Homecoming (13 page)

He stares at the magazine cover, unable to make up his mind whether he’ll read the article. But curiosity is a compelling force. Reluctantly he opens it. Burning huts and the massacre of women and children at Thanh Phong. A decorated soldier turned politician, suffering from irrepressible guilt. The reactions of a community that finds it difficult to believe its soldiers are capable of barbaric
behaviour. Unanswerable questions. Attempts to understand how it could have happened. ‘There’s hope for you, Ken,’ Martin whispers. ‘Ten years from now there may be hand-wringing and a confession in Parliament.’

But now Martin does force himself to contemplate the deceit of his own silence. His simmering anger with Ken is really frustration with himself. He knows he’s hiding still, now behind the question:
What will it achieve after all these years?
He imagines going public. The journalists. The sensationalism. The insidious questions on how much money tempted him to speak out. Inquiries and procrastinating politicians. Accusations and denial. An inevitable conclusion about ‘lack of evidence’.

Martin is crestfallen by his capacity to find excuses, the sophistication of his hypocrisy. Oh, there will be more evenings with Colin in front of the open fireplace. Gentle conversations. Civilisation and art, literature, Bach and silence—aesthetic edification. He will continue to learn from his friend. But how would Colin react if Martin told him about that soul-mangling afternoon in a tiny tropical village?

He can imagine Colin recoiling in disbelief, visualises the emaciated figure drooping, the defiance draining out of him. Colin’s spirit has never broken. ‘There is pain in one form or the other in life. Mine is just an extreme physical version. But it does not kill aspirations or ideals.’ To take Colin back to Vietnam, and tell him that he did not know fully about the darkness of those he trusted, would be like sneaking up on him from behind. It could not be done. And yet…

Rain begins to pelt down. For no specific reason he changes his mind about painting the lounge first. Instead he
heads into the tiny room that has been set aside as a nursery He takes meticulous care about measuring the walls and cutting the rolls of wallpaper. As he applies glue to a section of a wall, Martin begins to think about his imminent role—as a grandfather! He feels proud, and his mind jumps ahead to a dark-haired child, grabbing a handful of jelly beans maybe, or trotting off to kindergarten with him, or jumping on the bed where Martin lies sleeping.

He works without pausing, driven by the importance of what has to be done. Maria has chosen bright wallpaper with pictures of animals. Martin thinks of the room as it might be when furnished. Matching curtains, parted to let the sunlight in through the eastern window. A cot and soft toys. He has seen a large stuffed panda, Kermit and Snoopy in the window of a toyshop in Melbourne. He chides himself for not buying them all at once.

By the time Maria and Frank return, the wallpapering is finished. ‘I thought you were doing the lounge first,’ Frank grins. ‘Got your priorities right, I see.’

Delightedly Maria hugs Martin. He is embarrassed and confused. Gingerly he puts his arm around her shoulders. They step back towards the door of the nursery to admire the room.

MARTIN CHECKS THE
time. It is nearly half-past four and not too late for a closer look at Daylesford. He hurries into town and finds a parking spot. There’s a sharp shower, then the sinking sun appears between masses of grey clouds. He finds himself at an estate agent’s window.

A young receptionist greets him cordially. Then a middle-aged man wearing a white shirt, grey trousers, a navy-blue blazer and a matching tie emerges from a room behind the receptionist’s counter. Martin is tentative, but the estate agent listens closely, making suggestions. ‘There’s a property near Trentham you might like to see,’ he says in the end. ‘It’s about twenty minutes from here. Small, but in good condition. Two bedrooms, lounge and a renovated kitchen. Tank water and ten acres of land. Lovely setting,’ he emphasises. ‘Ideal for retirement.’

‘At this stage I’m really only looking…’ Martin says. But they agree to meet the following day to inspect the house.

The estate agent smiles as Martin turns to go. So much of this man’s time must be taken up with people like him—hesitant, impractical and vague. The frayed jumper and overalls would not augur well in this game.

Martin drives around aimlessly, looking at the town. He has read about the Convent Gallery—it is an imposing old building that towers over everything else in sight. He follows a sign to the lake and the Boathouse Cafe. In the late light, rugged-up couples walk vigorously along the path at the edge of the water. The last of the browsers emerge from a secondhand bookshop. There is a sense of unreality about the surrounding calmness.

Martin feels as if he is deliberately prolonging an indulgence. Being escapist. If only he could begin again—shed his skin like a snake, somehow recreate himself and throw off the entire load that makes him indecisive. He is tempted to continue walking into the brooding twilight until he is engulfed by the darkness. He remembers lines from
Robert Frost. They are no longer reflective words from a poem. There are life forces tearing at Martin. ‘Poetry is life at its tumultuous best.’ Colin’s words ring so true here. He turns around and steps on the wet grass.

Everything is dark, deep and inviting.

THE WEATHER SHOWS
no sign of clearing by the time he reaches the house.

‘There’s noodles for tea,’ Maria calls from the kitchen. She sounds tired. Frank is at the sink, washing dishes. He is subdued and remote. The long day has drained their vitality.

Martin observes the way Maria prepares the noodles. He writes down the recipe. They eat quietly, puncturing the silence with the occasional remark about what they might do the next morning.

‘Finish painting the rooms, I reckon,’ Frank suggests.

Martin agrees. ‘I should be able to start on the kitchen.’

‘The two of you can also look after the food,’ Maria announces. ‘I’ll probably be away for most of the day.’

Maria goes to bed early, leaving Martin and Frank alone. Suddenly it seems like the right time to unpack the pieces of the battle game. In the shed the board waits, perfectly balanced, its sides extending equally beyond the edges of the workbench.

Martin attaches Caldbec Hill to one end of the board, and then uses a mallet to tap it into shape until it rolls smoothly into what is supposed to be flat ground. Frank handles the soldiers with care, holding each one up against the light
before dusting it with a brush. Under Martin’s directions, he assembles the Normans. To the right he places the soldiers of Boulonnais and the Ile-de-France. In the centre he stations Duke William’s own Norman Division with the Bretons on the left.

Martin repairs a few trees and boulders before helping Frank to place the Fryds and the Housecarls on high ground.

‘You can almost smell the battle air!’ Frank stands back to admire the arrangement. ‘It must have taken you months to make! Amazing detail, Dad. But why the Battle of Hastings? Why not something Australian?’

‘Well, you know—in our house everything English was
revered.
Even the violence.’ Martin says this faintly, without taking his eyes off a flag he is fixing into a standard-bearer’s hand.

Frank gazes at his father. ‘Dad…you’ve never said anything to me about Vietnam. That silence…it’s a gap between us.’ He pauses. ‘There are times when I feel that you’re a stranger to me.’

Martin pushes several trees into a cluster. ‘In some respects, Frank, I’m a stranger to myself. I don’t know what to make of it all, either.’

Tentatively Frank places a hand on Martin’s back, scrutinising his father’s face.

‘How bad was it? I mean, it’s more than the killing and the violence…’

‘The killing and the violence didn’t often last long.’ Martin concentrates on moving a soldier to a specific spot. He places a papier-mâché boulder beside the model. ‘A few minutes of noise. Screams. Confusion. Smoke and smell—sulphur
burrowing up your nostrils. The horrible quietness of death. They passed quickly. It’s what happened afterwards. Much later. It’s what you brought back with you. Memory—like an incurable disease. Every detail replays in slow motion. Every mistake you made hangs in clear focus in front of you.’ He is unable to say more.

After moving a few of the soldiers around, Frank says quietly, ‘I’m sorry I spoke so indifferently about Nora. I didn’t mean to. When I was a kid, I used to think that she had pushed Mum out and taken her place.’

Martin nods. ‘It was never what you thought. I…And now, well, I just want to take care of Nora. You try not to commit the same mistake twice.’ He looks at Frank as though it would be unfair to expect his son to understand. ‘Frank, she keeps me together as a person, even now.’

‘You have to look to the future, Dad.’

‘That is what I fear most.’ Martin notices a ripple where the board should be flat. He and Frank run their hands over it.

‘Dad, there’s something we want to tell you, but Maria thought she might leave it to me. We’ll be getting married soon!’

Martin smiles, and then Frank does too. Outside the rain intensifies.

After they’ve switched off the lights and gone back into the house, Martin lies tucked up in his sleeping bag, awake and drifting through the possibilities of a life near Daylesford. He could work the land, pick up odd jobs as a handyman. The nearby farms might offer work. The rest of the time could be devoted to…He stumbles. Devoted to what? There is only so much of walking, listening to music, reading and gardening you can do. And routine is the likely precursor of boredom. Besides, there is something self-indulgent in such a future. Nonetheless, this yearning for a simple life remains.

He wants to be near his grandchildren too, to give them the time and attention he couldn’t give Frank. Is this a selflessness that comes with age? A readiness to give rather than acquire. His grandchildren…He checks himself. The will of a parent must never impose itself, even as a wish, on children. Martin has no way of telling whether Frank and Maria plan to have more than one child.

He imagines it again—himself walking across a paddock, followed by a small figure in parka and gumboots. He sees himself as a patient guide, the grandpa of a child discovering the world without fear. The unicorn and the dragon, he thinks, should be strategically placed among the cattle and the sheep.

His mind slides to the fairies in Nora’s garden, and the wisdom of Aboriginal Dreamtime stories.

There are movements. Creaky floorboards. A fit of coughing and what sounds like a groan.

‘Everything okay?’ he calls. The front door opens and shuts with a bang.

He is tempted to get up and follow. But then that might be intrusive. The lumbering noise of heavier feet. The front door again. He has not overheard an argument, but maybe he dozed off? He checks the time using the light of the torch. The young have the energy to quarrel even after midnight. Irritably he turns on his side.

Mentally he juggles with numbers and tries to calculate the cost of driving to Melbourne and back. Once a week? No; the intensity of guilt and the initial burst of enthusiasm wouldn’t survive. Once every three or four weeks is more likely. Take a day off. Visit Nora, then Ron and Colin on the weekends. He would wait until he found Nora in one of her rare moments.
There is something I want to tell you.
Instead of her face, it is the old Vietnamese woman staring at him.
I will be living near my son. I won’t be able to see you quite as often.
The voice of desertion. A disavowal of responsibility. That is harsh, he reproaches himself. There is the village with the burning huts. The soldiers run through the jungle until they reach the
next hamlet.
What have we here?
He can see the faces as though they were in front of him.
Won’t you look after me?
A fragile figure stoops over a walking frame. In command. Overlapping images. There is blurring and the throb of a headache.
Andrew, you’re a bloody fake! You haven’t helped me at all.
The psychiatrist is calm, as usual.
Ultimately you have to determine what you carry with you in life. Confront what is there and shed some of the unnecessary load you cart around. Travel light.
There is a gaunt face and a hairless head with veins standing out like thick worms.
Why do you punish yourself, Martin?
Colin carries a wand and wears a conical wizard’s hat. His eyes enlarge and take over his entire face. Smouldering orbs that can see across time.
The angry eyes of the dragon
…The old woman cackles from somewhere in a mist.

Martin starts up from the bed. Moves himself.

The kitchen is cold and uninviting. He drinks thirstily, annoyed with himself for allowing his thoughts to spin into such a crazy dream. He hears Maria and Frank come inside. Maria is talking to Frank as a mother might speak to an upset child. She sticks her head through the kitchen door. ‘Sorry to wake you up. I’m coming in there in a minute.’

Martin is disturbed by a suspicion. There
is
something odd about this move to the country, after all.

Maria comes into the kitchen just as Martin finishes making a pot of tea. She saves him the effort of searching for an opening gambit. There is an immediate and disarming frankness about her.

‘Frank has never told you, and he’ll be upset and angry with me. But you should know—he suffers from depression.’

Martin nods in appreciation of her directness. He pours equal measures of tea into two mugs. Gives himself time to marshal a response. ‘I thought there was…I should have done something, to help him.’

Martin’s body is stiff. He feels like he’s labouring for breath. He thinks of the swings in Frank’s moods and constructs links in his mind.

He avoids looking at Maria. ‘Is he on medication?’

‘Yes. Anti-depressants. But there are side effects.’

‘Has he had any counselling?’ In his heart Martin is horrified that they must talk about Frank like this.

‘He has been to a psychotherapist, who recommended meditation. But Frank gets slack about doing it. I hope things will change now. The ashram, perhaps…’ She looks sharply at Martin. ‘You don’t think meditation is useful?’

Martin is startled—is his scepticism so transparent? ‘Well…what do you think?’

‘Anything’s worth trying. But then I was born in a Buddhist tradition. It’s not an unfamiliar custom for me. My father is a great believer in meditation.’ She sips her tea and thinks. ‘He says it enabled him to maintain his sanity on the boat—as it was tossed about on the sea. Mum had a long and difficult labour and it looked like she wouldn’t survive…Well, it taught him acceptance of whatever life brings, he told me.’

Martin remembers being struck by Nyugen’s calmness. But is that composure a character trait or a state of mind and emotion reached by a conscious process?

‘I’ve felt for a while that all may not be well with Frank,’ he says despondently. There is no urge to hide anything from Maria now. Sometimes, he realises, it takes an outsider’s
innocence to crack a mould of secrecy. ‘I feel as if I’ve caused it all. Worse still, I
have
been negligent.’

The Uncertainty Principle. Truth and reality are not rigidly grounded in absolutism. Until now, Martin had struggled to understand Werner Heisenberg’s concept. But it begins to make sense. It is not possible to observe something without changing it. Deductions about any phenomena are based on personal perceptions. And his Vietnam experiences, and what he has subsequently read about the chemicals used there, guide Martin’s thoughts tonight about his son.

Maria speaks and listens patiently. Her confidence inspires Martin to speak freely at last. Occasionally she corrects him gently about pieces of information, or adds her own observations. Martin sees finally how well read she is about Vietnam, about the research to establish links between the soldiers’ exposure to chemicals and possible effects on the next generation. Yet she is free from bitterness. He marvels at that.

‘It’s the uncertainty of not knowing that makes everything so unsettled and so difficult to handle,’ Martin confesses. He remembers the feeling of being lied to and let down by the government. ‘The world was a lot more complicated than the politicians made it out to be. And then the Evatt Royal Commission! That just
confirmed
our suspicion that people in authority couldn’t be trusted.’

By the time Maria excuses herself to go back to bed it is nearly dawn. Martin begins to paint the lounge. He works with penitential fervour until the job is done. After a short break he begins on another room. The physical work suspends his anxiety.

‘Hi, Dad.’

Martin turns and places the roller brush on the aluminium tray Meticulously he wipes his hand with a rag. Frank is pale and there are shadows under his eyes.

‘Good morning.’ Martin curses himself for the wariness in his voice.

‘Sorry to have disturbed your sleep.’

Their exchange is stifled, as if they’re decorous strangers. Martin walks quickly to Frank and hugs him. His son is startled. But then a wan smile slices his face.

They go into the kitchen together and sit down.

‘Maria told you?’ Frank sounds guilty.

‘She’s a strong girl with a great deal of common sense. You’re lucky to have her.’

‘She has to be after what she’s been through. You know, Maria was the first name her parents heard when they landed in Australia.’ Frank falls silent.

‘There’s something that I want to tell you.’ Martin swallows. ‘I feel guilty that you suffer from depression. There isn’t any concrete evidence about many things that went on in Vietnam and about their after-effects. But I feel quite certain. The terrible truth is, we’ve got to put up with the consequences of war.’

Frank sits quietly, his eyes fixed on his father, as Martin speaks. Weak sunlight begins to filter through the dirt-streaked window, lighting up the bareness of the kitchen. Just as Martin begins to think his son has accepted this, Frank lashes out. ‘Didn’t you ever think you might be selfish, having a child?’

‘But I…we didn’t suspect anything at the time,’ Martin protests. It sounds naïve, even stupid, but that was the reality in those days. ‘Even now opinions about the chemicals—’

‘Bullshit!’ Frank won’t listen any more. ‘How
could
you be so bloody thoughtless?’ He slams a fist into the palm of his hand.

Martin is shaken and it’s only Maria’s composure, when she comes in for breakfast, that puts a buffer zone between them.

‘Frank and I had a forthright chat,’ Martin explains after Frank silently leaves the kitchen.

‘That’s putting it mildly.’ Maria smiles. ‘It was impossible not to hear Frank.’

‘Then there’s no need for an explanation.’

‘None at all.’ Maria prepares a bowl of fruits mixed with low-fat yoghurt. ‘As a child I learned that when there are difficulties that can’t be easily resolved, you accommodate them in your life instead of struggling and fighting as though they are enemies. That way problems become a part of every day’s landscape.’

‘You make it sound easy.’

‘In primary school I was called names.’ Maria pauses to remember them. ‘Chink, Slope, Ching Chong, Slant. When I cried or lost my temper it was worse. Then I discovered that if I smiled and absorbed it all, the kids got bored and gave up.’

‘I wish I had your fortitude,’ Martin says frankly.

‘Oh no! I don’t want to give the impression I handled it well. Far from it! I even dyed my hair blonde when I was sixteen.’ Maria laughs self-consciously. ‘Dad took one look at me and gave me a rare piece of advice. “Never hide from who or what you are. With another chance, I would give you a traditional Vietnamese name.” Then he held me and almost
magically my confusion disappeared. At that moment the dualism of my identity fell into place. I was a Vietnamese-Australian, born on the sea somewhere between the two countries. After that I never denied my Vietnamese connections again. To make sense of who I am, I always acknowledge my ancestors, my parents—they’re the coordinates of my identity. So, I’ll always live as a fractured being.’

They smile a little sadly at each other.

‘And what did you do about your hair?’

‘I was blonde for just a few hours. I went back to the hairdresser that afternoon.’

They change the subject. Within minutes Maria has asked more questions about Nora than Frank has in all the years.

They talk until Maria has almost finished her breakfast. She wants to know why Martin won’t bring Nora to Daylesford.

‘Do you ever take her out?’

‘I can’t say I have,’ he confesses.

‘Don’t you think she might enjoy a break from the hostel?’

‘She probably would,’ Martin agrees. ‘It’s just that she can suddenly become very difficult.’ He is unable to envisage how Nora might react to Maria.

‘But you aren’t embarrassed by her behaviour?’

‘No, I…’ He stops. There’s nothing to be gained from a long-winded justification of his interaction with Nora. Yet something in Maria elicits honest responses. ‘Yes…I suppose I am conscious of the way she might behave. Nora can be…well, rude.’

‘But does she know that? Is she deliberately rude?’

To his surprise Martin finds he has no reservations about introducing Sebastian to Maria. He talks about the struggle he has to keep up the pretence.

‘Why is it pretence?’ Maria asks, fascinated by the profile of Sebastian. ‘Why not just enter her world? Fantasy is a different kind of reality. My father once told me that life’s ultimate gift is the ability to make others happy.’

Later, Martin is bothered by this. Was Maria saying he is condescending to Nora?

BUSINESS MUST BE
highly lucrative, Martin thinks, luxuriating in the leather seat of the Mercedes-Benz. The real estate agent, Matthew Close, has become gregarious since discovering Martin has a house in inner Melbourne and is thinking of selling it. They exchange the kind of information strangers often do when forced into each other’s company: background, lifestyle, means of livelihood, the state of the economy.

The drive takes less than twenty minutes. After a final turn onto a dirt road the car crawls along until they reach a gate. Beyond, a small weatherboard house stands among gum trees.

‘The trees were deliberately planted to enhance the rural effect,’ Matthew Close points out. ‘Pretty, isn’t it?’

Martin surveys the rest of the undulating grounds. The moment of panic subsides. Different as the trees are from anything tropically Asiatic, their density has reminded him of the Vietnamese jungles. The soldiers dreaded walking through light-dappled greenery where the sun was almost shut out by interlocking branches high above. They could never be certain whether there were mines hidden beneath
the cushion of rotting leaves under their feet, or whether the Vietcong were waiting in the trees or behind fallen trunks. Although they expected the sound of animal feet and the noisy flapping of wings, the jungle life made them edgy. Sometimes a flurry of activity came in response to the soldiers’ movements. Immediately the men crouched and gripped their weapons, alert for the enemy.

Stoically now Martin listens to Matthew Close waxing about this rural buy-of-the-month. The house itself is small but well maintained. Two bedrooms, a lounge, kitchen, bathroom and a separate toilet. The off-white woollen carpet looks new. There is an open fireplace in the lounge, as well as an oil heater. In the kitchen the old potbelly stove has been scrubbed and thoroughly cleaned. Martin discovers the remnant of a vegetable garden in the backyard, where mounds of chopped firewood have been dumped. And beyond, the darkness of the trees.