The Search (11 page)

Quite without thinking Trevor said to Hilton and Grace, “I wonder if it would be possible for me to stay here tonight. I don't want to go back to the college.”

“Sure,” they said as if they understood what he was trying to say. “You're taking part in the demonstration tomorrow?”

“Of course I am.”

A cluster of students had gathered round Browning, whom they admired greatly for resigning from his post and Grace said, “He threw up his job as a professor. As a matter of fact he was getting bad reviews in scholarly journals for his history books which were considered too political. He writes for magazines and newspapers now.”

“What does he write?”

“He writes quite a lot about Ned Kelly. He considers him a social critic.”

When the others apart from Hilton and Grace had gone Trevor said to the latter, “Tell me what happened in connection with the Vietnam War.”

“There's nothing to tell. I was in jail for a while.”

“It was a brave thing,” said Trevor. “I would have done National Service if I had been called up, though I know of some who protested. And some COs. from the last war. Aggression is a strange thing.”

“What do you mean?” said Grace.

“Just that this CO I know — Conscientious Objector — is intellectually very aggressive and sometimes cruel while on the other hand he would not be so, physically. And then of course there is the phenomenon of Tolstoy and Gandhi — the outward peace, the inner turmoil.”

“Of course,” said Grace, and then, “You think this aggression is natural to man?”

“Sometimes I think that, sometimes not. By the way did you do this?” he asked pointing to a model of a sailing ship.

“Yes. I work on them when I have spare time, which I have quite a lot of,” he said almost bitterly.

“And what do you do in your spare time, Harry?”

“Oh, I study astrology.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Astrology. It's a fascinating subject.”

Grace took out a bottle of wine and they drank it. During the course of the evening Trevor was shown more models of sailing ships with their sails set, as if in fact they were setting out for Australia, though they were fixed calmly inside bottles. He went to bed in a rather bare room in which there was a large star map. He slept soundly for the first time since he had heard about his brother. In the dark room a white ship lay motionless under the artificial stars.

Fifteen

T
HE TWENTY OR
so of them stood outside Parliament House carrying their banners and and slogans which said
THE POOR HAVE A RIGHT TO WORK
and
COULD YOU LIVE ON UNEMPLOYMENT PAY, FRASER
? Trevor stood among them holding up his own banner. The Parliament buildings were white in the sun and not far away he could see a park where fountains changed shape continually, creating momentary sculptured effects. Two policemen stood outside the door on the steps above, gazing down at them. The atmosphere was friendly and companionable and Trevor felt much as he had done many years before when he had clinked his can for charity in his university days in Glasgow.

“Remember, this is a peaceful demonstration,” said Browning, who was clad in shirt sleeves and shorts as if he were on holiday.

“
FRASER OUT, FRASER OUT
,” the students begans to shout.

A bus made its way slowly past and a crowd of school-children in green uniforms got out with their teachers. They crossed the street and climbed the steps. Then the street was empty again.

“They're being shown our parliament at work,” said Grace wryly.

The two policemen stood quietly watching them.

The rhythm seemed suddenly to grow faster.

“
FRASER OUT, FRASER OUT
.”

“
FRASER OUT
,” Trevor heard himself shouting.

One of the policemen moved over to them. “Keep on the sidewalk,” he said. “Move back from the street.”

They all moved back, still chanting.

Trevor found himself staring with enmity at the policeman who was dressed in a blue shirt, his sleeves rolled up, while at his side there was a holster with a gun in it. It was as if his mind suddenly became confused and he really thought that his brother had died in a police station, though it was now clear that he hadn't. Nevertheless it seemed to him that the policeman was his fated opponent, as if it was he who had compelled him to be where he was.

What on earth was the meaning of this demonstration? How could one change a society by standing on a pavement on a fine morning such as this? He swayed as if in a heavy wind. One voice said, “More than this will have to be done.” The other said, “You're a stranger in this country. What is all this to you?” A car suddenly appeared and a shout went up, “Here's Fraser. Here's Fraser.” The twenty students swept forward with their banners and the chant became even louder and almost primitive in its intensity.

“
FRASER OUT, FRASER OUT
.” The car swung in a curve towards the steps.

They saw Fraser getting out, accompanied by two broad-shouldered men who looked like bodyguards. He ran up the steps and as he did so the twenty of them crossed the road still shouting. Somehow in the rush Trevor saw that the policeman was lying on the ground, his face looking up at him. I cannot hurt him, he thought, though I could. I could quite easily do so at this moment, but I won't. And he heard himself shouting, “Move back, move away from him.”

The world had become a blur and there was a continual swirling and shoving. Policemen were running down the steps and Fraser and his bodyguards had disappeared.

“Come on,” said Grace, “get the hell out of here. My car is over there.” Trevor began to run and while he was running he was thinking of the policeman. “He is a human being,” he thought. “I cannot harm him. How could I kick him while he was lying on the ground?” And yet at the same time he thought of his own brother being kicked, he saw him with blood on his face, his long coat hanging down to his feet, as if he were a figure from Dickens.

And even while he was running he despised himself, “How can the world be changed if there is no hurt?” He looked back and saw that there were still some people wrestling with the police and that everywhere there were banners, some raised and moving, others lying on the ground. He saw that Browning was struggling in the arms of a policeman.

“I'll have to go back,” he shouted to Grace.

“Don't be a bloody idiot,” Grace shouted back at him. Trevor saw others running to their cars as well and was slightly comforted.

“Get the hell into the car,” said Grace to him. “What do you think you'd achieve? They'd ruin you.”

“I ca …” He tried to speak but the words wouldn't come out. He saw a policeman running along the road and turned and threw a stone at him.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” said Grace. “Get in the car.”

He found himself in the car and Grace was driving recklessly out of the street they were on, accelerating, turning corners. After a while they had left the demonstration behind them and were driving more slowly.

“I should have stayed,” he almost wept. “But I couldn't …”

“Couldn't have what?” said Grace impatiently, his eye on the mirror.

“I couldn't hurt him. He was lying there on the ground. And I couldn't hurt him.” And then he thought, “If they had caught me, they would have kept me behind, and I wouldn't have been able to look for my brother.”

“We can't use violence,” said Grace. “How can we?”

Trevor knew that Grace had saved him and was grateful.

“Thanks,” he said to him.

“No worries,” said Grace, manoeuvring the car past a large truck that suddenly loomed out of the fresh, clear morning.

“That's not the way to do it,” said Grace. “I told Browning that. It won't get us anywhere. It's child's play. We have to organize better than this.”

“How can we do it then?” said Trevor.

“We have to get the unions behind us. We're just amateurs.”

“It's a start,” said Trevor.

“What sort of start? And what can students do? It's laughable.”

“What will happen to these people if they are arrested?” said Trevor.

“Oh they might be fined. Or they might just be warned.”

“And Browning?”

“Probably the same. I don't know.”

“And we ran away.”

“There was nothing we could do. What was the point of getting ourselves arrested?”

“We could have stayed and spoken out.”

“And what would that have done for us?” said Grace. “Nothing. We're amateurs. We're not serious.”

And his face grew grim.

“What will they think of us now?” said Trevor. “The ones who have been arrested. Will they speak to us again?”

“That's not the point. The point is that we got away. They have nothing on us. It was a childish escapade anyway.”

“Is that what you think?”

“Of course. Haven't I told you? I just know it was right to retire in good order.” And for a moment it was as if Trevor heard Grace's military father speaking through him.

At the same time he sensed that Grace had qualities of leadership which Browning didn't have. He was a man who was willing to see a campaign in terms not just of tactics but of strategy. He remembered him leaning almost contemptuously against the wall the previous night while listening to Browning.

“You mean,” he said, “that you are thinking of starting something yourself?”

“I mean that Browning is a fool. In any case he has the wrong motives.”

“Wrong motives?”

“He's disaffected for the wrong reasons. There's more to a campaign like this than people's vanities. We are at a moment of decision in Australia. Do we want to follow America, dig uranium? We are a people on our own. We have a right to choose.”

They drew up outside Grace's house. “But what if other people won't let you make your own decisions?” said Trevor as they left the car and went inside.

“They will have to. Why should we be prevented from holding the Olympics, for example? We are doing what America tells us. Browning was right to this extent that we have thrown away a huge opportunity to be ourselves, to choose our own destiny. Want an orange juice?”

“Yes, please,” said Trevor who felt inordinately thirsty after his running.

“How long have you got here?” said Grace.

“Not long. Just about a week.” In a strange way he thought that by leaving Australia he would be leaving his home. This huge land, brown and withered with drought, seemed to have suddenly become the truth teller, a dusty oracle which might tell him about himself.

“There is nothing that can be done in this way,” said Grace, sipping his orange juice. “I'm English but I love Australia. I don't know whether you've noticed it but there's a depth and mystery to this country that attracts one like a secret bride. Have you ever seen any of Boyd's paintings?”

“Yes,” said Trevor.

“I think he's better than Nolan, more mysterious,” said Grace. “It seems to me that this is a sensitive land and someone must listen to its voice. Our leaders have converted it into a country just like any other country, when it's so obviously different from most.”

“But what will you do?” said Trevor.

“I shall go into politics,” said Grace simply. “There must be enough people who think like me.”

“But can you go into politics just like that?”

“I shall have to come out and speak. If there is truth in me I will be heard. We are not talking about evil men. We are talking about men without vision. I shall say the same thing over and over till someone will hear me. We had the chance of making this a great country and we have failed. I don't believe in violence. People are bound to listen at last if I speak the truth. Listen,” he said urgently. “When I lie in my bed at night I hear a voice which tells me: This is a new land, this is a different country. You cannot let it become like any other. In England I felt that the country has said all
that it has to say, and that its voice is now full of contradictions. But here the contradictions aren't as yet everywhere. This land hasn't reached the state where its voice can no longer be heard. I will simply present myself as a man who has something to say and if my voice has conviction it will be heard. I believe that. The vision itself will speak. Listen: this place is as yet young. It has hardly even been populated. We still have the chance of going the way we have to go. And it isn't Fraser's way. We have to learn to be what we truly are in the depths of ourselves. We have to take the responsibility for ourselves. In the depths of our consciousness we are at the moment colonials but we must learn to step out into the real world.”

“Yes,” said Trevor. “That is what you must do.”

“It is not the consciousness of students we need,” said Grace. “It is the consciousness of those who have suffered and who have seen the same vision as I have. There are a few of them. They understand that there are things which belong to the past and things which belong to the future. We must learn to have the courage of being new.

“Come in,” he said, and Trevor turned and found himself looking at Douglas who was smiling as he entered.

Sixteen

“M
ALCOLM AND
I were in university together,” said Tom Grace, looking from one to the other.

“I dropped out though,” said Douglas.

“Malcolm is one of my most valuable friends,” said Grace, “he's been to places that I've never been to.”

“And that book you're writing,” said Trevor casually. “How are you getting on with it?”

“Oh fine, fine. You see, Tom, when I met Trevor first,” said Douglas with slight bitterness, “he didn't think I could possibly have had a university education. He attached a label to me, I was a drop-out. Alcoholic.” Trevor gazed at the star globe which sat on top of the television set: he had been more surprised than he could tell by seeing Douglas there. It seemed to him that the globe was rotating slowly and that destinies were in some way fashioned by the stars. “I did something unforgivable,” said Douglas. “I allowed my personal feelings to take control of me. I heard this self-sufficient voice, so literary and plump, going on about exile, and I thought. ‘This man doesn't know anything about life.' “

“And you told me a lot of lies,” said Trevor furiously, not caring whether Grace had been told the story or not.

“I wanted to see what you would do, whether you had any feelings. I know where your brother is. I found out quite by chance.”

“What?”

“I really do.”

“Where is he then?”

“I'll take you to him.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow if you like.”

“Why didn't you do that before?”

“You should know the answer to that.”

“I suppose you studied psychology in the university?”

“That among other things.” He passed his hand across his forehead as if he had another headache.

“The bit about my headaches is true.” He turned to Grace and said, “So it was all a washout.”

“Yes, mate,” said Grace ironically, and Trevor found it difficult to adjust his view of Douglas as someone who knew both Grace and him, as someone who lived in a real society. This was in fact a man who was more knowledgeable than himself, who had dived into the deep, mysterious underworld of Sydney for his own reasons.

“My father,” said Douglas, “couldn't get a job here, when he came. Remember I told you he had come over from Scotland. He had no money for a while and later he left us. I couldn't afford to stay in university. Then both my father and mother died and I drifted. But all the time I was taking notes, watching. Tom and I have always been idealists,” he added ironically.

“And Thorn and Hilton, what about them?” said Trevor to Grace.

Grace shrugged his shoulders. “They won't bother with them. Why should they? But we'll maybe have to see Simmons,” he said to Douglas.

“Yes,” said Douglas and turning to Trevor said, “What I told you in other respects is true. I've seen knife fights. I've seen a great number of drifters of this world, people at the very limit of their resources. And I don't like seeing it, there must be a way of avoiding that. Your brother just about survived but you wouldn't have, though you're not as priggish as you were.”

“Thanks,” said Trevor and Grace intervened.

“Has Murray arrived?” he asked Douglas.

“Tomorrow. I think he's flying down.”

“Right. I'll meet him.”

Suddenly he turned to Trevor and said, “Have I shown you my model of the sailing ship?”

“Beautiful,” said Douglas. “Isn't she? Sails and everything. A real beaut.”

“That's what I've spent a lot of my time on,” said Grace proudly, adding, “But did you ever know anything about the lives people led on board these ships? It's like the ones that brought the first jailbirds to Australia.” He added, “It's the mining of course that destroyed the country and created the greed. Browning's book about that aspect isn't good, it's not scholarly enough, he's a romantic you see. The big capitalists moved in with their machinery and the small man couldn't compete. But she's beautiful, isn't she?”

They gazed at the ship for a long time, as she lay motionless with sails set in the rather sultry room.

As if continuing an earlier conversation Douglas said, “I was with Tom here in university. As I told you my people came from Ayrshire. They saw enough capitalism there.” His face darkened. “I'm interested in the psychology of capitalism. Did you know that for a long time in Germany mining boards could prevent you from marrying till you were twenty-four? Miners were a kind of slaves at one time. I lived with some aborigines for a while.”

“And where did you actually meet my brother?”

“In Sydney as I told you. I had a feeling that you would go and see the Salvation Army but they have their own reasons for helping. They remain within the system. They have a plate of soup in one hand but a Bible in the other.”

“The woman was very kind,” said Trevor defensively.

“Naturally. And why not? But do they really understand people like your brother? Of course not. You don't understand him yourself. And yet you are his brother.”

“I don't seem to understand anything,” said Trevor helplessly.

“But you're learning, you're learning.”

“We're setting off early tomorrow,” Douglas added.

“Are we taking the bus?”

“Naturally. I can't afford the plane.”

“In that case I insist on paying,” said Trevor fiercely.

“There you go again. Will you never understand that a man has his pride? I said I would take you to see your brother because I like him. I'll pay my own fare. He was a mate of mine.” He was suddenly offended again and it was as if Trevor saw prickles rising on him like a thistle.

He felt continually, in his presence, as though he were walking through a minefield.

“Can you set up the meeting then?” said Grace.

“With Murray you mean. Saturday morning would be the best. By that time I'll be back from Sydney.”

“Good.”

Douglas turned to Trevor and asked, “Have you anything to do today then?”

“Not today. Tomorrow I'll see you at the bus station at ten.”

“Right.”

There was a silence and Trevor said uneasily, “I'd better go to the bank then.”

No one spoke and he added, “I'll need some money for Sydney.”

“If you'll excuse me,” he ended lamely, “I'd better go now.” He left the house and began to walk to the Civic Centre. It seemed to him that his head was spinning and that he was attacked as if by culture shock. Now and again he would glance in a shop window and remember Sheila who if she had been with him would have been stopping now and again to admire rings and bracelets. She seemed very distant from him at that moment. He had been enchanted by this brown, droughty land: in the centre of it there was a dumb music that he wished to hear. The long-haired guitar player was still there while at his feet was a cap with a few coins in it. He went over and put a dollar in the cap but the guitar player didn't stop playing and didn't look at him. He had a thirst to go to the library but didn't do so. He sat down on a bench and stared down at the ground. It seemed to him that it was himself and not his brother who was wandering in this country. What was he doing? Could he go back and live with Sheila as if nothing had happened? He passed his hand across his brow as Douglas was in the habit of doing. How innocent he was, an innocent abroad, while all around him were the complexities of a real developing land. How every word that he spoke to Douglas seemed to be the wrong one.

What would he say to his brother when he eventually met him? How would the latter forgive him for what he had done to him? He remembered again the wedding and the exhibition Norman had made of himself, shouting loudly and buying drinks for everybody and then at the end coming up to him and shaking him by the hand, he who had felt so much like a Judas. “It's all right, it's all right,” Norman had kept saying over and over, swaying slightly. And then three weeks afterwards he had left on the ship. He recalled with a gush of warmth how the two of them had used to play football together, and sometimes even cricket with handmade stumps: but that had been a long time ago. And a picture of the leafy wood returned to him on that particular summer's day when he had run through the trees hiding from Norman, the shadows dappling the glades. His brother had shouted his name over and over. But he himself had hidden behind a tree and Norman's voice had at last faded into the distance.

“You've had everything, and I've had nothing,” he seemed to hear his brother shouting and Trevor saw a picture of himself as if dressed in a peasant's hat, shaped like a dome of an Eastern temple, while he bent down in a field, digging.

How easily the mind could disguise reality from itself. With what adamant blindness he had walked through the world not seeing himself as he really was. Astonished, he raised his head and looked at the sky where a double-barrelled trail left by a jet plane still lingered fuzzily. He could not see the plane at all though he could see the parallel twin tracks. He and his brother were running across a hot field, their shadows alongside each other, Norman's face was freckled and tanned, and his teeth were white and small. The track they left was ghostly and undefined.

Soon he would have to leave the country and it was as if he was leaving a part of himself behind. He suddenly got up and entered a newspaper shop that was at the end of the arcade. Among the Australiana he found a book of poems translated from an aboriginal language. He read quickly.

With its keen eyes the gull saw the small tracks of the mice,

mouse tracks leading into the grass and the foliage.

The gull circles around flapping its wings and crying,

It is always there at the wide expanse of water, at the place of the Sacred Tree, diving down, probing about with its beak.

The sound of its flapping wings, as it swoops down on a mouse …

It is always there, that bird among the western people, its cry spreading over the country during the wet season, the time of the new grass …

and the squeaking cry of the mouse.

It is mine, says the gull, I spear the mouse on its track, holding it in my beak

the squeak of the mouse and the cry of the gull echoing up to the sky …

It seemed to him as he read that he could recognize the images and that they were like pictures of home and that across whatever seas divided him from Scotland this poetry came to him as fresh as if it had been written in his own country.