks and the concerns of middle-aged men: the latest news on prostate cancer, weight-related problems. A mesh of words to fend off any talk of Colin Gear’s lingering illness.

The winter’s sun splashes the footpath with buttery light. Martin watches the pedestrians saunter along, most of them with manageable pasts, he muses, only needing to negotiate the obstacles of everyday life.

‘Remember how delighted we were as we boarded the ship on our way back?’ Ron recalls. ‘The lucky ones! Able to walk, limbs intact, no serious injuries. Off to new lives.’ He shakes his head. ‘But home wasn’t the same.’

‘We weren’t the same. Another one?’ Martin picks up the empty tumblers and escapes to the bar. The visit to the hospital has chastened them into drinking mineral water and orange juice.

It is too early for the regular patrons of the pub. At the bar, two men have been drinking beer. Their faces flushed, they eye a solitary couple at the table under the darts board. Whispers. Then they burst into raucous laughter.

‘G’day,’ one of them greets Martin. ‘I’m Nathan.’

‘Jim,’ the other man in the grey jumper and jeans grunts, his eyes fixed on the dark-haired woman who appears to be in her early twenties.

Martin nods stiffly. His look discourages any further exchanges. He pays for the drinks and walks back to the table. Ron’s demeanour makes him wonder how much they have been affected by Colin’s illness.

‘Why us?’ Ron demands. ‘There are others who have done well and not been damaged. Didn’t Ken look good? Tanned and relaxed. Just back from a holiday in Cairns. Successful furniture business. Happily remarried. Two healthy kids. He even offered me a job. “Any time for an old mate,” he said.’ Ron frowns, as if something has belatedly occurred to him. He leans forward, elbows resting on the table. ‘You didn’t say anything to him. Not even hello.’ He stares suspiciously at Martin. ‘Thank God Ken came along. At least I had someone to talk to. The way you and Col carried on about books, I might as well not have been there.’

At the bar, Jim stands up and mutters an obscenity. Nathan laughs and blows a kiss at the girl. Her companion glares at the two men.

‘Got an attitude problem, mate?’ Jim drawls, addressing the slightly built Caucasian man. His thumbs are hooked into the pockets of his jeans and his chin is thrust out provocatively. ‘Would you like a drink with us, lady? Where are you from,
the Philippines? Hey! Don’t get all snooty. I’m only trying to be sociable. Making a polite move.’ He leers and caresses his lips with the tip of his tongue. ‘Quite classy if you ask me. We could have lots of fun.’

‘Steady on, fellas!’ The bartender, a beefy man with a boyish face, intervenes.

‘Fuck it, Joe! Stop being a wet hen!’ Nathan snaps. ‘What’s wrong with her having a drink with us? Aren’t we good enough for Asians? Jesus! You’d think Jim asked for a date on the moon.’

‘Leave her alone.’ Casually Martin walks up to the men and confronts Jim. It could almost have been a polite request if he had added the word ‘please’.

‘Leave her alone,’ Jim mimics. ‘Or what? Huh? You trying to be a cowboy? What if I don’t, old man?’

Nathan’s laughter is short-lived. There is a thudding sound of bone smacking against flesh.

‘No!’ Ron shouts, slow to get up from his chair.

Jim flails his arms and legs in an effort to get up off the floor. He wipes a hand across his face. The stickiness on his fingers makes him whimper.

‘Leave her alone.’

Ron grabs Martin from behind. ‘Don’t be stupid! That’s assault!’ he whispers. ‘It’s not our concern!’

‘Sounds familiar,’ Martin mumbles, blinking at the man on the floor. There is no anger in him. It was something he was compelled to do.

The injured man screams. ‘My nose!’

Ron turns apologetically to him. ‘Look, mate, my friend’s a bit uptight at the moment.’

‘He’s fucking well broken my nose!’ Jim staggers to his feet and backs away towards Nathan, who has ordered a couple more beers but makes no move to help his friend. The front of Jim’s jumper is streaked with blood. ‘You’re a bloody lunatic!’

The bartender calmly comes around with an ice pack and towel. ‘Give us a look.’ With the tips of his fingers he feels Jim’s nose, which is already swollen and purple. ‘Nothing broken,’ he announces with authority. ‘Here, hold the pack against your nose.’

‘All a bit of a mistake.’ Nathan is conciliatory. ‘No great harm done. You okay, Jimmy?’

‘Do you want me to ring the police?’ the bartender offers. Martin is unable to comprehend his grin.

‘No, no! She’ll be right,’ Nathan says hastily.

The men down their drinks and head for the door. Suddenly Jim stops and turns aggressively to Martin. ‘You’re a fucking maniac! They should lock you up!’

‘Are you sure you don’t want me to call the police?’ Joe asks loudly.

Nathan shoves his friend roughly out the door.

‘The things we don’t want revealed!’ Joe looks cheerfully triumphant. ‘Same again, gentlemen? This time it’s on the house.’

‘Might have a couple of beers, thanks,’ Ron decides, sounding relieved.

‘Thanks,’ Martin echoes meekly, feeling contrite and foolish. He notices that the table under the darts board is no longer occupied. The woman…he didn’t even see her properly.

‘What was all that about, Martin?’ Ron explodes angrily.

‘A couple of blokes with too much beer in them. All right, they were being unpleasant. But that’s no reason to deck one of them.’

‘Sorry.’

‘I’ve never seen you lose your cool like that.’

‘Bit of an overreaction,’ Martin admits, avoiding Ron’s stare. ‘Guess I’m more upset about Colin than I realised.’

‘We all are. But that doesn’t mean…Ah, forget it. Drink up!’ Ron dismisses the incident with a wave of his hand. ‘We need to go out and have some fun.’

‘Go camping, perhaps? Up in the high country near Rose River.’

Ron is astounded at the suggestion. ‘In bloody winter? Sitting in a tent shivering isn’t my idea of fun.’

‘There’ll be no one there. Just the trees and the calmness to help us forget all this for a few days.’

‘It’ll be freezing! Snow. Rain. Wind. Everything damp and wet. Nothing calm about that. Within a few hours we’ll be cursing each other.’ Ron grins slyly. ‘I had something else in mind to help us relax. A bit of recklessness won’t do us any harm. We’re not responsible to anyone but ourselves. What do you reckon?’

‘Whatever.’

Martin is unable to shake off the silhouette of a young woman’s face frozen in surprise. Instead of a darts board, there are tropical trees and flimsy huts.

HE STOPS AT A
street corner to check his wallet. Thirty-five dollars. In his trouser pocket he has another one dollar
twenty in coins. The lights change and he hurries across. The triumph of reason over instinct. He remembers Oscar Wilde:
The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.

All he has to do is turn back. About seventy metres and then a right turn. Warmth and dim lights. It is a seductive comfort zone. Flashing lights, the jangle of coins and the anticipation of a slice of luck coming his way. One in a hundred thousand? In a million? Why couldn’t he be the one? The cashier and the girl at the bar are always friendly. There is the opportunity of striking up a conversation with whoever is next to him. He can nurse a drink and play cautiously to make the money last for almost an hour. In that time something wonderful and unexpected could happen. Busy fingers and neutral mind. The dazzle of coloured numbers and symbols breathing life into dreams. He has become too tied down by routine, Ron observed. It is not as if there is a fortune to be lost. Thirty-five dollars. He determines to set a limit of fifteen. But the next ten bucks could make a difference…Martin pockets the wallet then turns.

Once inside the building he walks between the rows of poker machines. There is a bewildering variety to choose from: Black Rhino, Money House, Enchanted Forest, Bamble Boys, Phantom Pays, Coral Riches, Wild Cougar, QT Bird, and—he pauses—Sweet Hearts. Images of greasy hair, tight pants, pointed shoes and Elvis.

At the cashier’s booth the man in front of Martin slides a hundred-dollar note across the counter. He receives a plastic tumbler full of one-dollar coins. Self-consciously Martin extracts a five-dollar note from his wallet. It is hardly worth
the trouble. He fishes out another five dollars. The cashier smiles. She is young and trained to look polite. In her private moments does she ever question the rightness of what she is doing, Martin wonders.

‘I think I might have another ten dollars’ worth of one-dollar coins, please,’ he says without thinking. He is determined not to go home broke. Even a small win will justify his loss of self-discipline.

‘Certainly, sir.’

Martin has played all the machines, except one. Because of its very name, he has avoided Sweet Hearts. The Roy Orbison song comes into his mind and he hums snatches of ‘Only the Lonely’. Fleetingly he thinks about a recent telephone conversation with one of the hostel staff. Nora has had several tantrums. She insists on seeing Martin. No, she is not ill. They are unaware of any major problem. Only her behaviour has become more erratic. Aggressive. She hurled a box of tissues at the doctor. Physically her progress has been excellent. Could Martin find time to visit her? Yes, he had agreed wearily. Yes. Sweet Hearts. It’s worth a try today, he feels.

He sits on the stool and looks to his right. No one is gambling on Money House. On the other side…He looks again and recognises his young neighbour from across the street. She is leaning forward, her eyes fixed on the screen of Coral Riches.

‘Oh, hello!’ Martin greets her.

She turns irritably. There is a flicker of recognition on her face. She looks tired. ‘G’day.’

‘Any luck?’

‘Nah.’ She drops a coin in the slot and pushes a button. An impatient sigh. She brushes past him and heads for the door.

Martin pushes all his coins throught the slot and chalks up two hundred credits. He bets two credits and plays one line. Instant success. A modest gain. He presses the red card button. Another win. He plays three lines twice. The credits drop rapidly until there are none left. Martin imagines Colin’s emaciated face and recalls his friend’s bemused words: ‘I am one of life’s prolonged failures reduced to the bare essentials—skin, bones and watery soup. I should wear a tag labelled “The Minimalist”.’

COLIN HAD GRINNED
from his bed and extended his right hand. ‘Welcome again to the mortality chamber.’

‘Brought you some flowers, mate,’ Martin said awkwardly, placing the bunch of camellias on the bedside table. ‘And some more books.’

Colin had blushed with pleasure and murmured his thanks. He took the books and clasped them to his chest. He was wan and thin, but did not look anxious. Before the silence could become an embarrassment, he spoke.

‘Let me save you the obligatory question. I am no worse than when you saw me the other day. The cancer hasn’t spread any further. But I feel weak—and miserable—you know, the tests and chemotherapy.’ He was distracted by the titles of the anthologies. ‘Pain is much more bearable when it’s in printed words, and being experienced by someone you don’t really know, isn’t it?’

Martin sat on the edge of the bed and gripped his friend’s
forearm. On his previous visit, his account of his academic failure and the meeting with the tutor had made Colin chuckle. There had been an element of dark humour in that conversation, with an emphasis on their mutual limitations. This time they talked about books and politics.

They were interrupted by a knock on the door. It swung open in a wide arc. Ron Morris and an out-of-breath Ken Davis walked in with a large basket bulging with fruit. ‘How are you, mate?’ they greeted Colin. Ken was boisterous, as usual: ‘I rang to see if you were interested in writing a speech for me. I had to ask your sister where you were. Brilliant worker, that Brenda. I’ve never regretted employing her. And look! Just ran into Ron in the lift.’ The air of camaraderie deserted him though when he turned to face Martin. He nodded stiffly. ‘Martin.’

A cold emptiness spread inside Martin. His demeanour changed. Slowly he wandered over to the window to watch the traffic in the street below.

‘Ken’s looking well, isn’t he?’ Ron sounded cheerful, attempting to cover up the awkwardness of Martin’s rebuff. ‘Must be all that money you’re making, mate!’

Ken laughed at the flattery. Clearly it pleased him that his prosperity was evident. He wore a new woollen suit, silk tie and leather shoes. He was also overweight—puffed cheeks, saggy jowls and a potbelly that couldn’t be hidden by the loosely tailored jacket.

But there appeared to be another kind of change in Ken. Martin had to admit it. First impressions though, he cautioned himself. Ken’s laughter was soft now, his voice low, modulated in concern over Colin. Despite the differences,
there still had to be the other and more powerful Ken lurking somewhere behind the facade of sophistication.

Martin wanted to remember the lean and tanned soldier who had prided himself in his role in a uniform. A believer in the rightness of a cause. He could almost feel the cauterising heat of that afternoon. There was Ken, leading them towards the village. He was grim-faced and cold-eyed, surveying the landscape for revenge. He did not need an immediate reason. Life itself—here and at home—was being relentlessly cruel: a seriously ill mother in Melbourne; two friends badly wounded in a mortar attack. The war had entered one of its stagnant phases. There were attacks and counter attacks without significant shifts in territorial control. The heat and the insect-infested camp had sharpened everyone’s frustration. That afternoon there had been a signal to spread out and encircle the village. In the distance, a dog’s bark shattered the silence.

HE SITS DELIBERATING
about the paltry sum left in his possession. MAKE A BET: the sign flashes, teasing and nagging him. Eight dollars will buy him a hundred and sixty credits or half a barbecued chicken and chips. He gets a discount from Leon. But there’s bread and cheese at home. A couple of tomatoes and Hungarian salami. He can cash a cheque tomorrow.