Homecoming (8 page)

‘A father must never give the impression of being weak to his children,’ Martin had once overheard his own father
telling his mother. But for Martin—and it has taken a long time to admit even to himself—it is the shortcomings in his life that have kept him distant from Frank. He loves his son, but the barrier Martin has created is probably there for life.

Anyway, can there be a father, he wonders, who can talk to his son about a sexually dysfunctional relationship with a woman? Martin grimaces, imagining Frank’s face. A platonic affair? That’s the kind of comment Frank would make to ease the embarrassment.

In the past Martin has discussed the image of the mainstream Anglo-Saxon Australian male with Colin, who is less troubled by the shifting patterns in Australian society. But Colin, purely as a matter of academic interest, had raised questions that made Martin even more uncertain. ‘And what determines a cultural prototype?’ Colin had gazed at him. ‘The social values, habits, the moral framework of a wider community? And when there are discrepancies between precept and practice, what then? What happens to identity?’ Colin was unflustered. More than ever, he thought, Australia was being transformed by its diversity. The awareness of such change and the resulting anxiety led to periods of social and political conservatism.

Unwittingly Colin had pinpointed the features of the struggle within Martin, his sense of dishonesty. Martin had already relinquished the comfort of religion and could no longer claim to be a Christian. He did not attend church, and his participation in religious festivities was minimal and undertaken reluctantly. But at the same time, he derived some comfort from the certainty that Christianity was an intrinsic part of his cultural heritage, and that he preferred the
tradition of Christ to Mohammad’s or Buddha’s. Unlike Frank, he had never sought the foreign and the exotic.

Martin decides on an early night. A crowded day awaits him. He does not expect to return home before six in the evening. And then Ron…

‘Pick you up at seven, mate! We’ll grab a steak and a beer. Go to the movies.’ Ron had made a clucking noise with his tongue. ‘And then the real fun begins!’

Martin changes and swallows half a sleeping tablet. He should have questioned Ron about the implications of ‘real fun’.

It is one of those nights when he does not feel like reading. He switches off the bedside lamp. It would be easy to drift off to sleep if it was not for the noise of the party in the house opposite his. Young people’s music. Hypnotic jungle rhythm. There are audible words of youthful passion that stir regret. A female voice insists that she will not be ignored. Martin thinks of Nora.

She occupies more time in his memory than ever before.

IT HAD SURPRISED
Nora when he insisted on walking with her the morning after they arrived at the beach house. Martin was up just after dawn to chop a supply of wood. He lit the fire, made himself a pot of tea and waited for her in the kitchen.

‘I would prefer it if you didn’t come with me,’ she said softly.

‘Why?’

Absent-mindedly Nora placed two more logs in the fire.

‘I won’t say anything if you don’t want to talk.’

‘I want to be by myself She had made up her mind. ‘There are times when I don’t want to be with anyone.’

He understood this.

The house itself was just outside Lorne. Martin and Nora stayed there occasionally in their years together. It was an old weatherboard place, badly in need of repair. But they looked forward to their weekends overlooking the sea.

Martin watched Nora as she wound her way down to the beach. As her size diminished, he reflected on the mystery of her being. She rarely spoke about her adult life, ignoring questions and redirecting conversations whenever they turned to her. By this time he had pieced together fragments of her background. He knew about a sister, with whom Nora had little contact. And then there was Glen, the husband—an elusive figure about whom Nora had spoken briefly as one of those ‘learning mistakes that we all make’. She said nothing more, but Martin guessed the hurt. One difference between Martin and Nora seemed to be that she was able to keep her past simmering in a remote background, never letting it explode into the present, never even momentarily revealing the depth of her self. He wished that he could manage his life with the same self-control.

Down on the beach Nora shrank even further until she was no more than a speck moving slowly against the expanse of an unsettled sea. He felt sad and alienated. Soon she disappeared from view, swallowed up by the distance and the mist that rolled in from the ocean. He resisted an impulse to run down there. He stood gazing in the direction where she had last been visible and made up his mind about what to do.
First he would finish painting his house; then he would invite her over for a special meal…

What he would say to her could be worked out over the next few weeks.

Martin went inside to shave and shower. Then, more leisurely he set about preparing a breakfast of bacon and eggs. He had barely started slicing the bread when Nora returned.

‘I have a splitting headache,’ she explained, almost as though she was apologising for breaking his privacy. She did not add that over the recent months headaches had become a frequent occurrence.

‘You’re probably getting a head cold.’ He reached for the headache tablets. ‘Did I tell you that I’ve decided to paint the inside of the house? Any suggestions about colours?’

Nora looked at him. Her face was strained and pale.

The coffee is hot and bitter. It calms Martin. Having dropped the revolver and cartridges at Frank’s, he has just been to see Malcolm Connery. The meeting began with smiles and a chat. ‘The World Bank is the shining example of global goodwill,’ Malcolm had enthused. ‘Always willing to help the less fortunate nations.’ There was no mention of the interest rates that burdened developing countries.

‘Nothing comes free,’ Martin said in an undertone. But Malcolm was not deterred. Every bank owed its existence to the people, he said. In return, they profited from financial institutions.

Martin understands why Malcolm is good for the bank’s image. He exudes corporate power without sounding arrogant or threatening. After exchanging pleasantries for a few minutes, Malcolm became clinical and precise about Martin’s monetary situation. There were encouraging suggestions. Another meeting in a few weeks? Perhaps after the debt had been paid and the mortgage repayment brought
up to date. They could then discuss the possibility of a loan for the tools that Martin needed. ‘It is so easy to fall behind,’ the manager murmured. A smile and a warm handshake. Martin felt outmanoeuvred as he left the building.

He stifles a yawn and listens attentively. The unit manager, Sarah Dickson, has begun to explain why they’ve called him in again.

‘There has been a noticeable change in Nora’s behaviour,’ Sarah says. She smiles brightly. ‘Her mobility has improved. Her motor skills are terrific. There are days when she is a willing helper in the dining room. But, unfortunately, she has become more aggressive, irritable and secretive. She’s showing a marked reluctance to participate in communal activities. And she wants to be in the garden all the time. That’s fine, except she resents the presence of anyone else out there. She is rude to the gardener and abuses any resident who wanders near her. In the afternoons we have a battle trying to bring her in.’

‘Any reason she won’t come inside?’ Martin pretends that he is unaware of a motive. It is possible that Nora may have mentioned the presence of her winged friends and created amusement and some confusion among the staff. He braces himself for an implausible reply.

‘None that we know of.’ Sarah looks thoughtful, mulling over possible explanations. ‘“You won’t understand,” is all we get out of her. Yesterday when we tried to coax her indoors, she threw a potted plant at Louise, screamed and banged her walker on the path. So, I was hoping you might be able to tell us something?’ She places a hand on Martin’s arm.

‘I can’t, no…nothing beyond what you already know.’ One of life’s little lies. Martin is simply unable to bring himself to break Nora’s confidence. It’s not even as if he is dismissive of her secret fairies in the garden, improbable as the story sounds. His own thoughts and dreams have swept away scepticism. Privately he concedes that Nora may exist only in her mind, where reality can be shaped in another dimension. She may be unaware of her physicality and the need to interact with others—but Martin has not lost his resolution to protect her illusions. Without them she would be reduced to a mechanically functional entity, without any focus in life, drifting in a labyrinth.

‘She is very lonely,’ Sarah comments. ‘Her sister has never called.’

‘Nora hasn’t seen her sister for years.’ Martin hesitates. ‘It wasn’t a close relationship.’

‘Ah. Yesterday she accused me of scheming like her sister, then gleefully added, “But I got Glen.”’

‘Nora’s ex-husband,’ Martin explains. ‘It wasn’t a harmonious marriage.’ He accepts more coffee.

‘Do you think—you don’t have to answer,’ Sarah assures him, ‘was there any violence involved?’

‘I think there was.’

‘You have been kind to her,’ she says warmly. ‘You take care of her finances, pay her bills, even shop for her.’

Martin is accustomed to the chores, although he is still self-conscious when he first walks into the women’s section of a department store. But he has learned to find a shop assistant immediately, tell her the requirements and then follow her around with an air of confidence. Nora likes shades of blue and
lavender, green and peach. Martin has grown used to taking a dress off the rack and holding it up to check its shape, feel the texture and then look at the price tag. Nowadays he impresses the assistants with his decisiveness about size and colour.

‘Nora doesn’t have anyone else,’ he says limply.

‘You are such a good friend,’ Sarah looks at him curiously, checking on the word ‘friend’.

More than friends and less than partners. An in-between status that defies conventional relationships, even in their most flexible forms. But perhaps it is because of his attention that she has meaning now in the eyes of others. Otherwise, what is she here except a faint blip teasing the world by refusing to be tame and conventional?

‘Thanks for the coffee. I might go and see her now.’

‘Of course. I think she’s outside. Well rugged up, though! Martin, just one more thing…’ Sarah walks with him to the door and opens it for him. ‘We appreciate how much you do for her. But, if at all possible, could you visit Nora more regularly? She becomes very agitated when she doesn’t see you. You do have an extraordinarily settling influence on her.’

Martin pauses outside the office, his right hand resting on the doorknob. Is it Nora’s needs or the hostel staff’s?

How much is enough?

Can love continue on memory, on the strength of what has been? Or is this guilt?

Under a metallic sky, Martin finds Nora hunched over the walker, mumbling to the pruned rose shrubs. It is unusually cold for June. He tiptoes close to her and listens. But he is unable to figure out whether she is speaking a language or making guttural sounds.

Suddenly he feels intensely for a life that kept narrowing in its possibilities from a young age until, in one lonely and awful moment, it shrank to a point of near invisibility.

‘Nora…’

She remains unperturbed. He moves closer and lays a hand on her back. ‘Hello, Nora.’

‘Shush! Now look what you’ve done!’ She straightens and then turns the frame around in short jerky movements. ‘Oh, it’s you. I was talking to Sebastian. You chased him away.’

‘Sorry.’ Martin speaks softly.

Nora frowns. ‘He wants us to get married soon.’ She lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘You mustn’t tell anyone. He wants us to have lots of children.’

‘Shall we go in? I’m cold.’

Nora tenses and shrugs him off as he tries to button up her coat. ‘Look!’ She claps her hands. ‘Dead fairies’ wings dropping from Heaven!’

The snowflakes waver and float slowly to the ground. There is a perceptible drop in the temperature. ‘Would you like me to come to your wedding?’ Martin shivers, turning up the collar of his jacket.

‘Will you?’ she pleads. ‘Will you give me away?’ Then her voice hardens. ‘But you mustn’t bring my sister. Mustn’t tell her about Sebastian. Mustn’t…’

‘Where is the wedding?’

Nora blinks, as though the question is crass.

‘Where are you getting married?’

‘It’s a secret. You’ll have to close your eyes and Sebastian will take you there.’

‘Where?’

‘Bye, Sebastian! I love you too!’

The whiteness of innocence quietens the world. Martin is aware of the unreachable distance of her mind. There are times now when Nora is no more than an elusive shadow. All he can do is pretend to know her, try to communicate on her terms.

‘Shall we go inside and talk about the wedding?’

Nora allows him to help her through the sliding door and back to her room. But she insists on standing near the window and staring at the white blanketed ground.

‘Just like the day I met Glen. It was so cold!’ She shudders. ‘He kissed my hand and asked me out. My sister saw us and came running outside. Bitch! But Sebastian won’t hurt me. Tell me that he won’t hurt me?’

‘I won’t let him.’ He sees she is trembling.

‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

She looks contented. The extraction of another undertaking. The glow of a small victory.

‘Do you have enough money in your wallet?’ Martin is particular about Nora always having some cash on her. ‘Where’s your handbag?’

She looks blankly at him. ‘On the kitchen table.’

Martin finds it on top of the television and hands it to her. Clumsily Nora checks the wallet that she keeps in a compartment of the handbag. ‘Nothing.’ She holds up the wallet in front of his face. ‘I gave the rest to Sebastian. He wanted to buy me a present.’

Martin gives her fifty dollars. ‘Can you put it all in one
place? And keep the bag in the drawer of the sidetable, here. Is there anything else you need?’ As ever he drags the conversation down to the mundane, the sparse.

‘Nothing that can be bought.’

He stares at her. Sometimes she can sound so damn rational. ‘Yes?’

‘I would like you to stop moving backwards towards the door and stay with me. Will you ask me out for lunch? You could take me to a better place than Sebastian does. Then I could love you.’ Nora leans forward on the walker and squints at him. Then she becomes hostile. ‘You don’t really want to come here. I am only a tiny piece in the corner of your life! If you cared about me—’

‘Please, Nora!’ Martin does not mean to sound harsh. He refrains from adding,
I’ve got a hard day ahead of me.
That would sound so unbearably domestic. The uninterested overworked husband and the nagging wife locked in a cage built from the inside without a door.

‘I want a cigarette.’

‘You don’t smoke. Besides, residents aren’t allowed to smoke in their rooms.’

‘I’m not a resident. I’m Nora.’ She taps herself on the chest as she glares at him. ‘I want a fucking cigarette!’ Without flinching Martin matches her stare. Nora begins to inhale deeply and pretends that she is blowing out invisible rings of smoke. ‘No-ra wants a cig-a-rette! No-ra wants a cig-a-rette!’ The singsong wail rises sharply in volume, piercing him like the point of a knife. ‘Will you make love to me then? Ah, but you can’t!’ She cackles. ‘You are not a man! Mar-tin is not a man! Not a…’

Something snaps inside him. He wheels around and walks out of the room. There is a pained howl. Martin hears his name. He forces himself to shut the door behind him.

He walks fast down the corridor. Two female attendants smile at him and then seem to whisper darkly together. The greetings of other residents flash past.

He runs out to the car park, panting audibly. There is no one else in sight. He leans against the ute, his hands pressing the sides of his head. His resolution to be patient and tolerant with Nora has collapsed in an instant.

There are limited options.

He can drive off or go back to her room. And if he chooses to return—what then? Additional haranguing? More punishment for what he has not been and what he has not done?

‘I was only late by about half an hour,’ he whispers bitterly, stubbing the slippery concrete with the toe of his right boot. ‘Thirty lousy minutes!’ He feels safe talking to memory. It never answers back or contradicts. At worst, it is a silent accuser of unfulfilled intentions.

The snow continues to fall heavily in what is a rare winter’s day in Melbourne. Martin gets into the car and inserts the key in the ignition.

HE HAD WORKED
frantically for several days, painting the rooms. After much deliberation he had followed Nora’s advice and chosen pastel colours. Light beige on the walls and almond cream on the ceilings brought newness to the
house. It cheered him and gave him confidence about changes and about his intentions. He had enough energy left to clean the carpets and tidy the kitchen cupboards.

On Thursday afternoon, Martin took an extended lunch break and bought groceries and a bottle of sparkling wine. He stopped at the local butcher’s to buy a couple of steaks. Filet mignon. This would be a special meal.

‘Something on, Martin?’ the butcher asked laconically as he wrapped the meat.

‘For sure,’ Martin grinned. ‘Hopefully a different lifestyle, mate.’

He drove home to unpack the shopping. He checked his new recipe book—yes, he had all the ingredients for the exotic salad he wanted to serve with the steaks.

He was running behind schedule by now, and then the three other jobs booked for the afternoon took longer than expected. He had planned on having the salad prepared and the barbecue lit by the time Nora arrived. But then there was traffic. By the time he finally reached home, it was dark.

There were lights inside the house. Nora must have let herself in with the spare key.

The front door was unlocked. ‘Nora?’ He heard the sound of water boiling. ‘Sorry, I’m late.’ First he would shower, shave and change into something more appropriate. Then cook.

Martin had rehearsed what he intended to say. He stopped near the kitchen door and mumbled the words again. No memory lapses. The moment of apprehension passed. If Nora responded unpredictably, he would have to be spontaneous. It was impossible to pre-determine her reaction, but there had been every indication that this was what she wanted.

There was no sound of movement.

‘How about a drink?’

He entered the kitchen and found her lying on the floor. Twitching. He saw swelling and bruising on one side of her head. Her eyes were open.

‘Nora?’ Martin whispered in disbelief.

The door leading to the backyard was closed and the glass in the kitchen window was intact. She would spring up surely any moment, laughing.

Martin convinced himself—there was a flicker of recognition in Nora’s face. But then she uttered faint and incoherent sounds. He rushed to the phone and dialled triple 0.

He managed to remain calm, as he answered questions about the perceived nature of the problem, the evident symptoms and the address. Grabbing a pillow and a blanket from his room, he returned to the kitchen. Gently he lifted Nora’s head and slipped the pillow under. He covered her to the waist with the blanket. Her face felt cold.

He sat next to her on the floor and held her hand as if he were minding something fragile.

The entire evening sped past him then. The way it should have been. His suggestion that she move in here, her delighted acceptance, celebration with sparkling wine, dinner accompanied by a bottle of shiraz, talk—the warmth of knowing that they had taken a gigantic step forward in their lives.